The Vagabond King, and Perpetual Motion.

Just a quick update on the 'quilty thing', because at the moment I'm working on this painting (below) in order to finish it in time to drop it off at a local exhibition/competition on Sunday morning!  It was called "I do not believe perpetual motion is impossible" for no good reason other than the fact that I'd scribbled this sentence on a scrap torn out of an old diary, had it pinned up on my corkboard for ages, and on a whim decided to stick it onto this large collagey thing.  LOVE the colours that I got with this piece, the photo doesn't quite do it justice, they really glow.  But otherwise, not that interesting really.  So I'm doing things with it...have to wait and see!

Now, where am I with the 'quilty thing' aka "Travelling Robe for a Vagabond King"?  Well, I had to change the name slightly to enter it into an art award because the entry form stipulated that the title had to be 25 characters or less!  So, for that competition at least, it's now called "Travel Robe for a Ragged King"...exactly 24 characters, but we all know what its real name is!  I finally finished the large circle and trimmed it off.  Here it is spread out on the family room mat.

Then I ummed and ahhhed about what to put it on.  I was going to put it on a dark blue heavy cotton, and then make the other side (or front of the robe) the same fabric (which if you're using it as a mat, would be the side you put on the ground, therefore needed to be tough and not too fancy).  But decided the colour didn't quite work.

So I decided to experiment and change it.  A bit of.....hmmm, reverse dyeing?  So twisted it from the centre point and dumped it into some household bleach.  I really like how it turned out, but still not working for me as the back to the circles.  Oh well, I'll use it for something else!

So had a rethink and decided red might be the way to go!  Yep, I think that's better.

So I'm sewing this down, and just started some quilting stitch on the inner gold circle.  Lots to do!

Late note:  It's a funny thing, but as soon as I neatly hemmed the big circle...I didn't like it as much, it had lost its magic.  Oh here we go again, the 'beauty of the ragged edge...'!

The Wheel turns and I am another year older.

As a small child, one of the reasons why I wasn't so fond of Anzac Day is that my birthday, following immediately after, sometimes felt a bit like an afterthought.  As both my parents played in Highland Pipe Bands (it's how they met, but that's a story for another day), both children of war veterens, and my dad a member of the Army reserve and Army Band, Anzac Day was usually busy, with marches and parades and playing at various venues, and I always felt that my birthday got overshadowed.  But the upside is that, whenever Anzac Day falls on a Sunday, I get a public holiday on Monday all to myself!

So I took my family off to the local park for an afternoon tea party picnic, including a camp stove, kettle and the best china, iced cup cakes and jam tarts, and of course, all dressed up.  It was about time I found another occasion to wear the top hat.  Unfortunately the one thing we forgot to check was whether the camera was charged, so only got one photo!  Ah well, it's not about taking pretty pictures, it's about enjoying the moment, which we did.

Mum and dad dressing up for the occasion too.  I think we should do this more often, sometimes we Aussies are just too casual!

I wonder what this year will bring?  I think middle-age is an attitude, and as such I've just decided not to have that kind of attitude.  Mostly I still feel somewhere between 17 and 21.  I had my "Lucy Jordan" moment a few years ago.  Woke up in the middle of the night (well, about 2:15am I think) with the sudden, profound realisation that I was 37.  This seemed so terribly important that I actually woke Beloved up and said "Do you realise I'm the same age as Lucy Jordan?!"  There was a sort of 'hurrumph', a pause, and then somewhere from beneath the quilt came the muffled reply.  "So you'll never drive through Paris with the warm wind in your hair.  Could be worse!"  And I guess he's right.  I'll probably be waking him up in 20 years time to ask him "will you still need me..?!"

And the band played 'Waltzing Matilda'...95 years on.

Two young men who went off to fight 'the war to end all wars'  My paternal (left) and maternal (right) grandfathers.

It's Anzac Day today, quite possibly the most important day in Australia's calender.  Even Australia Day, on January 26th, does not quite match it for solemnity and pride.  It's a day of mixed feelings for me.  Essentially, I am a pacifist, even as a young child, it simply didn't make sense to me, all this marching and uniforms and what seemed to be a celebration of one of humankind's greatest failings, war, especially as the ANZAC landing it commemorated was an unmitigated strategic disaster.  Despite the fact that both my grandfathers fought in WWI it seemed to have little relevance for me.

I suppose I have Peter Weir to thank for changing my attitude.  His film "Gallipoli" released in 1981 gave me more of an insight into why we should remember those men.  Perhaps the commemoration of a military defeat is no bad thing, it focusses more on the men themselves, on individual acts of courage and heroism.  I won't go into the flaws and historical inaccuracies of the film now, but it sent an impressionable young 15 year old into the library to find out more, to find what the truth might be, and why my paternal grandfather was there in the first place.

It's often phrased as the 'birth of the nation' or the 'baptism of fire' for Australia.  I don't know about that, but it was the first time Australian troops had fought AS Australian soldiers, after the creation of the Australian Imperial Force (AIF) under the distinctive rising sun badge.  In previous wars, such as the Boer War, Australians had fought as part of the British military.  On April 25th 1915, Australian and New Zealand (hence the ANZAC) army corps landed at the Gallipoli peninsula in Turkey, in an attempt to smash through the Ottoman Empire, a German ally. It was a disaster from start to finish.  Firstly, the troops were landed in the wrong place and instead of a having to charge up a gentle slope and over-run the Turkish positions, they faced almost sheer cliffs.  Secondly, despite this supposedly being a top secret mission, the Turkish troops were well prepared for them.  There was also of course, that typical western superiority complex, for they had been told that the Turks would simply turn and run.  They found out how foolish that idea was.  Many never even made if off the landing boats.  Despite the failure of the initial landing, they dug in and continued to slog it out for months, wave after wave of young men dying in stupid and ultimately pointless attacks.  The Turks suffered horrific losses, but never gave an inch, and by the end of the campaign, in December of 1915, a grudging respect had grown between the two sides.  Ironically, the withdrawal from Gallipoli was an remarkable strategic success, with few casualties.  Many of those young men went straight to the horrific battlefields in France and Belgium.  My other grandfather, too young to enlist in time for Gallipoli, fought there.  These young men were told they were fighting the 'war to end all wars'.  If only.

Although attendance dropped off during the 60s and 70s, probably a lot to do with Vietnam, and anti-war protests of the time, Anzac Day has gained enormous popularity in recent years, with many making a kind of pilgrimage to Anzac Cove in Turkey for the ceremony there every April 25th.  I wonder about this.  It worries me somewhat that when young people are asked why they think it's important to remember Anzac Day, they answer "to remember those who died so we could be free" but often have no idea what Anzac Day actually commemorates.  I wish it were true, but I don't believe it.  Am I too cynical?  I believe absolutely that generations of young men have fought and died believing they were defending their homeland, their loved ones.  But it seems to me most wars are fought for less noble reasons, and good young people are lied to, and die instead for those lies.  What exactly was WWI all about?  The evil Hun Empire trying to enslave the world?  Or two empires clashing over power, greed, politics and resources?  What was it my grandfathers fought for, and in my maternal grandfather's case, almost died for?  A 'war to end all wars'?  That might have been a war worth fighting.

To me, Anzac Day should be a day to remember the bravery and courage of men (and women too now) who have put their lives on the line, believing that they are defending us from evil.  A day to mourn those who lost their lives, and their innocence.  But most importantly, it should be a day to reflect on why we ask these young people to go to war in the first place.  Surely, we have made a binding contract with them?  If we ask them to lay down their lives, if we ask them to kill for us...then it is our responsibility, our sacred duty, to ensure that they are NEVER called upon to do that unless it truly is the only, the last resort, unless we are in immanent danger of annihilation.  Not for oil, or money, or cheap resources, or political point scoring.  Not for gaining votes in an election.  Not to keep a powerful ally on side.

Anzac Day has also become a day of reconciliation.  In 1934, Kemal Ataturk, who had been the Turkish commander at Gallipoli in 1915 and later became Turkey's first president, paid tribute to the allies who had died at Gallipoli.  In 1985, the Turkish Government officially renamed the place where those troops landed 70 years before, Anzac Cove.  Old 'Diggers' met with old Turkish soldiers and remembered and shared stories of their experiences.  In Canberra, at the Australian War Memorial, the Ataturk Memorial Garden was opened, featuring a memorial to Ataturk and the Turkish soldiers who fell fighting for their homeland.  But more than this, as Australia is a land of immigrants, many who were once enemies have come here, found a home and become friends.  They too, share in Anzac Day, and remember.

I was going to leave you with Ataturk's 1934 speech, which appears on both the memorial in Canberra, and at Ari Burnu at Gallipoli...and I will, but this post requires a short epilogue.  Just before I started writing it earlier today, I heard voices by the front gate.  It was an elderly Italian couple, who wanted to know if they could pick the olives on our two trees to preserve.  As I know I'm not going to get around to it, I told them to go ahead.  So my girls and I spent a couple lovely hours this morning, learning how to pick olives the easy way, about making gnocci and pasta sauce, about grandchildren and growing garlic and eggplants, and how to fertilize citrus trees.  And it occurred to me...70 years ago, Australians and Italians were bitter enemies, fighting each other during WWII.  And yet I cannot now imagine Australia without the Italian influence of the last 60 or so years.  I shudder to think what we'd be eating (and I won't even mention the coffee we'd be drinking!) if they had not come to this country.  Enemies become friends, and we learn that essentially, we are all the same and have so much more in common than what we do not.  It seemed highly appropriate then, to spend my Anzac Day morning offering an olive branch, literally, to people whose nation was once an enemy, but who came to this country and having enriched it in so many ways, belong here now.  They have indeed, put roots down "in the soil of a friendly country."

Memorial at Ari Burnu

Poems, books and being a closet scribbler.

Terri Windling has been showcasing some beautiful works of poetry at her blog this week. Poetry is something I've loved, and written (slightly embarrassed whisper) ever since I was a child. Digging out the poem I posted yesterday (had a sudden rush of blood to the head and felt inexplicably brave) meant I had to rifle through a couple of notebooks of scribbles to find it, and of course, found lots of other scribbles while I was at it. And it occurred to me, is it odd that as an artist, I actually have more notebooks full of scribbles than I have of sketches? Poems, ideas for stories, plays, short-story drafts...even songs. Scraps and fragments that seem to drop from the sky, and thus are (mostly at least) never finished or resolved. Perhaps I just have a flighty muse who can't commit to a relationship, so I rarely ever get the end of the story. Or occasionally there's an end, but nothing to explain how it got there. Or maybe it's just that I can never decide whether they're finished or not, so carry on, year after year, tinkering and rearranging, and being too afraid to show anyone because, well, they're probably pretty ordinary at best, but also once they're 'out there' so to speak, they're not mine to fiddle around with anymore. But what's the point in having them sit gathering dust for years, eventually to become an inconvenience that my children and grandchildren will have to deal with once I've shuffled off this mortal coil? I even started a short story once along those very lines. So I thought I might try, every now and then, to be brave and post a poem, or a bit of scribble. Probably won't stop me tinkering with them, but I guess some feedback might result in more productive tinkering.

Regarding books, I just had to share this remarkable article about Velma Bolyard's handmade books, in the latest Hand/Eye magazine. This is the opening paragraph:

I often get asked about what my books represent to me personally. I see each book I complete as an event or a story. I use a poem, or a sentence, or an image, and from one of those elements, I spin a tale or a page and the book grows from that point. The blank pages in the books I create aren't just "nothing." They might contain your dreams, thoughts, fears, or your words, or whatever you wish to put down. The pages are sturdy and moveable; the haptic quality of reading pages bound in a book—blank or otherwise—informs the brain, and connects the senses to one's intelligence. These pages might even contain a miracle. A fire. A tempest. A teapot. A home.

A Tempest indeed. Books have always been magical to me, and years ago, almost 20 in fact, I saw Peter Greenaway's film "Prospero's Books" and was blown away by it. Greenaway's films tend to elicit either love or hate from their viewers, I am definitely in the 'love' category. I loved everything about the film, it inspired me in many ways (more about that in another post perhaps), but it was the books that enchanted me, these marvelous, magical, whimsical, fantastical books. I've had it in my head to try and make books like these ever since. But alas, I'm yet to get around to it. Part of what stops me is that I come up with ideas for books...but then get stuck on the content part. A vague idea and a nifty title aren't going to stretch to 20, or 30, or 100 pages of writing, art, fold outs, pop-ups and so on. So they remain vague ideas, floating tantalisingly just out of reach. But perhaps, after reading the article about Velma's books, I've let myself get bogged down over the nitty gritty details of what's actually IN the books unnecessarily. Perhaps I can make them, and let the 'reader' dictate what's in it, each person bringing their own personal experience to create a book that speaks only to them? Hmmmm...much to think on. In the meantime, I'm going to be a bit brave again.


If I could hold your soul up to the light

   what might I see?

I think sometimes you would bow your head and whisper

   "a ragged, shapeless thing."

Threadbare patches where the moral fibres wore thin.

The pocket with the hole you kept your memories in.

Matching buttons a distant dream of who you might have been

   replaced with ones that would do in a pinch

   but never kept the warmth in.

No.

If I could hold your soul up to the light

   I know what I would see.

A coat of many colours, shining

   cobweb fine and thin.

The holes you cut in the unforgiving cloth 

   yourself

   to let the starlight in.

And the middle page from the little book I DID make.

A small poem in praise of slowness...

I am a dawdler in a world of lets-get-there-yesterday people.  I've always been a dawdler.  As a child my mum used to ask me, regularly, what on earth took me so long to walk home from school.  I could turn a 20 minute walk into an hour and 20 minute meander.  Off in my own world, day-dreaming and only half aware of my surroundings, I trusted my feet to take me home (eventually), while my mind was busy with other things.  I never do anything in a hurry, I take forever to weigh up the pros and cons, and then when I actually start, it still takes me forever.  I'm a slow peg stuck in a fast hole...or maybe that should be stuck fast in a hole?  I've never had a speeding ticket, and I've been driving for over 20 years.  I can't see the point in speeding.  What's the point in being 5 minutes early if you arrive a nervous wreck and your blood pressure is that of a whippet on speed?  I like to enjoy the scenery.  I like to look up at the clouds through the windscreen.  Well, not so much that I don't notice the truck in front has just put its brake lights on, but enough to actually feel like I'm on a journey.

Slowness is a lost art I think.  We seem to have forgotten how to be slow, to walk instead of run..or dawdle instead of walk.  To stop and smell the roses, as they say.  Fast-track, fast food, fast lane, drive-thru, instant download, instant credit, why wait get it now...where are we all rushing to anyway?  Is it that important, can it really not wait?  We all know what's at the end of this great journey, so why be in such a hurry to get there?  Enjoy the ride!

So here is a small poem on being a slow peg in a fast hole...if you like it, I'll admit it's mine, and if you don't, I'll tell you I just happened upon it while web-surfing.  ;-)


I am swimming against the current
      in this headlong rush to death.
I have no taste for haste
                      for speed.

I would rather wallow in my slowness
      turning lazy circles in the shallows
      marking the passing of the hours
      the sun riding high and low
      the shadows gliding short and long.

And I will arrive at my destination long after you
      are white bone pounded into dust
      on the unforgiving shore of pointless craving.

Quilty thingo pics as promised!

So this is where I am now...getting there, but still so much to do!

The whole thing so far.  Base layers finished on top half, now for more embroidery.

Detail of embroidery/stitching on second yellow circle.  I think this is crochet ribbon.  It caught my eye at the local craft shop anyway.

Close-up of second circle.

Second velvet circle finished.  Several more to do.

Velvet circles, finished and unfinished.

So what did you do in the holidays?!

Phew!  Well, there was quite a lot of this.......

Giggling over mugs of Milo at The Mulberry Lane Cafe...why is it that 'tidying the cubby' means throwing everything onto the verandah?!

Getting your shoes and socks wet and hanging them up to dry.

Two lots of these...with slightly different cuff colours so there's no fighting over whose is whose.

Small messy children being silly in their new fingerless gloves.

Ahhh, a quiet dandelion coffee...a few of these...definitely a requirement for school holidays.

And a whole day of this..........

Heading up to Lancelin for a day of Quadbiking.  "Are we there yet?!"  (apologies for dodgy attempt at a panorama).

Hmmm, we might get wet.........

1 hours and 20 minutes later, "YES, we are there yet"...glimpse of the sea.

Dunes at the Lancelin Off-road area.

Unloading.

Beloved showing off.  He's wishing he'd brought his bike up.

The little people.

Big Sis is a seasoned pro.

Straight up that hill.

Little one getting her gear sorted.

Beloved other half.

Swap-over.

First time for the little one.  Concentrating hard.

But she picked it up very quickly...and daddy had to turn the throttle speed right down to stop her taking off across the dune!  Oh, dear, my daughters are going to take after their father.  Why couldn't I marry a man whose hobby was stamp collecting?  That's love for you!

I married a man who loves motorcycles.  Who is PASSIONATE about them.  Who can pull them apart and put them back together again.  Who has owned at least 15 in the time we've been together.  I know nothing about them.  To me, a motor vehicle is a thing that takes you from point A to point B, and the ones I like are generally slow and cute...like old Combi Camper vans.  Ahh well, we have other things in common! ;-)

Anyway, all back at school today.  I did manage some more on the quilty thing during all this, so will post progress pics soon.