yarns

which i intend to spin a plenty over the summer. and which i am already spinning. one of which features a thread-obsessed person. as in the following passage:

Time spooling outward. Over the years, the house has become a repository for all things that represent longevity. Skeins of thread are stacked in pyramids of threes on every surfaces. String, yarn, other thickstuffs wound into balls that collect under chairs, couches. He has one in his pocket at all times, a work in progress. When out walking, he adds to it, knotting stray plastic strips, dry-rot suffering rubber bands, abandoned shoelaces together, winding them into small balls. Has heard of the presence of the world’s largest ball of twine somewhere in the state, but thinks the idea ridiculous: a largest ball? How can you put an upper limit on infinity? Who is it, exactly, that has evaluated all possible balls of twine, held them to a stiff standard of measurement, an even stricter one of material components (twine only, composition wound hemp or manila—he knows on such grounds his composite balls would be disqualified) and declared one single ball sole heir to the title? He wonders if they unroll the thing to measure it lengthwise, or just estimate from the circumference. Again: how to measure a thing with no end?

oh summer. oh last time brief window of time before my life changes forever, as i become a father.