Swap Party Genius January 26, 2009

On Friday evening I had a great time with some friends merrily swapping a range of bizarre presents, unwanted home trinkets, and a range of other eclectic items (hot stone massage kit anyone?)

I was very proud with the haul I came home with. Although it amused me that I’d travelled furthest and managed to leave with the most cumbersome items

 This was my first gain, it’s wonderful banana bubble bath.

 A duck egg, mustard, teal & olive scarf.

 Cross necklace (I’ve needed one since mine broke in half in October!)

And… my personal favourite and for which I had to employ all my guile and cunning:

 Three individual prints of beach huts and the hull of a boat. I love them.

The other thing I learnt at the swap party was that lemon torte and hot chocolate melt in the middle pudding make the best dessert combo!

Revolutionary Road January 21, 2009

I was feeling book-hungry at the start of this year, and this was one of those books I picked up and knew immediately I wanted to read.

I loved the characters in the story, their idealism, and their weaknesses. I willed them to act differently, I was excited with them at the possibility that they could be different. I smiled to myself at little commonalities, and then was shocked and troubled just a few pages later. I love books about people who try to do things differently, to break the mould, to swim against the tide. I thought this was a brave exploration of that sort of decision, and how our personalities, backgrounds and cultures both aid and hinder us.

I also enjoyed Yate’s exploration of insanity… and how it compared with the ’sanity’ of the characters surrounding. It reminded me of books like ‘The Bell Jar’ and ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest’, where you wonder if it is mental illness, or the society the character exists within that is actually the main issue.

A couple of my fave quotes:

“She was working alone, and visibly weakening with every line. Before the end of the first act the audience could tell as well as the Players that she’d lost her grip, and soon they were all embarrassed for her. She had begun to alternate between false theatrical gestures and a white-knuckled immobility; she was carrying her shoulders high and square, and despite her heavy make-up you could see the warmth of humiliation rising in her face and neck.”

‘ “Helen here’s been talking it up about you people for months” he told them. “The nice young Wheelers on Revolutionary Road, the nice young revolutionaries on Wheeler Road – got so I didn’t know what she was talking about half the time.”

 According to the genius of Wikipedia, Yates, the author is quoted as saying: “If my work has a theme, I suspect it is a simple one: that most human beings are inescapably alone, and therein lies their tragedy.” that makes me sad, but, emotion aside, it is a theme that is powerfully communicated in this book. I was amazed at how ‘apart’ two people could be, even when they shared the bond of marriage.

The story has been turned into a film, starring Kate Winslet & Leonardo DiCaprio, to be released at the end of Jan. I’m really intrigued to see what will be made of it, as I think one of the best things about the book is that not very much happens, but so much happens, the pace is very slow and yet things change very fast. Part of Yate’s skill is in his characterisation, and the rich description he uses. I am intrigued to see how this comes across on the big screen. I’m also quietly cynical about the kate/leo combo. I’m hoping they do the plot justice, and that it doesn’t get pushed under by the whole ‘titanic reunion’ furore.

One Stubborn Wall January 21, 2009

It wasn’t in keeping with their plans for the place at all. Months and months of strenuous decor had turned the rest of the pre-nineteenth century hand-me-down home into something clean, streamlined and modern. No awkward corners, no low mantles where scullery maids once paused to whisper furtively, no more pencil marks, smudged and forgotten, on the back of a door, marking the height of some long matured son or daughter.

Minimalist, the word they banded around at the ‘right kind’ of parties, while the neighbours peeked through the dusty windows and thought bleak. The icy white paint was a couple of shades too cold, the stripped back walls causing them to rub imaginary goosebumps from their skin. There was something skeletal about it.

This room had been left to last, purposefully of course. It couldn’t be seen from the windows, and they’d kept it locked, for fear of giving the wrong impression to some marauding dinner guest. At last, however, the transformation had begun.

They’d set out with aplomb, and a tantalising drive for completion, that would have concerned even the most efficient expert in the field. There was abandon in his destruction of the antique dresser, now dismembered at the bottom of a skip. She had fragmented the ageing china they had found within, creating an impossible jigsaw, an irrevocable porcelain mosaic. They had decimated a dusty old desk, overlooking the seal on its base speaking of true value. They’d splintered masterpieces and, in their haste, crushed crystal that had once served refreshments to royalty.

But they hadn’t counted on this. On one stubborn wall. 

Manual tools had failed, as had the steam stripper that boasted speed and success. Peeling and scraping and scrubbing repeatedly had got them nowhere. And it seemed like the rich brown wallpaper, with it’s regal and yet unassuming gold leaf, was taunting them with its persistence, its enthusiastic refusal to budge. You would have called it magnificent, breathless at the sense of depth and movement its design communicated. You would have marvelled at the texture, reaching out as if to find comfort from its welcoming warmth. You would have questioned their obsession with removal.

And when they gave up on removal, you would question their purchase of the cheap white paint, the kind that comes in large quantity but with only watery quality, where one coat hardly shows at all. They slapped it on, layer after layer, longing for the safety of cool, sheer space. And the wall fought back. Small golden blooms blinked through the weak milky glaze, the rich chocolate hues glowed undaunted. Six, seven coats, and it shone through brighter than ever. Eight, nine and they gave up, despondent.

They walked out of the room and shut the door behind them, missing the shaft of sunlight streaming through the side window, shining straight onto the wall and bringing its colours to life.

Apelai For Sure January 16, 2009

She was Apelai for sure, a fact clear from the blue shawl tight round her small frame. They clung on to the Old, spoke of the days when blue meant peace, but we were more than they, and we shook our heads at their daft stance, and we made sure they knew their place.

They were few these days. Most had fled in the Fourth War, on the day it was set in stone, the day the Old Laws met their end. They ran to the coast, pell mell in haste. Some hung on, in hope; some were lost in the Spring Purge, caught up in the crush and rage as we all ran to burn each sign of Old Rule.

But all that fuss was long done now, and one or two had just crept back, and we, well we had let them be. Too weak to pick a fight, we thought; they were all but mute, they could cause us no strain. And of course, we were sure of our stance:  The Old Laws just brought need. They kept us from our goal, taught that we should think and give and care; and this code cost us time, and had had small gain. We knew best.

She was gone too soon for me to see her face, no doubt wise to the fact she must be home by noon, home and safe and out of sight by then. And I thought, who would choose that life? who would pick the path of that old code? We had long learnt not to feel by now, but what of her?

We learnt the new rules fast, which were, in a nut shell, that there were no rules. We ran free, our lives wild and loud, we flung off the tight hold of Old Thought, the codes of love and grace and good will that had long held fun in check. We laid down all these, saw them as dead and drab, codes which could add no gleam and have no say in our lives now.

 But what of her, and those like her? We thought they would die out, but still they kept on. What could be done about the tough grip held by this group who would not tow the line, a group which even in name chose to shun the New? If war could not stop them, nor the harsh acts of a world with no rules, how could they be taught? How could they be shown the dead end fruits of their choice? What would make them finally give up?

She was gone, with her flash of bold blue, but then I saw it in the sky, and I saw it in the bold stream.

And I was left to think, through the long day of Free Rein, as I took, and stole, and broke, that the gloss from the loot I made off with had been made dull. And I had no clue how or why.

Provoking her with mauve January 14, 2009

She could have got away with it, potentially, had it not been for an unfortunate incident involving a technology project and several shades of purple.
She was new to the school, with a name that was complex to pronounce and harder to spell. Her eyes, expressionless; we put it down to a inter-continental house move. She hid at the back of the class, merging into the sombre slate of a borrowed blazer. She seemed perpetually nervous but, self-absorbed in adolescence, we permitted this.
Having never grappled with the complexities of plum, violet, indigo, and mulberry myself, I was stunned at the furore, at the flurry of panic emanating from the back row. Sitting nearby, I watched as bewilderment bent her impassive features into something that could only be defined as terror, and we flinched in uniform, as she flung her chair back with a crash, and tore from the room.
I heard later, a tale tangled in the way that playground gossip only ever can be, of the reason for her fright, the fuel behind her flight. They told me of a childhood lived pristine in black and white. And that she’d really never known it any other way, become accustomed to familiar shades of grey, and found a safety there. And there were we, provoking her with mauve, shaking all the rules from which she understood her world.
She’d assumed, until that hour, that everybody lived in monochrome. And we all whispered in assembly seats and dinner queues, how could this have crept by unseen?
And, just what would it be like?
We wondered how maths could be identified, save for the angry red textbook, and science for the murky green. But we didn’t ask her, presuming she found comfort in charcoal and cloud, that she was safe in the shadows of silver and smoke. She never said a word and, self-absorbed in adolescence, we permitted this.

The Orphan & the Sweet Shop January 13, 2009

It was his shoes I noticed first: Leather once, perhaps; yet now scuffed and threadbare. There was a suggestion of colour – the bright hues that every small boy’s shoes should shout, yet now their faded tones whispered neglect. I winced at  their thin soles and split seams,  bulging in mute protest against the  winter weather and two summers of growth.

His outfit testified the same: all drab, all corroborating lack. From my vantage point a few feet away I knew he had no choice. He stood, face pressed close to the window, his small child fingers – too thin - tantalisingly close to their prize. The lights from the shop danced in his eyes, yet hope’s reflection was already dimmed in return. 

Lovingly created chocolates taunted him, with their golden gleam, from behind the thick glass. Cherished sugar-craft, nurtured in privileged safety, awaited transportation to another warm home, another brightly lit abode where childrens shoes shone and treats abounded.

Quickly he turned away, dejected, the proximity of luxury serving only as a stark reminder of his status. Wrenching resentful eyes from the scene, he scuttled off, depriving four other hungry senses their momentary escape. I lost sight of his scuffed shoes then, as he dissapeared swiftly into the anonymous crowds.

A post that is wholly about knitting! January 5, 2009

 This is Sad Sack, from the 90’s kids TV show ‘The Raggy Dolls. Now, it isn’t that I have been hiding a major knitting talent under a rather effective bushel, the truth is that a very clever friend of mine knitted him for me. Isn’t he marvellous!!

This, however, is my knitting! And I am very proud of it. Once I learn how to fix dropped stitches all will be well!

New Year Capers January 3, 2009

I headed back down to the South East for New Year. It was a really lovely time.

On New Years eve itself we went to visit some friends and then returned for the grand party. We played a greyhound racing game, where you had to watch a dvd and place bets etc. Being a Salvationist, I didn’t really understand the whole thing, and after an early fluke where I won about 12k, I soon frittered my wealth away.

We ate yummy food, included the rather intriguing prunes wrapped in bacon. Then we watched Elton for a bit, as he serenaded in the new year, and then the fireworks at midnight. Everyone toasted (have never toasted with a cup of tea before but there is a first time for everything!!)

When we all woke up on Jan 1st, we decided to go to the beach again:

It was a bit grey and cold, but that was ok. And the dog loved it. We wandered along and then ate chips in a lovely seafront hotel.

After the beach adventure we went home and played Simpsons Monopoly. I didn’t win, but it was a glorious game and much fun was had by all. A splendid way to spend new years day I feel.

Yesterday we wandered round shops, ate yummy soup and drank hot chocolate. It was the last day of the holidays, a fact which saddened me, but it was all very lovely.

Creative Projects Afoot January 1, 2009

I so so enjoyed making Christmas presents this year, that I have to admit to feeling slightly bereft now that the creative urgency has diminished somewhat.

So I’ve been musing over the last couple of days about what my next challenges should be. I’ve come up with two so far; two projects that make me curl my toes with excitement and want to stay up all night perfecting them. They are as follows:

Knitting

My Nanna was an amazing ‘knitter’, we had some groovy cardigans when we were younger, and I often find myself missing their cabled comfort. Then, this Christmas, I was knitted a lovely red and white toadstool hat by a dear friend, which I have fairly lived in during the frozen days since then. To top it all off, I spent a portion of Boxing Day marvelling at some socks knitted by a creative and inspiring friend. And so the markers have been set. This year I will learn to knit. And I will knit on buses and trains. I will knit at conferences and if I can’t sleep. I will knit in cars and in my kitchen and at church. I am very excited to have my first lesson in knitting this evening!

Bunting

I blame ‘Ideal Home’ magazine for this one. I was excitedly perusing it during my train journey yesterday, and they have this wondrous section which showcases peoples’ houses and the decorating schemes they have adopted. There was a young boy’s bedroom, and there was bunting hanging across the top of his ceiling. You could order it for a slightly inflated amount of money… but I wasn’t going to do that. The bunting in the feature was a safe red blue and white, but I suddenly had the inspiration to make my own, and to decorate the top of the walls and ceiling in my bedroom with it. I have some teal ribbon to hang the triangles from, and I’m going to make each triangle represent something about my life. Something like a postcard or a picture or a gift tag, or even just some brightly coloured paper or something I have written or a photo.

And I thought that instead of birthday cards etc,  I could ask people to make a triangle, that I could add to the bunting. And just build on it through the year(s!). So I have already collected a couple of things to cut down and build into triangles, and I can’t wait to get started!

I will endeavour to post photos as I go!