Nature tripping

The district where we live seems to be better known for the treatment plant, the hoons and cheap housing. I'm not going to lie. Some of these aspects touch on our daily life. For example, maybe two days in a year, we catch a whiff of the sewage that makes its away to the Western Treatment Plant.

Yet Lake Borrie, located within the sewage farm, is an important wetland noted for high levels of biodiversity, second only to Kakadu National Park. At any one time, the treatment plant provides food and shelter to 65,000 birds (roughly 270 different species), some of which have migrated from as far as Alaska. So it's not just shit over there.

Which is probably what I'd generally say about where we live.

Two blocks from our house is Lollypop Creek. It used to be a watering hole for the old pastoralists. Strewn all over the east bank are massive rocks said to be volcanic in origin. There are gorgeous bends in the creek and serene spots to stop and take in the scent of gum leaves. Several families of ducks seem to reside permanently in the creek, adding to the idyll. We discovered the creek well after we signed the mortgage and I still remember our delight when the view opened up during an afternoon walk. What we were to realise over the years is that such spots are not rare in our area.

Werribee South Beach, as a second example, is only ten minutes' drive from our house. Its beauty is rough and craggy, even broodingly wild sometimes, unlike the sandy stretches of Ocean Grove. But who doesn't get moved by the open sea? The view is completely uninterrupted at Werribee South Beach, with no built infrastructure that abuts other shorelines in Melbourne.

Then there's the iconic Werribee River, five minutes from our house, which also provides heart-stopping views. As with Lollypop Creek, it is amazing in the afternoon, as the sun dapples the trees with shadows and birds start roosting for the evening.

The thing with these bodies of water is that they never look the same from one visit to the next. Never. There is always an angle that you previously missed or a detail that had been hidden until that moment. It helps me understand why urban marine developments have been extremely fashionable in real estate over the past seven or eight years. There is something about living close to natural, organic environments that is life-giving. [Which of course makes it ironic that we destroy much of it even as we try to carve out landscapes to suit our lifestyle].

I don't take for granted where we live. There are gifts at our doorstep, in our backyard, down the road. A nature trip is just a walk away.

Nearly 33

At one point during last month's Girls Weekend, as we mellowed and wallowed in warm mineral springs in the evening, my friends and I talked about bucket lists.

I was a little hard-pressed to come up with truly interesting things. When I was heaps younger, I did have certain have-tos, like skydiving, scuba-diving, travelling to exotic places. When you're nine, the height of excitement is being able to see beyond your backyard, to do things that hold a shimmer of danger.

I mentioned some of these things to my friends that night but I felt my own lack of conviction. As a child, it was natural to aspire for adventure because I didn't have the means or money. I probably still don't have the means or money, but here I am in my 30s and I feel that missing out doesn't necessarily make me less fulfilled. I am absolutely thrilled for friends who do amazing things like climb steep rockfaces. But I really would have to drum up the envy.

The less glamorous part of my bucket list, getting married, having a child, having a house to call my home, having a steady job, these are the things I have been able to tick off. They're not inconsequential things.

Some people might say that I should hunger for more. I do have a couple of persistent dreams, but I'm just as happy dreaming them. Many good things in my life fell into place in their own time, despite how long or how hard I had wished for them.

I guess I'm living my own adventure, with its share of zany mishaps, thrilling discoveries, and awe-inspiring experiences. When I'm this grateful, it's hard to think of what else I could want.

[Photo: Carving in detail, Tasmania 2004]

I love writing

It's a bit naff to say this, I suppose, because far too many people think they can write. I live with the dread that I may be one of these people. Obviously, enjoying writing is not the same as being good at it.

It's also probably a touch dishonest to say I love writing because I barely have time to do it. And I'm being dishonest even when I say that because I could arguably set aside the time. But I've yet to leave behind the provincial, islander streak that likes to sit back and wave at Time as it goes past. Being a wife, mum, teacher, housekeeper fills enough of my day. I'd like to write more, of course, far much more. I'd like to retire early so I can do so, if only it could fund the early retirement.

Recently, I was semi-drifting around the house after putting J to bed for his afternoon nap, thinking about the Australian election, the fear-mongering around taxes (again!). Started typing a piece out, which is how I sometimes sort public issues out in my head. Thought it was worth submitting. Around a couple days later, it got published. And generated some meaty comments, besides.

I love that. I love how something in my head turned into words that somebody then published, then a pile of other people bothered to respond. My mother once described me as 'cerebral.' I think that's relevant here. I do like the idea of having created something (an arrangement of characters/words that make sense) from nothing other than the neurons and synapses in my brain. How cool is that?!

Come on, that is pretty cool, right?

Photo: OK, so it's not relevant to the post. I just wanted to use it. It's a composite that I made using Photoshop.

Glorious July

The previous month, it must first be said, put a serious dent in our wallets. This is not a trivial thing, as the family budget is not as elastic as we'd like it to be.

But three things fell in July and so it goes.

Snow weekend

The last family holiday before this one was in December, a summer staycation in the city. By April or May this year, we were definitely feeling the urge to get away, physically and mentally. It had been a while since we went up Lake Mountain for the snow, and we thought J was certainly due for an introduction to toboganning.

With not much else on the holiday itinerary we headed up the Maroondah, checked in at Black Spur Inn (which used to be a Cobb & Co. station in the 1880s), explored a bit of the bushfire-altered landscape of Marysville, then hired our snow gear at sundown. I think it was worth the long drive just to see the little one in full snow suit! Off to Lake Mountain first thing the following day, which is a good tip to avoid the huge crowds that stream in around mid-morning. J had a ball on the toboggan. I was a bit sad for him, though, because we couldn't make the snowman he wanted. It was early-ish in the season and we'd missed any fresh snowfall so the snow was densely packed. Next time!

The following day, we went via Acheron Way, through amazing, primeval forest to get to the Warburton Skywalk. During the drive, we spotted two wild lyrebirds (!) and stopped next to a lovely bend in the Acheron River. The Skywalk itself (also known as the Rainforest Gallery) was a wonderful experience. It starts from a peak of about 17 metres, and brings you all the way down to the forest floor. I could feel my lungs detoxifying in the middle of those ancient trees and ferns!

Mumford & Sons

I wrote previously about falling in love with Mumford & Sons. Not having forgiven myself for missing Jamie Cullum tickets when he was in Melbourne earlier this year, I snapped up tickets for Mumford as soon as online ticketing opened. I could hardly wait. R went with me, although he was only familiar with a song or two. That was to change by the end of the night. [Indeed, he may now be a bigger fan than I am!]

We realised that it was going to be a different concert [from the type we used to attend in our 'younger' days] the instant we walked into The Palace Theatre. The current building opened in 1912 and has undergone many redesigns and served different functions since, but the aesthetic -- from whence comes the charm -- remains. As a concert venue, it is simply gorgeous. And having arrived early, we were able to stake a neat spot 10 metres away from the stage, in front of the sound and light desk, a few steps up from what might be called the mosh pit [although the moshing that night didn't involve whiplash and such].

Boy and Bear fronted, and they were great. We won't mention the second support as they were rubbish. But man, the electricity that surged through the crowd when Mumford & Sons took the stage was something. And it didn't let up, in fact, it got turned up. We were played as well as a string on a fiddle by those boys. They were phe-no-me-nal. I'm just going to let that word cover everything, otherwise this post will end up longer than it has to be!

Girls Weekend

After stops and starts, this idea proposed to a few girl-friends fell into place surprisingly quickly. I think being able to use R's work colleague's beach house in Blairgowrie, Mornington sped things along, and it was clear everybody was desperate to have some time away. We were four young mothers and teachers just wanting uninterrupted sleep and a sleep-in, plus other perks like not having to put the dishwasher on or fold freshly-washed clothes.

In retrospect, the weekend really was that simple. Began with a shopping blitz at Harbour Town, drove down to the peninsula, stopped at Red Hill cheesery (more for me than the other three!) and Arthurs Seat lookout, settled in at the house, got pizza delivered, had a delicious couple hours at thermal mineral springs (hot). The following day started with a wander-in breakfast (and a vigorous run for two of the girls), then a wander around the Rosebud Trash and Treasure market (not without some goodies to bring home!), an indulgent pancake lunch back at the house, then on to the Sorrento ferry for home.

It was brief, as many good things seem to be these days. But it was good to have some Women's Business time.



So, like I said, we could probably have used the money elsewhere. But then you have to take opportunities when they present themselves. These events were certainly not wasted on us, which means the money was not wasted.

10.30pm deep and meaningful

Recent events in the space of one week have raised some wonderings (wanderings?) about the human condition.

A friend of Hubs passed away. Doctors had not held much hope late last year, so to have had an extra six months has been a blessing for his family and friends, perhaps even for himself. I am an outsider to the circle, but as with these things, that seems to hardly matter. When somebody close in age to you dies, it hits. Especially when we're all still in our thirties, with young families.

A couple that I know from uni days had their first baby. I credit myself as having nudged them together during a theatre production, in which they were band members and I was a stagehand. Before performances, it was customary to say a prayer, holding hands in a circle, and I would manouevre so they would end up doing just that. To be honest, I don't really think I had to do anything to facilitate their love affair, but to see photos of their baby on Facebook is still enormously thrilling.

On a wider scale, Kevin Rudd was ousted and Julia Gillard installed as Prime Minister of Australia. Unfolding in the space of barely 24 hours, events fell like a meteor, changing the political landscape. One of the most highly popular PMs not even through his first term, Rudd dug his grave with his autocratic style, but party apparatchiks did the burying. That's how the first female Australian PM ascended.

Monumental, irrevocable events in the space of a week. It gives pause for thought.

One arrives at a paradox. Life is finite (death) and yet relentless (birth), while also being the primary condition for change.

The answer to the question of how to live, even why we live, might well lie in this paradox.

[Photo: King Island, 2005]

The Art of Looking Forward

The Horror Year of 2009 left me with a few positive things, one of which came from a psychologist [oh yes, it was that bad]. He told me that I have to have something to look forward to.

This makes sense in more ways than one:
* It lifts me out of the sense of entrapment, of being overwhelmed by present anxiety and frustration. (A 'pull' factor amid that sinking feeling).
* It inserts a note of positivity during fretful periods of time.
* It positions the future as something that can hold good things, not just bad.

Implementing this strategy this year has involved little effort. Catch-ups with friends. Occasional days out with Hubs. Attending events that fit my interest, that are not at all tied to work or home.

The 'art' is in the doing, in taking concrete steps to mark the calendar with things that keep you looking forward. You're meant to do this before things start going lopsided, before the paralysis. It's worked for me.

[Photo: Taken in 2008 with a phone camera while walking our dog, Roger]

Tim Burton Love

I think I've always loved Tim Burton.

It started with Beetlejuice. I may have been 10 or 11 years old. I was a little scared. I was definitely fascinated. The scared-fascinated thing was a new film experience. I remember the delicious feeling of chanting "Beetlejuice" twice, never making it to the third.

Batman was a bit of a blip. The films, I thought, were too dark, not thematically, but chromatically. I do remember feeling rather sorry for The Penguin, even though he was horrid. My "code name" during Kris Kringle one year was Selena Kyle. With Edward Scissorhands, I was distracted by the unnatural blonde-ness of Winona Ryder, but still shed a few tears when Edward was mistaken as a dangerous monster by the townspeople. I keenly felt the injustice of it. I connected with the idea of the need to be loved.

The Nightmare Before Christmas, Ed Wood, Mars Attacks!, and Sleepy Hollow brought about the coming of age of my Tim Burton Love. I started to truly understand and enjoy the quirkiness, the visual concepts and motifs, the narrative arcs. Burton was the first director whose signature style I recognised, well before I encountered and fell in love with Shymalan, Eastwood, the Coens. His style carries through big budget remakes (Planet of the Apes, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory), stop motion features (Corpse Bride), and book adaptations (Alice in Wonderland).

Distinction and consistency tend to be the hallmarks of artistic genius. Technical creativity and attention to narrative also are. Burton hits each of these marks. So when I found out at the start of this year that the MoMA exhibit of Tim Burton's work (concept designs, doodles, maquettes and costumes from the films, etc) was coming to the Melbourne-based Australian Centre for the Moving Image, I could barely wait.

Of course, when it finally opened last weekend, I had to buy an unlimited entry ticket. I've been twice already, and it doesn't finish until October. I've been soaking it all in a bit at a time. I may have been a fan before I ever stepped foot in the basement gallery, but I'm even more so now.

There's something liberating about viewing his sketches and other artwork. They remind me -- aptly enough -- of Lewis Carroll's poem Jabberwocky (which features in the original text of Alice in Wonderland, as well as frames some of the narrative in Burton's film version). The poem is built on made-up words that still somehow make sense because of sentence structure and phonic cues (what they seem to mean based on how they sound).

Burton's artistic sensibility across different media echoes this: his drawings seem completely strange and new, stretching conventions of form, and yet they still make sense. The strangeness is tempered by humour, which likely adds to the note of familiarity.

I am now strongly tempted to purchase a sketchbook and just experiment -- an utterly unexpected result. I am besotted.

Postscript: ABC's Kerry O'Brien interviews Tim Burton

Some articles that have been published this year

Eureka Street
* Gillard student numbers don't add up
* Why NAPLAN boycott must happen

Australian Catholics
* Franco's Way
* Seeing with new eyes

I'm so lucky. I get to be wifey, mummy, Miss (teacher) and writer.

It's insane sometimes. But awful nice, too.

Oot and aboot: Supanova Pop Culture Expo

[Yet another belated post, but a worthy one].

Australia has yet to have the equivalent of the San Diego Comic Con in the US (being moved to Las Vegas?), which has drawn gigantic crowds for the past few years and has become the place to launch or spruik new sci-fi movies. As a fledgling event, Supanova isn't too bad.

It has some of the elements of a geek/nerd/dork fest: comic book retailers and merchandise, signings by sci-fi celebs (James Marsden and Karl Urban, among others, in this year's Melbourne run), and cosplay. I think the third tends to be the highlight, interestingly driven by international students who spend months working on their costumes and accessories. This was certainly the case for us when we went there on our anniversary Big Day Out last April [Bubs spent the day with his cousins].

The moment we arrived at Flemington Showgrounds was a bit surreal, as people of all shapes and sizes walked, strutted, strode, glided along in elaborate attire. Characters from manga to anime to video games to cult TV shows (Firefly) to megafilms (Avatar) stood in queues, mingled, ate, drank, bought -- but most of all, posed. I've never had so much fun gawking at and taking photos of strangers as I did that day, totally guilt-free.

I'm hoping the event will continue to grow, find its legs, and be a true mecca for geeks, nerds and dorks, not just a commercial opportunity for entertainment companies. Those $40 autographs are ridiculous.

My son at two and a half

One of the outstanding features of this stage in Bubs' life is his growing agility with language.

He has a repertoire of nursery rhymes that he mostly knows by heart: ABC, Baa Baa Black Sheep, Incy Wincy Spider, Miss Polly, I'm a Little Teapot, Five Little Monkeys Jumping on a Bed. Plus, the Wiggles songs inevitably picked up from Rhyme Time at the library and at playschool.

He regularly says "please", "may I", "ta" and sometimes - unprompted - will say "bless you", "welcome home", and "I love you". He likes to "talk about day" before being putting to bed. I've seen him a few times explaining/storytelling pictures from his books to himself. I enjoy drawing sessions with him because the conversation gets so delightful.

He is an absolute sponge; we're definitely having to be careful about what we say around him because he mimics or participates, and sometimes that can be inconvenient for us!

He understands so much that when he acts unreasonably (which happens so rarely), it can be frustrating. I have to step back and remind myself that he's not even three, that he's entitled to be self-contradictory and fickle, that his control over emotions is only just developing even as they magnify. Fortunately, a tight cuddle usually does the trick, as well as a firm voice that explains what's going on and what's happening next.

The other interesting thing that we're noticing is his emerging sense of humour, as in jokes and tricks. He deliberately puts on a mock-frown sometimes, which makes me chuckle no matter how hard I try to resist, and he breaks out smiling afterward, saying "I make mummy laugh." He gets a kick out of pretending to cry, too. It's an infernal racket, but he seems to enjoy the pretence (we may have another actor in the family). He was sitting on my lap one evening when he started flailing around, giggling, doing half-roars, then said "I crazy!"

I looked at his baby pictures in our family annuals today. In cognitive terms, I can connect the images with the real, live toddler that he is now. But when I do it the other way, looking at Bubs in person, it's strange to think he was ever a helpless baby. It's even stranger to think about how much further he has to go. I can't even begin contemplating what kind of person he'll be in ten years.

I can't wait to find out. But right now is also splendid.