Rummage

The Quilt

..she is finished.

The Whirling Dervish, the EMO and I

 

I have just spent 13 minutes in the Turner to Monet exhibition currently showing at the National Gallery. Don't ask me what it was like because I have absolutely no idea. None.

You see, the Frenchman and I woke up this morning and thought it would be a good idea to get some kulchar into the small people for which reason we became members of the gallery. This means that one can swan about in the members' lounge swilling Pol Roger (by the thimbleful), prior to joining the thronging masses in the exhibition. So we did, and what a jolly 40 minutes of imbibing we had. The Frenchman who usually thumbs his gallic nose at Australian wines found a saucy little grenache to take his fancy and as a result we arrived at the exhibition a little windswept and interesting. The small people, sensing a weakness, grasped the opportunity with both hands. The eldest settled into a disturbing impression of an emo slouch and sulk. The youngest ricocheted from one masterpiece to another with unspeakably dirty hands outstretched and a pack of gallery attendants circling like paparazzi. I used all the distractions in my arsenal to no avail, finally tried physical restraint, and was met with a breath-taking impression of a hyena crossed with a whoopee cushion. By the fourth room the eldest was lying spread-eagled on a viewing couch face-down emitting guttural groans and the youngest was bowling up to sixty-year-old women greeting them as g'andad to a pursed-lip reception. It was time to leave. If you have been, do drop me a line and tell me what it was like. And if you were there this evening around 6ish, you have my deepest apologies.

x Hope you're having a gorgeous weekend!

PS Aren't those jars cool! I got them at a garage sale today for $1. Hurrah!

And it touched me..

I can't recall posting before without a photo, but no photo of mine would do Neruda's poetry justice. So here is my Friday present to you. The pictures in your mind will be more than enough.
x (with thanks to prettyparrot for reminding me of this poem)

Poetry

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

Pablo Neruda

Wheatbags Are Go

I've been making wheatbags and lots thereof after reading this great tutorial.The small people have been taking them to bed clutched to their bosom and they wake up with the lingering scent of lavender and rose geranium about their person.
A most satisfying late-Autumn craft activity for individuals such as myself who excel at rectangles.
I can thoroughly recommend a combination of unhulled wheat, lavender and rose geranium. The wheat seems to hold the heat well and at $2.25 a kilo you can make one each for the extended family and keep some on hand for last minute presents. In the comments after Blair's post someone mentioned that they keep wheatbags in a basket in the loungeroom for snuggling up with on cold evenings, sounds perfect for our brisk Canberran weather. Frankly, I'm considering making a full-body wheatbag although I'll be damned if I know how to get it in the microwave. The fabrics I've used so far include flannel, which the small people recommend, and a vintage teatowel. The one pictured is actually an eye pillow for my sister which was super quick and fun to make with some leftover scraps of fabric.

Completely unrelated, I love this.
x

Scones, and no, I'm not off mine

Here's my Friday present to you and yours. Ever since we started frequenting the Lynwood Cafe in Collector, a darkened room and an enormous plate of scones with jam and cream features highly on my fantasy list. Then I found this article with a range of recipes for scones including the heretical lemonade scone and the belch-worthy Flo scone. I was reborn.

For the record I've tried the CWA recipe with smashing results, (gawd love the CWA). I made them five minutes before lunch and we wolfed them with gusto for dessert. Next time I'm going to lose some salt and introduce a wee dram of sugar. Lemons are courtesy of my neighbour, (any good recipes out there?), and the scooter comes courtesy of last year's Christmas cracker. Hope the weekend's a rippa.
x

Belated Presents

..for a beloved grandmother.

Bloody Cross

I'm tendering these images as exhibits a through c in the case of Public School Children versus the State in The Inadequate Provision of Reading Materials.

Cute as the pictures are and I am loving the t-bar shoes and the rockin', heidiesque skirt number, this is NOT what I want my five year old to be coming home with for reading practice.

In 1967, the date of publishing, I was no more that a faint glimmer in my mother's eye. 41 years ago, people. Now I don't know about you, but I'm fairly certain that there have been some quantum leaps in language curriculum materials in the last 41 years. Not to mention a significant amount of bra-burning to overturn some of the gender stereotypes at play in the late 60's.

So why then does my daughter bring home as part of the school reading program a text that suggests to her that girls frock up and head to the shops with Mummy during which time boys kick back at home with Dad for a spot of tinkering under the bonnet? Good lord!

Some might consider I'm being overly critical but I spend good time trying to untangle some of the disney princess mythologies without having a school-mandated text contradicting me. And I haven't even mentioned issues such as contemporary relevance, critical literacy, and multi-cultural themes.  Can you tell I'm a little cross?

The prosecution rests.

"Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What's that suppose to mean? In my heart it don't mean a thing." Toni Morrison, Beloved

If My Five Year Old Was in Charge of the Interior Design...

"I drink glass after glass of love
Neither does that wine finish nor my thirst"
Bayazid Bestami

My Heart Wanders

x