osmosis anyone?

Sponge? Weird sea anemone? Or upside down kitty-pi bed?

Osmosis is one of my favourite words. Not because I use it that often, and certainly not because I have any real understanding of its scientific meaning (apologies to any biologists and chemists). But because I just love the notion that through no active effort on my part, I might just learn something. And because I am also a firm believer in the practice of inactive effortlessness (lazy is such an unattractive word), I will insist on filling my life with books. Because, of course, as we all know, knowledge is magic, and words will insist on leaching out into the air, desperately looking for new - living - homes. Because, you see, if I have enough books, a critical mass will be reached, and somehow, without realising, what is in those books might just find their way into my sponge-like brain and soul, and I will have learned.

Tragically, the theory is flawed. For sometimes, some actual work might be needed. And all the lace books in the world, all the websites and forums and well-practiced experts, cannot cast on a single strand of lace-weight merino and knit it for me. So the weekend has been spent making tangled cobwebs to match the work of autumn spiders. And remaking and remaking, until somehow heavy hands can match those tiffany threads.

Meanwhile, my comfort knitting is comforting itself, as I wait for supplies. Tell me, is there some kind of knitter's law (lore?) stating that however many needles you do have, you never have enough of the right ones?

(And for Jane of the beautiful blog, I am sure that I have an infestation of little keyboard imps - cousins of the fat fairies - who creep in and add mistakes to what I am sure is proofread prose! I could grow fond of them, but oh, they are evil little so-and-sos.)