sticky fish

There is a fish (in fact two fish) in that bowl, they're just camera shy.

At this first class we all had to sketch the fish, collage the fish. Instantly I was put off. I didn't want to be told what to create, that's not what I'd signed up for. But quickly it became clear that this was the fastest method to teach us the myriad of ways in which collage can be approached, and not having to spend too much time on conceptualising meant we all got right down to tearing and cutting and sticking. Oh the joy!

Apparently many people stick with their fish. Refining and building on this one piece throughout the month of classes. I'm nearly done mine, and thinking ahead to what I'll do next week.
I'm not sure what this says about me, or my method. I know that I need to start in order to get the inspiration flowing, and maybe because I was SO READY for this is was easy to throw myself in. I've also confirmed I'm not that into the torn paper look - I'm more of a scissor sister really.

I was amused by some of the questions the others asked though. Am I allowed to do such and such, or is it okay if I change the colours? The thought of asking permission to be creative never crossed my mind, and when I intricately cut out a long green water plant instead of collaging it in, the woman next to me said, 'That's a good cheat' and I laughed, you can't 'cheat' at art. Can you?

This is as much fun as I thought it would be. Roll on next week!

more about Adam

Last year I wrote a post about my friend from high school who died tragically aged 17. Lynne begged me to send a copy to his Mum, and with every intention of doing so I tracked down his brother and had a tear-speckled email conversation with him.
I got his Mum's address, but I kind of lost my nerve (why? what was I nervous about?), and a full year passed until I finally wrote to her, a few weeks ago.

I received her response today.

It's a weird feeling, knowing that my letter and the blog post I printed and sent with it, made her so happy and so sad.
I feel conflicted, with happiness - satisfaction that I could express how I felt about him so well (she refers to the post as 'an eternal love letter to my beautiful son') and that my letter was 'so very welcome' to her  - but also really humbled and unworthy to have intersected with her immeasurable grief. I think this is what held me back from writing to her for so long, I didn't feel ... entitled in some way ... to tell her anything about missing Adam. She owns the rights to that loss solely and completely.

But of course that was naive. And more than needing to hear that other people miss him, she needs to hear that others remember him, that he lives on in other hearts too.

She told me that after the first few awful years, she'd found a way that was 'manageable' to keep on going, but that just recently it has been very difficult again.
Maybe, as with all things, there was a reason I sent my letter to her now, not a year ago.

I found this in the high school diary I was reading through on the weekend. No Adam, you're my dreamboy.
For ever and ever.

the american job

Talk about hit the ground running.

After my weeks of idle layabout (doctor's orders you know), I embarked on a feverish 10 day job for some Americans.

Some Americans who work in the Communications Dept of a huge international firm.

Some Americans who work in the Communications Dept of a huge international firm and SUCK at communicating.

Add to that a 7 hour time difference, a complete lack of detailed brief, a complete lack of bigger picture perception and some pretty condescending ideas of how things work in Africa and what do you have?

A very stupid, stupid job. Which paid dollars. And is now over so ja ... I shouldn't really complain.

Debrief done. Over and out.

catch some poop Lady Liberty

50 things about right now

1. We sold my car on Saturday. I'd had it since 2006.
2. It felt like the last vestige of my pre-kids life driving away.
3. Stella's favourite word(s) are 'spic and span'.
4. Frieda's favourite word is 'lunch'. Say them out loud, they're awesome.
5. My favourite word is any one which is not directed at me.
6. This week I see a biokineticist.
7. I'm still not sure how they differ from a physiotherapist.
8. This week we see Stella's ENT. Again.
9. I will be fucking annoyed if we're going back for more grommets.
10. Someone suggested sacro cranial massage instead. Is that really a thing?
11. This week I start my collage class. Have I mentioned I'm excited?
12. This week is going to be super busy.
13. We're hosting a mermaid pirate birthday party on Saturday.
14. The lounge is half-painted.
15. I need to 1) bake 24 cupcakes (done!),
16. 2) bake 16 mini-cupcakes (fuckit, I'm buying un-iced ones),
17. 3) make icing in 3 different colours. This is all just for the cake.
18. The cake is going to be goddamn beautiful.
19. The girls and I made octo-pops (pics to follow) (not cake pops)
20. Stella didn't feel the 'tentacles' (her word) were anatomically correct.
21. We're reading On the Banks of Plum Creek.
22. We're reading Pegasus.
23. Frieda's reading flash cards. Frieda's reading.
24. We got the pedalo back in the water (husband's been repairing it) and he and Frieda took it for a spin.
25. He happily reports her legs have grown enough to significantly help with pedaling.
26. A dehydrated duckling quietly died in front of us on Friday. There's been lots of talk of death.
27. I'm having a bit of a 'approaching 40 and facing the limitations of my body' moment. Despite 40 still being 14 months away.
28. I'm tired of it not working properly though. My body that is.
29. The battery on my mobile is stuffed. I'm ignoring it.
30. And on the subject, our ginger cat is getting on and I'm nervous about how she'll handle winter.
31. Winter is coming.
32. Luckily so is series 4.
33. Husband is going to make scones for the parents on Saturday. He's a keeper.
34. I'm wondering if I can be arsed to make pirate flags ... if I do they'll be black skulls on white backgrounds 'cos that's all the fabric I have. Is that acceptable? Aha! Friends arrived with their kid draped in one, he very kindly let us borrow it for the weekend.
35. How many parents will come, and stay, on Saturday?
36. How far in advance can one make jelly?
37. I want to start working raised beds this autumn to plant veggies for spring.
38. Must do some research ...
39. I don't often indulge parenting-related guilt, but after many weeks of being disconnected (my ankle injury and then working so hard the last two), I feel I need to put some thought and planning in to what we'll do with our time together (the girls and I) this year.
40. Spending time with them is so good.
41. Their relationship with each other fascinates me.
42. Frieda has way more patience with her sister than I do.
43. The best thing about prepping for a party is clearing out all the junk in the house.
44. We took a full load to the dump on the weekend.
45. Why are we such hoarders?
46. Is there anything better than finding the perfect use for something you've been hoarding?
47. I really should be coating marshmallows in chocolate.
48. Or figuring out whether it's best to receive $$ straight into my bank account or through PayPal.
49. I should write about the American Job, for therapy as much as anything else.
50. Instead I'm hanging strings of stars arbitrarily around the house.

My little star turns 4 this month!

preaching to the choir

This evening I had the thought I should possibly work on being less sarcastic.

I love sarcasm. It's hilarious and succinct - reams can be conveyed in the simple lift of an eyebrow.

But it's a cheap trick, and I do believe one needs to master a whole lot more nuance about human behaviour before you should wield it about.

Ergo, maybe I should be less sarcastic around (and, I meekly confess, to), my children. Frieda's grasp of the tone is shockingly advanced for her age, and she's been known to think I'm being sarcastic even when I'd no intention of sounding so.
Not cool.

But my second thought was this: each post I publish here gets minimum 35 readers. I think I know most of you.

So this place, where I used to freely address strangers, my 'blog like nobody's reading', is in fact these days like talking to my nearests and dearests.

And you all know I'll never kick sarcasm.

Maybe I should just work on my delivery instead.

notes from 1993

It seems a theme is developing. Building on my ample time to resurrect old memories while crippled earlier this year, yesterday I opened an old memory box and pulled out a bunch of diaries from the 90's.

At first I thought my weekend would be consumed by them, but after randomly picking up a 1993 edition and immersing myself in my 18th year, I think I'll work through them more slowly.
So much to remember, so much to learn.

21 years later, that Molly, the 1993 version, has shown me ...

That she would be so, so happy to know that she is now married to Charl. That they have two little girls and a wonderful life.
In 1993 I'm still counting down our anniversaries in months, and my weeks hinge around seeing him again.

That I have always been creative.
I know that obviously. I have my means of expression (birthday cakes being right up there), but I've also always had friends who create for a living - beautiful handmade things - and I suspect that has prevented me from taking myself seriously, or made me vaguely apologetic for the very homemade nature of my handwork.

That I spent very few weekends and holidays at home. As an adult daughter, and a parent, this sobers me, but I have also been reminded about so many good times with wonderful friends ... foundation-building times, for friendships and myself.

If I'm bored I don't make the effort. I've often regarded this as a character flaw but you know what, I've always been like this. My school results from first quarter 1993 will confirm - winging it in English and History, barely scraping through the rest.
Life's too short you know?

I'm always telling a story. There's a narrative, a bunch of sub plots, character definitions, scenery, atmosphere to every experience I have. I'm telling myself as it happens and I rewrite and hone in my subconscious for long while after.
So why the fuck aren't I writing this stuff down?
There are clippings for writing competitions stuck all over 1993, I don't recall entering anything to any of them. Have I been carrying the same writer's block for 21 years? No wonder my fucking ankles are going.

That I was happy. As grown as I felt, I can see now that despite being 18, and world wise and clubbing and going on road trips and wearing big girl pants, I was still at school, living with my parents. From 2014 I still look very much like a child.

But I was strong, and confident and adventurous too, and this pleases me. My god, 18 was fun.

collage

I've rewarded myself (after the stupid, stupid job I've just finished) with a month of collage classes with this lady.

I can't draw. Or sew. The medium I've always been most comfortable in is paper, and I've been playing with collage since high school.
[SIDE TRACKED! I went off looking for a collaged workbook I knew I still had from 1992 and found my old diaries ... there goes my weekend!]

all mine

Naturally I signed up for the course and immediately started a 'collage' board on Pinterest.

someone else's

I've no idea what to expect, and I'm very happy to remain ignorant until class starts and let the ideas rush in then, but it doesn't hurt to hone your eye right?

I'm drawn to changing perspective and message through simple techniques.

eugenia_loli

Nick Paliughli

I like the use of negative space.

Jeorge Chamarro

I'd like to tell something of my life.

But my god I'd also love to be able to do this.

Derek Gores

And I wish I'd made this.

But all my (cough) best work thus far has always been spontaneous and inspired by the images on hand, I can't wait to see what Wednesday evening holds.

PS. The first person to say 'scrap-booking' gets a kick in the ass.

minifig fun (in lieu of pirate)

My youngest would like a Mermaid birthday party. But as 80% of her guest list are boys we decided to make it Mermaids & Pirates so as not to alienate them ... I've heard rumours that boys aged 4+ are easily alienated by 'girlie' things.
Lordy, this gender divide thing is some serious crap.

I'm waiting for NYC to wake up for a teleconference, and to be honest suffering a small case of nerves in anticipation of the phone call, so this seemed as good a way as any to distract myself ...

Let's see if it gets the seal of approval.

[UPDATE: she loves it! Shew.]

a month of me

I returned one crutch to the pharmacy today. I still need one for room-to-room walking, but I can hobble around the kitchen on two feet, preparing a simple meal or in today's case, baking a birthday cake for my mother-in-law.

It's astounding how liberating it feels to have the use of my hands, easily, and to have one hand now free to carry stuff around.
To take be able to take photographs.

I wrote about my wheelchair experience, but this whole month of disability has been rare and exceptional.

I was crushed that my year started on this foot (ha ha), but in hindsight (isn't it always?), it's been a gift.

Could the cry of that Fish Eagle that enticed me out on to the lawn (and I must write about my Fish Eagle thing soon), have been another instance of one telling me that this was good, that this was right?

For one month I've not been required to be anything much for anyone else. I've naturally done what I can for the girls - I've had them home every weekday afternoon, I'd throw together sandwiches, read stories etc - but there were vast tracts of their care that I couldn't do - bath, bedtime upstairs, endlessly searching for assorted crap, driving them around - and so, I couldn't.
I spent a lot of time just being me.

What a gift right?

I've had moments I haven't had since before being a parent.

I've sat on the stoop and watched evening fall like the lightest gossamer veil over the earth, the most beautiful guise of summer.
I've lain in deep baths and had long rememberings - childhood holidays, the houses of friends I had growing up, moments in our early relationship (20+ years ago!).
I've spent so much time with my cat.
I've been silent for hours.
I've hung out. With me.

There have been many less desirable moments. I've been in pain obviously - but besides the physical, I've had restless days. 'Pacing my cage' as an insightful friend put it. I've felt isolated and redundant, sorry for myself.
I've been working (and thank god I work from home) and I've been utilising social media big time, so it's not like I've been a total hermit. But I miss people.

And I've some bad habits to break. Wearing sweatpants for one. Very long morning coffee breaks outside. Twitter. Netflix.

But this evening, as I prepared supper for the girls, topped up their juice bottles, I felt such satisfaction in these mundane domestic tasks. Was it because I was caring for my family, I asked myself?
No, it was because I wasn't having to ask my poor husband to do it.

I'm grateful. For this time I've had. For my wonderful mother and husband who've picked up the reins so open-heartedly. For my daughters who've shown compassion and patience with my 'silly foot' every day of the last month.
For the beauty of my cage.
For this month of me.

where I sat

It was hot this weekend.
I pegged my way out on to the lawn to sit in the cool breeze under our Norfolk pine.
I sat there for a while and then pegged all the way back in to get my camera.

I've been so frustrated at not being able to take pictures. It's hard to get good angles when you can only lean on one leg, need both hands for moving. Can't jump up to grab the camera when the urge strikes or the moment's right.
So it was fun to focus on what was right around me, available with just the slightest of contortions. Textures and shadows, there'll be more of them in 2014.