Category: stitch in time

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So much fab, so little time

There has been so much to marvel at, a surf and foam and froth and bubble and deep rolling waves of turquoise-tinged depths shot through with slanting columns of sun’s gold.

A prelude to a “what I’ve been doing recently which explains mostly off-lineness” post. Which may well lack links and illustrations initially since it’s being constructed on the phone on a train heading to what is the last scheduled highpoint of this long and glittering summer of peaks. (There are now links and illustrations because of course it didn’t get finished while away.)

Perhaps first was You, Me, BumBum Train to which the wonderful C (of seed swaps and piranha-populated garden centres and cuttings and wisdom) produced tickets. I’m not sure whether the prohibition on saying what it’s “about” is still in force so I shall merely say that it was a unique experience, exhilarating and challenging and thought-provoking in equal measure.

Then there was Latitude with the brother of my sons and my heart, A, and the chaos-promoting provocateurs Hg and the flock of murderbirds. So much to see and hear and do.

wisdom and truth

Three highlights. The sight of b2 dancing on A’s shoulders listening to and, more importantly, seeing, Vampire Weekend, his face split in a grin so wide I wonder his cheeks didn’t crack. The opportunity to ponder how much letting go is an expansion and enrichment prompted by the evening-to-early-morning antics of b1 with A&J. And watching a giant bubble of rainbow iridescence drift through a deep blue sky, split into smaller bubbles and eventually burst to a spray of drops showering other upturned faces as the incomparable Mumford & Sons sang one of their heartbreaking, electrically life-infused songs.

Timshel

Cold is the water
It freezes your already cold mind
Already cold, cold mind
And death is at your doorstep
And it will steal your innocence
But it will not steal your substance

But you are not alone in this
And you are not alone in this
As brothers we will stand and we’ll hold your hand
Hold your hand

And you are the mother
The mother of your baby child
The one to whom you gave life
And you have your choices
And these are what make man great
His ladder to the stars

But you are not alone in this
And you are not alone in this
As brothers we will stand and we’ll hold your hand
Hold your hand

And I will tell the night
Whisper, “Lose your sight”
But I can’t move the mountains for you.

And turning to A to see my tears in his.

high up

Then, after seven years or so of delighting in the online presence of the Thinkery‘s thinker I got to meet “Dr Krista” (for thus she is known in these parts, because of the scarf of course) in person. A triumphant vindication of the ability of the internet to connect one with the profoundly simpatico and for that virtual friendship to be confirmed and enriched by an encounter IRL. She took me to bits of London I’ve never seen before

07

I took her to other bits I had (but hadn’t noticed)

if you ever need the fur removed from a cherry

and, best of all, my father took us both to Oxford to see bits neither of us had

overcome by beauty

That is not my father recovering from the strain. Just in case anyone was wondering. It might, however, be Christ Church Cathedral prompting Stendhal syndrome.

It was in fact the summer of American Academics – Krista introduced me to the fascinating and delightful J who, I only later discovered, after not unearthing the fact despite 12 or so straight hours of gabbing, is the blogger I know as Momo. (See above re comment about bloggers IRL.) And the conductor of the Household Opera was in London too, wearing a handknit of such surpassing gorgeousness the pattern had immediately to be purchased and added to the lengthening queue of objects awaiting cooler, knitting-friendly, weather. Here are the three of us – K and A and I – on a London jaunt: two academics and an amateur (and it was too hot to keep the Pas de Valse on, if I’d thought I should have requested it. Bother.)

two academics and an amateur

Both Krista and Amanda have written about their UK tours – K here and A here, far more interestingly than I could. Particularly, of course, the parts of their trips for which – shock! horror! – I was not actually present. Suffice it to say we had a serendipitous city Sunday of varied delights.

Then, at a brisk pace, the bs and I were off to catch up with more bloggers under the guise of having a beach holiday.  One, Lucy, I have known since the age of 10, so this hardly counted as a first IRL experience although since her move to France we’ve actually seen each other seldom.

How heroic is it possible for one person (or rather two, since Tom was also central to the arrangements) to be? I merely announced the intention to camp and was, forthwith, presented with a shortlist of possible campsites. I chose. The one that it’s not possible to book in advance. So L&T arose at some ungodly hour on the day of our arrival, drove the considerable distance to the municipal site in question, prowled its purleius, located a group looking likely to leave the otherwise entirely chocka site, waited until they had fully departed and flung a pop-up tent onto the pitch in the apparently recognised and respected form of bagsie. Not content with this they then drove to the port to pick us up. Came back to the campsite. Helped put up the (ridiculously enormous) tent. Fed us. Watered us. Produced vital and enormous lengths of electrical cabling. Provided Molly as a Maizy substitute (she couldn’t come, I already missed her.) They only departed when it was too dark to do anything other than sleep.

want

What an idyllic holiday. The golden-sanded barely inhabited bay of a beach two minutes in one direction, chilled local cider two minutes in the other. And moules and gallettes and crêpes. We swam in the sea. We burnt in the sun. We ate – abundantly and deliciously. We chilled when and where  and how ever we felt like. We laughed. We slept. We did it all again. It was absolutely perfect.

hows that for a beach

And we got to hang out with Lucy and Molly for a whole day. Which she (the former) may well have recalled here, under St Michel (the îlot just visible in the picture above and accessible only by a causeway exposed at low tide) which made me gasp and smile in recognition. We, the adults, so entranced and excited by the real. live. hermit. crabs. in teeny tiny shells!! and the boys, busy with some complex digging-and-damming engineering project, casting a polite but cursory glance over our outstretched sandy palms and attempting, and failing, concomitant interest.

We also got to do our washing in a proper machine see Lucy and Tom in their natural habitat and meet Gillian too! and Porridge, who confusingly goes by another name when not bounding the blogosphere. Both were even more delightful IRL, should such a thing be possible. We ate and drank (of course). And walked in the Breton not-rain which closely resembles British rain, stopping to shelter under a tree only when it was deemed to be raining, a meteorological condition which would be known elsewhere as a monsoon. But cold. We learnt that in Brezhoneg the sky is not just “grey” but can be described by a plethora of words covering, well, the colours of rain-bearing and rain-producing clouds. In addition there is, apparently, no word for “blue”, the nearest being a form of “green”. Fortunately back at the beach the rain held off until the exact moment we had the inner tent spread out on the ground when striking camp, at which moment the heavens opened several sluice-gates over our pitch.

Once back, while the boys went off for yet another holiday I went to Dartmoor with friends. Walking, mirth, stones, myth, talking, wool.

Finally now the run down towards the new school term – uniform, shoes, stationary, a certain amount of nagging about homework and revision. The weather is glowering and chilly. I wonder whether the 100 or so tomatoes on the plant by the back door will actually ever ripen. Leaves are flung off the trees. Cycling into the headwind feels like late autumn, not mid August. And so the wheel turns.

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Chelsea Physic Garden

With K and J.

Ripping, twisting, piercing, flapping, splitting, tearing, oozing, bursting, cracking, squelching, thrusting, rotting, spiking, furling, living, dying.

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10.5 ways of looking at a story (Africa and the Telling of Tales)

A village Chief listens during a community meeting / Ngegebma, Kailahun District
Community meetings are held in Kailahun’s villages to ensure the returnees successfully re-integrate. Here, the Chief of the village of Ngegebma listens to returnees’ questions.
Photograph by Caroline Thomas
Caroline Thomas is a documentary photographer based in Sierra Leone. She is a stringer for EPA and works with NGOs and the UN as a photographer and communications adviser.

The name Kailahun rang in my ears for more than a decade – the civil war in Sierra Leone was almost exactly coterminous with my time working for the BBC Africa Service – but I’ve never seen the place. I find this picture, from the new website African Lens (Telling the Story of Africa), both beautiful and moving.

The inaugural editorial is suitably thought-provoking and concludes on a rising clarion note:

These are exciting times for visual storytellers, with the power of the web facilitating the global production and circulation of new photographic projects. There are many challenges involved in getting better stories to the right people, but the gatekeepers of the mainstream media no longer have total control over what we can or cannot see. If we appreciate how stereotypes have been produced and can be contested, we can, over time, achieve the re-visualization of ‘Africa’.

The author, academic David Campbell, links, more than once, to this utterly delightful TED talk by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie which I’m embedding here in the hope that everyone who comes across it will watch it all the way through. It’s worth every minute of it.

A vision indeed. But perhaps if every child in the world were issued with and inspired by Ben Okri’s 10 1/2 Inclinations (advice he formulated when asked to recommend the top ten books he thought children should read) we should be nearer that three-dimensionality of mind:

The 10 1/2 Inclinations

1.) There is a secret trail of books meant to inspire and enlighten you. Find that trail.
2.) Read outside your own nation, colour, class, gender.
3.) Read the books your parents hate.
4.) Read the books your parents love.
5.) Have one or two authors that are important, that speak to you; and make their works your secret passion.
6.) Read widely, for fun, stimulation, escape.
7.) Don’t read what everyone else is reading. Check them out later, cautiously.
8.) Read what you’re not supposed to read.
9.) Read for your own liberation and mental freedom.
10.) Books are like mirrors. Don’t just read the words. Go into the mirror. That is where the real secrets are. Inside. Behind. That’s where the gods dream, where our realities are born.
10.5) Read the world. It is the most mysterious book of all.

(Okri via Jeremy.)

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On the bus

men waiting for work

The bus paused for the lights at the large intersection next to the wall where, every day, men congregate in garrulous groups waiting for work. Sometimes I pass when a van draws up, rapid negotiations are transacted and one or more clamber into the back and the van drives off.

Mostly the men stand with their fists pushed hard in their pockets but today I noticed one who was systematically burning the hairs on the back of his hands with his cigarette, between drags. Even from the height of the top of the bus I could see the skin was covered with shiny white sequins of old burn scars.

man with bare feet

I’d scoffed most of a packet of biscuits (it’s a long journey) before realising that while not illegal it might have been inconsiderate.

man with scar

The light on the scar on his knee – that was what I was interested in. But unfortunately the camera wasn’t.

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Community and collaboration

Is it, I wonder, possible to have one without the other? if they were venn diagrammed would the circles entirely overlap or are there aspects of each independent of the other? at the moment of collaboration does a community spark into being, however short-lived? is it possible to have community, of any sort, entirely without collaboration?

This past weekend I benefited from the area enclosed by the arcs where the venn circles quite definitely overlap in two different ways simultaneously.

Firstly there was the computer. The old (2002) 17″ flat panel iMac which, having served me well was moved to the rather less tender care of the boys when I got my laptop. When we got back from our holiday it died. Wouldn’t boot up at all. The boys were, understandably, upset at the thought of losing access to… whatever it is they access. All we could get was a white screen with a grey apple in the middle and, while elegant and understated, it was rather unvarying and inflexible.

Grey

After hours of effort including hair-pulling, zapping things, unscrewing base plates, swearing and suchlike I’d advanced to being able to open the CD drive and hearing the startup sound. And had discovered that, search as I might, I could find every other installation disc for every other programme for every other computer in the history of the world except, of course, the one I needed.

Enter the geeks. One reassures me that it’s a software not hardware problem and the other sends out a tweet-o-s asking if anyone in her network (community?) had a copy of the appropriate disc they could lend a complete stranger. Less than 20 minutes later and offers have flowed in from across the globe.

You might be thinking that fine tweets butter no parsnips, but you’d be wrong. As instantly as is possible within the confines of the UK postal system I actually have a copy of the said disc in the letterbox, in the CD drive and soon after in my (ok, the boys’) computer.

magic happening

thankyouthankyouthankyou! to the wonderful person who came to the aid of someone they’d never met on the other side of the country. Look! It works! It works!

Soft-centred

And by a happy deliberance (what’s the opposite of a coincidence if it isn’t a deliberance?) the picture displayed in the browser on the computer is of the other, parallel, example of collaborative communitarian gorgeousness, namely my hap blanket.

As knitters will readily grasp this project had, because of the frequent changes from one yarn colour to another, quite a lot of ends to darn in. As my nearest and dearest will testify I loath and detest darning in (in particular, and sewing in general) with such a passion that it can mean I knit all the bits of a project and then fail to do the last bits that turn it from heaps of crumpled fabric into a functional finished thing.

Not so this blanket. Because, being aware of my sore affliction, the aforementioned pixeldiva and the also-present Erzebel plonked themselves on either side of the reluctant darner on the sofa, got out their needles and sewed in those ends. Such are the dimensions of the thing (more than three feet square) we could all stitch at the same time. And pix probably twittered about the computer disc simultaneously too. It adds a further layer of speciality to a project already dripping with wonderful associations (and Scottish rain).

Awesomeness abounds, unbounded.

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Another artistic interlude

This time Walking In My Mind at The Hayward Gallery.

I was so totally blown away by Keith Tyson‘s work, which is near the beginning, that the rest of the installations that make up the exhibition didn’t really stand much of a chance. But this is hardly surprising given where he’s coming from:

Keith Tyson’s work can be characterised as an artistic exploration of some of the basic mysteries of human experience. His artistic motivations lie in an interest in generative systems, and an embrace of the complexity and interconnectedness of existence. Philosophical problems such as the nature of causality, the roles of probability and design in human experience, and the limits and possibilities of human knowledge, animate much of his work. His practice is also defined by a direct engagement with scientific and technological ideas.

His installation consists of two walls of selected Studio Wall Drawings and one wall of an assemblage called “Locked Out Of Eden – Viewing The Children Playing In The Garden From The Safety Of My Cerebral Fortress”. Tyson says the Studio Wall Drawings exist “in a space somewhere between a map, a poem, a diary and a painting.” Many address and describe painful mental states and I was frequently reminded of Bobby Baker’s Diary Drawings (see previous post). However it has to be said this perceived similarity could also be due to the fact that they’re the only two art events I’ve been to for quite some time.

I wish I had known before I went that it is possible to download the curator’s audio tour from the internet to an MP3 player. What a great idea, particularly if it’s an interesting and well-produced example of the genre which would augment rather than distract from the experience. I haven’t listened so can’t give an opinion. I’m so out of everything I can’t tell whether this is an exciting innovation on the part of the Hayward or merely standard practice in these internet-augmented days.

I also wish I was going to be in London for the associated event Brain Making:

Make a model of a brain with scientist Dr Lizzie Burns, who in the process attempts to explain the mysteries of the creative mind. She discussed the work in the exhibition from a neurogical perspective and shows how the artist’s dreams, hallucinations and memories influence their work.

I shall, instead, be mashing up the words “walking”, “brain”, “mind” and “making” in a different way on a mindfulness meditation retreat.

However I can’t resist mentioning that, having finally had the long-awaited MRI scan, I now have my very own brain to play with. It arrived as a couple of files requiring a specialised piece of medical image viewing software to open. I haven’t had much time to play with it yet, but it’s been awesome so far being able to go through my own head like a packet of honey roast ham (slice by slice).

storm trooper

There’s a bit of a startled Star Wars Storm Trooper look going on here, I reckon.

Or how about the Yubaba/Zeniba clone/crone/fairygodmother? (That link to a picture of Yubaba is taken from a fascinating blog post – the trouble with coraline (or: fear of witches) from a blog which after this serendipitous discovery I am going to bookmark.)

aaaaaargh

Oh yes. There’s much more where those came from. And just wait til I start drawing on them.

Meanwhile I’m mostly offline again until September.

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The flesh and the net

Not only has the flesh been unwilling as well as the spirit feeble, now to further mitigate against any activity here we have swum through the net.

One of the many rather large-scale issues that has been occupying the horizon has been the prospect of major building work to the house which is now (one nervous breakdown later) actually taking place. As a result we’re not in it. We’re somewhere else entirely – all five of us – and while the alternative accommodation is a rather surreal but delightful bijou designer residence it lacks even a phone line never mind internet access.

I’m not sure how I’m going to manage without Ravelry. The need to browse yarns and patterns and drool over what everyone else is making is going to be too strong to keep me out of the occasional internet café. Perhaps while there I might post the odd picture of our current extraordinary surroundings.

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Fish eggs

My friend F paints duck eggs. Not in the Easter/pagan sense of applying pigment to shell but in the canvas-on-easel oils-on-palette sense of depicting them. This bowl, these eggs, are not from her studio. They are in her kitchen. On her black work-surface against her black wall. Awaiting culinary rather than representational alchemy (in both disciplines F is an artist).

a bowl of duck eggs

I can utterly understand the obsession. (She’s painted quite a large number of different permutations of eggs.) Taking the photograph was exciting enough – the textures, the colours, the subtle gradations of hue, the shapes, the way the light fell on and thereby changed all these things. And all I did was twiddle a couple of knobs, position the camera and click the shutter. Imagine the challenge, the possibilities of building up an image from nothing.

It is F’s birthday today. She is one of eleven pisceans sufficiently near and dear to have their birthdays entered in my calendar, the first of whom (February 21st) is 1st son and last of whom is me.

Are pisceans reputed to get on particularly well together? or is this bulge (yes, it’s far and away the biggest clump of nearest-and-dearest birthdays, I went through the aforementioned calendar to check it wasn’t merely “I’m a piscean” bias), is this bulge (I restate since the previous parenthesis was so long you might have forgotten the original question), a statistical anomaly?

Anyway, the explanation, should one ever conclusively be demonstrated, matters not at all. I merely wish to celebrate and salute my fishy sistren and brethren.

(And for the terrier-fancying fish among us – yes, that means you, Fresca – there are more pictures of the lovely Maizy from yesterday’s impromptu photo-shoot here, here and here.)

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Positive and negative

Each leaf which fell after the sleet has sheltered a frozen mirror. Scuffed aside the secret is revealed of their cold embrace, but the short slant light of day cannot make it melt.

ice print

People from the past drift through my dreams and drop into my e-mail in-box. These I can ignore, but when they ring on the phone interaction is required. I’m talking six to sixteen years past. My number is unlisted, but despite this someone I’ve never met rings it, on the advice of someone I last saw eight years ago, and asks for advice about a forthcoming job interview. Surreal. The positive is the surprising equanimity with which I deal with these unasked-for interruptions.

The unmistakable scream of a swift from the ice-blue sky has me screwing up my eyes against the red-pink of the huge winter setting sun, searching in astonishment for a seriously displaced summer visitor. A starling stares back down from a television aerial silent for a few seconds before repeating its borrowed screech.

Last night I dreamed of buying clothes. A snappy little tailored jacket, to be exact, and a cunningly constructed skirt. This is the first time for years that my attention, conscious or unconscious, to garments has gone much beyond whether they are sufficiently warm and sufficiently clean to be either useful or respectable. Unfortunately my budget for clothes is zero, but luckily I already have considerably more than necessary and have a long neglected wardrobe to explore.

Mice are gone, lice are back.