Yarnlove

A rose is not just a rose. It's also a metaphor for quite a lot of things, though mostly related to love and female bodyparts. I'm quite certain I'm not the only Swedish girl who unknowingly has sung "Flickan i Havanna" (the girl in Havanna) and the line "kom, du glade sjömatros, du kan få min röda ros" (come, you happy sailor, you can have my red rose), convinced she wanted to give him a flower in the most innocent way imaginable and not prostitute herself.

The only thing of beauty that was growing in my garden when I moved in was a rose, and a couple of days ago it started flowering. I'm quite moved by this, and I find it a very nice gesture from this rose to flower as if to welcome me. I took a crappy picture and will reward the well-meaning plant by cutting it down to an almost nothing at earliest convenience, in an amateurish attempt to make it grow better next year. All my neighbours have beautiful, two metre rose bushes just exploding in beauty, and I have the same height but in two poor stems, carefully tied to the fence. And I want what they have. I might be ungrateful, but I'd rather like to think that I see the inner beauty that lies within this rose; I see its potential.

Tonight I finished my first Salina sleeve. It looks a bit odd.