The violets have it.

We might have to leave  Weinstein to his sex rehabilitation clinic and move back to the world of contemplating worthier subjects. How does one rehabilitate sex addicts-fiends? Do they get told to think of Ireland at the feet of Mother England, or stare for days on end at cabbages?

I know the above picture is out of focus, but no wonder, Violets do get frightened and sometimes shrink, as we are so often told.  Even so, it is a rare but at times quite a perfect world, if only we get to take the time and look around.

The basket in which those violets are at present living was getting past their ability to carry fruit with the plaited rattan fraying at the edges. Helvi who is a master in rescuing things  before the final day of castaway arrives, felt she could eek some more time out of it by planting those violas in them. The Irish forget-me-nots came up as an extra reward from nowhere for her gallant efforts.

The azure-blue pot with the cyclamen was made by a potter friend whom we knew from the days our children were still in prams and nappies. As far as we know she might still do pottery. She had a rather unique way of throwing her pots, with dabbing the different colours around in a kind of haphazard way which makes her pottery so outstanding. We have many of her works and going back in the photo gallery much of our containers, vases, dishes bearing fruit, pencils and keys, or other odds and ends are her art works.

The plate on which the cyclamen pot resides is from the Finnish ‘Arabia’ collection. Many of the Arabia ceramic plates survive. They are more than just beautiful but also because fired to a high temperature making them very durable. In a second hand or junk shop one sometimes sees them displayed for a price that it is obvious the owners are not aware of their beauty let alone of their value.  One has to be generous though, it could also be a case whereby they come to rest in a junk shop because of a ‘Deceased Estate.’

I just thought to let you share  in this rather lovely floral scene. The glass of wine is almost an obligatory part of many afternoons when we sit outside and feel a real and better world.  Just sitting there it seemed the violets were looking at me directly. Perhaps they wanted to be noticed and that’s (perhaps) why this picture was taken.

Life at ” The Cross.” (Auto-biography)

Fountain at King’s Cross

Our move to Sydney’s Kings Cross was decided the next day. It needed no considering really. We walked around the main shopping street, looked at the apartment of Kanimbla-Hall which Helvi really liked. She has always been able to see the potential in any of our homes. Perhaps that sense of good proportions and making the best of any given space as well as this undefined art of recognizing what makes things look good or awfully ugly. It seems to be the domain of a Finn. Perhaps it is also a genetic thing.  I don’t think you can teach good design if the eye for the visual is absent nor make a good writer by teaching cobbling  words together when they enter a brain better equipped for understanding Rock-a-Billy or galloping horses . The idea that we are all capable of doing amazing things if only given the encouragement together with being diligent enough and have the determination to succeed, might be over-rated. We do the best we can and the philosophy ‘and may the devil take the hindmost’ always a good thing to keep in mind. Just in case! (“or Love Lies a-Bleeding, 1611:)”  Does it really matter? It is in the doing and we can all do, surely?

In the mid sixties, Sydney did have a few areas where multi- culture and a cosmopolitan life existed. Now of course almost everything has ‘a life style’, even buying a house or an electric knife sharpener, is imbued by its promise to ‘add’ to your lifestyle. The advertising world has managed to make us all fear in missing out on the promised land of the magic lifestyle and have hordes of people rushing to Harvey Norman and those Meccas of consuming, the shopping Malls. It is all proof on how we are goaded into leading our lives never quite fulfilled of having attained this desired ‘lifestyle’, while sinking somewhat deflated into our latest acquisition, the reclining sofa, while watching Neighbours on a three metre barking mad wide flat screen TV. It resists all our efforts, no matter how we shop till we drop and of course ‘drop’ we finally do. The ultimate ‘life-style’ finally achieved with ashes to ashes!

Kings Cross was the very heart of what life is capable of throwing up. There were artists, vagabonds, drug addicts, criminals and smiling red rouged but lovely prostitutes, mothers with babies in prams and some normal fathers.  It was a friendly and safe place then. Perhaps still is! It had book shops, and a great butcher shop  named ‘Hans Fleischmeister’ that sold continentals, including rookworst, sauerkraut, and marinated olives as well as prosciutto, preserved red cabbage and cooking apple in Hak glass containers and other strange and twisted looking delicatessen. On a Saturday morning the queue spilled over onto the pavement and the smell of this shop lured many to venture out of the apartment blocks like the town-crier of earlier times.

There were also nightclubs and strip joints, spruikers and American soldiers on RI leave from Vietnam or from wars somewhere. Many looked for romance but compromised with a hurried love for sale. We knew by sight some of the girls who scored a trick and nodded us with a smile. We were part of a world that still walked the pavements. A blushing fountain depicting a dandelion flower seed head was the very centre of our chosen domain and such a vibrant area to live in. It was surrounded by seats on which the book reading pensioners of the time could be seen reading or nodding. Sometimes both. The library and Franklyn supermarket were edged on this lovely little park. It was to be our home for a few years. Both of our daughters were born in Kings Cross and lived at our apartment.

Helvi transformed the apartment by lifting the ‘wall-to-wall’ under which we found a perfect hardwood floor which we partially covered with a rug. One of my paintings was hung on the wall together with a Finnish wallhanging- a wedding present-now hanging in our present home. We also replaced the crockery with the Finnish Arabia brand and bought a very nice set of cutlery in a wooden box made in Austria. The Bakelite radio and laminated kitchen table and bed-head replaced with  nicer looking accoutrements. We bought a black and white small TV and watched ‘Pick-a Box’ with Bob Dyer and an excruciatingly irritating  wife with the name ‘Dolly’ who would come on-stage to drool ‘Oh yes Bob’ in a strong  accent, over and over again whenever she was beckoned by Bob. There was a world champion contest between the world’s best factual informed with also the most and best of the retentive memories at call on this Pick a Box. It was between an Australian named Barry Jones and a Finn. Barry Jones won and became a politician later on in life, which shows you how pure knowledge can be a bad thing.

These were our Kanimbla Hall years. Very good years they were too!

Japanese Windflower

Japanese Windflowers

“Have you seen our Japanese windflowers this morning Gerard?” This was said by H as the first morning conversation, waiting to get responses. “Yes, I looked at the windflower first thing while grinding the coffee, they look magnificent and so very white too”, much nicer than the pink ones”, I added.

The morning was now on its way.

I often wonder how those long range couples get through those first few minutes after waking. I assume that most wake up in tandem and at the same time. We do. That’s what longstanding relations achieve, a synchronisation of differences. What do we say after waking? Of course, during those earlier working years many people would just hurry out of bed, chew their toast before hurling themselves in the bus, car or train and few words would have have found a way out between the crumbs of toast slushing around a quick mouthful of coffee.

The mortgage had to be paid, kids had to be gotten to school, the car’s green slip was due and the cat was on heat or had mange. Things were on the go. If words were spoken, I assume, they would have been of a more practical nature. Perhaps words like: “don’t chuck your underpants on the floor and please, please, don’t leave skid marks in the toilet'” followed by “it’s not very romantic and considerate.” “Don’t forget the gas bill, we are on last notice”.

I doubt staring at windflowers first thing in the morning would have featured much during those earlier hectic working times.

The week-ends would be chewed up by chores. The lawn would get mowed, the carpet vacuumed, the toilet scrubbed, kids taken to soccer or ballet. .

That final reward for having pulled through. It is desired by many but achieved by so few. The secret is so by the hand, so obvious. It is right in front of our eyes. It is, “Small talk.”

“Small talk.” It is the margarine spread generously on the stone baked bread of relationships. The oil that lubricates couplings with wild abandonments. “Small Talk”. The worn springs on our conjugal matrasses. “Small talk”, the Sally Awe’s Tiger Balm of prevention in marital whiplash rashes and ennui scab. It does make the world go around. Try it.

” How did you sleep?” “Good, but had to piss three times”, how about you?” ” I went only twice I think, I am not sure, perhaps three times as well.” “Do you want sugar this morning?” Yes, just give me half a spoon, I can do with some sugar.” “I think the Arabia Victoria is still the best”. “So do I, it is the best coffee.” “Jesus, I hope this Government is going to get sacked soon.” “So do I, that bloody Morrison, he is just the pits.” ” He is.”

The day is now truly on its way.

Conversation Profound

G.”Good morning; sleep well”? H.”Yes, you”? G.”Yes, like an angel, but I lost my sock.” H.”Angels don’t lose socks.” G.”I forgot to take them off and fell asleep and during the night one of my toes cramped. I took the sock off my cramped foot and put it on my hand so I would not forget and lose it in the morning and yet, now it is gone.”

H. You are always turning the bed in chaotic bundle with your restless roaming around between the blankets, I am not going to strip the bed completely to find your bloody sock. I am sure it will turn up. Why do you go to sleep with socks on? G. Ok, I’ll just walk around all day wearing one sock. H. (exasperated) Jeez, get another pair from your drawer, surely you have more than one pair? G. Yes, but I already lost a pair of my best pyjamas, I don’t want to lose anything more at this stage of my life. H. You are mad, make coffee. G. Ok dear, pronto. Please, find my sock. H. Don’t worry, why concentrate on what’s not here at the moment; be positive!
G. You know me well enough, I am not going to be positive till my sock turns up. H. ( laughing) You are mad.

My coffee making is two heaped table spoonful’s of Arabia coffee into a stainless steel plunger type device. After pouring boiling water into it, I let it stand while I open the blinds to the outside world from our lounge/dining/kitchen room. Milo is outside looking in. There has been a bit of drizzle and still he slept on his cushion instead of his the luxe dog house with sheep wool underlay and alpaca fleeced cushions. Milo is a bit wet.

I let him in and he sniffs the coffee with his nose pointing upwards at exactly the spot on the kitchen bench were the coffee is still settling in its hot liquid environs.

After a few minutes of reflecting pensively on what could have happened to my sock I pour the coffee into the two white tapered mugs. Next some milk. I put in 2 sugars for me and just one for H. I then stir the lot. I take one mug to H. who sometimes prefers to read in a bit. If she gets to a page she thinks I might find interesting, she will read it out to me. I think that is such a lovely thing to do. I mean being read out to.

This morning, when I entered she triumphantly waved a sock around. H. Here is your ‘stolen sock’. It was under your crumped up pillow. Why do you have such unsavoury nocturnal habits? First sleeping with socks in the middle of summer. Then you put one on your hands. On top of that you put it from hand to under your pillow. What’s wrong with you? Did you do that at home too? Did your mother not ever tell you to take socks off? .

G. I don’t know dear. But she did warn us to sleep with hands above the blankets. How is the coffee? Is it strong enough? Can you taste that I let it brew extra long this morning? I put just a bit of sugar in it and stirred it well. Let me know if you would like a second one. If you do I’ll put the kettle on again. H. Lovely coffee, thanks. Don’t sleep with socks on. G. No I won’t. G. takes the missing sock and turns optimistic.

It is going to be a good day.