all those shakespear-ohs

last summer our song for the season was 'golden brown'. I can’t seriously remember why ever that was, it sounded so good while we were scanning the mountains and walking the dales. This morning for some reason these versatile stranglers pop up again. So maybe the heroes really are sold out? And while we’re at it? Do you ever remember these heroes? no images - gotta dream them up – the cleaned up vinyl version is stunning though.

as they say

positively on a roll, when last wednesday i was hanging up the mobiles for the exhibition.

i was alone for hours, in an old biology class room, where the glass wall cabinets that used to display all kinds of finds and florals, are now being dressed up to show off arts’n’crafts. what a splendid idea!
these pictures show the step by step dressing of such cabinet,
with paper i have rolling about in my work room and perfect for the occasion.
and then the overall effect, as seen through the bare mdf branches of one beautifully made display tree (still empty at my time of presence) placed there by a fellow designer.
in the meantime, that cabinet has been filled to the brim, so to speak. tonight the opening, this weekend the total show off. be there, why don't not?

a few goodies. not mine.

these few things i rather drivel over, even if they are not for sale. this week i am enjoying the scenery and add what caught my eye in a blink. i’m going back this afternoon : to the back room full of whatnot(s). who knows what else i'll find. more finds at sophie's

through the keyhole

... diligence lies awaiting. it could be anything. the artist. the easle. the pencil. the chalk. it could be interesting, inspiring, it could be treason. if you want to find out all about us, then you come on over and pay us a visit : hunnegem klooster, gasthuisstraat, geraardsbergen (belgium).
this sat. & sun. (may, 1-2) ♥ 11-17 h ♥ no veil needed

sad tulip

like an overripe flower, our national state is wiltering. once again. people in belgium don't want all this political hassle, this linguistic fencing. people in belgium just want to get on. what must the world think of us?

early monthy python

sipping my red hot treacle sweet beetroot juice, colourwise, i’m in the mood for strawberry fields. yeah.

paper thoughts

26/04/10 - today i feel like taking on all of this. and taking (it) off. instead i meet electrician numero uno. patience, dear. patience.

from memory

from memory we know our hang ups and our fortes. from memory we come. do we? on such a bright sunshine-and-blue-skies saturday, climbing into the human brain might not be the most careful thing to do, but it feels right anyway. the DR. GUISLAIN MUSEUM in ghent is renowned for its insight and in deep exhibitions of the human psychology. even today patients are being seen to on the premises, students flare about, while visitors can feast on the museum’s carefully selected and literary underpinned displays. poetry in action, might be another word for it, and thus a journey into the mind.


from memory, i am drawn towards colonialism. not the philosophy of it, but the atmosphere, the exotism, the promise of different views and cultures. scenery, too. and art. although, art? arts’n’crafts more like.
when i stroll up and down our local thrift shop i do not even spot them right away. i guess my focus is resting elsewhere. but on my way out they trumpet! and then, i can’t let go. when arriving home carrying two elephants in my back pack, my son frowns. ‘it’s for the new house, right?’, he argues softly (which means a blurry spot in time). right.
they are actually doing fine, on top of the dark dressoir, reduced to silence once again, chipped and all.

high five

correct! five-a-ones. no, i didn’t scoop them up in one go! that’s the sport, see? i am always on the look out for ‘new’ ones, and i have my reasons. i don’t like coffee from a flask, nor from a coffee machine. an espresso machine, like, the real maccoy, is way out of my price range. nonetheless i want my coffee fresh, and i want it varied in taste, like from one cup to the other. out of necessity i started looking for the right coffee brewer years ago. then i found the cafetiere. It qualifies and it… breaks. i cannot tell you how many dead bodies i have already carried out of the house. so, you see? i do need a back up of cafetieres united in the cupboard. (hoping of course they won’t form a rebellious front, locked up inside, for i haven’t broken one single cafetiere in months. yes, i am holding my head. tightly.)
more goodies over on sophie's.


peel away one layer of merchandise and summer may come and be hot. i realise i have two ventilators in the house already, but a vintage one, in my favourite colour, i have not. it is beautiful, sculptural, and will be perfectly happy when we move. (and it works!)
the salad drier, once more in my favourite colour, is just too gorgeous to leave it behind. it’s not the first time i am drawn to a salad drier though, does that signify anything? here, yet again, son growls, for he realises who will be beseeched to dry the crisp salad leafs in summer, when the doors to the garden are thrown open and a jump from the kitchen onto the green grass will be like heaving a deep sigh of contentment.

the needle done

this one’s for bell, not to make her go ooooooh, or anything. just an addition to our dreams. bell’s brewing on a terrific, creative idea to ‘do away’ with cast off embroidery pieces. only last weekend outside a brocante gathering, we tore a grand lady away from her framed wooden prison, when here now i find another one, one who ambles over a meadow path, and sets my imagination rolling. i have different ideas to bell’s about recycling wasted needle work, but for now it’s just clustering. imagine all that effort that the original embroiderer needled into those scapes, and then those gems end up at the local thrift shop or at the next garage sale. i wonder, one day maybe, vintage embroidery will be in demand again.

coming back to 'the rollin' thames'

e-'s as in ease

while scrupulously, but subconsciously so, surfing the w3, i wonder about the intitial goals of global socialization. here we are led to believe we are leaving no one behind, then why is the feeling sometimes just that? not in a bad, devastating or irreparable way. but has global interaction led to inner depth, i ask thee. when i was still blogging nationally, i dared looking over the hedge for grass that looked greener on the other side. but only recently i read that e-commune may not be so social after all. my intial doubts, dating back to a time when blogging hadn’t nested itself into my life, pop up. does it all and only have to be about me, me, me?

how lovely though to be able to time and mind travel. whilest my upper body is strolling along ‘that rolling thames’, both my feet are stomping the brussels’ pavement. none too bad for a stomp, i agree, and fortunately my daytime job, stressful at times, proofs to be a frolic jaunt from daunting dales through to sky high peaks. speaking of which, my collegue at work, bee, let me in on the sleeping craters under yellowstone park in the us. the worst case scenario on natural volcanic awakening looks particularly bleak. i wonder about such activity. do natural calamities carry a message? has iceland, notoriously known for its sagas, initiated natural retribution? [did we ever think we were mightier still than mother earth?]
[photo : by kind permission of bell - mother made m]
when woolf wakes up at 3 am, she realizes in an instant what time it is. dead hour means the ancient world is whispering. she may well have her own private volcano sitting on the night stand, patiently waiting to erupt. and when it does, there’s no stopping it. so woolf leaves off the night lamp and practices blind words in the dark, graphite scraping over a bunch of papers. for words are precious, and when they flow like lava, she wants to catch the sparks before they cool off. between waking and drifting off, woolf lets the pencil slip through her fingers, or else she dreams she does. in her mind’s eye she’s surfing the comfortingly contained outline of the soul. she stirs when the pencil finally drops onto the floor boards, the pointed sound dying soothingly into silence.
e-posts dedicated to all those who travel; [e-]globally, intensely, sparsely or internally. and incognito, if prefering it that way.

from my window...

... across the intersection, magnolia is blooming

the scandinavian way

... a walk in the sunshine and a stroll along numerous stalls, brought us a little closer to a fair piece of heavenly crisp blue damask, a tiny grey blue scarf, one winter woolen skirt, my favourite hercule poirot vintage story (the one where the detective serves himself x-mas dinner, all by himself, and humming), a few bowls and a small flowerpot. gutår!


16/04/10 - the long awaited key
number big enough?

amateur art

the flemish week of amateur art will be running from april 23rd till may 2nd. along with some 45 art amateurs we will be painting an old cloister, hm, red. and many other colours too. if you are in the neighbourhood, then feel very welcome. The remnants of devout surroundings promise mischief and we have decided to have a good and proper time. psssssst ♥♥♥ my mobiles will be dangling!

bartender from the sixties - it's a promise

15/04/10 - ooohhh that sun, and oooohhh those vintage finds. i seriously have to stop shopping. but these babies i could not resist. the very best buy is, yet again, something i couldn’t push in my carrier bag. it will hold drinks, and vintage drink finds, and general crockery, i guess. it is two metres high and it will happily live in our new place, of which i’m obtaining the long awaited key before long. yes, things are moving the right way.
and then there’s saturday, and a grand brocante sale in mechelen (belgium). bell and i are traveling that-a-way, so who knows what saturday brings. no cupboards, that’s a promise [not meant to be broken].

from grandfather to granddaughter

roald dahl is the sort of writer who’s forever hiding somewhere in the back of my mind. when i was fifteen, we read LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER in class, and it was the beginning of e v e r y t h i n g anglo and saxon for me. Then last year, when i found roald dahl’s cookery book from GYPSY HOUSE in a library sale, i couldn’t believe my luck. now it seems that granddaughter sophie is embroidering along the same theme(s). writing abilities aside, i do enjoy her laid back style, and recipes.
well, we have always place for one more at our dinner table.
big p.s. - our new place does already house a shed. i wonder if i should turn it into something literary? after visiting woolf’s lovely den (see picture), and relishing on dahl’s….

type cemetery

that’s what happens when words get in the way… nothing short of -


see, i think insects will be huge this season, not getting out[number]ed at all…

[it is not heaven]

i don’t know why MORNING RUNNER stopped running. they must hold the answer! meanwhile, in the elevator.

mobile # 9 in the making

creative (in) space

any place is as good as any. i can hardly insert a picture of my comfy settee here, though it’s the place i’m calling from mainly. yes, i do have legitimate work space(s), as a matter of fact all over the house, but you can also find me crocheting (or reading on crochet) alongside the water. it’s crochet mobiles at the moment, and they will air (and dangle, and jump) on the first weekend of may 2010. are you anywhere nearby? you are very welcome. [more details to follow soon]

slowly getting somewhere

... brocante walk, house chores and then reading alongside the water front. perfect day.
villeroy&boch (luxembourg) oven dish
multi storey bon bon dish (empty as yet but yum when it will fill up!)
vintage butter dish (30's, 40's, 50's, 60's? - i don't know!)

quick, bare lunch

sometimes, food is nothing short of miraculous. ‘ras-el-hanout’ drenched chinese shrimp on goat’s cheese, on italian bruschetta. can’t get any more fusion than that. no recipe needed, yeah?

... am falling for

even if 'live' and video and sound don't quite match. huh?

look for the odd one out

... and tell me, why don't you?

today no pie in the sky

'high kicks and nose clips'

men, now here is a way to my heart! yours truely, the accidental viewer in me, saw this last night, and it made my heart jump right out of my chest. not scared of sissy-boying comments, these swedish men elegantly swim right out of their midlife low point. And then they come up trumpets. in milan, in 2007... what's in a year?
Well done, midlife men. i love you's already.

ressourcerie le carré

off to higher grounds, are we?

ode to mr. mac laren...

... for malcolm has died, may his soul rest. the man had things jumping out of shirts, but his take on puccini's madame butterfly was rather sublime. even if that 80's video looks hopelessly dated today.

‘t is the season for pears. or is it?

sometimes i crave for a pear, like i sometimes crave for celery. not that the one has anything to do with the other. although perhaps it could be interesting to bring them together in a recipe, once upon? here is a soothing recipe/recept for the very end of winter, eaten lukewarm, and accompanied by vanilla ice cream. yoghurt ice cream for the occasion, actually, not having cream at hand. and it worked!

brown as a bee

search me, why i buy a book about bees. perhaps the radio item on the drastic declination of the bee population (in the u.s.) stunned me, as does einstein’s statement that if bees die, us humans have four years left, before we go. forever. it’s impressive, not? british food writer and historian bee (beatrice) wilson wrote THE HIVE. THE STORY OF THE HONEY BEES AND US. and so i found the book. and the hive. well. honey is golden.

'home' sits on my night stand

then i find big sista, unlike her twin sisters and in measurements about ten times the size of the sista(s). not anywhere near a brocante i dig her up, nor at a recycle shop or in the darker pits of an abandoned attic. in my own work room, which i’m clearing out for the occasion of moving house in early winter. i stumble upon finds, my, i could ignite a fine little garage sale myself… big sista is embroidery wise unfinished. wonder what she’s thinking, and reading. is it the same book as before?

no eggs

when they are done whispering, the spiral bits, i hang them. i’m sure i heard the cyclists’ wheels turning way back on high street, as i was knotting, securing and balancing. it is a true try, fixing, then fitting an effective moving mobile. it may even be a zen move, trying my patience.