.waves that eat the coast.

Why is it that wether i try or not i always get into conversations with old wandering men?

Maybe my time at ol’ Bennelong pub (Beverly Hills Hotel) moulded my persona into something easily approachable to a specific demographic. Even in Ecuador, as I deliriously awaited another ten hour bus trip after the 30 hours from Lima, I met Felix. It was midnight in Guayquil, and I had been instructed from a fellow traveller a few border-passings before that i should by no means leave the safety of the station. I adhered to this advice, however my altered state of mind meant I wasn’t in the slightest uncomfortable at the prospect of chatting to other station night dwellers. Felix offered me a plastic chair and we shared some chocolate. Ten hours later, I had arrived at the coast, having fallen asleep under Felix’s arm from which I could not escape. I also left my churango on the bus, which was devastating at the time. Felix called me a few days later asking when i was coming to work on his farm. I declined, having just discovered the wonders of living on the coast again at least for a short time.

Today, craving the coast once more, I made the journey from my home to Coogee, the less touristy of the beaches close to the city, though probably no easier to get to than Manly. Coogee called because of it’s complete isolation from anything remotely connected to me. I know no one that lives in coogee, the hills that descend to the sand are enthralling though i would never want to ride a bike up them, and the waves are different to Cronulla. Walking and minding my own buisness after a session of staring at the waves and lamenting my lack of cozzies, a smiley, bearded, hatted earphone-wearing man fell into step with me and asked if I had been swimming. He recommended I did, and we got to talking about Sydney. I was ambiguous in responding that i lived “south”, but friendly, since the suburb I live in always takes a bit of explaining to anyone north of Redfern. I stopped and ordered a coffee and studied some spanish and breathing the sea air deeply. Mr man continued onwards, only to return a little while later and invite me for a swim and an introduction to coogee, and offer me his email address should i return. I declined, not because of distrust but more because i never come this way, and wonder at how I would certainly take an invite to the beach from someone if they were say, 50 years younger? Anyway, he told me to ask for him with the lifeguards if I come back. What a local. 

Beach culture is amazingly the same everywhere, though the oldies in Cronulla usually stick to themselves, drinking their halfstrengthextrahot flat whites at the cafe on the Alley(Break) and stunning us all with their tans. I hope this doesn’t come across as negative, in my reflections on the waves i decided i would retire (will i ever retire?) as close to the beach as possible if i was able to. Or, barring retirement, develop some kind of beach regeneration/wild coastal food production property. Oh the dreams...

.park.

.corner dream room.

.inside of Dymocks building elevator.

...In other worlds, Sydney just seems to get bigger everyday, and I fluctuate between feeling the distance between home and uni like i felt the day-length bus trips across South America, and alternatively not noticing at all. 

Colombian birthday celebrations, a church service full of university aged people which amazed me, boots which fit perfectly and a cleanskin of wine for six dollars have ensured a rich Sydney week.

self assigned assignments assigning assignments aside.

Yes, it's avoidance of writing that somethingthousandswords essay on Roland Barthes.

Yes i went to the fabric store with my grandma instead of studying spanish.

Yes i haven't slept enough this week because of late night craft sessions.

Yes.

.flowers ought to be dried and kept always.

.the beginnings of a frock.

.mini thankyous. 

.ricotta&spinach minis.

.crunchy.

.success.

.getting ready to be stewed mmm.

.cinnamon goodness.

.so lucky to be a uni.

.knitting 101 with Nan.

.two hours later....

ode to all things small.

in response to the size with which i currently associate myself, here's a celebration of small things, small events, small memories in all their truly out of context significance. enjoy :)

.small plants. seed centre, Tumbaco, Ecuador.

.small gig. at The Smallest Gig Christmas.

.small farm. eloise's twentyfirst cake.

.small family. heels and babystrap. what a fox.

.small apartment, small renting experience. wyanbah&friends.

.small lions. christmas kittens.

.small besties. picnics at Carrs Park with rachybabes.

.small cousin. i think this is beth.

.small mum?. i own this exact outfit in my current size. small style.

.small monsters. sundayschool days.

.small women. primary school possy.

.small hectic gamers. computer lovin at burtt's.

.small language capacity. Japan, school uniform.

.small bed. camp.

.small years. highschool. we made a friendship book.

.small feet, big love. we still all look the same.

.small superpowers. sixteenth birthday at maccas, including icecream cake.

.small felines.

.small graphics. broken down on Mt Ousley road.

.small manners. face art.

.small time. lunch with dad.

.small holiday. blue mountains retreat.

small world. church in the Philipines.

.small nose. sunny days with matt wylie.

.small studies. stuck. the end of highschool.

.small heads. very pre-housemate.

.small coming of a(eighteen)ge. alphabet dance floor.

.small beginning. hilltop hello.

.small patriotism. once-a-year use flag.

.small house. trekking newsouthwales.

an odd solace, a conversation

EB: "sometimes i find an odd solace in imagining our lives like a mix between gossip girl and vampire diaries... Elevated drama and supernatural influence, and always a somewhat privileged protagonist still feeling lonely, outdated and out of step with the world around them, it's these that bring me comfort."

MRe: ah, though i see what you mean where a semi-fantasy drama wading through romance of the kind impossible between mere mortal and shadow of the night ‘comforts’ you, thought i would argue that in your loneliness, you are not a protagonist. i too am not a protagonist, though i feel especially drawn to the prospect of writing my own story and distributing to it to those i love in order to authenticate my love in a kind of authorial authority. our protagonist is Christ, risen and active in our over dramatised, deeply felt and whimsically pondered lives. we are the extras who possess flowery and superfluous descriptions of a nature so tangible you wish to eat the words right off the page. and if we feel out of step with the world it is because we strive to walk with our Creator, who whistles the same rhythm as when He created a perfectly balanced solar system, crocheted stars, sculpted mountains and moulded the atom.

crafty

autumn ushers in it's cold-skin mornings, desiring beanies on head and scarves to hug necks. And my feet are cold but it makes me keep walking.

a saturday night with coloured fabrics appropriate to the falling season, damien jurado, sufjan and two other unlabelled mix tapes, a pair of scissors, an iron, a box of half used craft things and a roll of hemming web made for slowly feeling time passing.

.iron on birds. in place of glue interfacing, hemming web sufficed.

.courtesy of jubilee golf course, some intricate pinecones.

.words&feathers.

.dreaming.

.golden pinecones.

in anticipating the festivities for the next night, the planned Autumnal theme for The Smallest Gig turned into a game with a makeshift canvas photo shoot in my room. (The gig went so well also, ironically the biggest one so far, and just in time to celebrate the One Year birthday with cakes and candles and sydneysiders all squished into a room along with many cushions and candles). 

.fallen&flown.

.trinket from Chile last year.

.small things.