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Just got back from a much-needed five-day stint in south west rocks, a cosy beach hamlet in between Coffs Harbour and Port Macquarie. A seven-hour drive (one way by car). Magnificent stretches of unpeopled beaches. Sun. A howling wind. And an all-day wedding, very good friends of K’s from The Rock. We took photos.
The stunning Smoky Cape Lighthouse hosted the party. Pink bubbly and Coopers flowed (and spilled) as we danced barefoot upon a soft lawn, overlooking a white, wild coast below - one of the most spectacular dancefloors in the world!
The sun blazed orange into the hills and the dancing turned serious...
Kidster floral headbands were donned and a plucky bridesmaid turned the tables on the photographers...
Barrelhouse, a whippersnapperish blues trio from Port Macquarie unloosed slide guitar, bass and drums into the gusty eve. A fabulous, long, hot day!
After the wedding, we indulged in lots of swimming, took ourselves for a bushwalk to our very own nudie beach, played more with the cameras (and collectively filled about 7GB of memory), and hung out with the lovely newlyweds.
More swimming was had on the beach-hop home, which we began with a slight detour south to Hat Head National Park – where the surf was bliss! We dreamed of parking Alice the bus there. Slightly crazy perhaps, but not completely off the map, since the hunt is on for a more permanent home for the old girl. She has just been relocated from her caravan park on the northside to a generous spot over the road from the House on the ‘Hill. Though she makes a great third (detached) bedroom (and wardrobe overflow, storage shed, etc), she’s bound to raise a few eyebrows.
A taste of summer and five continuous non-work days spent beachside... bring on xmas!
Getting on the blog theme bandwagon since life moves quickly (or faster than I seem to have capacity to blog) and any creative energy I had is pretty much sapped by day's end. And I do love a good list.
Hot.
Musculoskeletal therapy and cupping. Out of dire desperation after about six weeks of intractable (even with physio) lower back pain I had THE BEST massage last weekend. Cupping? I cocked an eyebrow at the "musculoskeletal therapist" but agreed to give it a go. A three thousand year old Chinese therapy made current by Gwyneth, 15 minutes is supposedly on par with three hours of remedial massage. My back has not felt so normal in a long time. Unfortunately this normalcy lasted about two days. Hmmph. And now Kaja (the "musculoskeletal therapist") is climbing Mt Everest. Of course.
The kind of tax return refund you get for not working a full year. Yeah!
Work is suddenly busy, after months of gouging my eyeballs out for entertainment. Am working on a sexy secret squirrel social inclusion / welfare reform policy project, a mandate straight from Anna's desk. Finally, some actual social policy work! Unfortunately it's been particuarly subject to political whims and now has some pretty squirmy timeframes on it, resulting in missed lunch breaks etc.
Subtropical electrical storms. One of the nicer things about summer in this part of the world. Oh, and the most exquisite local manzanella olives. And a new vintage sundress (without the pricetag which now goes along with vintage garb).
Looking forward to at least ten days off work over xmas and chilling out at Bingi with the relics.
Not.
Coming up to about six weeks continuous lower back frustrations - see Hot. Hurts to sit. (Even after the heavenly massage, and even on my gymball.) At informal work meetings I stand. Long ago I changed my seat at the desk for a knee stool... unfortunately work is still a... pain in the arse!
My lame double entendres.
Saying no to January sailing on Pelican. Fun work. Paid work. I must be crazy. But this is my trade off for holiday-hoarding in anticipation of the can't-stand-desk-anymore (or at least can't sit at one) leap into the land of no reliable income. Bring. It. On.
And. I'm not sure which part of the list this belongs in, but last week was the one year anniversary of my return to Bris-vegas.
Had I posted this last week, it would have made a lot more sense. So. Humour me. Pleeease. And pretend you’re reading this during Melbourne Cup week…
This time last year, someone with wisdom beyond the urban bind baffled me with a Taoist parable about cups and the value of their contents. The moral being that a whiff of possibility is far more valuable than any precious stone, sweet intoxicant, nay, anything that can be held/measured by the cupful.
Upon recently re-reading this post, the story made a lot more sense. At the time I barely realised that my cup was empty. (I guess that’s the whole point though: fullness is relative.) I had no fixed address, no next calling. I'd spent more than a year being pulled along by a fluffy dream cloud on a string.
Now my cup overfloweth. With fizz and delight. (But also fair amounts of spillage, stained tablecloths, and working it out as we go etc. Ahem.)
After a long-ish stint of independent living, the house on the ‘Hill welcomed another member. K officially moved in after several months of unofficial cohabitation where we pretended to have separate abodes and he would duck home (to his beautiful motorhome bus) once or twice a week to water plants and pay rent.
So his arrival, with the rest of his worldly belongings not already at my/our place, was not the huge merge of stuff I’d expected (sort of stupidly, knowing his possessions are restricted by the confines of the bus). He came with computer, a few clothes, four indoor plants and an obligatory man-box of power tools. My long neglected spare room is morphing into The Creative Space (the one I have always dreamed of but somehow put up with a dining table instead... though it now more closely resembles a bank manager's office, with big wooden desk from The Salvos and a big-wig type reclining chair... we'll work on the ambience thing.)
Anyway, back to cups. I came out a dollar ahead in the workplace sweeps. I’ve been scouring the local op shops for vessels of all sorts of late. Last week I picked up another old-school glass sugar dispenser.
A dollar, a sugar jar and a whole lotta love. Glass half full indeed.
