Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
Amen to that!!
(I have three pairs of red shoes . . . and one pair of orange . . . and two pairs of blue . . . and several pairs of multi coloured . . . and six pairs of black . . . and two pairs of grey and . . . well . . . you get the idea . . . )
Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
I wonder if that’s true? I hope so.
I’m hoping that if I stare at these rocks long enough they will remember (and remind me) what it is I’ve forgotten . . .
I have never kept (or even started) a diary. Well, not a proper ‘Dear Diary—this-is-what-I-was-doing-this-is-what-I-was-feeling’ kind of diary . . .
(To clarify—I do keep a date-diary for important things (‘pay day’, ‘holidays start tomorrow’, ‘day trip to Forster with Pammy’) and appointments (‘M, M, & M due to get their nails done this week’) because my old brain just doesn’t remember these things for itself any more and there are only so many post-it notes that fit around the edge of my computer.)
. . . but I had also never really felt any deep-seated urge to write my daily thoughts and feelings down on paper either. Truth be told, before I started this blog I never wrote much of anything—apart from a couple of short paragraphs in our college brochure each term (which I was coerced into by my boss I might add.)
However, now that I am writing more (and kinda-sorta-sometimes enjoying it) I can see that there might well be advantages to writing something . . . anything . . . every single day. I can go for days and days without putting pen to paper because I ‘can’t think of anything interesting to write’. I have the same issue when it comes to sketching (I can’t decide what to draw—so I don’t draw anything. Sigh.) The fact that I know that the longer I leave it the more difficult it becomes to start up again appears to hold little sway.
But a diary? No, I don’t really think a diary is for me. I would have nothing as sensational to write in it as Oscar Wilde, but even if I did (or maybe, especially if I did) I am not sure I would want to commit it to paper. It seems to me that private diaries seldom remain private.
Still, I definitely could benefit from the discipline of writing every day, and thinking about this reminded me of a book I read years ago ‘The Artist’s Way‘ and Julia Cameron’s ‘Morning Pages. What are morning pages? Morning Pages are one of the basic tools Julia advocates for unleashing creativity.
‘Morning Pages are three pages of longhand, stream of consciousness writing, done first thing in the morning. There is no wrong way to do Morning Pages—they are not high art. They are not even “writing.” They are about anything and everything that crosses your mind—and they are for your eyes only. Morning Pages provoke, clarify, comfort, cajole, prioritize and synchronize the day at hand. Do not over-think Morning Pages: just put three pages of anything on the page . . .
and then do three more pages tomorrow.’
(Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way)
I remember when I read this book all those years ago I thought these morning pages sounded a bit . . . ‘Really? Sigh. How that is going to work? Maybe I’ll give them a go. Some day . . . ‘ But I never did. Maybe I wasn’t ready then. Perhaps I am now. Now I kind of like the idea of writing without thinking and not having to worry about spelling, or grammar, or making sense to anyone else. I like the idea of doing them longhand (perhaps I can even doodle around the edges and that will cover me for the ‘draw something every day’ (unkept) promises I also made to myself) and I also especially like the fact that (unlike a diary) I can tear the pages up immediately afterwards if I want to, so no-one is ever going to read them (ever) but me.
At worst I will have wasted a little (more) time in the morning. At best—well, who knows. I might surprise myself. Anyway, my creativity could do with a bit of unleashing so I’m going to give them ago. I’ll let you know how I get on.
But until then, just so you know I am not a complete diary-phobe, I thought I’d finish with an excerpt from a diary I read just the other day . . .
“Morning: Slept.
Afternoon: Slept.
Evening: Ate grass.
Night: Ate grass. Decided grass is boring.
Scratched. Hard to reach the itchy bits.
Slept.”
Jackie French
Diary of a Wombat
Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
(and one very quick, very loose (and very rare) sketch of all my three girls together)
Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
I can’t quite remember how old I was when I first learned to knit but I know knitting was something I indulged in, and enjoyed, for years and years. I used to knit all the time. I made sweaters and scarves and cushion covers and toys and blankets and . . . well, you name it, I probably had a go at it. (Okay, I never made a hoodie for a dog, but I might have if I’d thought any of my boys or girls would have worn them . . . ) And then, for reasons I can no longer remember, I stopped. Just stopped. Probably I got too busy, or too lazy, or took up other interests instead . . .
Until about a month ago I had not thought about knitting for the longest time but, when clearing out one of my cupboards at home, I came across a large whicker basket filled to the gunnels with all manner of knitting paraphernalia. Great big fat plastic needles, long skinny metal needles—and every size needle in between. Knitting patterns, scissors, packets of pins, tape measures, crochet hooks, various reels of (tangled) threads, stitch holders, safety pins and a notebook and pen. And of course, yarn. All sorts of odd balls of yarn. Oh my—I had forgotten how much I loved the yarn . . .
But no. Stop right there. I must not get carried away. If I am going to get back into knitting I am going to take it slowly. I must use up the wools and yarns I already have first. No rushing down to the nearest wool emporium to buy up skeins and skeins of gorgeous vibrant coloured . . . or mottled . . . or flecked . . . or chunky . . . or worsted . . . or angora . . .or alpaca . . . or silk . . . Sigh. So much yarn and so little time. And space.
Because, in spite of what Stephanie Pearl-McPhee says, I can already forsee at least one terrible consequence. My renewed ardour for all those gorgeous knitting patterns, wools, threads and yarns could easily begin to rival that of my (seemingly unrelenting) desire for new pens and pencils and paints and sketchbooks . . .
. . . and I really can’t afford to move to a bigger house just yet . . .
Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
As you might imagine, after being so ill last week I had a very, very quiet weekend. I slept, took flu medication, sat gazing into space for long periods of time . . . and then slept some more. And I drank tea. Pots and pots of tea . . .
These days I drink mostly green tea. For years and years I drank ‘normal’ tea (that is black tea with milk) and wouldn’t have thought to drink anything else. Both my parents being English, tea was a daily staple and a cure-all for everything. (The British consume over 60 billion cups of tea per year. That sounds a lot—around 900 cups a year for every man, woman and child in Great Britain—but when you break it down that’s only 2.465 cups each per day. Pfffttt. Easy peasy. I can do that before leaving for work in the morning.)
I can’t remember now when I switched over to drinking green tea, although I probably made the switch because I became convinced green tea was going to be somehow better for me (anti-oxidants and all that jazz. Or perhaps I just kept forgetting to buy milk to put in my regular tea . . . ) Whatever the reason, once I switched over I never went back to my ‘English Breakfast’—which is a bit surprising because green tea is definitely an ‘acquired taste’ (my friend Pam says it is like drinking lawn clippings) and I remember I didn’t really like it all that much at first.
But perseverance is a wonderful thing and slowly I became accustomed to it and now am quite happy with my healthier choice. (The same thing happened when I decided to switch from white wine to to red. Red wine is also supposed to be a healthier option—and I was drinking far too much white. My logic was sound. I didn’t like red wine very much, therefore I was bound to drink less of it. Right? Well, that didn’t quite work out the way I thought it would, (there are some seriously nice reds out there) but, on the plus side, I am drinking a lot less white . . . )
Anyway, during one of those flu-medicated-gazing-into-space-tea-sipping moments last weekend I did stop to wonder—how much tea is too much? Seems I remembered (way way back in the fevered recesses of my mind) that I once read that drinking too much green tea can cause hallucinations? Could that be right? Should I be worried?
Nah. I decided I really didn’t have the energy to fret about it. Any green-tea-inspired hallucination was going to have to duke it out with my industrial strength flu-medication . . . and I would just sit back (cuppa in hand) and enjoy the show . . .
I am not at all sure what Samuel Butler was thinking when he said being ill was ‘one of the greatest pleasures of life’. What a strange thing to say. I have been what my father used to call ‘sick as a dog’ all week and I can see absolutely no pleasure in it whatsoever . . .
(And, before I go any further, what kind of odd expression is ‘sick as a dog’ anyway? Why do we always blame the dog? (dog tired . . . dog in the manger . . . dog’s breakfast . . . go to the dogs . . . ) Although I have also lately heard the expression ‘sick as a parrot’ too. Not sure what to make of that one either. )
As you can probably tell, I am a mite grumpy. I don’t like being unwell and I have felt absolutely miserable for over a week now (nothing life threatening—just some flavour of miscellaneous virus that happens to be doing the rounds . . . along with a cough . . . and a runny nose . . . and a monster headache . . . ) and at time of writing I am showing very little sign of improvement.
(I don’t get sick very often but when I do I go all in. I know they say things usually get worse before they get better but hey—give a girl a break—please! I am well and truly over it. Well, no. I’m not over it, as in ‘I’m feeling better’. I’m over it, as in ‘I’m fed up’. Perhaps I should have said that to begin with. Oh dear God I’m rambling . . . )
Anyway, I think the thing that bothers me most (apart from the actual feeling like crap part of course) is that there is very little I can actually do about it. I can take a tablet for my headache, and another to stop my nose running, and I can keep up the fluids, and rest when I can . . . blah, blah, blah (we all know the drill) . . . . but in the end I really just have to wait it out. My body will heal itself when it is good and ready and not before.
You know, it’s so easy to sink into the mire when you feel dreadful (nobody likes me, everybody hates me, think I’ll go and eat worms . . . ) and I find I have to constantly pull myself up and remind myself—’It is only the flu, Sal! You will get over it. This too shall pass . . . ‘
And perhaps, in a round about sort of way, that is what Samuel Butler was getting at. Perhaps he meant that by being ill (but not too ill) one might be forced to remember what a pleasure it was when one felt well . . . 
Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
Every year I look forward to the cooler months of autumn and winter. As we come to the end of another long hot summer I always start to think how nice it is going to be when the temperature drops a little and I will able to get back into wearing something ‘with sleeves’ . . . and the girls and I will be able to go for longer walks again without fear of Molly ‘overheating’ (and me having to carry her home) . . . and we can spend our evenings cuddled up on the couch together, all warm and snug in front of the heater . . .
And then the cooler weather finally does come in, and I pull all my jumpers, jackets and scarves out of the wardrobe, and the air is crisp and clean and fresh, and it’s great. For about a week. And then I start to remember that I never actually really liked the cold weather much. (Or ever.) I have even moved cities (and countries) because I didn’t like the winters. Sigh.
But there’s always a silver lining. Tomorrow is the winter solstice (Australian Eastern time)—the shortest day of the year. Yay! That means it is downhill now all the way to Spring . . .
So until then I am going to do as my Maudie does—find a cosy spot (and my own hot water bottle) and hunker down to wait for the return of the warmer months.
It’ll be nice to not have to wear ‘sleeves’ again . . .
Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
I can’t remember what Peter Pan’s favourite place was when he was little (the indian camp?—the mermaid lagoon?) but I remember mine was always the movie theatre.
Some things never change . . .
Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
I love bread. In fact, I never really met a bread I didn’t like—brown, white, rye, seeded, ciabatta, damper, focaccia, roti, soda, multigrain, pumpernickel, (banana—not sure that counts as a real bread but . . . yum)—the list goes on and on and on. . .
And, although I do agree with James Garfield that bread needs something to go with it, for me it’s not peanut butter. For me it is cheese (any kind of cheese) and ham . . . and chutney . . . and pickles . . . or . . . if it’s toasted, pâté. I could, seriously, live on toast and pâté . . . and red wine . . .
Well—when I say I could live on it, I probably actually couldn’t. My digestive system seems to have much more to say about what I can, and can’t, eat (and drink) these days. Sigh.
Sometimes getting older sucks . . .
Sally says . . . eat, sleep, work, read, play, draw, bark . . . 