Authentic Box
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Monday, May 30, 2005
Glorious Rain
Its raining so much at the moment that we should be shipping these soggy clouds over to Sydney to break their drought.
It's raining so much that my water tank gushes a fountain out its overflow spout pretty much most of the time.
It's raining so much that the cows look like they are wearing knee boots made of mud.
It's raining so much that when I last went out for a walk, all the stepping stones in the creek were under water and I got wet to the ankles.
It's raining so much and is still so warm that you can see the grass growing visibly from day to day.
It's raining so much that when the drops do stop banging on my tin roof I hear an unfamiliar sound that I think might be water rushing along ditches where it has only dawdled until now.
It's raining so much that it rains even while the sun is shining, making for wonderful rainbows.
It's raining so much that I can confirm with enormous pleasure that my little cottage is quite snug and dry, warm as toast with the fire going and with no sign of damp creeping up into my stacks of paper.
It's raining so much that my water tank gushes a fountain out its overflow spout pretty much most of the time.
It's raining so much that the cows look like they are wearing knee boots made of mud.
It's raining so much that when I last went out for a walk, all the stepping stones in the creek were under water and I got wet to the ankles.
It's raining so much and is still so warm that you can see the grass growing visibly from day to day.
It's raining so much that when the drops do stop banging on my tin roof I hear an unfamiliar sound that I think might be water rushing along ditches where it has only dawdled until now.
It's raining so much that it rains even while the sun is shining, making for wonderful rainbows.
It's raining so much that I can confirm with enormous pleasure that my little cottage is quite snug and dry, warm as toast with the fire going and with no sign of damp creeping up into my stacks of paper.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Hi Mum and Dad!
I know my parents read my blog, and I suspect that they use it as fodder for kvelling (talking me up) to any poor soul who makes the mistake of looking remotely interested. But I hadn't realised the full extent of their enthusiasm until a recent phone call.
My dad let slip something about a "Notebook" and then revealed they they print out every posting ("sometimes even in colour") and store it in the Notebook. But why print them out? I asked. "Who can read anything on screen?" "Oy vey, another tree sacrificed for my ego", I thought, torn between squirming embarrassment at how uncool it is to have parents who print out your blog and relief that someone else is taking care of hardcopy back up for me, should Blogger ever go down for good and take Bibliophilia with it.
Anyway, this one's for my biggest life-long fans... thanks mum and dad.
My dad let slip something about a "Notebook" and then revealed they they print out every posting ("sometimes even in colour") and store it in the Notebook. But why print them out? I asked. "Who can read anything on screen?" "Oy vey, another tree sacrificed for my ego", I thought, torn between squirming embarrassment at how uncool it is to have parents who print out your blog and relief that someone else is taking care of hardcopy back up for me, should Blogger ever go down for good and take Bibliophilia with it.
Anyway, this one's for my biggest life-long fans... thanks mum and dad.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Dating Rocks
The oldest rocks in the North Island are apparently not far from here, at Whangaroa in the Bay of Islands- they are 270 million years old. Which sounds ancient until you hear that the oldest rocks in New Zealand are 508-560 million years old and the Earth is 4.53 billion years old.
Last night I went to a lecture about dating rocks. Which was a) not advice for singles seeking taciturn partners; and b) more interesting than it sounds. Organised by National Radio and the Royal Society (of scientists), it was part of a series celebrating the centenary of Einstein's Theory of Relativity. Dr Hamish Campbell covered some historical ground that I've read recently about William Smith and Gideon Mantell. These two Victorian men's scientific achievements are foundational to much of what we today take for granted about the history of the earth, but because they weren't born into the 'right' class struggled to be recognised and survive financially as independent scientists.
My favourite metaphor of the evening was that the earth is a book that scientists have learned to read: strata are the pages, and fossils are the words on the pages. And the measurable radiation in the minerals contained in many rocks is one of the dictionaries that enables scientists to interpret those words. I feel an artist's book emerging from the preCambrian levels of my psyche in response...
The audience was 95% grey haired (as with most of the events I attend these days- I am getting older interests even if my looks suggest I belong at a different kind of rock oriented event). There were plenty of women there, but not one of us said a word all evening. So it was a delightful surprise when, after the formal talk was over, we were shown an award-winning video made by 3 young women from Kaitaia College about Newtonian Physics. These were funky, smart, teenaged science chicks and I hope that next time I go to a Northland science event the demographics are skewed younger and women have more to say.
Last night I went to a lecture about dating rocks. Which was a) not advice for singles seeking taciturn partners; and b) more interesting than it sounds. Organised by National Radio and the Royal Society (of scientists), it was part of a series celebrating the centenary of Einstein's Theory of Relativity. Dr Hamish Campbell covered some historical ground that I've read recently about William Smith and Gideon Mantell. These two Victorian men's scientific achievements are foundational to much of what we today take for granted about the history of the earth, but because they weren't born into the 'right' class struggled to be recognised and survive financially as independent scientists.
My favourite metaphor of the evening was that the earth is a book that scientists have learned to read: strata are the pages, and fossils are the words on the pages. And the measurable radiation in the minerals contained in many rocks is one of the dictionaries that enables scientists to interpret those words. I feel an artist's book emerging from the preCambrian levels of my psyche in response...
The audience was 95% grey haired (as with most of the events I attend these days- I am getting older interests even if my looks suggest I belong at a different kind of rock oriented event). There were plenty of women there, but not one of us said a word all evening. So it was a delightful surprise when, after the formal talk was over, we were shown an award-winning video made by 3 young women from Kaitaia College about Newtonian Physics. These were funky, smart, teenaged science chicks and I hope that next time I go to a Northland science event the demographics are skewed younger and women have more to say.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
The secret of eternally youthful looks
If you don't know me to look at, guess what age I am from my writing. I'm curious, because I apparently look much younger than I am and I wonder if I write to my age. I have come to expect the jaw-dropping amazement of people finding out that I have a daughter of whatever age she is at the time (currently 19).
Bizarrely, the most common age I am assumed to be is still around 24, which I started passing for when I was 14. I thought when I was 34 I would surely start slipping up into my late 20s for looks, but no, I have now looked 24 for 24 years. It's almost a Dorian Gray experience except without the haggard portrait in the attic.
In our youth obsessed culture looking young is supposed to be every woman's goal, but not me. I feel no need to put expensive lotions on my face and skim over the cosmetic articles and ads in magazines. My standard 'flattered' response to the inevitable variation on 'you must have been 5 when you became a mother' is not really heartfelt. Even a sincerely meant compliment loses its lustre when heard for the hundredth time. It can be a disadvantage to look young when you want to be taken seriously as a professional or a parent. I'm kind of curious about what it will be like to finally start looking closer to my age (something I only dimly remember from my mid-20s).
Modern life makes chronological age harder and harder to guess, and less and less meaningful as milestones of education, career and family are no longer strung out in a tidy row. Of course among the affluent, more people are able to look younger for longer and poor people continue to be more likely to look older than they are. But for women especially, looking young is considered a valuable currency, and in the spirit of sharing the abundance I am blessed with, I'll tell you to what I attribute my youthful looks.
Well, in line with the advice in magazines I am pretty obsessive about wearing sunhats, sunscreen and cheap moisturiser; drinking water, eating veges and avoiding cigarette smoke (but all because I want to live to 100 and not get cancer, rather than to preserve my looks). I laugh a lot and sleep enough as that's my idea of hedonistic self-indulgence. I think having long hair and being plump add to the illusion. I got great genes from Martha, who has always looked too young to be my mother and continues, in her 60s, to look at least 15 years younger than she is.
But if you want to know my real secret, I think it's eating lots of fat! Mostly in the form of chocolate, but also anything oily yum yum yum. This is approach is heresy to most beauty therapists and dietricians and I accept no responsibility for adverse effects (such as heart attacks, obesity or acne) which may be unintended side effects of following my fatty diet.
Bizarrely, the most common age I am assumed to be is still around 24, which I started passing for when I was 14. I thought when I was 34 I would surely start slipping up into my late 20s for looks, but no, I have now looked 24 for 24 years. It's almost a Dorian Gray experience except without the haggard portrait in the attic.
In our youth obsessed culture looking young is supposed to be every woman's goal, but not me. I feel no need to put expensive lotions on my face and skim over the cosmetic articles and ads in magazines. My standard 'flattered' response to the inevitable variation on 'you must have been 5 when you became a mother' is not really heartfelt. Even a sincerely meant compliment loses its lustre when heard for the hundredth time. It can be a disadvantage to look young when you want to be taken seriously as a professional or a parent. I'm kind of curious about what it will be like to finally start looking closer to my age (something I only dimly remember from my mid-20s).
Modern life makes chronological age harder and harder to guess, and less and less meaningful as milestones of education, career and family are no longer strung out in a tidy row. Of course among the affluent, more people are able to look younger for longer and poor people continue to be more likely to look older than they are. But for women especially, looking young is considered a valuable currency, and in the spirit of sharing the abundance I am blessed with, I'll tell you to what I attribute my youthful looks.
Well, in line with the advice in magazines I am pretty obsessive about wearing sunhats, sunscreen and cheap moisturiser; drinking water, eating veges and avoiding cigarette smoke (but all because I want to live to 100 and not get cancer, rather than to preserve my looks). I laugh a lot and sleep enough as that's my idea of hedonistic self-indulgence. I think having long hair and being plump add to the illusion. I got great genes from Martha, who has always looked too young to be my mother and continues, in her 60s, to look at least 15 years younger than she is.
But if you want to know my real secret, I think it's eating lots of fat! Mostly in the form of chocolate, but also anything oily yum yum yum. This is approach is heresy to most beauty therapists and dietricians and I accept no responsibility for adverse effects (such as heart attacks, obesity or acne) which may be unintended side effects of following my fatty diet.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Oh, they are SOOOO cute!
There's a bunch a little baby calves moved in next door to me. They are about a month old and make an extraordinarily deep bellowing sound for such little creatures- except for the one that squeals instead.
They drink milk powder formula once a day from an amazing contraption like a spaceship with dozens of teats. And they love suckling so much they'll suck and suck on your hand even though there's nothing coming out.
They drink milk powder formula once a day from an amazing contraption like a spaceship with dozens of teats. And they love suckling so much they'll suck and suck on your hand even though there's nothing coming out.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Ngawha Hot Springs
If you have seen the documentary, Kaikohe Demolition, you'll remember scenes of the men relaxing in steaming mud baths after their frenetic driving exploits. Those mud baths and hot springs are not far from my home, at Ngawha (right next to the brand new prison, but that's another story). Winding narrow back roads took us north from our farm to connect with SH1, and to enjoy a quick visit to the wonderful Hundervasser toilets in Kawakawa. Before the toilets were built there, Kawakawa was a place for travellers to lock their doors and drive through without stopping. Now the arty and welcoming feeling of the little town seems to be spilling over into neighbouring settlements as well.
Turning off the main road to Ngawha Springs is easy but at the end of the road there are two facilities which are minimally signposted. We chose the one on the edge of the bubbling dark lake because it had fewer cars parked outside and looked like it hadn't had much of anything done to it for 50 years or so. 'Please pay at the Office' said the sign but when we found the 'Office' there was no one there, just a tiny hole in the door to poke our $5 through. As we walked into the pools area, a family of Swedish chemists were leaving (in NZ for a conference, and with two days for sightseeing they came to Ngawha?!) and we had the place practically to ourselves for a while.
After dipping toes in each of the 8 pools we chose 'Lobster' for our first soak. Medium hot water bubbled up through the black sand bottom to just the right height for me to sit on with my chin resting on the water's surface, my back against the wooden walls. It was like sitting in hot, sulpher-smelling champagne which was the only reason I could think of for the name Lobster, because there were three pools hotter than it, two of which I couldn't even climb into.
We spent a relaxing couple of hours letting the minerals and warmth melt all tension from our muscles while our skin pruned up and turned grey from the silt and sand. The day was overcast and humid, not quite raining. In such an environment it was impossible not to get chatty with our fellow bathers who were a mostly locals and later, a young English family whose antics kept us all amused.
The funniest moment of our afternoon was when the rural quiet was broken by a loud motor- was it a lawn mower? a jet ski? a motorbike? After some minutes of grumbling and speculation, the mystery was revealed when the driver of a mini amphibian vehicle poked his head over the wall and asked for help pulling his new toy out of the muddy lake where it had foundered. We all rose up from our steaming baths and the men climbed over to splash around pulling and pushing and offer advice, while the rest of us giggled at his predicament and embarrassment.
It looks like there is some work underway to develop the pools, but fortunately it appears modest and low budget. There are few natural hot springs left in New Zealand without waterslides and concrete bottoms and corresponding high entrance fees. Ngawha feels like the hot springs that time and the tourism industry forgot. It would be a shame if it were 'discovered' and developed out of its stinky, muddy, democratic appeal.
Turning off the main road to Ngawha Springs is easy but at the end of the road there are two facilities which are minimally signposted. We chose the one on the edge of the bubbling dark lake because it had fewer cars parked outside and looked like it hadn't had much of anything done to it for 50 years or so. 'Please pay at the Office' said the sign but when we found the 'Office' there was no one there, just a tiny hole in the door to poke our $5 through. As we walked into the pools area, a family of Swedish chemists were leaving (in NZ for a conference, and with two days for sightseeing they came to Ngawha?!) and we had the place practically to ourselves for a while.
After dipping toes in each of the 8 pools we chose 'Lobster' for our first soak. Medium hot water bubbled up through the black sand bottom to just the right height for me to sit on with my chin resting on the water's surface, my back against the wooden walls. It was like sitting in hot, sulpher-smelling champagne which was the only reason I could think of for the name Lobster, because there were three pools hotter than it, two of which I couldn't even climb into.
We spent a relaxing couple of hours letting the minerals and warmth melt all tension from our muscles while our skin pruned up and turned grey from the silt and sand. The day was overcast and humid, not quite raining. In such an environment it was impossible not to get chatty with our fellow bathers who were a mostly locals and later, a young English family whose antics kept us all amused.
The funniest moment of our afternoon was when the rural quiet was broken by a loud motor- was it a lawn mower? a jet ski? a motorbike? After some minutes of grumbling and speculation, the mystery was revealed when the driver of a mini amphibian vehicle poked his head over the wall and asked for help pulling his new toy out of the muddy lake where it had foundered. We all rose up from our steaming baths and the men climbed over to splash around pulling and pushing and offer advice, while the rest of us giggled at his predicament and embarrassment.
It looks like there is some work underway to develop the pools, but fortunately it appears modest and low budget. There are few natural hot springs left in New Zealand without waterslides and concrete bottoms and corresponding high entrance fees. Ngawha feels like the hot springs that time and the tourism industry forgot. It would be a shame if it were 'discovered' and developed out of its stinky, muddy, democratic appeal.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Sunbathing
One of my many favourite things about working from home is cat naps. A quick doze while a pool of sunshine oozed across my bed covers and a fleeting dream about bathing in healing waters. Perhaps it is time I finally find a buddy to take me along to Ngawha hot springs.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Links
It was postively balmy, almost sultry today. After spending most of the day writing a funding application for someone else (my new money making activity) it was a relief to get out and get moving. There seem to be lots more birds around at the moment. I saw three different kingfishers in different places, and there are great flocks of anonymous birds that this lovely blog could no doubt identify but all I can say is they are small and brown and noisy and there are lots and lots of them.
I met a friendly cow on the way back: not only did she not run away at my approach as most of them do, but she let me scratch the top of her head, and mooed loudly when I walked on.
It was a good walk for thinking some more about book I have been mulling and planning since before I moved here, tentatively titled An Atlas of Purua. Today those early thoughts about map making to develop a sense of homeplace coalesced with other recent interests such as my collections of possum bones, feathers and invertebrate shells; obsessive box making activies; an article about an exhibition of curio cabinets; and my newly developed web design skills. I envisiged making a cabinet containing: artifacts from the farm, a book of maps of my walks, a catalogue of related poems and a CD-ROM with links to this blog and my other web site- all elaborately cross referenced and hyperlinked. I have a couple of projects close to completion and then I think I will start on this one.
I met a friendly cow on the way back: not only did she not run away at my approach as most of them do, but she let me scratch the top of her head, and mooed loudly when I walked on.
It was a good walk for thinking some more about book I have been mulling and planning since before I moved here, tentatively titled An Atlas of Purua. Today those early thoughts about map making to develop a sense of homeplace coalesced with other recent interests such as my collections of possum bones, feathers and invertebrate shells; obsessive box making activies; an article about an exhibition of curio cabinets; and my newly developed web design skills. I envisiged making a cabinet containing: artifacts from the farm, a book of maps of my walks, a catalogue of related poems and a CD-ROM with links to this blog and my other web site- all elaborately cross referenced and hyperlinked. I have a couple of projects close to completion and then I think I will start on this one.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Ducks
This morning I was eating my porridge (with homemade/grown lemon-zested applesauce) and gazing out the window as I built my list of things to do in Town this afternoon. (Sample items: buy better mousetraps and a metallic green pen; sketch rooflines; get printer's inkjet heads cleaned; research inner-Sydney architecture of the 1970s; etc).
This musing was interrupted by loud quacking and I watched in facination as a pair of Paradise ducks determinedly chased away a big hawk. This adds to my suspicion that the ducks are nesting. Thelocal big group of ducks have been pairing off for a few weeks and seem to be defending territories- often centred on a hilltop or little mound of open ground. All this is a bit confusing to me because my limited avian assumptions were that birds nested in the spring and ducks laid eggs in the reeds around ponds.
This musing was interrupted by loud quacking and I watched in facination as a pair of Paradise ducks determinedly chased away a big hawk. This adds to my suspicion that the ducks are nesting. Thelocal big group of ducks have been pairing off for a few weeks and seem to be defending territories- often centred on a hilltop or little mound of open ground. All this is a bit confusing to me because my limited avian assumptions were that birds nested in the spring and ducks laid eggs in the reeds around ponds.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Solitaire
I have decided not to go into Town for my yoga class today, but to stay home for the second day in a row. I am enjoying my solitude, working productively in my cosy little studio while outside the rain falls steadily. I spent the weekend in social situations, and I have a meeting and a night class scheduled for tomorrow. I just want another day to myself.
Most people seem to be curious, doubtful or amazed when I say that I am happy living alone, so far from other humans. Old friends and aquaintances have to reassess their perception of me as a very social person. People just getting to know me don't readily have a category to slot me into. I grew up in a family, moved on to big shared flats, became a mother pretty young... and my last few years have been living with other people in the inner city and going to work in open plan offices. Being alone now is like quenching a desert parched throat with a long cool drink of iced lemonade.
And although I like the idea of being a hermit or a recluse I am hardly one of those! I talk to family and friends on the phone most days, send and receive emails, share my musings and anectdotes with scores of people through this blog, listen to National Radio a lot, chat to various neighbours every few days and venture into town at least once a week where I am making many new friends and business contacts.
Yes, sometimes I feel lonely. But not as often as I felt lonely when I was surrounded by people all the time. The loneliness has an old faded feeling, as though it is a much handled book from my childhood, familiar but not really relevant to my current reality. Mostly I feel like I am the luckiest person in the world to be here doing this- and this feeling is as fresh and new as an artist's book blossoming in my studio.
Most people seem to be curious, doubtful or amazed when I say that I am happy living alone, so far from other humans. Old friends and aquaintances have to reassess their perception of me as a very social person. People just getting to know me don't readily have a category to slot me into. I grew up in a family, moved on to big shared flats, became a mother pretty young... and my last few years have been living with other people in the inner city and going to work in open plan offices. Being alone now is like quenching a desert parched throat with a long cool drink of iced lemonade.
And although I like the idea of being a hermit or a recluse I am hardly one of those! I talk to family and friends on the phone most days, send and receive emails, share my musings and anectdotes with scores of people through this blog, listen to National Radio a lot, chat to various neighbours every few days and venture into town at least once a week where I am making many new friends and business contacts.
Yes, sometimes I feel lonely. But not as often as I felt lonely when I was surrounded by people all the time. The loneliness has an old faded feeling, as though it is a much handled book from my childhood, familiar but not really relevant to my current reality. Mostly I feel like I am the luckiest person in the world to be here doing this- and this feeling is as fresh and new as an artist's book blossoming in my studio.
Monday, May 16, 2005
A Sunday afternoon in Whangarei
This weekend I had my very first visitors. My parents came up from Hamilton for a pleasant weekend with me. They met some of my friends on Friday night, were shown around the farm on Saturday, and we spent a rainy Sunday afternoon in Whangarei. I took them to check out a couple of attractions that I've been waiting for a good excuse to visit.
First we went to the Whangarei Heritage Museum which was endearingly shabby and quirky. My parents like to visit obscure local museums wherever they travel in the world. Apparently dad usually ends up writing a book, or at least an article, inspired by such visits, so I should be able to post a decent blog. But I'm not sure what to say about motheaten taxidermied birds and enthusiatic but bizarre homemade models of historic scenes using twigs to represent trees and wired cotton wool for smoke.
After some wandering around the Heritage Park admiring peacocks, miniature railways and the world's smallest Methodist church (a deeply cute octogonal chapel) we were hungry and chilled. I recommended Reva's down by the Marina, because so many people have talked about it as being good and I have been wanting to try it. Well, even though it was 3/4 empty when we arrived, and there seemed to be plenty of young wait staff, we were ignored so comprehensively for so long, that we just walked out and ended up dining across the way at The Gybe where service, food and ambience were all ideal for our needs.
We rounded out our rainy day by going to the movies to see Kingdom of Heaven which (aside from some mild anachronisms, credulity-stretching assumptions and cheesy Hollywood dialogue) was not too bad. It was beautifully filmed-even the long elaborate battles- and with Orlando Bloom as eye candy enough to compensate for the almost total absence of women in the film. Three appeared from behind veils during the two and a half hours: one speaking role for the tragic sex kitten Princess, a single line for the tragic dignified Sheik's sister and silence from the tragic corpse on which the film opens (do you detect a theme here? this is not a chick flick).
First we went to the Whangarei Heritage Museum which was endearingly shabby and quirky. My parents like to visit obscure local museums wherever they travel in the world. Apparently dad usually ends up writing a book, or at least an article, inspired by such visits, so I should be able to post a decent blog. But I'm not sure what to say about motheaten taxidermied birds and enthusiatic but bizarre homemade models of historic scenes using twigs to represent trees and wired cotton wool for smoke.
After some wandering around the Heritage Park admiring peacocks, miniature railways and the world's smallest Methodist church (a deeply cute octogonal chapel) we were hungry and chilled. I recommended Reva's down by the Marina, because so many people have talked about it as being good and I have been wanting to try it. Well, even though it was 3/4 empty when we arrived, and there seemed to be plenty of young wait staff, we were ignored so comprehensively for so long, that we just walked out and ended up dining across the way at The Gybe where service, food and ambience were all ideal for our needs.
We rounded out our rainy day by going to the movies to see Kingdom of Heaven which (aside from some mild anachronisms, credulity-stretching assumptions and cheesy Hollywood dialogue) was not too bad. It was beautifully filmed-even the long elaborate battles- and with Orlando Bloom as eye candy enough to compensate for the almost total absence of women in the film. Three appeared from behind veils during the two and a half hours: one speaking role for the tragic sex kitten Princess, a single line for the tragic dignified Sheik's sister and silence from the tragic corpse on which the film opens (do you detect a theme here? this is not a chick flick).
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Grazed bush
A area of bush unfenced off from a paddock close to some stockyards is so heavily grazed that it is like visiting an old cemetery. There are bare tree trunks, supplejack and dead leaves on bare earth and exposed roots. These are mature trees, though there are no really fat trunks. They grew tall to reach the sun above the understory before it was eaten by cattle.The only green left near the ground is moss. All the diversity and complextity of the undergrowth is absent. The remaining beauty of the bush is way over my head, so I keep tipping it back to look at the green canopy which is untouched and where the birds still sing.
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