When you think of the word “successful,” who’s the first person that comes to mind and why?
Successful means a positive outcome no matter how large or small the original effort Sometimes success occurs, unplanned and with no effort from the midst of abject failure. No one person represents success without failure and no one person represents failure without some success. We are all a mixture of both.
#1353 theoldmortuary ponders.
I am having a bit of a creative experimentation phase using watercolour, weaving and collage. The colours of the sea around us are constantly changing and I photograph and paint them often, mostly as never to be seen ideas on paper.
This image started life as a storm picture, the colours featured are the sea, old military concrete, rust and vivid seaweed all tossed about in the sea . Then I chopped A3 paper down to A4 and used the cut off pre-painted paper to weave into the A4 and made a weaved image to collage onto the A4. Sheet. There is a curious pleasure in destroying an image to create a new and unexpected one. I like the sense of unity that my mark making on the original sheet brings to the new weaved image. I like that there are now 3 or 4 layers all telling the same story but in a very different way.
My original was just swirling wave forms but the woven piece almost tells a more accurate account. This is not an area of gentle sandy beaches and murmuring flisvos.
Waves don’t often hit our shores gently and there is more concrete than sand. This area has been a port for more than 1,000 years. Waves slap hard against cliffs and man-made structures which are built to be resilient. The collision of water and hard surfaces is the soundtrack of a walk by the sea. The sharp angles and abrupt colour changes of the woven areas are a good reflection of the sound and sensations of being at one with the sea in an area that is not completely natural and unspoilt. A little arty, digital tinkering makes me want to try this again.
But for now it is just a fabulous design for a stained glass window.
What makes a good neighbor?
Most of my current neighbours are unknown to me. They live across a small service lane at the back of the house. I have no neighbours opposite the front of the house. Neighbours to the sides are known just enough to exchange brief pleasantries and take in one another’s parcels. I suggest that this is an ideal situation. My neighbours cats are quite another matter , choosing the planters in my yard as elevated toilet zones. I am almost certainly smiling and polite to their owners, not knowing which house sends their feline occupants my way for their daily ablutions.
Adversity shows up the power of really good neighbours. We were burgled in London some years ago. Sympathy and support from 6 of our neighbours created a friendship that went way beyond the immediate aftermath. The parties that roamed between our 6 dwellings were legendary and had aftermaths of an entirely different nature. The ribbons of those friendships flutter and circle the world now. Markers of a time and a place.
I would choose paragraph two neighbours over paragraph one. But have no need of another burglary to create an alchemy of exquisite neighbourliness. Good neighbours are whatever serendipity provides. I wouldn’t want a bad one, all other sorts are a bonus.
I am not sure where this blog is heading it involves Quinces and pockets, Rupert the Bear with a scintilla of handbags.
Before I set off on a meandering blog, here are my timeline notes.
Cooking Quinces
My paternal grandmother cooked Quinces.
She dressed like Rupert the Bears mother.
She always wore over garments with lots of pockets, just like Mrs Bear.
Read the link below for an understanding of women and pockets. And the garment of my grandmother and Rupert’s mother.
When anyone asks what my favourite or most influential book is I ponder long and hard. It fluctuates, at the moment it is The Count of Monte Cristo.
But in researching the Grandmother Rupert link I realise my most influential books are the Rupert Annuals which I received almost every year for twenty years.
Goodness knows when I last opened this book. But I know every page like the back of my hand. Out of curiosity I sniffed it, out of nowhere, if you ignore my lachrymal glands, small pricking tears appeared in my eyes. Maybe it was the dust…
Mrs Bear appears often wearing a long pinny or a light over-garment with pockets.
I am very much a pocket woman. Since hitting semi-retirement I have relied on pockets rather than a day to day handbag. That has only changed in the last couple of months now I am obliged to carry an Epipen on any outing that might involve food or drink.
I think pockets were my genetic or literary gift from my grandmother/Mrs Bear. A dress or skirt is not a garment for me without pockets. If there are no pockets in a mass produced garment I don’t buy them or I add them. Pockets should be cotton or a natural fabric. Cotton bags from shops work well.
Less so now that leggings come with pockets. It is easy to hide leggings under longish dresses and skirts.
Whilst cooking quinces or indeed anything I have apron pockets so large that I could carry a litter of squirming puppies.
Maybe more Rupert musings in a future blog and certainly more Quince.
Day 2 of Quince cooking beckons.
What principles define how you live?
Hmmm,
I am mostly very law abiding.
Rules and protocols require a little more consideration and questioning.
Wisdom and my moral compass fill in the gaps. Kindness, good listening and reflection are also good gap fillers.
And the aesthetics of everything colours life, sometimes with little effort and other times with a good deal of thought and experimentation.
Saints are not my cup of tea, so failure on all these principles happens and thank goodness for that. Saints are soooo tedious.
I believe net curtains are the work of the Devil. Especially above ground level. Make them plain and call them Voile. Nobody’s windows need to look like fancy underwear. Another lesser known principal but useful all the same.
Friday morning bob, high tide, no sun and it was a chilly one. But we had a good time with great nattering. I have been on foot all week due to missing the due date for my cars MOT. Today was the day and the car passed, not with glowing references. A return visit to the garage next week will sort my brakes out and I can get two new tyres this weekend. Being on foot in Stonehouse there is always the risk of fascinating conversations and my week without wheels has been a cornucopia of great chat. But my productivity has suffered at home. The lists are not quite as short as they should be at 5pm on a Friday. More jolly bobbers to end a blog which is largely about real world chattering.
You can tell the sea is getting colder, our post-bobbing conversations are getting a little funkier. Today’s topic is the quality of knicker gussets. Unsurprisingly, there is no good news on the gusset front; manufacturing corners are often cut, and profit-boosting measures do not always result in a comfortable gusset.
Thankfully my other Stonehouse conversations do not feature knickers at all. Have a good weekend.
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Normal Autumn leaves have started falling but pucking this one up provided a golden moment.
An armless Brunel I thought. Brunel the great Victorian engineer. But apparently not, he is Mr Golden a lego special edition, who has had his arm ripped off in a dreadful robbery of his valuable staff.
Funny the things that can be found in Autumn leaves.
What was the hardest personal goal you’ve set for yourself?
I could never identify the hardest personal goal that I set myself because the minute I achieve goals they hold no significance or value to them. Imposter syndrome I suspect or some derivative form of self-deprecation. The most useful goal was certainly to learn to comfortably swim in the cold sea near my home. Not because it is a hugely valuable skill but for some fairly unfathomable reason it gives me an extra kick up the pants to get on with things and procrastinate less.
A valuable life lesson with an obscure start in life.
What’s a topic or issue about which you’ve changed your mind?
I am not a huge small talk person. Some people are adept at such things and have one or two key topics to discuss with strangers. When people discover that I dabble with paint and have exhibited a bit, they often ask who my favourite artist is. The truth is that I have a carousel of favourites.
I am not the greatest fan of Salvador Dali but one of his paintings is forever on my carousel of favourites.
So much going on, and that light emerging from the cliff is something I try to emulate often. Just a little peep of unexpected brightness.
Mark Rothko also spins perpetually on my Carousel.
Right now, as I write this, I am eagerly planning a trip to see The Vanity of Small Difference by Grayson Perry. A man who, like me grew up in Essex and observed class and possessions with interest. Same place and we are the same age.
It is 13 years since I last saw his brilliant tapestries. This week I suspect that he, will once again, be my favourite artist when I am fresh from seeing them again.
Does all this switch back of favourites make me fickle? I am the same about everything that I have an interest in. Certainty is, for me, always enlivened by uncertainty and new information.
Sometimes just five minutes in a day is enough to fuel a blog.
This Saturday blog contains the word ‘erotic’ those of a cautious nature should just stop here.
It also mentions a local tennis club and Lidl, both institutions that were collecting books for charity.
A friend is clearing out her house ready to sell. She had gathered 9 bags of books to donate. One bag contained a collection of 18th Century Erotic Poetry and short stories written in Latin. The tennis club declined the donation. So now, in a small town in Suffolk, the Middle of Lidl will be quite the surprise for local shoppers.
I was reading her Whatsapp and laughing while queuing in a local coffee shop.It is not often that baked goods can make me chuckle but the Bostock’s on offer tickled my funny bone in a similar way.
Shopping for the unexpected.
P.s unbelievably there are two women on Google called Fanny Bostock.
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