box a trix

In amongst the nails, screws, rulers and drivers 

a packet of  hair pins

perfect for holding the nurses' hats tonight

Disposa Mania Spoils

 

I had half an hour to spare in Wodonga today, so I took a breath, set a spend limit and  ventured over the threshold at Tooles Disposals.  Last time I went there I disgraced myself to such an extent the sales people weren't sure that I was going to be able to fit my child back into the hatchback.  Billy The Toole did ask me if I'd like to visit his bunker, I asked the divine Miss Pen Pen if she'd like to come too - and she blogged all about that marvellous experience.  I didn't spend hard that day.  To busy taking it all in, swearing at the new camera, and enjoying the sight of my two idols doing deals.

Today, I had a Hotel - California - in - military dress - fetish type of experience.  I tried to leave four times and kept getting drawn back.  The helpful Steve Stuart mediated.  

These are my spoils:

A habit - Army Padre's.  There was a very small one too, with a zip front, waist and gathers.  I'm going to ask them to put it aside.  It would fit Min Mae perfectly and I'd love to see the dance jam she'd need to get out of it.

Two little chef's hats - slipped back to play ravaged scullion in

A target tshirt like you ain't never saw.  Wonder what would happen when it's worn out?

Gurkha Shorts - white white bloomers perfect for summer striding, skirty but not, label still on.  Now for the Dunlop Volleys and the knitted tank. Top that is.

Two white aprons - one for the front of the apron dress, one for the back.

Beautiful yellow and blue painted metal trays - studio organisers really.

Three black boxes - to tell me what happened, after the event.

Two medicine cabinets - one for the bathroom, one for cocktails

A pair of sweet unlined black rubber gloves

Three white cotton shirts - small to bust out of, with discreet epaulates for pinning things on

A shelf

A box of bits

Lovingly patched and name tagged overalls

More photos to come.

XX C.

If I said I was Writing I'd be Lying...

I know I should be up scribing but instead I'm lolling all over my desk.  Too much in love with:

 My new Nikki Gabriel knit from Cottage Industry. It was kindly constructed for me by Joe's Nanny (paternal grandmother, that is, not the  foreign girl I'd like to employ to wrangle him). I don't think she'd mind me revealing that she used a bit of language in the process.  The bespoke wool wasn't available in time to get it knitted up for my birthday, so she went Alapaca hunting for an approximation. Apparently measurements in the pattern would have eased the way a bit.  I hear that pattern and wool kits are in-store now. I also like my construction upside down, and folded out into a broad shawl collar.  Lots of ways to play and featherlight to touch despite the actual weight.

The pre-customised flannie from Tallangatta Op Shop. 

It reminds me of the de-cuffing I gave my Ormond College rugby top back in 1990. I had no idea I was committing sacrilege, but I did start a grungy little trend.  Grass green county kid, I chose Ormond for the ivy and the sandstone. Didn't bargain on the ivy league thing.  Got my head shaved in O week.  All deliciously downhill from there.  After 20 years of nightmares about returning, I've bought a ticket to the Alumni Dinner in the great hall in October.  Orpheus descends...

The vintage Sally Smith skirt.  I fell for Sally's work back in 2001, when I bought a sand wool/linen asymmetric skirt and straight wide legged slacks from her store.  My brother was dating a recruitment girl at the time.  We went to QBar.

"Dance in your new pants and I'l give you a job." she said, minutes before the place was raided.  15 minutes, to be precise.  I know because I had just hit the dance floor when the lights went on and a policeman announced there was going to be raid in 15 minutes.  Then we were turfed out onto Oxford Street and into a bank of TV cameras.   Funny how they do things in the silver city. 

I got the job, I got promoted, and I wore and wore those separates, sometimes both at the same time. They (along with a pair of cut-price Versace grey flannel platform Mary Janes) carried me through my corporate moment and right out the other side.  I was working off a 22 grand credit card debt when the heavy denim skirt came to me, label on, in a Wodonga thrift store. It's been in storage for a while, but it's out again.

Now. Will I or  won't I wear this get up to do the kinder drop off at Mitta Mitta?

ToteChute

Sits perfectly over shoulder

Holds wallet, diary, phone, cardi, novel

Could transport very important not very heavy things from a great height

Plane not included

Art and Rules and Perfect Grey

Rules are necessary in art.  

An example: Paint on the paper, you may not always want that colour on the floor.   

I had a rule for this blog - I would post only when ideas had arranged 

themselves 

into proper little essays, and not before.

It's been a while between posts.

Let me amend that opening statement. 

Rules are necessary in art, as long as they don't get in the way of art.

The past few weeks have been host to a charcoal smudged mood, but yesterday was dove grey. 

A perfect dove grey, I said to myself as I stood in the Wodonga Safeway carpark. 

Nothing has ever seemed perfect from that perspective, so I knew the fugue was about to lift.

I took Joe swimming and he loved it.  We are still arguing about whether they removed the rope dividing the kids pool or whether they moved the water.   

I attempted to develop my son's browsing skills in Wodonga Plaza. We made a little progress.

And today, as wind and rain lashed our corrugated iron house and rainbows blazed in and out across the back paddocks, I started to work again. 

Agent Orange

I have a persistent problem. 

It's something to do with orange.  

I don't consciously like the colour, but every time I turn around, it's there.

I'm quite proud to admit that I was 35 before I owned a saucepan.  

Perhaps that's why furnishing my house has been so tricky. 

 After much consideration, I bought a couch and armchairs, a sideboard and a large table. 

All orange. 

I put a bowl of fruit on the table to decorate it.  

Persimmons. 

 I went to Sydney to escape the orange overload.  

I walked through Bondi.  

This is what I saw.

Sweet Black Lunch

I had a lover.
He would take me to The Mixing Pot.
All the waiters used to look.
He was a bit of a personality.
I went back today, by chance, for lunch.
I sat alone in the courtyard.
Raw beef, ink pasta, black olives.
One glass of champagne.
The waiter looked.
And filled up the water glass.
I had black coffee.
No sweets?
The waiter bought biscuits for my son, and wrapped them at the table.
Nobody knew my lover.
We shook hands.
After lunch I visited my friend.
I was afraid to ask her about him.
I did ask.
She said he was playing chess with her partner. As we spoke.
And that he was married.
It was sweet.

Sydney 1.

• Sally Smith Red Silk Shirt Maker

The Tale of Willy The Masher

Niacinamide, said my doctor, fresh back from the Bio-Balance  conference in Sydney. It stops the brain churning.

You mean obsessing? I asked.

Yes. He smiled.

It was a lightbulb moment.

I found this postcard in the Tallangatta Op Shop yesterday.  I was intially attracted to the boating theme - everything's been coming up nautical lately - but the written message on the back of the card has really captured me.  It launches off in a big bold excited hand and shrinks as the author runs out of space, and possibly confidence, and it goes like this:

Dear. Willie.

I am sending You this P.C. to know how you are getting on as it is a longtime since I saw. you.  I was sorry when I did not see You at the Katamatite Dance the other. night.  I am sending you this to know. if. you will meet me at the Boosey School corner. tomorrow Sunday.  I remain your true love. Guess the name. Guess my name if you can.

The front of the picture has been customised - a swirl over the Y and the title scratched out.

Y is a Yachtsman, you'll see him at Dover becomes Willie The. Masher. You'll. see. him. at. Boosey.

We'll never know if the rendezvous took place, but an analysis of the postcard as a persuasive document reveals a few fatal mistakes.  It also makes me (laughingly) remember all the poetic but slightly disturbing letters and small gifts I used to send to crushes: dessicated orange peel to a polish musician; boxes of maple leaves to a film maker;  customised fridge magnets to the love of my life. Offerings like that have got me where I am today.

I'm older, wiser and single now. If I could give tips to a fellow fancier, I'd suggest the following:

1. Keep it neat - scribbling, spiraling, scratching, shrinking and swelling are spooky.
2. However fondly you mean it, don't insult your hearts desire - back in the day, a "masher" was someone thought to be effete, work shy, idle, and faux-aristocratic. Labeling rarely leads to love. In my unfortunate experience, it leads to bar brawls.
3. Don't try to hide your name, your age or your gender.  It's all obvious really. Isn't it.
4. If he wasn't at the dance and you were at the dance, and he knew you were at the dance, odds are he didn't want to see you.
5. Watch the punctuation.  All those full stops protest a certainty and undercut it at the same time. Too many exclamation marks invoke a sense of panic in any reader!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The postcard has no stamp, no address and no postmark. Maybe it was hand delivered.  I secretly hope it was scrawled and never sent and that the author, spruced up and gorgeous, just happened to be at the same social occasion as Willy The Masher, and that Willy The Masher stopped mashing for a bit and asked the author to dance.

Me? I'm off on another track, thanks to that fibre optic internet connection. The mention of Boosey School could date the postcard sometime between 1887 and 1918. Unless the school was closed, and derelict, and our author was planning a private rendezvous in a quiet spot.  Oh dear.

Clutter Box One and Two

It's been Clutter vs Me for some time now, but we may have come to an amicable agreement.

From the Shake and Bake School of Assemblage, these two works tell stories by kaleidoscope.

23x23x4.5cm

Ribba Frames by Ikea (best suited to sitting on shelves)

AU $50.00 each, delivery by arrangement.