I had a needlepoint period in the late seventies and I completed a large and very complicated oriental design having to count all the stitches. I had it made into a pillow which I had in my living room for years until I grew tired of it. I also completed one that was a white angora cat on a cerulean background.
I run into this finished canvas of the cat, occasionally, and wonder why I would choose such a sentimental design, especially when I don't understand nor particularly like cats.
It's pretty. That's why I haven't thrown it out. It's kitschy, but the colors are pleasant.
Anyway, today I decided to LISTEN to Don Quixote, which I've never read except for excerpts. I found a free version on my iPad and decided that listening to a book should be accompanied by a needlepoint project. It happened I bought a kit a few years back and stored it away in an armoire. It's a large canvas of red poppies with some green in the background. Also kitschy. Again, I like the colors.
So I spent the afternoon listening to an introduction by the translator, whose name I can't remember, because I haven't seen it. It was read by a British male with a well modulated voice. While he read, I needle-pointed. What a good idea this was.
Wrong. The first five chapters (and I assume the rest of the book) are read by a woman WHO CAN'T READ WORTH SPIT. She started out well, but has fallen into stumbling over words and swallowing into her microphone. I can actually hear gulping. Chapter five was read much too fast, like a thirteen year old boy being forced to read Elizabeth Barrett Browning in front of his school class.
I want to strangle this woman. I want to yell, "Slow down, you cow!" I want to poke the dull needle point needle into her upper arm and watch her bleed.
Maybe, I'm a little upset. Maybe, I should take a deep breath. Maybe, I should go to the public library tomorrow and get a professionally read version of this novel.
Cleansing breath. Okay. That's what I'll do.
The needlepoint is going very well, thank you.