25 Wednesday Jul 2018
Posted in hotchpotch, photos
Banksias
Family
Nicolson Barker, rescue dog, with my daughter after his first attendance at obedience school
My son in his workplace in the rivers around Cairns: only one crocodile that I heard about
Bruce, our resident python, all new-skinned, on my deck!
Photos lurking on a card I obviously haven’t used since 2013
Son and son-in-law meet coincidentally at Gate 39 at Brisbane Airport
Around the streets
Trees
Coffee by the water
Beach miscellany
Odds and ends
21 Wednesday Mar 2018
Posted in hotchpotch, photos
On top of the chiffonier
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about objects that represent experiences and the people I love. The red cedar chiffonier in my living room belonged to my Auntie Min. She had it restored towards the end of her life, and it was part of my tangible inheritance from her. The wedgewood candlestick used to sit on my mother’s dressing table. The feathers have been collected and gifted over a number of years, and maybe presage a photographic feather-frenzy. The Prague crystal container was a gift from my more-sister-than-sister-in-law; the amber pendant a gift from my daughter’s parents-in-law; nestled invisibly amongst its silver chain are the topaz earrings my new husband gave me on my birthday two days after we were married; the bird was an unexpected gift from a Siberian friend of my daughter. Underneath it all lies a placemat crocheted by my mother – and overlying it, a patina of dust that is my unique contribution. So much history and biography, conveyed in just a few items.
Water and sky
Blind drawing
This image, Penguin flight, was created by Gillian Wilde using the continuous line technique, without looking at the paper. (Photographed at Gallery Bodalla, with permission)
Dead things and light
My muse for both of these is Sue at WordsVisual. She has taught me the absolute and rather mystifying charm of flowers beyond their prime, to the point where the giver of these zinnias asked plaintively whether I’d actually enjoyed them fresh. I did, when they were plump with youth, but I also like their graceful drooping lines and curls as they fade.
There is only one creature more a seeker of light than Sue, and that is Cruz. If you want to know the best place to capture sunshine, cherchez le chien.
The inevitable beach!
A summary of the many pleasures of the beach: those knobbled shells nuzzling into all sorts of crannies; patches of tapestry-lichen; tumbleweed, the same ecru-oatmeal as the sand; a discarded seagull feather, just one; sandripples, seaweed and buff jelly; rockpools peopled by light, seaweed, an albino crab, worm tracks and pink sea lichen.
Bermagui
I said there would probably be more sculptures, and I was right!
A pair of rusty Easter-Island-like monuments,
a bit of musical rust,
a ray and a magpie
and contrasting shapes
Signs
The 5 year olds
Miss Maja, and cake: they’ve always been congenial companions: Janek’s allergies prevent him from enjoying the same pleasures.
Exploring as Mum watches from a height.
Christmas photos
01 Thursday Mar 2018
Posted in hotchpotch, photos
Hotchpotch seems to be turning into a revamping of the month. I don’t mind reliving this month. It had many delights.
Canberra
The National Museum of Australia offered more pleasures than Songlines, Midawarr and virtual reality. Here’s a taste of a few things I saw in passing.
A 1950s picnic with a silver Holden, and a pink caravan built for promotional use in 1956, as Australians began to acquire cars, a disposable income, and leisure.
Brabham BT23A-1 Repco V8, Formula 1 racing car, designed and raced by Jack Brabham, a household name in Australia in my youth. He himself drove it to victory in 1967: since then it’s been owned, raced and crashed by a number of owners but still has the original chassis, centre body and steering shaft.
From the windows of the museum there’s a view over landscaping or the outdoor dining area, across Lake Burley Griffin, to the Captain Cook fountain.
The National Arboretum
The building itself, “elegant and light-filled”, has a high arching roof, huge windows and stone walls. Inside, the forms are inspired by leaves and trees. The timber frame uses laminated Tasmanian oak from sustainably managed plantations and contains over 3,000 unique structural members, cut to shape from computer models, test fitted in factories in Tasmania and then erected on site. So says the fact sheet. The gumnuts, tree trunk and plantation of palms are in Hotchpotch, because I can’t identify them.
University House
This is my favourite accommodation in Canberra. Not only is there a John Wolseley painting near the reception desk, but there is a waterlily pool and the ghosts of my youth. It was here I used to come to visit my friend Rosemary when she was studying and I was teaching in Temora … long, long, l o n g ago.
The beach …
… always the beach! Which needs no commentary.
Gallery Bodalla
This local gallery behind Bodalla Post Office has wonderful exhibitions, but photography isn’t encouraged. I couldn’t resist sneaking a closeup of paintwork in Justin Pearson’s work, and wish I could show you his figures, unfinished-looking but full of pure energy.
Light
In pursuit of the falling of light I captured J’s washing baskets replete with rumpled clothes, my weekend supplies in a Carrefour bag, and the shelf for rock specimens, all enclosed in efficiently labelled zip-lock bags. Light was supposed to be a lengthy ongoing project, but it dwindled to one collage in the face of other preoccupations.
And finally, plants …
… garden flowers, staircase leaves, fallen star flowers and noble bark.
19 Monday Feb 2018
Posted in hotchpotch, photos
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Family holiday
For a month in December and January my house was full of family. I failed them a few times. Failure to provide surf was my main crime – “the worst surf over Christmas in 20 years, mum.” Failure to have in the fridge whatever it was whoever it was was looking for ran it a close second. In spite of this, they took me to Canberra where we visited the Dombrovskis‘ photographic exhibition and Questacon, the national science and technology centre; and they harvested oysters from the rocks, enough for a quick pre-dinner feast for six.
Oh, and I almost forgot! How could I? Two most important participants in a family get-together: Cruz and Jenga.
On the beach
Most of my beach-walking was close to home, but there were still plenty of treasures of the usual kind: seaweed, driftwood, shells, rockface, grasses. There was also an unaccustomed pleasure: company.
Prowling daybreak
I maintained my early mini-walks, occasionally before the household was stirring, although it was hard to beat hopeful surf-seekers. The early morning light remained a great treat, especially as it fell on the seedpods of Stars of Bethlehem. The vanishing of their blue and white flowers marked the end of Christmas.
Houses around Spud
I took advantage of the slumbers of the village to do a quick photo-essay on Potato Point architecture, beginning with my own beforested house. (By the time the visitors left it was a bit less forested. When a hakea fell over the drive it left an emptiness that drew attention to other leaners and potential fallers, which my children removed while I hid my face and hoped for their safety.) The other houses are mostly undistinguished, although there aren’t many traces of the beach shacks which have either been removed or renovated. What strikes me most looking through this collection is the bareness, which may be because a lot of the houses are holiday places.
Leaning
Sometimes photographic themes leap out at you. For a while everywhere I looked things were leaning, and I foresaw a lengthy photo essay. Then things stopped leaning, and this is the grand total.
And if all this summer is too much for you … twins in Warsaw
17 Saturday Feb 2018
Posted in words only
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1
In the bush
The light patter of rain on an iron roof. Slabs of bark whirled from tree-trunks landing with faint thud. The crack of a metal can contracting in the corridor. The rising whoop whoop whoop of a nightjar. The barking of a neighbour’s dog.
A short time of silence when not even the breeze breathes.
And then morning sounds. The crowing of a faraway rooster. The revving up and fading laugh of a pair of kookaburras. The shrill throbbing of cicadas. The clear trilling of a lyrebird, interspersed with its rattling, whirring and thudding.
And then the padding of bare feet, heading to the kitchen to make coffee.
2
At Potato Point
The voices of children playing in the street as light fades. The hissing and snorting of possums. Occasionally a slight asthmatic wheeze or the irritating zzzzzzzz of a mosquito.
The crunch of gravel in the drive at 2 am as my son leaves for work.
The long whimpering of an unhappy puppy. The call of the wolf-whistle bird. A twitter, a trill a throaty rise. The happy-birthday-to-you bird. The magpies’ liquidity. The friar bird with its irritating grackle-grackle-grackle. A harsh wick wuck wuck. All the smaller twittering that one day I’ll be able to name.
And always the continuo of the surf.
21 Thursday Jan 2016
Posted in guest post, photos
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Potato Pt has been a favoured destination for our family since as long as I can remember. Longing for the yearly trips on the summer holidays is the only thing that gets me through school, one assessment handed in is one assessment closer to six weeks of bliss. And that is exactly what it is. Everything about the south coast radiates bliss. Walks on the beach, waking up to nanny meg pottering around the kitchen with her new adorable haircut, surfing, swimming, kayaking, camping, socialising and bike riding. Ours days are dominated by activities such as these and we return to the house battered and exhausted where a little old woman and a mental white dog await our return. The place brings experiences you cannot have in any other part of the world, no matter how far you travel or how much you pay. Falling asleep to the sound of the wild sea, watching the sun set from the headland, smelling the salty spray of ocean with a hint of kangaroo poo, tasting nanny Meg's gourmet dinners. It makes the senses tingle with pleasure everywhere you turn. Although, a heavy feeling begins gripping your heart reminding you that you will have to leave and resume your job and school work. This is the feeling that slumps your shoulders and droops your eyes with its sheer weight. But all good things must come to an end. This is our personal little paradise, our sanctuary of relaxation, and nanny Meg's presence is just the cherry on top. As Facebook once said, “I need a 6 months holiday… 2 times a year”.
04 Monday Jan 2016
My house is no longer the staid domicile of a working son, a woman in her seventies and a white dog with black eyepatches. It's the roiling base for the Mt Tamborine mob: my son and daughter-in-law, two grandkids and a calm black dog. The garage is full of camping gear; kayaks and surf boards lie under rainforest trees; wetsuits and wet underpants dangle from branches; a TV migrates upstairs surrounded by a scatter of Nintendo handsets. The frig is packed with ham, leftovers, chicken thawing, lettuce and herbs from J's garden dome – but not with whatever it is A's looking for when he opens it hopefully. There is perpetual coming and going: K's sisters are staying north at Tuross; S's mates south near Tilba.
The beach calls: T and A are old enough to surf alone or bike around the village, and even I ramble down late one afternoon to watch them ride waves and my granddog dig a colony of holes. On Christmas Day, J and I stand on the headland and watch our youngest in the empty sea waiting and waiting for a wave. Another day, his brother documents him in the thick of more action. Uncle H hops his 6' onto a motorbike too small for his nephew and hoons up the street, knees up to chin. The Christmas lunch entertainment is provided by the coupling of a murky brown no-egg vegan pumpkin pie (mine for J) and a luscious white pavlova, six inches of eggs, sugar and cream (T's for the rest of us) which tempted me into two evil slices.
One of the holiday rituals for S is a motorbike adventure with his mates out into the rugged wilderness behind Cobargo, this time negotiating the notorious razorback ridge where there's a sheer drop into two valleys. I go out with him, about an hour from home, to hide extra fuel, through Nerrigundah and out to Belowra and Belimbla. Although I haven't been out there for many years, it feels beautifully familiar: the view out over the ranges of the great divide, and then the opening out into the Belowra Valley. We stop on the edge of the dirt road where there is a brief moment of mobile reception and I eavesdrop as S talks to someone who knows the area, scrutinises the map, is tortured by locked gates, and then discusses his findings with a mate. I sit idly and suddenly see something tiny and white moving quickly on the rocky road edge – an ant with some kind of food – or is it an egg? I'm astonished that I can see something minute so clearly and I track its movements for five minutes and about three meters before I lose sight. Phone calls over, we go back the way we've come for a rethink and then follow tracks down to the clear waters of the Tuross looking for a ford.
While we're away a miracle has happened. I left a vast pile of mulch on the grass outside my fence. It is no longer there – it has been spread all over my front yard, K's handiwork with a bit of help from my son and grandkids. Once she starts there is no stopping her: she prunes and clears and leaf-blows and terminates vines until my front yard actually looks weed-free and tidy. My feeble plan for the mulch was two wheelbarrows a day: she does it by the car-trailer.
This isn't the end of her home maintenance. Discovering my gutters need clearing she finds a ladder and climbs up onto the roof to remove the litter of a shameful number of years, including the shed skin of my resident python. In all of which she assures me she takes great pleasure, not enjoying idleness.
There is a lot of calm time between frenetic activity: teasing the dog by pretending to eat his hambone or reading. My resident son produces books from his downstairs hoard for his nephew. Grandfather and 12-year-old grandson compete for the same book: So you've been publicly shamed by Jon Ronson. A. goes off to ride his bike and tucks the book out of sight. This is a time-honoured family tradition: you hide what you're reading so no one can nick it.
When they go out for the day, the house reverts to silence, and feels quite empty.
Kids!
Waiting for a wave ...
... and catching one
Brown's cows and Christmas lunch
Preparing for an epic motorbike ride
The daughter-in-law from heaven
Acknowledgement: The title of this post was appropriated from one of Paula's challenges. I thank her! This post wasn't appropriate for a one-photo challenge, nor had the events in it happened then.
19 Friday Jun 2015
Posted in Northern Queensland, photos
Trawling through northern Queensland photos, I found a beach I can’t believe I overlooked. It is strikingly different from beaches at home: the bush reaching down to the water, the palm trees, the pebbliness, the water runnels, the assemblages left by the sea. Posting it is a way of reprising a part of a travelling year.
08 Thursday Jan 2015
Posted in phoneography
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This morning, cool 7 am air tempted me out for a morning beachwalk. The temptation was strengthened by a looming deadline for a piece of writing I’ve know about for a year: I’m the matriarch of procrastination. I’ve had my iPhone since November and have only just begun to use it, thanks to the tutelage of the Tamborine mob (more procrastination.)
19 Friday Dec 2014
Posted in photos, Queensland
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An early knock on the caravan door has me out of bed and ready for the beach in five quick minutes. We park opposite Sea World and walk along a track to the beach: dog-with-a-purple-collar, two surfers, a swimmer, and a hanger-on grandma who forgot to bring swimming gear to Queensland in summer.
Join me as I amble down to the beach past unfamiliar plants, and, after a paddle, return behind the dunes to sit in my low sand-chair in the shade. Watch a runner who stops to do twenty push-ups, runs away, returns and does twenty more. Notice two ground birds skulking through the grass, and a butterfly skimming above them. Maintain silence as I try to catch up with my neglected diary.
The dog with the purple collar and the woman with long legs and a filmy dress crest the sandhills; the girl with a body board on a lead comes up the track: the man on the board swoops across the horizon on a wave and then jogs towards us. The family has assembled and we return up the mountain to the boy left behind to sleep.
Posted with Blogsy
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