A British Open Mind
The golfing day's story was over by 8 o'clock (CST) this morning, but the announcers babbled on, droned on, carried on, biographed on, camaraderied on, joked on, interviewed on, pretended on and on and on that something — anything — was going on.
But the scenery at Turnberry is amazing. There's nothing like that sinking feeling (empathically realized) a truly superior golfer gets standing at the bottom of a carefully dressed, hand manicured six foot deep sheep bunker. And a green links course? Weird, almost as weird as Big John Daly r-r-r-amblin' through the green in those green and yellow plaid trousers like some eldritch bard on a year's sabbatical. I watched for awhile, but the drama won't come until Tiger Woods' charge on Saturday, and Tom Watson (*ahem, pardon*) won't be in it Sunday. I dozed off a bit...
After that, I went down to Iowa City this afternoon to talk to Edie at The Knitting Shoppe about purling and the distinction between intarsia and Fair Isle, which is out there in the firths of something Scotland, and came back to town slowly, through Grant Wood country. Ok, maybe Wood cheated when he painted his humpty dumpty landscapes through a fish-eye lens — but south of here is Grant Wood country, the self-same rolling hills planted to corn this time of year. The fields are combed out neatly in enormous rows, everything is green, like Big John striding through the green. It occurred to me that I love this planet, and then it occurred to me why.
Like knitting, like sweaters, like golf and greens, like Grant Wood, the Earth clothes you in herself, in the same stuff as the corn, sky, clouds, green, like wrapping you in a sweater at birth. Like ecology. Considering what DNA is like (it's like knitwear), that is the exact minimum truth. Mother Earth.
It's fun when three big ideas collide like barium pyrotechnics.
But the scenery at Turnberry is amazing. There's nothing like that sinking feeling (empathically realized) a truly superior golfer gets standing at the bottom of a carefully dressed, hand manicured six foot deep sheep bunker. And a green links course? Weird, almost as weird as Big John Daly r-r-r-amblin' through the green in those green and yellow plaid trousers like some eldritch bard on a year's sabbatical. I watched for awhile, but the drama won't come until Tiger Woods' charge on Saturday, and Tom Watson (*ahem, pardon*) won't be in it Sunday. I dozed off a bit...
After that, I went down to Iowa City this afternoon to talk to Edie at The Knitting Shoppe about purling and the distinction between intarsia and Fair Isle, which is out there in the firths of something Scotland, and came back to town slowly, through Grant Wood country. Ok, maybe Wood cheated when he painted his humpty dumpty landscapes through a fish-eye lens — but south of here is Grant Wood country, the self-same rolling hills planted to corn this time of year. The fields are combed out neatly in enormous rows, everything is green, like Big John striding through the green. It occurred to me that I love this planet, and then it occurred to me why.
Like knitting, like sweaters, like golf and greens, like Grant Wood, the Earth clothes you in herself, in the same stuff as the corn, sky, clouds, green, like wrapping you in a sweater at birth. Like ecology. Considering what DNA is like (it's like knitwear), that is the exact minimum truth. Mother Earth.
It's fun when three big ideas collide like barium pyrotechnics.
Labels: Golf and Garter Stitch and Stuff
posted by Grikdog at
4:01 PM
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