This technique is very similar to making samosas only there is no reward at the end.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_1466" align="alignnone" width="300"] The sock folding technique. I will say it is inside out which I think is a b it of a flaw.[/caption] On you-tube there are 133,000 hits for how to fold a fitted sheet. In my mind people simply don’t have enough to do. http://www.oprah.com/oprahshow/How-to-Fold-a-Fitted-Sheet-Video Deb has some lovely silver and I took it upon myself to give them a shine up. It was very satisfying! I am now awaiting my Christmas day invitation to admire my labour. However, Deb does not hold all the home-making secrets and awards. I have taught her to knit and her dog Millie, is now the proud owner of striped pajamas. We are always looking out for new walks to take Millie on and came upon this lovely area called Heron Park the other day that looks out on Pollen Bay Marine reserve . Hobsonville Point is growing apace and there are now new bits of the sculpture walk as well, so Millie took a turn around there as well. My recommendations for the film festival so far are Grandma, Amy and The Fool. Amy is already out on general release and I’m sure Grandma will be as well. I am going to Mia Madre today as it is meant to be very good. Will let you know. And finally, From Scotland With Love- this left me swamped with childhood memories- ruched bathing suits, handstands, plastic folded rain bonnets, the thermette, and constant unsupervised play outside. How fit all the kids looked-no obesity problems in those days it seemed. (Possibly hungry tummies though. ) I was seated on my own and when I sat down beside an elderly gent I politely inquired whether he was Scottish. The dour and single response was, “Yes”. That terminated the conversation. Fortunately my Scottish ancestry kicked in and I took offence and turned away. Virginia and Grant answered questions from a full house. My thought for the day. Have a good week everyone. FG ]]>
[caption id="attachment_1456" align="alignnone" width="225"] Pushing off from the wharf down town.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_1457" align="alignnone" width="300"] The three musketeers.[/caption] The eel basket with Fiona’s poem (or some of it) at the base. [caption id="attachment_1453" align="alignnone" width="300"] How much nicer than the motorway for getting to work.[/caption] We were especially interested in the sculpture below as Fiona wrote the poem which is at the base of the eel basket.
Hinaki / GuardianLocation: Ferry Wharf, The Landing Artist: Virginia King Materials: Stainless Steel The work was conceived as a symbolic eel-trap (hinaki) but also suggests the form of a female figure or a classical vessel. Historically the tidal flats were abundant breeding grounds for eels, fish and shellfish. The sculpture passes through a circular hole in the wharf and reveals views of water below. Two engraved rings, like ripples in the water, encircle Hinaki. The text is from the poem Eel, by Fiona Farrell. In sunlight the sculpture casts strong linear shadows. In mist and sea fog, the form becomes a looming figure. http://www.hobsonvillepoint.co.nz/community/public-art Here is Fiona Farrell’s poem in its entirety:
Eel my youth was glass pip of my heart threaded on gut and vein for all to see dark currents bore me west then south to a place where waves shattered at a wall of grey shingle I wriggled through and dropped into my life bird pipe flax rattle mud suck green leaf spinning on water suspended in my small pond I lived my hundred years forgetful of the sea beyond the bar knowing only the dimple of rain soft blur of stars growing thick as your leg on shreds torn from dead sheep snapping at flies but never taking proffered bait I have lived as you have lived: cautiously but now I am old and the sea knocks at my head and there’s a taste to the water that was not there before I cannot eat cannot settle guts shrunk to dry rattle I turn head on to the current and swim against the stream drawn by the sound in my head my eyes see more clearly than they have ever seen they are rimmed with blue so that I may see in the dark that lies ahead I think more clearly than I have ever thought my brow flattens so that I may move without impediment through the dark that lies ahead my belly is heavy frilled with eggs 20 million strung on velvet I am become lean and full of purpose I cross the bar on a moonless night skin scraped blood raw on sharp shingle I drop back into the dark into the ocean where everything moves faster and the lights confuse I find my path my body freighted with millions I am heavy with the future I bear it along the dark path through forests of kelp and booming cavern following the taste in the water and the stars marking sharp left and right I swim north then east one undulating muscle one blunt head barking at the moon I swim to the place where it is time to burst I heave and writhe torn flesh egg dances to sperm the water glitters like broken glass and now that’s done I drift upon the surface empty old bag skin for gulls old bag
Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.
How I wish I could stick to the above. When I put the house on the market I did get rid of a lot of stuff and I did find it really liberating. However, when I had to finally move everything last week for final settlement, and I really thought I didn’t have much, I found I had to move everything from a small storage unit to a bigger one.
In the end I am a reluctant giver upper of stuff. I confess that I have kept the driftwood for my Christmas tree even though I have another one. It was a tradition for Sam and me to go and collect the lovely bone dry, white driftwood out at the wild Taumutu beach at the end of Lake Ellesmere and then we would spend the day propping it up around the fireplace and hang an assortment of Christmassy things on it. You just can’t get that white wood up here, or at least I haven’t found any.[caption id="" align="alignnone" width="300"] This aint no sweet little swimming beach. The shelf drops steeply away and it is usually windswept and wild but a fantastic place for blowing away the cobwebs.[/caption] [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="320"] At Taumutu there is also this mystical little church and cemetery to visit.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_1444" align="alignnone" width="225"] My bits of driftwood. I think over the years there are fewer of them![/caption] Bruce is looking after a bit of my “stuff” but I know that when I open that storage locker in 6 months time there will be again, so much stuff I wish I had thrown out. My intention is to put most things in the garage and then only take out what I actually miss. I don’t want to burden my son, Sam with a pile of stuff he doesn’t know what to do with when I cark it. Maybe I will order and box my photos more sensibly or scan them or something. Good intentions….but I might just keep the driftwood. Meanwhile, there is the film festival to enjoy. It is a great line up and I found it hard to choose, especially as I can go to some of the day ones. I am staying with my friend Deb and her sister, Virginia Heath, is a film director so I am rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous…well the famous anyway as Virginia’s film is in the festival. Her partner , Grant Keir, is the producer. It is called From Scotland With Love and Virginia and Grant will be there for the Q and A after both screenings in Auckland.
The BBC says, “From Scotland With Love’ is a 75-minute film by award-winning Director Virginia Heath made from archive film material with a score by Scottish musician and composer King Creosote. Archive stills courtesy of the Scottish Screen Archive.”
Today I worked at the HP info centre and actually biked there and back but I do have a small confession…the bike has a battery for the hilly bits. I am exploring my local paths and walks and there are lots of interesting ones. We can complain about the council but I think they do a great job of maintaining paths and walk ways. This little diversion is just down the road from where I’m staying. The other day we went for a walk that encompassed a bridge over the motorway with lots of ceramic tiles on it. These are to mark the pottery industry that was a part of Hobsonville Point. Before European settlement the land was covered in kauri forest.The tidal flats on the southern and eastern coast were teeming with birds and shellfish, a source of delicious kai for local iwi (Ngati Whatua and Te Kawerau a Maki).They knew the Point and surrounds as ‘Onekiritea’ after the clay soil found in the area, which they used for its pigment and as a natural soap. In 1853, the Crown bought 600 acres on the peninsula from Ngati Whatua and renamed the area ‘Port Hobsonville’ after Captain William Hobson, the first Governor of New Zealand. The land was mainly used for farming, however in 1863 Rice Owen Clark, frustrated with his claggy, non-draining farmland, developed pottery works at nearby Limeburners Bay to commercially produce clay drainage pipes. Eventually seven companies operated until the clay ran out in the 1930s. Rice Owen Clark’s descendants went on to form Crown Lynn Pottery in New Lynn. I defy any kiwi to deny owning some Crown Lynn in their kitchen at some point in their lives! My sister had this set: And this hokey pokey number was definitely somewhere in a past life. and now these are highly sought after 🙂 http://www.nzhistory.net.nz/media/interactive/crown-lynn-pottery Anyway, back to the bridge. It is bright yellow and goes over the motorway near HP. It leads down to some protected workers’ cottages but has some interesting ceramic work on the way as a nod to the pottery works. [caption id="attachment_1435" align="alignnone" width="300"] Still knitting. This is a rug for a dear friend who lives in chilly Dunedin. She is 80 at the end of the year but I hope to get it finished before then! The wool is divine.[/caption] Have a happy week. FG ]]>