Tapestry - Heavenly Stitches

 

‘Just another stitch in life’s rich tapestry’

I don’t know where the original quote came from but I used to say it a lot. I’ve heard variations of it on television programmes and read it in books but where it started eludes me. My dad heard me say it and loved it so much that he made it his own and drove me mad with it at least once a day. That was long ago. I used to say it at work back in those old days, 1970s, so I probably picked it up from a colleague. More recently I’ve heard ‘a dropped stitch in life’s tapestry’ when something has gone pear-shaped or not according to plan. I might try it out. There’s usually plenty of scope.

Somewhere in the attic, probably buried beneath other unfinished projects and my children’s  old school books, is my three-quarters completed tapestry of The Last Supper. No small starter kit for me. It was straight in for the epic masterpiece. The intention was to gift the finished work to the church I belonged to at the time, Raikes Parade Methodist. The church closed in 2003 and I think I’d already ‘rested’ the tapestry in favour of having a go at cross-stitch.  I’ve had one on the go for years. Not in the attic, well, not yet, anyway. It’s in the foot-stool where I keep needlework projects. Untouched for a while but not given up on. I struggle to see what I’m doing but I was given special magnifiers for Christmas which I hope will solve the problem. It might give me the incentive to dig out The Last Supper which was becoming quite a work of art.

A better work of art was my sister’s tiger, a large, beautiful tapestry that took her hours to do. I remember helping with the intricate embroidery details on the eyes. It’s so long ago that I could still see what I was doing. The finished tapestry was on the landing wall at the top of her stairs and looked stunning. I’ll have to ask her about it.

My young, impressionable music head was – and still is – dominated by The Moody Blues, but there was always a little space for other things. My fondness for female singers has always been limited to my daughter and not many others. One of the ‘not many’ is Carole King and her album which I love as much now as I did in the early ‘70s, Tapestry. I was spellbound by her soulful, almost mournful voice, and captured by her way with words. ‘You’ve Got A Friend’ spoke to me when I was down and troubled, nearly most of the time in those days.

I hope my dad's tapestry continues in Heaven, as I try not to drop too many stitches.

Carole King’s lyrics, poetry to me,

Tapestry

My life has been a tapestry
Of rich and royal hue
An everlasting vision
Of the ever-changing view
A wond'rous woven magic
In bits of blue and gold
A tapestry to feel and see
Impossible to hold

Once amid the soft silver
Sadness in the sky
There came a man of fortune
A drifter passing by
He wore a torn and tattered cloth
Around his leathered hide
And a coat of many colors
Yellow, green, on either side

He moved with some uncertainty
As if he didn't know
Just what he was there for
Or where he ought to go
Once he reached for something
Golden hanging from a tree
And his hand came down empty

Soon within my tapestry
Along the rutted road
He sat down on a river rock
And turned into a toad
It seemed that he had fallen
Into someone's wicked spell
And I wept to see him suffer
Though I didn't know him well

As I watched in sorrow
There suddenly appeared
A figure gray and ghostly
Beneath a flowing beard
In times of deepest darkness
I've seen him dressed in black
Now my tapestry's unraveling
He's come to take me back
He's come to take me back

by Carole King

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Dens - Sanctuary

My eldest grandson liked to enclose himself in the book corner. He discovered that by opening a door to the toy cupboard and a door on the fitted unit, he could comfortably place himself behind them, almost hidden and with plenty of room to look at books or build Duplo. He liked his own space even before a brother and sister came along to disturb his peace. It wasn’t long before he worked out how easily all the cushions came off the sofa and what a good idea it was to sit there and fashion himself a den by using the large ones to make sides and a smaller one for the top, or a roof. Sometimes a blanket was brought from upstairs and draped over the entire construction and he would be in there with a book or watch TV through a gap. A good den is great comfort.

1967. For the first time in my life, we were living in a house instead of a pub. It felt weird, so quiet, no juke-box filtering through the building, no babble of a thousand indecipherable conversations.  The house itself was very nice, a three bedroomed detached with a garage in what estate agents would describe as a ‘sought after’ area in South Shore. We weren’t there for very long, the way things turned out, and I have some happy memories, in spite of it being a miserable time in my life. My mother was seriously ill, having surgeries and treatments and it was better for her to have the privacy the pub didn’t have, which is why my parents bought the house. I started senior school, a school I didn’t want to go to but had to because I’d failed my eleven-plus. My friends passed and went to the school I longed to be at, but it wasn’t to be. Failed! I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. On the bus I was regularly picked on by pupils from another school. I had to take two buses and often chose to walk the longest part of my journey rather than be at the mercy of the bullies.  The house became home with us in it and our cosy furniture. We had gardens, front and back. Dad got a swing for me and my sister and the wooden shed at the end of the back garden became a den. A deck chair, a cushion from the house, a drink of orange and whatever book I was up to in Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers series was all I needed. The shed housed the new gardening tools propped up in a corner. Gardening became my father’s weekend chore. As the air chilled and the daylight lessened, I moved to an indoor den. My sister’s room, which must have been massive when I think what was in there and all the space to play, had her single bed and also bunk beds where I slept when our grandparents stayed over and had my room. The bottom bunk made a great den by using the tartan blanket on the top bunk as a curtain for the length and borrowing a big towel from the airing cupboard to hang over the end. The fun was short-lived. I wasn’t supposed to ‘mess’ in my sister’s room, even if she, aged about 4, didn’t seem to mind. It sticks in my mind how cold that winter, 1967/68 was. No central heating, but the house was cosy with a coal fire in the back living room and hot water bottles in bed. To add to my misery, I developed chilblains on my feet and a seemingly ever-lasting verruca. 1968 brought joy and normality. My mother had made a good recovery and we were moving back to the pub. School remained a nightmare until 4^th year but everything else was good.

My grandchildren can make a mess, make a noise and make dens to their hearts content. They can also tidy up afterwards.

My poem,

“I’m in my den!”
The voice, muffled
By the cushions
Forming a cube,
Of a fashion,
In the place where
There’s a sofa,
Now and again.
And giggling
While I pretend
I cannot find
Him, in the blocks
Of patterned green,
And I’m blind
To the red socks
And toes wiggling. 

PMW 2022

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Wanderlust - Travelling Eternity Road

Like everyone else I’ve been at home for months with little prospect of going anywhere. Luckily, I don’t mind. I’m happy and safe at home, or at my place of work for a couple of days a week. Over time, I’ve become so contented at home that I dread going out to anywhere busy. Social media showed pictures of Blackpool taken this Bank Holiday weekend of the crowded promenade, not a face-mask in sight. I don’t see the resort as getting back on its feet after lockdown, I just see fear, but that’s my problem to overcome. In a few weeks I will be travelling over the border into my beloved Dumfries & Galloway and our home from home – pandemic permitting. I’ll be fine, doing my own thing, keeping to my own space and allowing my wanderlust to take me into Galloway Forest and the quiet, hidden beaches along the Solway Firth. I will have plenty of face-masks.

My photo: somewhere on the west coast of South Uist

I wish we had a motor home or a camper van. In my wanderlust dreams I pack it with everything we need and set off, northbound, stopping wherever the fancy takes us, then destination, the Outer Hebrides. It is another world. We could stay as long as we like and be more relaxed about it. Up to now, our trips have been governed by annual leave and it isn’t long enough, even with a bank holiday tagged on the end. Things will change soon. Time will be our own and we’ll be able to just go for it – pandemic, lockdown and personal worries aside.

Back in the good old days when The Moody Blues did a UK tour, we’d be with them, going to places we otherwise wouldn’t go. I suppose that was a form of wanderlust, even though we booked everything in advance and knew exactly where we were going and for how long. We were ‘Travelling Eternity Road’ if you like, including Manchester Apollo, or now I think it is called O2, we would drive home from there; London would be part of a sight-seeing holiday, Birmingham, got to be in their home city, often where the last concert would be, and anywhere else we could factor in. Lots of concerts over many years. It was always worth it.

If I felt ready to mingle with the rest of society, I would have travelled to Wembley, supporting Blackpool F.C. in their successful play-off final against Lincoln City. Instead, I watched on TV at home. Feeling stressed and holding my breath for the most of ninety-odd minutes isn’t healthy. In my house there were shrieks, screams, tears and much applause. The neighbours knew we were home.

I found this, by Alfred Joyce Kilmer:

Roofs
(For Amelia Josephine Burr)

The road is wide and the stars are out
and the breath of the night is sweet,
And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet.
But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face,
And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place.

I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam
All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home:
The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day
Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.

A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead;
Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed.
He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high,
But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky.

If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong,
For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along.
And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows,
Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes.

They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years,
And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears.
It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far,
But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.

                                                                     Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886 - 1918)

Thanks for reading, take care if you're out there, Pam x

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Data Overload

There are weeks when the blog's theme causes a vast blank space to enter my mind, and then there are weeks - like this week - when an idea arrives almost instantly. And (because great minds think alike) it connects with Vicky's post from yesterday.

*             *             *

I've written a lot about the Sundays of my childhood. I guess they are the easiest days to recall because they followed a pattern: activity, Sunday Lunch, activity, bath and an episode of a 1960s television programme. When my sister and I offered up grumbles about there being no colour in those programmes, or laughed at the terrible special effects, my Dad would simply state, "It's  a classic. They don't make them like this anymore."  Whether it was Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea, Land of the Giants or Star Trek: The Original Series, his response was always the same.

That same sound bite now spills from my mouth when I'm watching one of the 'classics' of my generation - almost impossible for the vocal cords to resist the sentiments of nostalgia.

*             *             *

Just over a year ago, after searching Netflix for a new TV series to watch, I decided (without intention of watching past episode one) to watch Star Trek: The Next Generation. This was the start of what my boyfriend calls "an addiction" - working my way through each available series before starting from the beginning again. Currently, stuck on a cliff-hanger at the end of Season Six, I estimate I've probably watched all episodes up to this point at least four times. I can recite the opening monologue in time with Patrick Stewart and bore Shaun (who has only inadvertently watched occasional episodes) with analysis of characters, plots and themes.

Among the many episodes there are a few which a return to more frequently. Usually these episodes centre around Data as he explores and attempts to be more human. There are many human behaviours and characteristics that Data experiments with. From writing himself a new (and rather amusing) subroutine for small talk to attempting to learn about humour on the holodeck, Data forces us to re-examine and question what it actually means to be human.

One of the more central aspects of human identity that Data explores extensively throughout the series is creativity. Through the playing of music, acting, painting and even the writing of poetry, Data (the android incapable of feeling) engages with (sometimes more successfully than others)the very activities that enable us to express.

My favourite Data moment has to be from "Schisms" (Season Six, Episode Five) where Data gives a poetry recital to other members of  Enterprise crew.

Throughout the ages, from Keats to Giacomo, poets have composed odes to individuals who have had a profound effect upon their lives. 

In keeping with that tradition, I have written my next poem in honor of my cat. I call it, "Ode to Spot." 

                Felis Catus is your taxonomic nomenclature, 
                An endothermic quadruped carnivorous by nature. 
                Your visual, olfactory and auditory senses 
                Contribute to your hunting skills and natural defences. 

                I find myself intrigued by your sub-vocal oscillations, 
                A singular development of cat communications 
                That obviates your basic hedonistic predilection 
                For a rhythmic stroking of your fur to demonstrate affection. 

               
                A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents: 
                You would not be so agile if you lacked its counter-balance. 
                And when not being utilized to aid in locomotion 
                It often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion. 

                Oh Spot, the complex levels of behaviour you display 
                Connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array, 
                And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend 
                I none-the-less consider you a true and valued friend. 

              

                Lieutenant Commander Data

Thank you for reading,
Lara

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Stardate: -716000

Would it make too much mess if I picked apart a sentence?  The theme this week is 'space' and I can't think the word without it being pestered by its fellows, ':' and 'the final frontier'. 

It's quite economic, as sentences go.  And it's a metaphor.  It reminds me of the way Sir David Attenborough describes locations in his voiceovers: The Sahara: a vast swathe of scorching earth.  Or Antarctica: the planet's ice box.  Something like that.  But the Star Trek quote is more evocative than that.

Being an American TV series which started in 1966, Star Trek was riding on the tailcoats of the great Westerns.  Bonanza was the top rating TV series that year, and had been for the two years before.  It was also the year that The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly was released in US cinemas. 

The American Frontier, that push westwards, since the 17th century, of Americans as they spread across the continent, was still fresh in the imagination.  New territories, ie farmland as yet unclaimed, became almost impossible to find after the 1890s.  By the 1960s the Americans were reminiscing fondly about the days of outlaws, goldrushes and, before the truth of the Trail of Tears was widely known, their dominance over the American Indians.

In 1966, the US space programme was also at the forefront of imaginations.  They had yet to walk on the moon, but the Project Gemini took astronauts into space for longer and longer periods and Project Apollo was costing the modern equivalent of $205billion with the aim of putting the first men on the moon.  Three years later, it would succeed.

Roddenberry's intentions behind the TV series are crystal clear in those first four words.  He saw space as the new Wild West and Americans as THE human race.  In the future, he imagined, John Wayne would ride through the stars, an outlaw captain writing the rules and disobeying authority, finding love on every planet and outsmarting every menace. 

This concludes my examination of that short metaphor.  And it goes to show just how much cultural punch you can pack into a few carefully chosen words.  Poetry: cultured concentrated.

Captain James T Kirk

John Wayne

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Space

by Abdul Dawood (Abdulicious)

The Space we create

This is my space, that is your space,

We separate our sides via the show lace,

But that was then when we were ten,

Balling on a budget, love hearts in the sand

Till the kids decide to smudge it,

Now we want our place, our personal space,

So we look at the mortgage rates,

But we are not quite there given our financial state,

So that is a wrong move, log on to Right Move,

See your face, as we look to rent a space,

Pine wood doors, marble floors,

It's all yours, doing the chores, now we built a foundation

Like all 4’s, See this is the space we create,

Now we deviate, from the old space to the new space,

And every months she wants her own space menstruation,

And we get cross with each other like a Christian,

I need some breathing space See, so I take her space on the settee

Kicked out the bedroom, until her cycle stops,

Got 1 eye on the calendar like a Cyclops,

See that is when we make love faces, make love spaces,

My heart races, and then its back to basics,

I then get audacious, and move the furniture to make it more spacious,

That’s when you get ferocious, and get it poppin like Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,

See our space could have turned out different, 

Could be sleeping on a bench in the park,

Or in a cardboard box my palace in the dark,

Sometimes I end up in the dog house when I bark,

Or if I over step the mark, it gives me space to rediscover that spark, 

 

Abdulicious 2014 

This is my first time writing for the Dead Good Blog. I focused on the theme which was space. I mean we all need space sometimes time away from wife, girlfriend, work, friends and family and just need our space to be alone. And I decided to cover that in the poem. Sometimes we need space for a good reason e.g. it can be when we watch our son or daughter take their first steps towards us, or when we create a space for our first child's room it must be an amazing feeling. You could even move into a bad space like one with noisy neighbours, mice and other vermin. Space is so spacious there are countless ways I can determine space. But I feel I have covered a lot of space in my first blog. Please do leave your thoughts on my space. Which is the place below which is marked comments. I don’t actually have a Myspace page. 

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