Creative Collections

Pied Things

~ Gerald Manly Hopkins

Glory be, glory be, glory be to God for dappled things
Glory be, glory be, glory be to God for dappled things —
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Glory be, glory be, glory be to God for dappled things

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced — fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
And all things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

*** Little Miss M. is practicing styling on her dresser complete with rocks or rather a pile of builders' rubble amidst the girly trinkets.  She's quite a bower bird and makes shrines out of her found objects. But I don't know how she managed to smuggle this lot of rocks in.  I'll regularly find wrappers, pebbles, sticks, flowers and Shrinky Dinks* in her pockets and at the bottom of her school bag.. and then have to discreetly dispose of items.  Unless she catches me, then all hell breaks loose.

Right now she's making Beados** so that will be more creative material to add the installation art.

* Trade name of a children's craft kit which appears to involve drawing etched designs on lethally sharp pieces of a material designed by NASA.   Usually the by-product of After-School Hours Care or Holiday Programs.

** Tradename of a children's craft kit which involves the decorative placement of tiny coloured balls which adhere to each other when wet.  Falls apart easily and stray balls can be found for months later in strange places. 

Both need to be recalled in the interests of parental sanity... along with the dreaded Hama Beads.

Painted Nymphs

Haste Thee, Nymph
~ John Milton

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee

Jest, and youthful Jollity,

Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,

Nods and becks and wreathed smiles

Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleek;

Sport that wrinkled Care derides,

And Laughter holding both his sides.

Come, and trip it, as you go,

On the light fantastic toe;

And in thy right hand lead with thee

The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;

And, if I give thee honour due,

Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee,

In unreproved pleasures free ...

***

We are gearing up for the end of year ballet performance with lots of rehearsals on the next few weekends. Unlike Charly's short-lived ballet career (and my own), this time we have stuck it out for a full year.  The show this time is a bigger affair too with paid seating in a proper theatre and costumes with make-up.  I'm not so sure about the need for foundation and mascara for girls under ten -- even for performances and under stage lighting.  I queried the necessity of this (not to mention the accompanying $30 price tag) with the Ballet Administration and the clerk looked at me like I was deranged.  Perhaps I am.  But honestly, we propel children towards adulthood so early, and we are a long way from signing on to a professional dance career at this stage.  Why not keep it fun and light-hearted?  We will no doubt bow to peer pressure and end up pirouetting in with a little face fully painted. 

Ro-Ro is also having group dance classes at school.  A source of much wincing and cringing when it comes to the partner dances.  The thought of make-up would be too much for him to bear.   Charly would also look like a doll in a horror movie wearing make-up.   It doesn't match her tomboy personality and wardrobe of shorts and leggings (worn together). 

So glad it's the weekend. I can even see beyond swimming lessons tonight and the bucket loads of laundry -- a gallery visit and a bike ride perhaps?  Walk 'round the lake? A few episodes of Glee Season 2?  Very excited about President Obama and Princess Mary of Denmark coming to town this month.   Mary is off to the National Arboretum I see.  Must put that on the agenda too. 

Oops.  Must dash.  As Charly would say, "Out".

  

Soft boiled googie eggs

The Man from Ironbark

~ Andrew Barton "Banjo' Paterson (1864-1941).

Poet, ballad writer, journalist and horseman.

It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,

He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.

He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,

Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.

`'Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,

I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.'

The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,

He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar:

He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,

He laid the odds and kept a `tote', whatever that may be,

And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered `Here's a lark!

Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.'

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall,

Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;

To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut,

`I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.'

And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:

`I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.'

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,

Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.

He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,

Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;

Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark --

No doubt it fairly took him in -- the man from Ironbark.

He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,

And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,

He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe:

`You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go!

I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!

But you'll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark.'

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout

He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.

He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck;

He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.

And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,

And `Murder! Bloody Murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark.

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;

He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.

And when at last the barber spoke, and said, `'Twas all in fun --

'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.'

`A joke!' he cried, `By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;

I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.'

And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,

He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.

`Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough,

One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.'

And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,

That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.

***

Marvellous eggs from the backyard chooks of my friend J.  We lopped their humpty-dumpty heads off and enjoyed the brilliant, sun-orange yolks; looking and tasting unlike any supermarket googie.

I've noticed that chooks are the new 'trampoline' for backyards in Canberrra (as in, a popular feature).  A decade ago it was pergolas.  Now every-one is getting a chicken coop.

Nigel Featherstone, a Goulburn-based author, columnist in The Canberra Times and blogger, recounted having heard them described as 'just like having an open fire in the backyard' - as mesmerising to watch - which I thought was beaut.  The SSO, however, does not agree and our clipped garden would not lend itself to having hens scratch up the lawn.  So it looks like we'll be sticking with the trampoline and badminton set.

No Hens Allowed.

Livin' and Lovin'

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” ~ Mark Twain

“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”
~  J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

“How many slams in an old screen door? Depends how loud you shut it. How many slices in a bread? Depends how thin you cut it. How much good inside a day? Depends how good you live 'em. How much love inside a friend? Depends how much you give 'em.”
~ Shel Silverstein

***

Home again with a sick child.  I'll be so glad when this year is over.  I'm hoping all the illnesses will be over and done with so we can start afresh in 2012.  We even had our first experience with the Emergency Department this weekend as a result of a child with a croupy cough and laboured breathing. It was not a reassuring experience. 

Seven hours later, without having seen a doctor, the Strong Silent One, in consultation with nurse, decided to bail out at 4.30 am and come home.  There were still people ahead of us apparently.  Just keep her calm, they said. No magic elixir. Indeed, she is much better now after a home-nursing regime of rest, fluids and paracetamol.  On the night in question, I stayed up restlessly reading The Briny Cafe (still on my Susan Duncan binge), sipping hot milk and ironing like a woman possessed.  Charly and Ro-Ro displayed such loving care and concern for their little sister, that it made me wilt.  There were anxious questions and resolves to maintain a vigil until Daddy phoned in from the hospital.  She was equally desperate to see them when she woke.

Not having brothers or sisters of my own, this is the closest I've come to experiencing the intimate ties that bind siblings.  My three demonstrated this weekend how dearly and deeply they love each other.  I also noticed quite starkly, for the first time, how naturally they complement each other in temper and talent.  When one is not there, it's like a vital cog is missing.  It's been a sentimental (and tiring) ride these past few days.

Photo by me.  Gnome painting at Floriade, October 2011.

Baseball has the great advantage over cricket of being sooner ended.

~ George Bernard Shaw

***

Ain't that the truth.  Now that Wednesday soccer practice has been replaced by cricket practice and Sunday mornings will henceforth be dedicated to the sport.  Not to mention the televised version which will no doubt become our summer wallpaper music. The drone of the commentators. Strangely comforting nonetheless.  Nostalgic. Ro-Ro has decided to take his plastic cricket bat to school for lunchtime matches.  It sticks out of his backpack with pride.  Meantime I have grass stains to wash from the knees of white trousers but that is the extent of my commitment. 

Photo: By me.  Cricket practice at the local nets.

Wedding anniversary

To My Dear and Loving Husband

  ~ Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought anything but love from thee give

Thy love is such I can no way repay;

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

Then while we live, in love let’s so persevere

That when we live no more, we may live ever.

***

Thanks for the ferris wheel rides, home delivered pizza, televised rugby and all the other things that drive me nuts.  

Photo by me: Floriade, Canberra. October 2011.

A meditation on the sea

In my Kitchen in New York

~ Allen Ginsberg

Bend knees, shift weight

Picasso's blue deathhead self portrait

tacked on refrigerator door

This is the only space in the apartment

big enough to do t'ai chi

Straighten right foot and rise--I wonder

if I should have set aside that garbage

pail

Raise up my hands and bring them back to

shoulders--The towels and pyjama

laundry's hanging on a rope in the hall

Push down and grasp the sparrow's tail

Those paper boxes of grocery bags are

blocking the closed door

Turn north--I should hang up all

those pots on the stovetop

Am I holding the world right? That

Hopi picture on the wall shows

rain and lightning bolt

Turn right again--thru the door, God

my office space is a mess of

pictures and unanswered letters

Left on my hips--Thank God Arthur Rimbaud's

watching me from over the sink

Single whip--piano's in the room, well

Steven and Maria finally'll move to their

own apartment next week! His pants're

still here and Julius in his bed

This gesture's the opposite of St. Francis

in Ecstasy by Bellini--hands

down for me

I better concentrate on what I'm doing

weight in belly, move by hips

No, that was the single whip--that apron's

hanging on the North wall a year

I haven't used it once

Except to wipe my hands--the Crane

spreads its wings have I paid

the electric bill?

Playing the guitar do I have enough $

to leave the rent paid while I'm

in China?

Brush knee--that was good

halavah, pounded sesame seed,

in the icebox a week

Withdraw and push--I should

get a loft or giant living room

The land speculators bought up all

the square feet in Manhattan,

beginning with the Indians

Cross hands--I should write

a letter to the Times saying

it's unethical

Come to rest hands down knees

straight--I wonder how

my liver's doing. O.K. I guess

tonite, I quit smoking last

week. I wonder if they'll blow

up an H Bomb? Probably not.

***

Actually, this is tai chi, Karate Kid-style, on a quiet road in a sleepy outpost by the south coast of New South Wales.  The photo was taken months ago when we last had a weekend away. I can't tell you how much I miss the beach, stuck here, land-locked on a warm, bright and cloudless day. I can hear the bush birds call from my vantage point in bed looking out across the treetops.  If only the ocean was on the other side.  We could go for a morning walk along the shore, eye the horizon and inhale the tangy air.  But it's the start of the cricket season and the first match begins today.  The boys have headed off early, faces glowing with sunscreen. The girls and I are lolling about, doing our own thing.  There's no milk.  The thought of Monday has already inserted itself into the lazy morning and dictated the chores that need to be completed before sundown. It seems like a harsh, unnatural rhythm; unlike the ebb and flow of the tide.  Pesky practicalities intruding on a meditation.