Sap is rising in the garden, bringing flesh and blushes to the magnolia next door, and making trees vulnerable (does it?). A roguish nor-easter felled the pink-flowering manuka across the front fence and footpath last week.
Sap glistened under the bark. Its wood was wet in the saw’s teeth, and weighed in our hands as heavy as meat.
On the most interesting walks, only a short portion of the track is visible at a time. Unless you’ve travelled that way before, you can’t know what lies around the next corner. Or the one after that. If you could see the tiger crouching up ahead (or, let’s get local, the dead possum ponging, or the tract of pure, shoe-sucking mud), you might stay home. This is my niece Zeynep on the outskirts of Naseby, setting off toward Mt Kyeburn. She has what she needs for the forseeable future: sunhat, sturdy shoes, semi-reliable and curious companion tethered by affection and a red lead.
. . . but as purposeful?
Do you sometimes wonder, after a day of buzzing hither and yon on the internet, if you still have what it takes for solid reflection, retreat, and rich, slow creative endeavour? Here’s a prod for contemplation: an essay Driven to Distraction: Cate Kennedy on the internet and the writing life — in the Australian political and cultural magazine Overland.
And if, after that, you still want delightful distraction, check out Rata Weekly‘s latest offerings: why movies are bad for girls; how to pop your baby on an elephant; the world’s scariest jobs.
(To tell the truth, most of these are drones: kicking back but looking busy. It’s an art.)
One of the residents (chez moi) said there’s no excuse these days for putting out food that looks less than enticing. He suggested I go and try ‘enhance’ and ‘crop’ and ‘brighten’. I did all of these things. I think the plate comes over a little garish, that the centre of the pastelito resembles rather too closely a pregnant belly (a beautiful thing in its proper context) and that the oil shimmering on that belly is an unfortunate reminder of the way the pastries were probably cooked (by deep f**ing).
Nevertheless, it’s up to the reader now. Take your pick.
Talking of food, I beat same resident in an impromptu race to the end of the pool this morning (no, alas, not OUR pool) and we agreed it was probably because he had eaten porridge and I had not. Next time we’ll test the theory. I’ll porridge and he’ll (be) fast.
I saw treats like these in the pastry shops in Buenos Aires last year but Elena would always say I mustn’t eat those ones; wait until we got home.
‘Home’ was Jujuy in the far north, on the outskirts of the city, and early in my stay we wandered out the gate onto the gravel road where untethered horses browsed the verges and trimmed garden foliage, until we came across a young man to whom Elena gave a message for his mother.
A few days later he reappeared at the door with a heaped plate of hot pastries. A pot of tea was made, a cloth thrown onto the table and we sat down to eat.
Como se dice en espagnol? I asked Elena.
Pastelitos de dulce — dulce de membrillo y dulce de batata.
Melting pastry filled with grainy quince, or sweet potato, jelly. I ate enough to tide me over until my next visit.
Meanwhile I’ve begun to talk about Rosa Mira Books. To learn more, click on the green leaves in the side bar.
Lest anyone gain the impression that Polly’s merely a pretty face among cushions…
She does her bit. Structural edits mostly. We of the five digits do the close work and the proof reading.
Thanks everyone who tripped through the intertidal zone the last couple of days, and said so. That was fun!
Polly: when her whiskers were still white and all her teeth intact. She wears that, Did you notice me here – wanting a walk? look.
I thought I’d run a little survey to see if anyone notices Polly and me here. Is my blog visited by anyone besides my mother and a handful of benevolent spirits?
I don’t do ‘stats’ so I can’t tell who’s sneaked in or out, but I wonder if you’d be kind enough to leave something, even a simple exclamation mark, in the comment box, if you come by. And I’ll decide whether to go on wearing this hopeful face, or if I should sniff out something more productive to do.
Thank you!
Now and then, despite your best intentions and efforts to be Present, Here and Now, you’re struck by a sudden longing to be somewhere else, such as here on a wild Ahuriri River tributary where the air smells of wet rock, beech litter and snow.
Or in some other homeland, heartland of your own. And if you want to enough, you can go there.
Ithaka
| As you set out for Ithaka hope the voyage is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them: you’ll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you. Hope the voyage is a long one. Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you. |
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| C.P. Cavafy, translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard. As found on |
Sinister tower
Members of my houseful have often read crime fiction around me, wading through entire oeuvres, while I’ve done my best to avoid it. When there’s a detective story on TV, mine’s the irritating, ‘Who’s that again?’ ‘Wait, what just happened?’ while the others know from the opening scene who done it.
Last month I spent ten intense days editing the manuscript for a crime novel set in Wellington. It was clever, with textured settings and credible characters including a female protagonist; suspenseful, funny, horrifying and touching in turn.
Since I was in thick already, I decided to carry on and read — about time — Vanda Symon‘s latest, Containment. It’s set between Aramoana and Dunedin so my identification with place was vivid — I liked that Detective Constable Sam Shephard could eat a cinnamon pinwheel at Modaks (I mean, one of our family works there weekends) and next time I visit the Mole I know I’ll see that looming, listing shipful of containers.
I’d been broken in by the manuscript to the ‘say it like you’d say it in real life’ style of narrative, and settled in to enjoy the tough-talking, big-hearted cops chasing small- and big-time crims – the smart and the witless – through familiar grungy flats, seaside baches (I mean cribs), internet trading sites and antique shops.
These crime-writing gals are smart. They’ve done their homework: the forensic research, the hanging out in police stations (they must’ve), mastering the matey banter of the workplace, and the vernacular of the underworld. They give the reader plenty of what they know, and enough of what they don’t to keep them hooked. In the end: guns, fisticuffs, a tear or two, and hard-earned victory.
I begin to understand the compulsion to go and find the next (and according to her blog, Vanda’s is Bound and on its way to the publisher).
Recognise this stunning photo? Strange to say, a woman called Jill in Dunedin saw Island’s cover in the Otago Daily Times the other day, and knew the picture to be Jason Swain’s of Freshwater Bay in the Isle of Wight. She contacted him. He contacted me… Read that story here, and check out Jason’s gorgeous portfolio.
