Carnival reflections

What does the >language>place carnival mean to me? I think Michael Solender put it most succinctly when he described it as being about "belonging and connections". It is about linking up with people around the world who have at heart a love of language, and an expression of my admiration for people writing, living in a language not their own. I recognise that although I do not live in my native country, I am far from being fluent in Germany, my adopted country, in either language or culture. Sometimes language is all about barriers, and sometimes I am looking for barriers; this carnival helps me realise that I don't need to build them, that I can connect with people who have similar experiences.

Michelle Elvy is hosting edition #06 over at Glow Worm, with the theme "language and place on the edge" - I am hoping to have something to submit to her shortly - I have a piece in mind but need to check it out first ;)

I've returned from a three week trip to the USA, which has been virtually writing free, and felt the need to be creative again, so I put together a new page here in practice makes perfect to keep track of all the editions, before noticing that Dorothee has done the same thing! (here). Lets hope this kicks off some actual writing!

I am turning into my mother...

Now, this is not to say that I think this is a bad thing, but today I made some "out of date" cake.

Last weekend I meant to cook some date & walnut loaf, but was stymied by opening a pack of Biskin Gold to find out that it was, in fact, white.  And basically lard.  Apparently, what I need is the Biskin Blue which is yellow.

So this weekend, I was feeling smug that I'd remembered yesterday to buy some butter from Kaiser's, although they didn't have the Biskin Blue I picked up real butter instead.  I was in the middle of my "I belong here" wander through town, shopping for food, knick knacks and looking at the obvious tourists come to visit the market.

However, when I opened the packet this lunchtime, it was to find that I had bought Sauerrahmbutter, basically a butter made from sour cream.  And called me sensitive, but I could smell that it was different to "normal" butter or cooking margarine.  "Eben so," I decided to go ahead and make the cake - the worst that could happen is that it would taste awful and I would put it out in the garden to feed the birds, or in the bin or something.

I opened the cooking ingredients cupboard to find three packs of walnuts, the sell by date on the opened packet was December, so no problem there, it's not the end of the month yet.  The unopened packet of dates  said they should have been eaten by mid November, but it's dried fruit right?  A preserve?  Should be OK.  The eggs and milk had been hanging around a couple of days but that wasn't a problem.  I thought to disguise the potential sour milk taste of the butter with a sachet of vanilla sugar and some mixed spice.  I hate to think how old the spice is, but it moved here with me and it probably wasn't fresh when the removal van was packed.

So as I put the cake in the oven I thought "I am turning into my mother"; her experimental approach to cooking ingredients is a family joke, the story of Cheese and Peach loaf will get us all smirking in no time.  I know that turning out like her is nothing I should worry about, being quirky and original and experimental are all aspects of who she is and aspects I am happy to have picked up from the genetic shuffle and the longer experiment called "bringing up a child".

Also, the loaf actually turned out rather nice...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MUM

xxx

Creating...

Her art, I don't understand it, I don't know how she does it, I just don't understand the creative process between a visual idea and a finished piece. I don't know what it is that she puts into it or what she thinks about it and only vaguely have an understanding of where the ideas come from; not how they have grown and twisted and changed in the execution, the paints or inks or materials sneaking something of themselves in to flavour the picture. I can still feel the frustration I had in art class at school, at having images in my head that I could not get out onto paper, my visual sense outstripping any ability I had to represent it.



Looking at pieces that I do not understand, I can think "Oh, I like that," or the reverse, but my lack of comprehension strikes at my art, my writing; I do not have the vocabulary to explain why I feel about a picture the way I do.


I assume that writing is a less difficult art as surely everyone understands words, but maybe the writing process is as opaque to others as creating visual art is to me. I sit down to write, the words (cliché alert) do spill out, they need jumbling, weighing and organising so that they flow until I can feel within myself when something is finished, finished and rough polished; maybe needing feedback for that final gloss but I have created phrases, pieces that I am happy with.