Prose Poem: The Knitted Scarf. (Dedicated to Gina Kolata.)

 

I started knitting in the womb.  My mother tells me it was a very uncomfortable experience for her.  And where the yarn and the knitting needles came from, no one can really say.  It could be called a miracle.  Or a nuisance.  I stopped knitting at the age of five.  Just lost interest in the whole thing.  Our family wasn't big on handicrafts anyways.  We were more into sitting in front of the television, eating frozen dinners, and picking lint off our sweaters.  When I needed to get a job as a young man I chose the Merchant Marine.  I learned that lots of poets and writers were in the Merchant Marine, like Jack Kerouac.  I began writing an obsessively long novel on a roll of brown butcher paper.  I stopped writing when my hitch was up.  Lost interest in the whole thing.  And the knitted scarf, which is the title of this whole thing?  Just a gimmick.  A ruse to interest dedicated knitters like Gina Kolata of the New York Times.  See, I figure if she writes about me not knitting anymore or writing anymore I'll become a social media trend.  The guy who quit.  That's my personal brand.  Catchy, no?  With the raft of endorsement deals I'm hoping to garner, I should be able to retire early.  Live in Victoria, British Columbia.  Mild winters.  Lots of flowers.  I'll take to wearing garish knitted scarfs and being reclusive.  All the best writers are recluses.