Not exactly a sunset picture but silky waters and a large cloud. The water was very enticing, on our evening walk, but we knew that it was all a lie by nature. Two hours earlier we had had one of our chillier swims of the winter/spring season. 5 bobbers bobbed at 5 pm, and for some reason it was unexpectedly cold. We have low expectations, which were exceeded. The coldest month in the water in Plymouth is March but I suspect our lack of any sustained good weather has kept the sea temperature low and there was a very brisk wind as we swam and chatted.
Hot tea and chocolate biscuits sorted us out as we dressed and caught up with each other’s news. I don’t expect any of us to have achieved much on our Friday evening after our swim, but not achieving much could be considered an excellent way to end the working week.
I love a discussion that takes me somewhere interesting. Either in real life or in an inner monologue journey. There is a load of stuff that doesn’t interest me, but if someone speaks interestingly about something I have no interest in then it is the style of discussion that becomes the thing of interest. Sometimes the route I take in discussions is almost inexplicable even to me. But that is a sign that I have not been bored. Boredom in conversation is the worst. Boredom comes in all shapes and sizes, all of them human. Oh, I wish I was better at handling it. I’m never bored in my head so I get no practice. I know it is good manners to listen and I am a very very happy listener but not to boring people. I am in absolute awe of people who can tolerate bores and continue to look and sound interested.
The pictures in this blog come from a frequent family discussion that I was aware of at the age of five and in some ways continues on 60 years later and illustrates the twists of an interesting topic that involves boredom at an early stage. My grandparents had a relation who they kept in good contact with but rarely met. He worked at the Dungeness Power Station and lived somewhere near. He sent post cards of his Kent home. My grandparents who lived in the rolling, beautiful, Essex country side thought his landscape was boring.
In the seventies I loved the work of a punk/ Gothic film maker and Artist Derek Jarman.
In the early 2000’s I moved to South London and my nearest coast was Kent.
Derek Jarman had a home on Dungeness.
Prospect Cottage
I was living a day trip away from somewhere my grandparents thought boring but that fascinated an artist I admired.
And so a discussion that I have been part of for 60 years with huge gaps, different people and for a variety of reasons just keeps going and I never know where it is heading.
That is something worthy of discussion.
If only magic realism was a thing. Or Time Travel. I could take my grandparents to Dungeness and show them how fascinating other landscapes are. We could pop in to see Lionel, the relation or Derek the artist or even Marianne and Gill in their campervan. Or maybe a Dungeness discussion of the future!
When is the last time you took a risk? How did it work out?
Don’t we all take risks from time to time? Carefully judged most often but sometimes not thought out at all. Yesterday, I was tired after a few hours of computer work. I decided to sweep the yard, clearing all the moss dropped by nest-building birds. In doing so I knocked some rotting wood from a raised bed, full to the brim with these small rocks. Should I remove all the wood and accept the consequences?
Several hours later and many many shovels full of these rocks I unearthed a perfectly acceptable concrete seating area.
Currently not a thing of beauty but nothing a power washer can’t sort out. I am somewhat perplexed as to why anyone would turn this into a stone-filled raised bed. But my tiny bit of risk taking paid off. I don’t even want to know what the concrete is hiding. We will sit here in the sun oblivious to the mystery.
The Buddha with the fractured skull seems very happy with the new location.
So now to dispose of many bags of grotty old rocks…
Early morning daisies doing their very best to shout out for Spring. These daisies may not have got their moment in the sun ( blog) if it were not for a lovely colour and shape coincidence.
I know very little about spiders but I imagine they have had a tough Winter/Spring as rain has constantly run into their spidery hidey holes. Just hours after the daisy picture I caught an orange, or maybe tan spider having a bask in a tiny porthole window.
This picture also looks, at first glance like a tennis ball, bringing an unusual and high flying spectator to a game.
I am not a natural arachnophobe in my normal day to day life,but neither would I feel hugely comfortable if this chap suddenly swung down on a silken thread and brushed my face?
Is there a scale of arachnophobia and we all sit somewhere on it ? With spider lovers actively taking positive steps to overcome a fear that is hard-wired into humans.
I had a nasty bite once, on my ankle. Dulwich Park, not anywhere risky. The spider was not nasty because I am not a fly, but the bite became a bit gooey and sore. The local pharmacist said he had seen a few such bites that week. All well and good in 21st Century London with antibiotic creams but would it have been a much bigger problem centuries ago?
I’m just not certain I fully understand why arachnophobia is such a common/popular fear when actual serious harm to humans is rare in most countries.
Dr Google helps out a bit but also muddies the waters by throwing in religion.
An evolutionary response: Research suggests that arachnophobia or a general aversion to spiders is hard-wired as an ancestral survival technique. Cultural and/or religious beliefs: Some individuals within certain cultural or religious groups seem to have phobias that stem from these influences. These particular phobias differ from phobias that are common in the general population, making culture and religion potential factors in phobia development. Genetic or family influences: Researchers believe that there may be a genetic component linked to phobias. Family environmental factors may also influence the development of phobias. For example, if a parent has a specific phobia to something, a child may pick up on that fear and develop a phobic response to it.
Spiders in religion is going to have to be a whole other ponder. The early morning coffee and my spider pondering is done for the day.
Yesterday was a mindblower, I discovered two things I should have known for much longer than 24 hours.
Both facts that have evaded my ‘ Mine of useless information’ * and involve subjects starting with H.
* My mine of useless information was a source of consternation to my dad who had a normally functioning brain. Unless we were playing Trivial pursuit together as a team and in that scenario he could appreciate my value. My mum who was probably also a synesthete quietly accepted my quirks.
My two ‘H’ fails yesterday were Horticulture and Haircare.
Both subjects close to my head or heart.
Starting with the heart one. My mum adored Magnolia trees. My dad was very unsuccessful at growing them. As am I. Every Magnolia season my mum would look wistfully at magnificent examples in parks and public gardens. At home there would be a sorry tree of sticks and some leaves lurking somewhere in the garden border. It was probably symbolic of their marriage, high hopes, lots of effort, but some disappointments. I am certain neither of them knew that Magnolia Trees are hugely historically significant, evolving 95 million years ago,and shared the earth with dinosaurs but not Bees.
Magnolias are pollinated by beetles.
My other H is close to my head. Hair. I never knew there was a whole classification chart for curly hair. I am somewhere between 2C and 3A.*
Neither of these revelations are life-changing but you never know when a fact will come in useful. How did they reveal themselves?
A glacially slow walk around the Eden Project with an eager toddling grandchild. Time to read even the most obscure pieces of information. Time to appreciate the sunshine and buds of Spring.
P.S suddenly I am seeing curl categories everywhere .
I am not by nature a nervous sort of person but I suffer from retrospective nervousness when I hear that something I have been involved with has not gone to plan. I question myself as to whether I had done my best in that situation, done what was required of me and done anything extra that would have smoothed the wheels of a positive outcome. I wonder if that is a normal reaction. I would say I am a fairly confident person but not supremely confident. As a woman I am without balls, both real and metaphorical. Here lies the pondering part of this ponder. I have often wondered what it would be like to try out some testosterone for about a week. Nothing whatsoever sexual in this,just a week of being in someone elses size 10 boots being male about everyday things . Goodness I know so many absolutely lovely men who are just a pleasure to know. But in life I have met some absolute corkers of bad examples of malehood, men who I really struggle to empathise with or understand at any level. Would a week with testosterone give me any level of understanding or insight?
The reason this question prompted this quite random ponder is that some men would not bother to consider that anything they had done would contribute to a less-than-positive outcome. Cocksure springs to mind.
There is no female version.
Quim Questioning has a nice ring to it.
” The Marquee blew over the sea wall, he was somewhat Cocksure that everything had been done correctly”
” The Marquee blew over the sea wall, she immediately Quimquestioned if everything had been secured correctly”
A week of feeling cocksure might be quite revelatory, no retrospective nervousness.
Sometimes I just let difficult days take their own course. A series of awkwardnesses and challenges during a day is the prompt we all need to rethink things . Demanding days are just that. Facing up to the reality of the challenge, accepting it and searching for a resolution, even an imperfect one just moves the whole thing a few steps forward. With just a slightly different perspective and a cup of tea ( or coffee) things look different.
Hmm, how do I use Social Media. Or does it use me? The latter is almost certainly true. This advert pops up everywhere I go online.
But as a Social Media content manager for a series of Arts organisations and now a Sports Club, I am unable to boast, loftily, that I have nothing to do with Social Media. Social Media evolves quickly, using it effectively, rather than the other way around keeps me on my toes. I publish my personal blog on two platforms. I keep up with people and places that interest me. The weather in Kent for instance.
Facebook keeps me in touch with paintings that I have sold and social events I have enjoyed with memory features.
Sometimes Social Media lets me know the sad things in life like the death or illness of friends, colleagues or celebrities.
Today is the nine year anniversary of a job leaving me, rather than the other way round. The Heart Hospital in Marylebone closed and all the staff either moved to Barts in the City of London or moved to different places of their choice.
I’m not sure me and a job have ever parted company quite so elegantly before or since.
Social Media lets me share jokes with friends.
Note the date, a parody on Covid.
How do I use Social Media. In a way that I feel comfortable with.
Yesterday was a great day of life imitating art and glorious colour.
This magnificent tree was on my walk to my favourite haberdashery store. Where I needed to buy a spring green thread.
I just caught the tree in his skeletal form before the sunshine brought on Spring growth.
I was also on the search for some orange buttons. My favourite navy blue cardigan has contrasting (non-contrasting) dark brown buttons. Every time I put the cardigan on I feel the energy drain away from my soul . Dark Brown with Navy Blue! Make at 140 saved the day.
Joyful too was the end to a recycling project. I store bigger, older canvasses in the garage. I had three, all the same size that I was planning to paint over once the weather improved. A couple of weeks ago I discovered that the local mice had started a recycling project of their own. Two were unusable but one was in perfect condition. Their nests must be in glorious technicolour. I haven’t painted many large paintings since the Covid lockdowns. Smaller watercolours or prints have been my thing since then. I wondered how two years of painting small would have affected painting big. I also now live in an urban and maritime environment rather than rolling countryside. My subject matter, this week, was a curious mix of urban and natural.
We live in an area with lots of old concrete built as defences for the Naval Dockyard and Port of Plymouth. Some of the older concrete is a bit battered and breaking down. Nature manages to find a way of rehabilitating the ugly angular shapes. In this picture Sea Holly fills the gaps
How has two years of small watercolour painting and some printing affected the bigger picture?
Confidence I think, in painting with colours that I would not naturally use much of , and accuracy in creating layers. Spending time with the bobbers, some of whom are obsessed with turquoise and blues. Just for comfort’s sake, I hid my favourite reds, golds and purples in the underpainting.
Erygerum and Concrete is ready for some Summer exhibitions. I am so glad the sun is out and life is full of colour again.
Describe a random encounter with a stranger that stuck out positively to you.
Not a chance that I could pick just one random encounter with a stranger. I have a ‘stranger’ face. An invisible tattoo on my forehead that says “Talk to me ‘
My family and friends can see a random encounter as it approaches, they melt away and feign deep interest in things some distance away. Leaving me alone. I like to think they are a safe distance away.
Not all strangers are strange, many have been lovely. How do I even define ‘positive’ to encounters with strangers. Mostly they are benign.The few that have turned out not so well have been escapable.
Last weekend’s random encounter was with a holidaymaker moving into his Airbnb which was over a Vegan cafe. I am no expert on Veganism or the etiquette of holidaying above a Vegan Cafe. But my ‘ Stranger-magnet’ face marked me out as the woman to discuss his moral dilemma with. Should he put his honey-flavoured yogurt in the fridge as the bees would most certainly have been trafficked. Looking at his box of groceries, dairy goods and bacon, trafficked bees seemed to be the least of his problems. Wisdom and past experience made me cautious* Luckily the yogurt was Greek. There was zero chance that the honey in the yogurt was from wild bees living in an Olive Grove but that was what I focussed on while reassuring him that his holiday food would not cause a crisis in the North Cornwall Vegan community
* I am cautious because one of my stranger encounters was with a 90-year-old man who was mourning his wife, and their inability to have children. On a windswept cliff, in an attempt to move the conversation on, I asked him how they knew it was her who could not have children. ( This sounds wrong on many levels but not as wrong as it might seem. It was a second marriage I suppose I was hoping there was a child from his first marriage)
His sobbing stopped and he turned his reddened, rheumy old eyes to me and asked what I meant. I explained that men can also be infertile.
He looked bewildered and then sad again. They had just accepted and had never been tested. All I had managed to achieve was adding doubt to his long-held narrative. Not my finest hour.
theoldmortuary.design 