Crocheting the Madness

I stepped onto the blue line Max train platform as I normally do. It's usually packed with people trying to search with their hands and feet for any place to hold to while the train jerks and jumps about. Today it was fairly empty. To my surprise there was even an empty seat. I quickly grabbed it and tried to cover up the sign that said " Senior and Disability Seating." I would've given my seat up had a senior or disabled person sauntered over. . .maybe. For now, however it was mine. My eyes darted around trying not to land on any certain person. I have a tendency to stare, so I have learned to use my peripheral vision. Of all the interesting people around the train, the most interesting person was sitting right across from me. I looked at her while she crocheted. She looked plain almost invisible. Her white nondescript 80's company shirt was a bit too small and her belly peeked under it resting onto her lap. Her blue jeans were faded and I concentrated hard on her face because I thought she could've been one of the many nameless people that show up on missing bulletins. She put her big "bag lady bag" onto the seat next to her to indicate the seat was taken. It wasn't taken by a person though she just wanted to be alone. She was crocheting a scarf and while crocheting itself is not all that captivating she was doing it in such a way that caught my attention. She seemed angry when she handled the thread. As she was yanking the yarn forward, then back, then under I thought of my grandmother. I remember when I was 8 and she used to make me sit by her chair and crochet the beginning chains of the yarn for her so that I could learn. Her hands were delicate and she held the yarn with purpose, but also with a sense of freedom. She allowed the yarn to move through her fingers effortlessly and each stitch was just as perfect as the one before it. As I watched the woman across from me I couldn't help but anticipate the yarn snagging and getting tangled on her, but it never did. She tugged on it as if she were at war with something. I assumed that her loops would be uneven, but when I caught a glance at her stitching the scarf was even. It was as well done as one you would buy in the store. She was fast and masculine and had a hard stare at people entering and exiting the train. The irony in all this anger is that her scarf looked happy and peaceful. To me it was symbolic of tranquility through violence; that sometimes you have to fight with yourself, wear yourself down, and chastise your demons in order for you to fully understand what joy feels like. You have to go through hell to understand even the simplest of joys like crocheting a scarf . . .or wearing one.

The observation

I started this blog because I like to form acute observations of people and write about them. I ride this transit system called the MAX line in Portland,Oregon and observe the most interesting people. These people are so interesting in fact that I decided that I should write about them. I should document the little nuances in excepts and essays and forever immortalize them for digital review in my online Max diary.