My Other World

Just writing today no pictures.

Today I miss writing in a cafe.

Today I miss the mermaids who, in smooth and controlled movements would serve me my cafe breakfast; their eyes, pools of dark liquid would bore into the core of my very soul when meeting my gaze and I would be the first to look away.

Today amongst the heat of this valley and hills in which I now live, my heart misses the rain that would beat against the windows of Cafe Aubergine, staining grey concrete underneath hurried feet, washing like rapids down gutters while the ocean only a block away would foam and rise.

Today I miss sitting at the simple table for two next to the large window that divided two worlds, dressed in vintage woolens I was kept warm not by my clothes but by bodies crammed around tables; body heat belonging to the cafe crowd cloaked my shoulders and filtered a chill that was not natural.

I remember the mermaids who under long ethereal lashes would glance warily towards the ocean, listening to the battle call of the sacred cone shell, its haunting echo hidden, folded under layers of clattering cutlery and chairs being scraped carelessly against the cafe floor. The mermaids knew they would be called back to the waters, they knew they would have to join their brothers and sisters in one of the greatest and bloodiest battles ever known in their history. They knew they would die. It was accepted.

Yet the humans were kept ignorant; it was just another natural disaster, another tsunami, another deep ocean earthquake, another watery volcano erupting - it was just nature. They couldn't hear the sounds of onslaught and carnage.

But I heard it - in a land far removed where in a surreal motion of eating breakfast, I heard the war cry of the cone shell and imagined it being pressed against lips that swam with the currents and floated with the dead. A war was raging under the sea and bloody remnants of battle were propelled to the surface, staining red an ocean whose large powerful waves stormed and tore at a dark, menacing sky. The heavens erupted in loud clashes of thunder as the old Gods hurled lightening bolts into the sea, illuminating the chaos beneath.

I left Cafe Aubergine in the middle of a great war, in a world of old magic, mystery and intrigue.

And my heart aches for that lost world I left behind.

A Little Bit Of Country On The Side

 A snippet of the views when walking the children to their bus stop at the end of our driveway.

 I'm surrounded by romantic settings and yet can't bring together a Mills & Boon paragraph. Maybe I should write some broody erotica instead - just got to find a view with dark woods and a thunderous sky (minus the sheep).

Sometimes it’s just good to write, just words like I used to do. And so I wonder what I could possibly tell you that would keep you interested, or rather, what I should write for my own pleasure.

At this point in time I’m still in injury mode. Some months ago I went chasing a flock of sheep up and over one of our hills and managed to tear a cartilage in my knee. After a misdiagnosis and some pointless physiotherapy later, I was finally diagnosed correctly and had keyhole surgery fixing (hopefully) the problem. Which is a good thing considering I’ve been missing the gym like crazy and counting down the days until I’m allowed to train again.

Another thing I’m missing is Fremantle; the little city port with its Boho vibe and appealing cafes dotted along the main drag of South Terrace. I used to enjoy grabbing my laptop and head down to Aubergines Café where I would breakfast and write; the early morning patrons being my muse and my imagination would escape into a fantasy world that would be voiced through my fingers and printed onto a white screen.

But since moving to the country that muse has disappeared and the sheep aren’t much chop when it comes to being inspired. True, it’s beautiful out here with the stillness of the land, the changing of the seasons, the colours of the landscape; all noteworthy and terribly romantic but I’m not a romance writer. I’ve tried but trying to write straight romance has seen my gag and nearly vomit on my work so I’ll stick to writing what I’m good at and regardless as to whether anyone is reading this or not, I’ll continue with my love for literature and write as though there isn’t anyone reading this but me.

Last night I made love to my husband which is nothing out of the ordinary when you take into account that married couples all over the word do the same thing except in our case, we had to barricade the bedroom door with furniture, books and anything else with some underlined weight behind it to stop any surprise visits from our little brood.

Being in the throes of passion with your head and body ready to explode (not to mention any...ah... ‘unique positions’ that may be part of the mix) somehow loses gloss when there’s a little person standing quietly amongst the shadows whispering in innocent tones “I’m thirsty!”

So by the time bedroom Fort Knox was secured it took a while for husband and I to catch our breath and then we wondered if it was worth the effort of pushing the dressing table back to it’s original position, or whether to leave it up against the door once we had finished ravishing each another. Trouble with sex is – husband falls asleep and I’m usually wired afterwards. A burst of energy usually fills me and it’s not unusual to see me doing a spot of spring-cleaning or on the odd occasion bake and ice a double layer cake. Silly I know but randomness is what keeps the creative juices flowing through my head.

 Some of my favourite linen currently adorning my bed where I lose myself in bliss and dreams.

Back to my bedroom; I like it. It’s filled with beautiful things I’ve collected over the years. A 1940’s eiderdown is folded at the bottom of the bed while an antique silk bedspread in colours of pastel rose pink adorns the white cotton sheets. Vintage curtains frame the windows in shades of red with patterns of flowers strewn down and across, a deep blue satin floor lamp stands proud and tall next to an early 1940’s dresser where an antique, free standing cream Parisian mirror with carvings of flowers holds centre place.  Against one wall is an old Parker Knolls lover’s settee covered in cushions and colourful crotched granny blankets. A deco vase full of illuminated peacock feathers sits on a bedside table next to a small lamp while burlesque mirrors and ocean prints in chippy frames adorn the walls.  In the far corner stands a set of oak drawers where a collection of vintage suitcases hold my winter sweaters from the 50’s and are stacked ornately.

One day I’ll take a photo of this room.

Vintage Cases

  

 

 

It's no secret that I'm continuously running out of storage room, with the amount of 'discovered' treasures I come back with after my little flea market and op shop jaunts, it's little wonder I lament "I need more wardrobe space."

Introducing vintage cases with their ability to look tres chic and store your vintage clothes at the same time. Always make sure you give them a good clean out before use and for protection against the moths and silverfish, some nice scented draw sachets placed amongst the clothes should do the trick.

I Am Still Here

I haven't dissapeared.

I am still here.

Just had some minor surgery which has put me out of action for a little while but I'll be back very very soon.

But on an exciting note, I've just ordered some bullet bras (WOOT).

SOS

This is a stab in the dark but I'm hoping this will go viral and reconnect me with a long lost blogger  whom I've lost contact with, and have no other way of getting in touch.

Anyone reading this and who has privy to Tab Calhoun's blog 

http://tabcalhoun.blogspot.com

 

please let her know after some years of not blogging I'm back and now looking for her.

I'm hoping someone out there will know someone who knows someone who reads Tab's blog.

so

MARYWIN (Gossip Hearsay & Tittle Tattle, Australia) 

 Seeking - TAB CALHOUN (USA)

Hey TAB - I'm back and it would make my heart sing if I could find you again my friend....

I'm asking anyone who's reading this; can you cut and paste this message onto your blog and please pay it forward?

It would be such a cool thing if you did.

Thanks to all.

 

A Tale Of Brawn

 

a little preview of our shop

Today I worked in our little fruit and veg shop situated in a country town down the road. We share retail space with a butcher, a mighty fine butcher too who doesn’t mince his words (no pun intended) and is very much old school in his manner. Not much older than myself, he addresses all his customers by their surnames, expects his apprentices to work hard and basically runs a tight ship.

Then there’s me who teases the apprentices, leaves a trail of half eaten fruit in her wake and today dressed liked a 60’s siren minus the figure hugging outfit and heaving bosom – it was a t-shirt, jeans and apron scenario but the make up and hair were fabulous.

The building has always been a butchers shop that has changed hands over many years. It first opened in the 1930’s and in the 40’s had over fifteen butchers working in it at any one time. The back of the shop is wide and narrows into a long corridor with commercial cool rooms and storage rooms stemming off to the sides. There’s also a smoking room where the hams and chickens are flavoured to perfection.

Now days it only has two butchers and two apprentices working it. A far cry from the busy days of the 40’s and 50’s when the railway was being built and work was plenty. The call went out for butchers and migrants with boning and carving skills answered the call; polish sausages and Italian salamis were all the rage back then.

Flitting about the shop I stocked up the fruit and veg displays, scrutinising the pink lady apples for any bruises and during my travels to the cool rooms I playfully teased one of the young apprentices along the way.

“Are you sure you’re old enough to be playing with knives?” I questioned with mock seriousness as I passed him with an arm full of butternut pumpkins. He responded by splashing my feet with the hose making me dance a little.

However today he was handling freshly cooked brawn and the smell was mouth watering divine.

“Oh my god that smells good” I drooled.

“You can’t have any” he smiled and continued to slice up fine slithers.

“Then I’ll wrestle you to the ground for it” was my cocky reply.

“You don’t have to wrestle me to get me to the ground” said he, not glancing up.”

“You’re on….wait ….did you just….what?” I stammered, gobsmacked at the realisation of his words and the innuendo behind it. 

Looking up he grinned and gave me a wink.

“Oh touché” I congratulated regaining my composure “and I’m blushing but give me some brawn else I’ll tell my husband on you and your girlfriend AND your mother” I warned waving a corncob at him.

Laughing he handed me a slice of brawn, it’s warm distinctive flavour pleasured my taste buds in a gastronomic sense and it made me smile. But I still told my husband who laughed and thought Ben’s reply was the comeback of the month.

Curls for the Girls

A while ago when I was sweeping the footpath at the front of out little fruit and veg shop, I heard a voice calling my name.

"Marywin.....MARYWIN......YOOHOO!"

Looking up I saw my darling friend, the one who owns the antique shop across the road waving her hands trying to get my attention. Leaning on my broom I stopped sweeping and gave her a wave back.

"Morning Roz" I smiled.

"Have you got a minute love, I've got something to show you" she shouted across the road. The beauty of living in a small country town with one road running through its center is that conversations like this can be had without the din of cars zooming past and/or the continuous flow of people traffic.

"Ooh a surprise?" I asked.

"WHATS THAT LOVE?" she yelled.

"I'LL BE RIGHT OVER" I yelled back.

So with the husband looking after the shop I crossed the road and entered Roz's emporium of old charm and intrigue. I like Roz's shop. It used to be the town's theater (albeit a very small one) and every bit of space holds something vintage, retro, antique or odd. Sometimes Roz will babysit my children and I'm sure when they're older, they'll remember the days of playing in a huge shop with 'old stuff' and plenty of secret hidey holes. With a big smile on her face she pointed towards an old dresser covered in doilies, milk glass, hairbrush sets and glass bowls.

"What am I supposed to be looking for, I cant see......" I stopped mid sentence and let out a girly squeal which looking back was quite impressive considering I don't usually do girly squeals.

"Oh. My. GOD." I drooled.

Roz was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Have we hit the jackpot love?"

"Oh yes, yes, yes" I nodded. "Jackpot of the month, I'll take the lot".

Taking the bowl to the counter I emptied outs its contents. "As soon as they came in I thought of you love" she said as she hunted around for a paper bag.

What Roz had put aside for me was a pile of metal curlers and wave clips from the 40's. I had been looking for some for a good while, and now, a big batch of them had made their way into our little sleepy town and into her shop. The vintage gods had read my telepathic email and delivered, or if truth be known, old Mavis Carrington fell off the perch last Friday aged eighty eight and these were her items brought in for a quick buck.

The next day I didn't have to work and so attacked my hair with the rollers and hair clips. Suffice to report I looked like something out the 1927 German expressionist film 'Metropolis' and managed to scare the three year old.

It was funny.

As I chased him around the lounge room.

And he fled from me shrieking in terror, although I could detect some giggling in-between the shrieking and mock horror.

Apologies about the photos. They're not very clear due to poor lighting (no husband to take photos so it was self portrait style using photo booth on the Mac). Not the best but it'll give you some idea of what I looked like and the end results.

 1940's swing coat - Mo Mo's Vintage

1940's metal curlers and wave clips - Courtyard Antiques