tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67697716416370716332024-03-13T14:16:14.179+11:00Kombi KroniclesWhat does a VW Kombi driver really get up to? You see us drive past with a peaceful air, what are we thinking?Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-80474889329690224982010-08-11T18:17:00.008+10:002010-08-14T09:38:19.822+10:00SCHOOL ESSAY, 1985<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7S8X0IxKMDE33FiGvr8BEjVIu6Yq4dCd8Aw3kps0JIv0MhXcw2-JHtw7184PH-fUeTOALSrsA0MgOGfEcFLsHBnQ31WlqiXOFBOXhP5W0bldCFnagnltGdDs4p1fFKnQ4ASqNUFoA_c/s1600/header.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 127px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7S8X0IxKMDE33FiGvr8BEjVIu6Yq4dCd8Aw3kps0JIv0MhXcw2-JHtw7184PH-fUeTOALSrsA0MgOGfEcFLsHBnQ31WlqiXOFBOXhP5W0bldCFnagnltGdDs4p1fFKnQ4ASqNUFoA_c/s400/header.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505035494156652962" /></a><div><br /></div><div>Here is an essay I wrote in year 8F in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">high school</span>, when I was 14. Which makes it 1985. I am currently planning a trip back to Malaysia for my 40<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span> birthday in 2011 which has me looking at guidebooks on the area I spent three years of my childhood in.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"MY IDEAL ENVIRONMENT"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>The environment I am about to write about is an environment I have lived in. I have lived in many environments but I find that none of them are as beautiful, fun and memorable as the tropical <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">rainforests</span>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Those that I am talking of are the ones of Borneo, in Brunei. To live there is like a dream. It is my ideal environment.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Lets imagine a stroll <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">through</span> the jungle. Picture in your mind rich, green trees, clear streams, friendly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Iban</span> natives who still live in their ancient ways, and a smell of the jungle that is enough to recognise from the city.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>The city is actually a large community or small town. It involves a few blocks of shops, hundreds of flashy cars, a market place.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>The market place is no Rodeo Drive of Hollywood, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">guarantee</span>. It <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">is a</span> two story building with no glass in the windows and no proper doors. There are stray cats and dogs everywhere. There is insufficient light and lots of water on the ground. It may sound terrible but it is quite and experience!</div><div><br /></div><div>If you are an 'expat' (white person from overseas), you usually live in a comfortable home with your own maid who lives downstairs or next door. For about $400 a month she will babysit, cook, clean, do your laundry.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are clubs with swimming pools, golf courses, theatres, dining lounges, playgrounds, beaches, sporting activities, summer holiday activities, bars and restaurants all together.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>In the centre of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">capital</span> city (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Bandar</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Seri</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Begawan</span>) is a beautiful mosque with a gold dome roof. As well as one of the richest palaces in the world belonging to the richest man in the world. The Sultan (King). He owns the richest land in the world (Brunei) which happens to be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">my</span> ideal environment.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Here's a photograph of the entrance to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Niah</span> Caves, some of the biggest in the world and a spectacular sight. Have you ever heard of the famous 'Bird's Nest Soup?" Here is where they get the bird's nests.</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwsnJ1GTDZQ3vjlhyN7XBPSmuT7wjBAY0Ne3bG0PkDiWVVdSItxuj6bWrHPcXI48k02FDFYWBPMM4w4af2AfKJtswAvI4AIjT5F3P6onIbzrKzl4tdNdNiOwOpW4rgayWE8zL12WLsc5E/s400/niah+caves.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505036116659353170" /></div><div><br /></div><div>Notice the beautiful <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">rainforest</span> in the background.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>In the midst of the beautiful jungles are crystal clear, icy waterfalls which are very, very beautiful.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the favourite pastimes is the K.B. River. Many people enjoy boat rides upstream to the thick jungles. I and most people, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">liked</span> to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">water ski</span> on it. You have to be very brave as there are large crocodiles, sea snakes and jellyfish in it. Here is a photograph of my mother while she is skiing on the great river.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7NHsAKHaMIGYFQWyOu2oK65X6dn2CpzLl1Gp0VXPNErAnhLhw3I9Etvfb0BZ8D5BXWSuPC6bzcIT5k7-xaExoi1Vu-j5HmwplWoPoVAwANnzERCAU0WiXWanwps7sQQjH4ns-vSuFiPU/s400/kb+river.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505036513631513106" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div>The sunsets in Brunei are supposed to be the most beautiful in the world. I have seen and believed.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Brunei</span> is a very dirty country as well as a very beautiful country. Like I said it's a dream and my ideal environment.</div><div><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPK7dK019iOUKBKxwvVdWdaLFAWqAQ7mpCX_AbEPqccryslqT5Bgpr-qU_sS8gXeaRkw3mrOgeEB5JZ5zXXgbc110grYtFH3G6DvzYXXK9WjKT9KCLYg5FeZjMsw9b-LvKClWMxyDEMhI/s400/malay+woman.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505036876305726658" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>A <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Malay</span> woman. In many parts of the Jungle, the natives have become more civilised, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">receiving</span> electricity, western food and other products <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">eg</span>. the bicycle in the background.</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKFLclj8GSA_8TU8cUrXAMl-kRTUueAt2WgNkCg_VwnT_chMBXsZcOjJf7aaSsY-XkC4cVdyhcfblE7mfR1-ojBcvB-PwKHQHxKHUTCxj8kgTEfdi0Y0PzhhbpzjTHc7uJ28NDMDwSUw/s400/bsb.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505038102396911906" /></div><div><br /></div><div>In the background, a beautiful mosque, belonging to the Sultan of Brunei. To him this place is old and old fashioned. His new palace is priceless..</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * * * * </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Obviously things have changed since then, including my parochial views and privileged position in society, but one thing remains, my fondness for that period in my life. I was 9-12 years old, and it was the last years before my parent's divorce, and the weather was nice. Most of these photos are by my mum.</div><div><br /></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-46795632722127201312010-05-23T18:02:00.021+10:002010-05-23T18:43:14.244+10:00Stem the Tears<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEQpmEzr1zV6AbvqO8HdGdSXKI4grdPK4FWH8zHGqetjGvvQjNDIGnhS4WrdS7fsa1XchlnYkU20dJ-As8qDEbqZoKU3H9g0t0CpYl-UOo599ps2DQibEE_8cNpzB7-rpbM0xqoI_eFEQ/s1600/minipursesDSC_0056.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEQpmEzr1zV6AbvqO8HdGdSXKI4grdPK4FWH8zHGqetjGvvQjNDIGnhS4WrdS7fsa1XchlnYkU20dJ-As8qDEbqZoKU3H9g0t0CpYl-UOo599ps2DQibEE_8cNpzB7-rpbM0xqoI_eFEQ/s400/minipursesDSC_0056.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474382618069498994" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></b></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><b>I</b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><b> </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">haven't been outside once today, which for me, is weird. I think I'm forcing myself to stay away from the shops which are pret-ty scarey places on wet weekends. Yesterday i went to IKEA, on a rainy Saturday, say no more.</span></span></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">Today was more about your back to basics wet weekend pastimes. Rekindling marital bonds, reading, talking to my mum on the phone for an hour.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">My daughter and I decided to make some more mini-purses, they are basically ribbons folded in half with beaded sides. We made a basic one last week, today we embellished another one with a fringe. On the first purse I got her to paperclip it together, design all the ribbon/thread/bead combinations and did my best to hold my tongue, I can quickly lose my patience and she is quick to tears. I think we both tried hard and made it through. Today she was close to crying straight off the bat because she'd forgotten what she'd learnt.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">We have a secret word that I say when she is about to cry when she can't do something. It is a dumb word with no relation to what we are doing except we both agree that it means "try not cry, lighten up" and she can use it back at me and it means "stop being mean, Mummy". Learning to sew, to use needle and thread is fraught with opportunities to give up, on both sides. Small steps, including a nap on my part mid-way, we got through.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div></div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-933314601291779012010-05-19T12:14:00.016+10:002010-05-19T13:16:42.959+10:00Procrastinate Later<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAvXcTaVSnGRCYbEDSTosdXL8_0nmqB8p_QpdzGnxWwj5aAh7jQlpfbLSx_BreS3ztmyJOf4h1XdlcYNxWkTNKBOHr2Oe6BmjS-WWLWW2VDUEHCkTEktTGRRNcBLv6yxJnq_RUvn286sQ/s1600/filmsDSC_0047.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAvXcTaVSnGRCYbEDSTosdXL8_0nmqB8p_QpdzGnxWwj5aAh7jQlpfbLSx_BreS3ztmyJOf4h1XdlcYNxWkTNKBOHr2Oe6BmjS-WWLWW2VDUEHCkTEktTGRRNcBLv6yxJnq_RUvn286sQ/s400/filmsDSC_0047.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472805421908015490" /></a><div style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia, serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">S</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">omething</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> is going on today, some sticky chi is getting moved, is it the the extra coffee I had? I’ve opened Pandora’s box and in it is 74 undeveloped black and white films I have never got around to seeing what is on them. Years of hard work not wasted, hopefully. I finally feel the urge to get around to dealing with my neglected art.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">There was that 5 year stint in the media that made me only live for the day and have the time to shoot/develop/upload the work I’d done that day. There was never enough time to go back and organise or rework the previous year’s efforts. There was only this rushing wave of ambition that headed in one direction - the future. Then there was the 7 year stint of full-time parenthood/part-time photographer. I could hardly string 10 full minutes together to gather my thoughts let alone create anything that took more than one fifteenth of a second.</span></span></div><div> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Now the youngest child is at pre-school, I have three days a week to myself. I’ve had naps, watched ‘Cougar Town’, made elaborate salads, jogged with girlfriends, taken yoga classes, shopped, vacuumed, Facebooked, done laundry and sloughed my late thirties feet. But lately I have this hankering to actually do something about that nagging feeling called ‘my lost career’. It wasn’t really lost, it was just on the pause button.</span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">There is a box of black and white film that dates back to 1991 that has been following me - it documents all the awful relationships I had, all the exotic places I went and now dream about, all the films I just couldn’t find the time to develop in my makeshift darkrooms in the bathrooms of Surry Hills or freezing laundry of Clovelly in the nineties, when I was holding down a day job and night school and shooting my heart out in between.</span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I’ve looked online and found my old favourite labs still open (surprisingly after the slaughterhouse of the </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Day of the Digital Camera</span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">) and I’ve got tomorrow pegged as lab drop-off and begin the process of exposing these little windows into my history.</span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I’m starting off cheap and cheerful by the seaside with </span></span></span><a href="http://www.charingcrossphoto.com.au/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Charing Cross Photo</span></span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> in Bronte at $6 a roll. But what I’d really prefer is the </span></span></span><a href="http://www.blanconegro.com.au/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Blanco Negro</span></span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">hand job experience with a happy ending for $13.75 a roll</span></span></span></span></p> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-37839562390466893152009-12-08T11:19:00.011+11:002009-12-08T11:29:21.079+11:00Heaven is Only 45 Minutes Drive Away<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwsk6eCKjZRdgSFYx_iNhx1jhvFWLBPtPDLXimREcbsQ9S1-xyaXfQcCfoC-BizmN9WRWMQUFB8nyrBl63fZgBJ12yCNRN3emoYeyZs_khz8SE058JRKcvh9MiLmVkvp2Bv5B8qEsmPg/s1600-h/DSCN1596.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwsk6eCKjZRdgSFYx_iNhx1jhvFWLBPtPDLXimREcbsQ9S1-xyaXfQcCfoC-BizmN9WRWMQUFB8nyrBl63fZgBJ12yCNRN3emoYeyZs_khz8SE058JRKcvh9MiLmVkvp2Bv5B8qEsmPg/s400/DSCN1596.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412654714088075218" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Y</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">esterday</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">we made it by dingy to Dangar Island. It was perfect, a shabby, beachfront holiday shack with an overgrown garden, friendly, down-to-earth folk, simple food, lots of children and sun and water. The view was glorious, looking south across the mighty Hawkesbury towards Cowan Waters. The tide was at maximum height but soon after we arrived it began receding off the beach and not long after some cherries and strawberries there was space to play.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We all swam in the warm, brown waters which I haven't enjoyed in many years. The children responded to my joy with double their own. We built a sandcastle Christmas Tree together, and decorated it with sticks and flowers, and they made rolled up balls of sand as 'presents' which we later 'opened' to reveal whatever their imaginations wanted - chocolates and bowling sets (!)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Lunch was delicious and simple, around a wooden table on the verandah. Salad, bbq sausages and garlicky potato salad, wine and the children eating cucumber! Near us the bucket of yabbies twitched. Grandad John joined us whilst Linda caught up on her sleep in the shaded hut.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We heard stories that had often breezed about Dangar Island - like the one about the Baron's Crescent bloke who drank two bottles of rum and started a third - his last, for he as not long in this world after that. Or the mysterious history of Matthew's grandfather (details still foggy) who'd won the land in a poker game, the only time he ever won. I loved Mark's quip then how 'it'd be cheaper to buy the place' (meaning he'd wasted much money on poker games). There were more stories over the long afternoon, the men talking on the beach as the children streaked past, racing from one end to the other. About how there there had once been no hut, just the land and they'd slept in a boat shed, and how Matthew had been coming since he was four. Now his own four year old daughter took that spot. They camped at night in the garden, this new generation, the big, private garden with towering trees still uncut, that had seen all these stories unfold.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The tide reversed so far to reveal the muddy flat teeming with oddities. Armies of blue soldier crabs marching for food, strange sponges, hermit crabs shells, sea snails and large crabs encrusted with barnacles and vegetation, so heavy and yet a disguise. I poked one for the children, leaning down close and saying "haha, look at this plant, it looks like a crab - poke - ARGHHHH!!" for it moved like a crab upon that poke and its eight legs erected itself into an unmistakingly defensive crab pose.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A kayak was pulled from under the house complete with two sets of paddles and we were offered its use. Mark and I began to squabble, still on land, about which way to go. I said right, he said left, it was settled by Matthew, and we headed right but ten strokes later the current and wind made us go left. It was a new perspective for me, from such a tiny craft on the big river, that for once, was not so strange, but now a warm, close thing that I knew much better.</span></div><p></p>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-15010331901611373082009-11-06T23:34:00.014+11:002009-11-07T07:37:21.662+11:00Stripped Studs down to their Bare Nuts<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWN100se8POYSth6Z8pC36iuyQSl-I_RUKcIrprY5E5IK45JPNRxQ3JyGmYzjo5qY1r0i51OnauRcZlZKmKOr3W_H8a40bWnvrrYH4UwPhjPjWmRWgWQRKmTGhfBW_QneMCe8zbSHywmM/s1600-h/vw+tyres+IMG_3509.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWN100se8POYSth6Z8pC36iuyQSl-I_RUKcIrprY5E5IK45JPNRxQ3JyGmYzjo5qY1r0i51OnauRcZlZKmKOr3W_H8a40bWnvrrYH4UwPhjPjWmRWgWQRKmTGhfBW_QneMCe8zbSHywmM/s400/vw+tyres+IMG_3509.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400973164808459938" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><b>N</b></span>othing worse than having your nuts stripped, as we found out today. Hmmm, stranded in Drummoyne amidst a lot of non-existent pedestrian crossings, loud construction work for the new Rozelle bridge, and our second attempt at two new front tyres thwarted again.<div><br /></div><div>The first time the K-Mart auto tyre chaps couldn't get them off, then on the next visit those stud's tight nuts were given a beating. It warranted many phone calls around town to find some replacements, which Moshe of VW King was always going to offer the best deal to fix. A drive out to Canterbury tomorrow for a whole new rim $30. Sigh, it's not easy looking after a 38 year old sometimes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Much more fun was hanging with my 3 year old. We killed time at the 'Christmas Shop' who were primped and ready with every kind of glow in the dark decoration, we even checked out the Vespa showroom and got a free magazine with poster just for being their only customers. Even the rainbow Paddlepop at the petrol station could not make the tyre change go quicker. Bacon and egg sandwich at The Cove cafe, play at the park....I was running out of ideas here.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3be7HmoVCU7heEk7vGG-wNqAEiciG9LxD8YFFPgq4OKbiRqfaTqd86lZCYIdEBDQB4HrQY04H5mkCzkgDu7omY0zfMIGmbwcBVF_765cjHnjewvnaTYOquUiZXbQ0x9JYA_loUBaDcs/s1600-h/vw+copcar+IMG_3502.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3be7HmoVCU7heEk7vGG-wNqAEiciG9LxD8YFFPgq4OKbiRqfaTqd86lZCYIdEBDQB4HrQY04H5mkCzkgDu7omY0zfMIGmbwcBVF_765cjHnjewvnaTYOquUiZXbQ0x9JYA_loUBaDcs/s400/vw+copcar+IMG_3502.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400973077821843266" /></a><br /><div><br /></div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-36383499001776538722009-10-24T00:27:00.003+11:002009-10-24T00:44:48.773+11:00Wobbygone<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/marksp54/4016555656/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2692/4016555656_accafd0446_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style=" margin-top: 0px;font-size:0.9em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/marksp54/4016555656/">Wobbygone day 1</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/marksp54/">marksp54</a></span></div>Relaxing on the Hawkesbury River, in a holiday house, amongst the vines. We have several Shangri Las to hideaway in, all of them in the country, all of them beautiful. This one has a wooden hot tub and a fantastic garlic crusher. Other places have kangeroo mobs or trailertrash bongsmokers next door. The main thing is they are all rented and all mine for the time we are there. Caravan, tent, deck or dive.....take the kids and the man and get some fresh air xKombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-23954671861299602892009-09-28T19:13:00.004+10:002009-09-28T19:28:09.626+10:00Visibility Poor<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbLRlCpszXdYLUW7HCajD8QE6uW_gME4yL2sNmNfdMovrOjLGhNkxzMrpEuSb9tsKABdcq00nF-sg7eAuZu4w4-2ifrYZMq2GAZXIaL_KIKLvoNymXldaXa_0Ewr5lqV90AswaE4VtTA/s1600-h/SydneyDuststorm+by+Tess+Peni+DSC_0201.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbLRlCpszXdYLUW7HCajD8QE6uW_gME4yL2sNmNfdMovrOjLGhNkxzMrpEuSb9tsKABdcq00nF-sg7eAuZu4w4-2ifrYZMq2GAZXIaL_KIKLvoNymXldaXa_0Ewr5lqV90AswaE4VtTA/s400/SydneyDuststorm+by+Tess+Peni+DSC_0201.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386445842765776722" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-D3XlzurxsgT4KZ1L2Wg24iYOKwvxwhs7t3IWt1IimkR8NnoKAUqQO9IYHcOLV7JKH669t55rfLwt7LllfWBMK20NZAWPbUDQfVEaGeDUheQx3PoKowZBw9iEaQ88S7lxuklxP0auxZk/s1600-h/SydneyDuststorm+by+Tess+Peni+DSC_0201.jpg"></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><b>I</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> learnt a lot this week, I am amazed by the power of the internet, the speed with which so many locals responded and recorded the Sydney Dust Storm, the truth that rang loud with so many different photographers coming up with the same 'red' that couldn't possibly be faked by touch ups. But mostly, for me, not only just following 'the call' to get in my car, badly dressed and <i>GO</i> (I ended up walking over the Sydney Harbour Bridge), but after seeing thousands of images from all sorts of photographers, both amateur and professional, the <i>STAY</i> came loud and clear at last, stay where you are too, and see the beauty in that, be here now, love your life, love the light in your life, it doesn't need the Opera House or the bridge, it just needs love. I thought later that night 'oh my god, I should have gone to the swamp', my favourite place in the last year. How I wish I could have photographed that. So I shall file this little piece of self-earned knowledge away for the next time.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Do you know what? I asked the universe for this. Remember the copper skies of around 2002 from bushfires. I was tiring of photography, as you do, and I just couldn't be bothered to take many photos, even though I could really appreciate the beauty of the red light from the haze, I never took advantage of it. The day before this dust storm I lamented that and told the skies I wouldn't miss that opportunity ever again. Instant rewards. This photo is out the front of my house in the first minute after my family woke up and realised what was happening, after the three year old alerted us loudly to the fact the sky was orange and creeping around the edges of the venetian blinds like an alien light source. They have never seen me leap so fast out of bed. Those rubbish bins are in order L-R yellow, blue, red and green. I thought it was a good measure of how crazy the light was that you could hardly distinguish their true colours. After this shot I grabbed my car keys and just started driving, initially heading to our local bridge which has a fine view of the city, but visibility was so poor you couldn't see more than 100-200m so I kept following the city traffic and had this 'call' to walk over the Harbour Bridge. By the time I made it there and a few stop offs on the way to snap, they intensity of the red light had faded, so this shot here was the most red, and captures my daughter's fear, she went inside after this and started putting lots and lots of clothes on, too many, leggings, winter jackets, as if to protect herself. It was like waking up in a disturbing dream. </span></span></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-78576110173152016912009-09-05T22:30:00.010+10:002009-09-05T22:40:12.200+10:00Where Are They Now?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGs0sXlblg3fX0yo8fwTfmj2728fnkvorLUOyMF9oZO90c-z9sW4NedmQE6E4PnkvuTaoWFh3-TJkO5cl2cMbhB2_4E5ldqsVc9kbNKvQhMV6_C0OOhV9E-Ia0wmALq_30RjXgnSDbzY/s1600-h/JohnHoward+JHkids_06.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 331px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGs0sXlblg3fX0yo8fwTfmj2728fnkvorLUOyMF9oZO90c-z9sW4NedmQE6E4PnkvuTaoWFh3-TJkO5cl2cMbhB2_4E5ldqsVc9kbNKvQhMV6_C0OOhV9E-Ia0wmALq_30RjXgnSDbzY/s400/JohnHoward+JHkids_06.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377960385246248034" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Letter says "Tess Peni is working as a photographer for Australian Associated Press and will be travelling with the Prime Minster today." - on the campaign bus to the western suburbs MacMansion territories September 5, 2004</span></b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">'Children Overboard' John Howard on the 2004 re-election campaign trail, Sydney, Australia 5 Sept 2004 (c) TESS PENI / Australian Associated Press</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-53581122385825295282009-09-01T17:29:00.004+10:002009-09-01T17:35:13.445+10:00One Can Dream<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjyrHE60KyWgnsK2coX4Q88O7BCe38xHQd5-v13TUoUS5O5tfCIx3HkmdHO0iV3e00h43Rg0iX9AvH-Cax5LkNVwh7QT4e3P_XtVnWv-5a7vcaYjRFah0-4-vLKh6pok0ymueAUT3luUk/s1600-h/3715033574_16886df321.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjyrHE60KyWgnsK2coX4Q88O7BCe38xHQd5-v13TUoUS5O5tfCIx3HkmdHO0iV3e00h43Rg0iX9AvH-Cax5LkNVwh7QT4e3P_XtVnWv-5a7vcaYjRFah0-4-vLKh6pok0ymueAUT3luUk/s400/3715033574_16886df321.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376398673689698322" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>I'm having a Kombi fantasy right now.. it involves a lot of rust removal, and paint and phat tyres with shiny hubcaps, tinted windows.....mmmm.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy3k3oUecMpGBGINrOXXkdM4596Kk6eoUbFYMpLuo6ER5WxhXqlmeyNBNnURW9TIbeTgw33A4Kanjl4OpRZsfymx6LPKljBphmkqQmac9aLkGBEh41WbivMKVxB2st2CltmHzv489c-Xs/s1600-h/91551597_38aaf90b2b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy3k3oUecMpGBGINrOXXkdM4596Kk6eoUbFYMpLuo6ER5WxhXqlmeyNBNnURW9TIbeTgw33A4Kanjl4OpRZsfymx6LPKljBphmkqQmac9aLkGBEh41WbivMKVxB2st2CltmHzv489c-Xs/s400/91551597_38aaf90b2b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376397982503846226" /></a><br /><div>I just watched 'The Secret' again.... so I'm thinking of how my Kombi might benefit if a spare 20 thou were spent on it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-29114316788670680092009-08-27T19:58:00.015+10:002009-08-30T21:10:04.675+10:00Towtrucks and Tickets<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnlJG3uzypv5f8GTvUskeodDdsvp6OJzISMBf3I-WFQRSb7lGZ9lMpEzI-ttydEqHny6f7y3CCwD2jPAiNlbtjTE2i-zkDKBluBPECCyUX4NVyHfKkI0NcvRC0ig6ft3dA6g6dX3vrA5Q/s1600-h/THE+VIPER+IMG_2620.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnlJG3uzypv5f8GTvUskeodDdsvp6OJzISMBf3I-WFQRSb7lGZ9lMpEzI-ttydEqHny6f7y3CCwD2jPAiNlbtjTE2i-zkDKBluBPECCyUX4NVyHfKkI0NcvRC0ig6ft3dA6g6dX3vrA5Q/s400/THE+VIPER+IMG_2620.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374589060922667170" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663333;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXoPC8xLYVnW58G3eomnIFwYZIAA2bwQQm20P04Sg5D5wtSp27XszEJoTjEb8GRnslPWFtHZty2eDL0KNeuCWV7zZpYQiwEjbECCkZzRVtl3Yk7XZ_1YacocMqqqjmlZ9BIGoVwbelqU/s1600-h/THE+TOWTRUCK+IMG_2600.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXoPC8xLYVnW58G3eomnIFwYZIAA2bwQQm20P04Sg5D5wtSp27XszEJoTjEb8GRnslPWFtHZty2eDL0KNeuCWV7zZpYQiwEjbECCkZzRVtl3Yk7XZ_1YacocMqqqjmlZ9BIGoVwbelqU/s400/THE+TOWTRUCK+IMG_2600.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374588745787423858" /></a><div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyEkt4gXq-UdemgTCRs3asEtDDV8fLgUMaYNuk1LlgGbSst3nEb-I6_tyRnxthldaOzJrHHa4hVGRsbUPmKTvqIFBqOTb-Exp2wko2xq17YHU_dZd6ebZlGZYWvMkamAcyCVAm4rxVNbo/s1600-h/THE+TOWTRUCK+IMG_2600.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663333;">O</span></a></span></b><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyEkt4gXq-UdemgTCRs3asEtDDV8fLgUMaYNuk1LlgGbSst3nEb-I6_tyRnxthldaOzJrHHa4hVGRsbUPmKTvqIFBqOTb-Exp2wko2xq17YHU_dZd6ebZlGZYWvMkamAcyCVAm4rxVNbo/s1600-h/THE+TOWTRUCK+IMG_2600.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663333;">h dear, a bad ending to a pretty lousy week. I got a parking ticket by a nasty piece of work in Hall St, Bondi. She was already writing the ticket as I was crossing the road to buy an envelope. I came back in 2 minutes to see it being stuffed under my (not very well working) window wiper. Then she turned on me like cobra who is used to being cornered on a daily basis. I gave her the look - I was two minutes gone (I calculate at $4.40 per hour parking meter time, I should have really put in 6.5 cents), then she did this, she said "you've left your child in the car" (the sun had gone down), "I've recorded it and taken a photo" (so I did too) and "it's illegal - you know it is" (do I?). I said "he just woke up, I was two minutes!" (I really was) and she said "I've got four kids" and gave me a cobra spit. Depressing, so what will happen to me, will I get my kids taken off me? Will I go to hell, jail or worse - court.</span></a></div><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663333;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663333;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyEkt4gXq-UdemgTCRs3asEtDDV8fLgUMaYNuk1LlgGbSst3nEb-I6_tyRnxthldaOzJrHHa4hVGRsbUPmKTvqIFBqOTb-Exp2wko2xq17YHU_dZd6ebZlGZYWvMkamAcyCVAm4rxVNbo/s1600-h/THE+TOWTRUCK+IMG_2600.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"></a><br /></span><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663333;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663333;">All this after feeling so chipper about breaking down yesterday with a snapped clutch cable in the middle of the shopping centre, stuck at the exit with a line of cars up my bumper. I was rescued by a sweet Norfolk Islander that rounded up a car fulla of Maori council fellas who pushed me out of the way, he then drove me and my kid and the shopping home and gave me a free pencil made out of Norfolk pine. He said "up there things are a bit different and if somebody is in trouble, people pitch in and help". Not like the old bitch in the queue saying "Do you mind moving it! I'm in a hurry!!". I really would like her and the Hall St Cobra to connect sometime.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663333;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663333;">Postscript....these things, if you are superstitious, got to happen in threes. The next day I was dropping off a couple of guinea pigs we had been minding for friends who were holidaying. Pipsqueak and Dizzy, pretty casual, hungry, furry girls...who had obviously never been in a VW before. Pipsqueak began to show the signs of irrational terror and leapt out of her travelling box in the front, she was petrified by the roaring sound of my ultra-mega engine (one can dream) and started to run about unleashed, heading straight for the shade under the brake pedal. I did a 'drop off' manoeuvre, the sort of "I'm just pulling slowly to the side with all indicators blazing because I have a small animal under my brake pedal and can't use it right now or two little kids will come home from Thailand to find their pet squashed" sort of road tactic. Needless to say the pigs were happy when they got home.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663300;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-89698199542211012012009-08-19T13:37:00.015+10:002009-08-19T23:06:33.657+10:00Wake Me Up Before You GoGo<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmejiKCE1xYPTtsCJO2cI5truR711wM3B7lAdw5pHOWNaMp1sU6L2Aq9sg_8G86xL_3P_qPkgt502y27qg4ucRBR_nkJN4RBiambcOJdGg66rErAlcWwpZLnXVxVNQa28YzXoN1dxpnRE/s1600-h/possumframed2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmejiKCE1xYPTtsCJO2cI5truR711wM3B7lAdw5pHOWNaMp1sU6L2Aq9sg_8G86xL_3P_qPkgt502y27qg4ucRBR_nkJN4RBiambcOJdGg66rErAlcWwpZLnXVxVNQa28YzXoN1dxpnRE/s400/possumframed2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371526460164122434" /></a><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">I</span></b> heard the possum get caught in the trap this morning, at dawn. At first I felt pity, hearing it shouting in possum 'WTF?!&*%$##', then a faint schadenfreude set in as I packed up my earplugs, hopefully forever, never to be woken again by scratchy native feet coming and going in the night through a portal that is positioned exactly above my insomniac head.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>It's up there now, in a cage, probably sleeping, waiting for its release, which thankfully the Possum Man will give as required by law, somewhere within a two hundred metre radius. It might find a comfy tree to crawl into, or someone else's roof peeling at the edges. I dread it may even try to break back into the patched-up roof above it used to, until this night, call home.</div><div><br /></div><div>I know how it feels, being moved on. Renters, we who act like we own the place and taint the joint with our bothersome animality. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wish I could take a little hot joe up there into the roof and stroke the sad thing, explain how it has to leave because I can't bear to lay awake every night in fear it will wake me up. How I've had to strain to find any wandering earplugs that've fallen to the farthest corner under my bed, embedded in dust. I'm tired of looking up from my pillow at the stains from excrement piled up and seeping through. I'm tired of being moved on too, from developers, rent hikers, divorcing owners who want to sell. I want this small corner of our new house, this pretty lady-cave I've claimed, all to myself.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-17503522797318400272009-04-01T13:03:00.005+11:002009-04-01T14:15:40.293+11:00Eyesight Salad<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgppebCmoRh663KWmHTKP7pQ17piVhJkvjxXLMkTCsUZsw_8m7-xhbrE4hja_W9dBhoXlFWkEEHnbaNjDiAU8XdTrsZCoejy9ZZbj1-xk7B2KplFE0UjBew4QzkLIbQxrP3m341B7hEno/s1600-h/glasses++046.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgppebCmoRh663KWmHTKP7pQ17piVhJkvjxXLMkTCsUZsw_8m7-xhbrE4hja_W9dBhoXlFWkEEHnbaNjDiAU8XdTrsZCoejy9ZZbj1-xk7B2KplFE0UjBew4QzkLIbQxrP3m341B7hEno/s400/glasses++046.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319552711324987634" /></a><div><br /></div><div>At 37 my eyesight is starting to have bad days - usually fatigued depending on the Facebooking action from the night before. Being a photographer, I need pinhole sharp peepers. I can always flick the digi camera dial to autofocus - if I can find the damn thing - anything under 15cm is a bit fuzzy now and makes my head hurt.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Focus used to be possible at a lovely visually acute 10cm, apparently the distance between a mother's loving gaze into her newborn's whilst breastfeeding in a glowing reverie. Well those days are way over. Now it's more likely I can just register an incoming headbutt at 10 o'clock at a k.p.h. hard to judge whilst I wait for my vision to pull focus. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The $20 cheapie glasses at the newsagency give me superhero vision until I take them off and start dry retching from the naseau they induce into the mints and jellybean section, and before I march into the optometrist and pay $800 for a Calvin Klein look I have been thinking about what I can do to improve my eyes au natural.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have invented the 'Eyesight Salad' - full of food that will give you bouncy, stretchy, muscular (eye)balls and keep macular degeneration still waiting in the nightclub queue.</div><div><br /></div><div>EYESIGHT SALAD (for 2)</div><div><br /></div><div>2 handfuls of washed baby spinach</div><div>125g small tin of Red Salmon (check label, get Wild Red Sockeye - Coles have a good brand)</div><div>1 advocado sliced</div><div>1/2 pear sliced</div><div>1/2 small red onion finely sliced</div><div>sprinkle of pine nuts or any chopped nuts</div><div>toss ingredients together and use a dressing of your choice, eg. Balsamic vinegar with Olive oil and garlic</div><div><br /></div><div>Devour blindly</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-15216236728215474412009-03-08T22:27:00.007+11:002009-03-08T22:48:24.596+11:00Random Acts of Weirdness<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAGqZxH2EFwc0Ks_xT3YH_R_KRhNoWIqfLeBoQ6WMMHeY70ajGXTnFiG-1wCvoFH2lh1lNKSMeGqGliutCdJQMcF9pCyFik4QRlHKaXR3Kik9srUcMKinKbzEqbWzWZMNve8vet9vpomU/s1600-h/kombiekash.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAGqZxH2EFwc0Ks_xT3YH_R_KRhNoWIqfLeBoQ6WMMHeY70ajGXTnFiG-1wCvoFH2lh1lNKSMeGqGliutCdJQMcF9pCyFik4QRlHKaXR3Kik9srUcMKinKbzEqbWzWZMNve8vet9vpomU/s400/kombiekash.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310781573396883570" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7nxm5GKAu-3rZA4OLPl1PBA8TzHw2CjRHWvRQ2ssyNM8qAfoDYurVQRVE1KgfpjXfleKpFbpikHGuElEP6c4wwO-Ckb5qJcfRcv82O2IPbIGQGG6zP5CPHrpbJ_0DYNhKQQlS4aHqZS0/s1600-h/coolcar+(1).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7nxm5GKAu-3rZA4OLPl1PBA8TzHw2CjRHWvRQ2ssyNM8qAfoDYurVQRVE1KgfpjXfleKpFbpikHGuElEP6c4wwO-Ckb5qJcfRcv82O2IPbIGQGG6zP5CPHrpbJ_0DYNhKQQlS4aHqZS0/s400/coolcar+(1).jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310779785513889106" /></a><br /><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlXFkQ2Vi9L6uOBZBfq_WipLIgDjgVgr3J26kEdQFP517WTa4onWg13FCcxef2u7B2xxxCTvRWR1rYpqvOHYuOI9duyG1LZp0C2vLXw-Ae0w-Mf0skGWQ6cpMgWvs7vOih-98RwI7FoHk/s400/coolcar.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310779174957635106" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJVylNvrAf4SlFFYfgfvD-9mZSqX76CjaECRUWv-xPFNVzdz3-8sqK4Akgg3O5fffUpRrOhOy8ATOaRw9uHys1gLhDTrDo3SmnEruF6NX536Y9ly9XPOp1Vz17fiAGjpBrSi3jsvtro5U/s1600-h/Philmore.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJVylNvrAf4SlFFYfgfvD-9mZSqX76CjaECRUWv-xPFNVzdz3-8sqK4Akgg3O5fffUpRrOhOy8ATOaRw9uHys1gLhDTrDo3SmnEruF6NX536Y9ly9XPOp1Vz17fiAGjpBrSi3jsvtro5U/s400/Philmore.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310778582703759874" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>This entry is just a really bad effort to get back to blogging, I've been distracted lately by FlickR, Facebook and my new webpage, y'know how it goes, but all this time I've been busy I've still been driving around town in my beloved VW and enjoying being tall on the road (as opposed to short in life).</div><div><br /></div><div>Except when I walked to the pizza shop, I spotted this really cool car that I'm thinking when the VW finally goes to Kombie heaven, I want one like it, it'll be my early mid-life crises car, definately something like a Charger, with a tiny back seat that has no room for baby seats.</div><div><br /></div><div>Other than the usual photographing of spiders and children I had a 'Steve Irwin sighting'....is he really dead. Or is he adventure sporting with Elvis. Till I find the definative answer, all I have is this fuzzy shot taken recently.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, you never know when you number is up so I have a luckly $8 to give away via Kombie Kash which should bring a tear to any VW (pre-1972) lover's eye. Come to think of it, I have been watching a lot of 'My Name is Earl' DVD box set, perhaps there is a link between all these random acts of weirdness.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-8012997502912716332009-02-04T20:18:00.004+11:002009-02-04T20:23:55.202+11:00Psychedelic History of the VW<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLwNzFpv8y8OkloQIMp641JWaj6pGBhnu4VUPUBci8qOkUuyHSOxu6rvYPfGSmH-EBuNSlZxy4m80Eup7o6Quf2XIDQW47lKThzCf4AUlNKDA0tVIgyZ7PJc0lijVohIZCdMKAdiGOwc/s1600-h/vwphoto.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLwNzFpv8y8OkloQIMp641JWaj6pGBhnu4VUPUBci8qOkUuyHSOxu6rvYPfGSmH-EBuNSlZxy4m80Eup7o6Quf2XIDQW47lKThzCf4AUlNKDA0tVIgyZ7PJc0lijVohIZCdMKAdiGOwc/s400/vwphoto.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298869394420147634" /></a><br /><div>Think one of those pesky kids took this, very creative little chicks.</div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-4531566568588565452008-11-04T22:21:00.002+11:002009-02-04T20:24:33.895+11:00Ode to Motherhood<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaAns4FLG49vVlAa1lJ4_lK8_wUK5cddpo0nMrEpXiQg9iG_IyZNVAK_lmxs4HFgQM_9MNSC7mETZ2teMQWTKkBUEcpPzkLW-qv25sWs6XyH7sUe9oTj3KEsdTmv7pT5sMz1DUcLbusNM/s1600-h/OzBatBaby.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaAns4FLG49vVlAa1lJ4_lK8_wUK5cddpo0nMrEpXiQg9iG_IyZNVAK_lmxs4HFgQM_9MNSC7mETZ2teMQWTKkBUEcpPzkLW-qv25sWs6XyH7sUe9oTj3KEsdTmv7pT5sMz1DUcLbusNM/s400/OzBatBaby.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264761236512901394" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I love being a mum</div><div>I love being a photographer</div><div>I love having a fat bum</div><div>But I should listen to Ajay Rochester</div><div><br /></div><div>I love my sunburnt country</div><div>I love my sunburnt bum</div><div>I hope Obama wins</div><div>I pray for new manchester</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-76882143465440499332008-10-15T15:22:00.012+11:002008-10-15T22:33:22.563+11:00Find Yourself a Nice Bird<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOFowD1m2Tyevm8ZDVS_mIrEyd2yB-jYiCfQRkEn2RKUgPRGkJ9zn8uTrS8RWItGz3Bh7RU-ZCBTWx6NzLkSILkzJ8XwbfehWnBMJGkkeXrvoEYwISOlITLcvN328UtHlxPbcjyaOUXA/s1600-h/bird.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOFowD1m2Tyevm8ZDVS_mIrEyd2yB-jYiCfQRkEn2RKUgPRGkJ9zn8uTrS8RWItGz3Bh7RU-ZCBTWx6NzLkSILkzJ8XwbfehWnBMJGkkeXrvoEYwISOlITLcvN328UtHlxPbcjyaOUXA/s400/bird.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257243989441275650" /></a><br /><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> sound rings from the swamp, a clear clang bird call, slowly emerging from the tweet-clutter.</span><br /></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A boy bird searching for a spring love. Even my human-girl ears are piqued to this heart cry ringing true. All noise litter stops to hear the deep evolutionary song trickle through the air and thick vegetation, a rythmic <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">ponk ponk</span> sent out with the pure mission to enrapture a mate, to seek for that one set of ears that cannot resist.<br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Then a hammer starts to bang, a plane flies above, all the creatures titter at once again. Rowdy rainbow lorikeets squawk like a football crowd, cheap chirps fling about in casual conversation about the weather, gossip, where to eat, where to go. The lover's throat is quiet.</span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Eucalyptus leaves rustle in a high breeze to shoosh the rabble. In the vacuum after a plane trail a space grows. All the chat starts up again only to give way to the soloist who emerges above the din to pierce a lovebird heart that beats in the swamp.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-43824216800216785922008-09-03T21:36:00.033+10:002008-09-04T10:55:03.146+10:00Cockatoo Island<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9eMBHxx2_2rvtDenYZsJXABIAeUxLT869dZ7iauPgsSnVaGk2k2sBXRWSDvF54WzPIcv0Y3ugGX7O09CFE8nwbg1WGnTdxlZJjsEjQvkSwyAZENRlzBHODjTcTr8QLFf8ka1dFZe9NQo/s1600-h/Cockatoo+Island+1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9eMBHxx2_2rvtDenYZsJXABIAeUxLT869dZ7iauPgsSnVaGk2k2sBXRWSDvF54WzPIcv0Y3ugGX7O09CFE8nwbg1WGnTdxlZJjsEjQvkSwyAZENRlzBHODjTcTr8QLFf8ka1dFZe9NQo/s320/Cockatoo+Island+1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241773168524978626" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">I was photographing some bullshit stiletto race in the Quay</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">which stank of money and corporate sponsorship, not to mention downright demeaning to women, so I made a gettaway via ferry which dropped by Cockatoo Island, a little re-discovered abandoned patch on the Parramatta River. They used to build big ships there back in the days of black and white. The baby had finally fallen asleep on my chest from the swell of the ferry casting him about, I took my chance, took my leave and pushed the stroller ashore. I need some yin to the yang of 245 women running in high heels.</span><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWFCTKGBOHALsPL4_9h1MilPxu7jvl2p373FTJO1NgtXU_UFcAkTLX-QAeXkt3SqzeWBwEfmyFmU9aFiu8eyWyUaw-2SikdYhdBUDV3UCKNZkFmp5I2-i4RxOnf-u0_k-K_ZL84NmDXAU/s320/Cockatoo+Island+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241759183819455346" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">found myself sucked into a 200m long sandstone tunnel</span></span> to get some shade. It was eerie, speakers played creepy music as you walked under the wooden pillars that supported the low roof of 'Dog Leg Tunnel', cause it had a big bend in the middle I guessed. Finally we popped out the end into that Spring sun that's taking some getting used to, and found myself wondering what to do next.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUrtuII26msg7Vp3ctkTrcVa6WhguPUiH0N8vYEuMQVWvNmy30oaSmJ3UZxTSxElQsRnXffO5flXUU7g0NTaFCoIn7KC5iaqD-gFzX7lurQC2ogSM0_FWBqAmKgpBeYn1Q9ANHsF3D0FE/s320/Cockatoo+Island+3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241759938795052754" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This was a </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Biennale of Sydney</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> location showcasing artworks from around the globe, but the backdrop stole the show. It was like the abandoned mine in 'Thomas the Tank Engine'. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">It was the perfect place for Scooby Do</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">o Mystery Mayhem</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, it reeked of an olde worlde forgotten time. Huge factory shells dripping with industrial leftovers. Mega machines lay dusty and rusty.</span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0f87tMUu4nXbP2ewMmGawxHev-5D2k7FQo2xjsw7Xy2v70IeNicTL3KMaMrviYSaWFiaDBJMj8FO0J45nbMAcOnzCASENvKfI6Y6aShUDKYZGu4h3CDnbKj1zWbuQryBKJ7pNxEmtuU/s320/Cockatoo+Island+4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241761343682596706" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">I'm always amazed by the big scale of men</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">and their ways, how they build things, shift enormous chunks of machinery around the globe, whether it be a ship or a bridge or a building, they seem unafraid of scale. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Why, women get to give birth, that's pretty amazing too</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">.</span></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZaUmEW7a85KsCZ1yzCkHMVzuxGS0lPxo-pBy03rt6qsmCuRnNfmDGS0fQ3xP5hVLHGkRsGy_JI-ki8t_HwdwMHNtCRlt3rH1ClXFx48rnIKG2K3XqKPEhYNtvTrSvWi06Khmv7cLHwCg/s320/Cockatoo+Island+5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241765324066956898" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The more I walk around this decrepit island, the mood starts to infiltrate me, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">the privacy and dusty corners are filled with floating particles of light that dance and take me to a lost quiet</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. The stiletto race washes away and I'm thinking about form and light for a change, not celebrity and exclusives, nor cheesy Opera House backdrops and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">whether some girl is sexy enough to sell a shot</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP7hKnK6N1nBKjPshaci73zkL8SVIwaEdg1JBFuvgjdE8_hpWBAxs7zwI3KSj7bkqq4rB1nTBBjf6MomWbJ97bcX-wzS40hm01olRQ0_zSPRTwmwqHNxjiLDzKLGs6G5Y9ISXNkUc0A7k/s320/Cockatoo+Island+8.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241766449704750210" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Why do people do anything?</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-0Ag7eDIO97OAXozWbQuUxCsR5gpMK0KPhzkBuHi_k09FGK7iMdfzzKFoULKvMW8B1fCfyFZteNAC2koKSY05et1OsWFDIbw2rS2KPhOC-wZjdpsmXlQ4wWgrjMioT1c3v2_bt5MA70/s320/Cockatoo+Island+9.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241773689341665842" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Why do I toil at all, when I anything I look back on that once gave me pride, I don't feel any connection to it like I do at </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">the moment of execution of creation</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, it's the doing that counts, not the memory. I get riled looking at old family photos because they are essentially useless, they only stir up muddy emotions, blow a wistful air in my ear, brag of a time that has passed. Why do I even take photos at all?</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mZaOF1IW9-JAHEh7S1SMRget7iPAhwbSCWGALCIlMFDuon0q5jU-dfquC0En4KTmyR-lf_NijNZcRVR5MlRBzERAHAiWaVU21-chhTKrrbVNnSRXokYwBXexIaaHu6ymg7grl1eG5KM/s320/Cockatoo+Island+10.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241768353353036754" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mmmmmm, I start to think, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">this would make a terrific location for a shoot</span></span>..<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">...</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">shove a pretty woman in front of this stuff and print the cash</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">. </span>Then suddenly there are other photographers next to me, with more expensive large format cameras, like a reoccuring nightmare, they've even bought their cute girlfriend. I breath and force myself to focus on focal points.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKTDQaKX4N8UjSU6zK-nl9YdJnEE1D4yuff8rXEalpDh5b12EL3SCXVsrDXLaIgyOF21sFAvPaIm35vbOsbOxbq_3f-pPIz82g8QEx2PiSl2PRm3KuKWrDqFUlq2TdxKl_Pd7B9kqLmUw/s320/Cockatoo+Island+11.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241769105785434114" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">tonal ranges</span>, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">shadows</span></span>, blacks, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">colour temperatu</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">res</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.....</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcPs5rTpWRZZAiqLhNqt-2Fdl49cXOc7_Kr-tHzOKIAbQuHTOY-yNLCj7aGcDlxrxCUHLflKjW7Ap10qWL_uXoI4WoKebwGMgVGz-i3T5NQxWfP0VQ9lJWo6c6o_p5tXV9smhPoD5VcIU/s320/Cockatoo+Island+12.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241769810337123730" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I see a sign that says</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">'no photography'</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, oops. I presume they mean of the artworks, which I've neglected to actually notice most of, so I try a little harder. It makes me think about the artists, and their current mood, or maybe their mood next week when the Biennale is over and it's all <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">just a dream</span>. All this hard work, just a dream. I think, did he have fun making that sculpture of a crocodile out of what are they.... rooftop capsules????</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEVuRq-jui4C2bjHVs1xfqZVOMSfxpVZHjj6PbpiHlnTI_5yQouI9qcSvdMcK-awabdTRks40Mu6xPm9E4KgepkHsYhhYMC2MbQTo8bkTtJX4AJyG4WYkdx_4hSMYjamQteeXoUiUV91g/s320/Cockatoo+Island+13.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241770758535562242" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Somebody made this</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">they took lots of time to specially write out all the different measurements, to file something that made something, that made something.....and so on it goes, like ants in the nest, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">we are but put on this earth to roll little balls of dirt about because that is what we do</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. The rain can wash it away at any time, but it's that drive to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">do</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> that we follow till the heart stops.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWJxHpRnlZWMEWys-R0jeDZSAaiEI-6jDI-D1WaVlJMMFJrNs3DPiPdtJmUStSrwXtyXkeVdqasX-X5poMzLuLGP5mMdq7axNnjb4WAnhIsfJyeQRTROy4WNg8iXTMMckHzEadZ9XeE8/s320/Cockatoo+Island+14.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241771759481196658" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Why does the light of an open doorway appeal to me, why is it my job to notice it?</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I start to think that I'm ready for my old career back, the last baby is a boy now, but this boy starts to stir in his stroller and upon wakening fully throws himself onto the concrete and wham, I'm back in the day job, fully. But whilst he dreamt that 45 minutes away, so did I. </span></div></div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-84103313581962822002008-08-27T17:24:00.006+10:002008-09-03T22:59:40.110+10:00Don't Mess with the Don<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rEyZ3NBF4cE8MR5KDLoSvfaHK_uPz_CJFzDIY6chuWWWG8mZ3yO1eyyAV4lk9geF46_jeKP2ryuxMBc68wEMGBU4kyGU7nmSw-qdeZQA31s3xiKb3NTgl_bP0UrSssTjLpR69UtzwvM/s1600-h/EvaMendes.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rEyZ3NBF4cE8MR5KDLoSvfaHK_uPz_CJFzDIY6chuWWWG8mZ3yO1eyyAV4lk9geF46_jeKP2ryuxMBc68wEMGBU4kyGU7nmSw-qdeZQA31s3xiKb3NTgl_bP0UrSssTjLpR69UtzwvM/s320/EvaMendes.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239103580244113282" /></a><br />I'm having 'blog wishes' come true. After my previous whinging about having no mobile phone I now possess a sexy white iphone with $500 per month credit...and after moaning about having no career, I did two freelance jobs this week. As it's never come up before I may as well mention I am what is formerly known as a paparazzi, but now that word is too loaded with lawsuits and manslaughter charges, I just prefer photographer.<div><br /></div><div>Today it was actress Eva Mendes, a Cuban hottie who flew all the way around the world to squeeze her little brown self into my camera lens. I am a sucker for a pretty lady and a gift bag. After two kids and low income I now cram as many freebies in with my camera gear whereas in my previous life B.C. (before children) I must have had so much disposable income I just sneered at the promotional perfume or italian water being past around.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I turn up early to get a good spot, and lo - there's one right in the middle waiting just for little old me! I am technically the shortest photographer in Sydney so I go well in the middle of a media scrum, it's great to double park behind me and shoot over my head, as long as you don't try and use me to balance on like a tripod, I won't accidently step on your foot.</div><div><br /></div><div>So this bloke I've never seen (fair to say I've been on/off 5 years maternity leave mate) pipes up and says,</div><div>"that's Don's spot"</div><div>I'm like who-the-fuck-is-Don? "Well where's Don now?"</div><div>"He's gone out for a sec but when he comes back he's not going to be real happy"</div><div>I'm thinking who IS this Don that's got fatboy really scared.</div><div>I said "well he's not here now so it doesn't matter, he'll find another spot"</div><div>and fatboy is shaking his head at me like I've just sworn against the mafia. I know I've been a casual drop in since I left the scene to have babies, but this guy doesn't realise that time and space has only made me stronger, why all that time at home I have been wrestling for tiny increments of my own personal elbow room, Lord I finally got the cot out of the bedroom last week and have a child-free nighttime for the first time since the original conception.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What are you, his bodyguard?" I said "Don knows the rules mate, yer leave a bag or something" I reminded him of statute 21 of celebrity photographer's code. "Possession is ninth-tenths of the law".</div><div>He hissed through his teeth like now I'm really gonna get it. "Don't blame me when he get's back and he wants his spot back"</div><div>"Don't worry I'll sort Don out" I said, thinking Don is nothing compared to a tantruming two year old.</div><div>"Oh there's Don over there" he says, relieved and his shoulders unscrunch.</div><div>"Oh what, Don's got two spots going?" I say and overlook fatboy to say hello my oldest colleague behind him - the only one with manners and kids.</div><div><br /></div><div>I leave early because the fatboy on my right and the photographer on my left started the squeeze on me, but I already got the shot they missed, I decided to get home early and wire it out first. Now I'm sitting here smelling like a tart's armpit and wondering what else I can ask the blog fairy for......</div><div><br /></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-64705679914785780132008-08-21T15:15:00.009+10:002008-08-21T15:31:22.257+10:00Mummy, where is my career?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdubk5F4IzqyHncz6LjDXhkmo2WOqROqjGwv0Syo7qvgsS2j_oHS63qOaVbUmVxWbJfVmdl1m8F1beYAcMVea3rp64mxwFK-R0kjAAs8AzL2m7ssflfhmgokj03UxPNGiAK36dXoEURk8/s1600-h/babes.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdubk5F4IzqyHncz6LjDXhkmo2WOqROqjGwv0Syo7qvgsS2j_oHS63qOaVbUmVxWbJfVmdl1m8F1beYAcMVea3rp64mxwFK-R0kjAAs8AzL2m7ssflfhmgokj03UxPNGiAK36dXoEURk8/s320/babes.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236838862380820402" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">W</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">hat do you tell yourself after you've pushed the boat of your career out and realised you forgot to tie a line? Turn and look at what is holding you to the shore? Turn your back on the sea and delude yourself "it's not so great, I've seen it before." At what stage do I just dive in fully dressed and start to swim like mad to get that little boat back or is it gone forever, nobody told me not to let go, to shelter it somewhere. Isn't that what you should tell your daughters before they have children, before they sink the little part of their heart that is so hard to resuscitate after letting it go? What have I done!</span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-75254226939038195612008-07-31T16:21:00.008+10:002008-07-31T21:35:03.127+10:00Pessimism is a last resort<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw-N3N5yHkvFH0PKMnF4MPpLwxeG63AgXxfHQODaQ7EyLKt43mFNdELWMJO8zyTD9z28EeO_tkVubPW6YymHu5na9SCICPYutWB68Orp4ElsVl0WdvchHEGlZicY1L_b6hAyvWdLJrFY0/s1600-h/auntychristine.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw-N3N5yHkvFH0PKMnF4MPpLwxeG63AgXxfHQODaQ7EyLKt43mFNdELWMJO8zyTD9z28EeO_tkVubPW6YymHu5na9SCICPYutWB68Orp4ElsVl0WdvchHEGlZicY1L_b6hAyvWdLJrFY0/s400/auntychristine.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229074309641581218" /></a><br />Very busy dreams last night. Melinda (she's a fitness instructor) is baking pies. I'm not allowed to touch them. Eunice is at Coles, she walks past me, I'm near a register waiting to be served. I must also find time to enter the Moran Art Prize. The dream shows me ten artworks so beautiful, a whole body of work - pointillist, silvery, esoteric - great stuff. Tiny windows of magic light flashed at me for a second. I suppose my imagination was exhibiting what I am capable of. I drink them down fast like shots.<div><br /></div><div>I wake up to fart and think on this coldest morning of the year. 'Six degrees' reported from MSP who delivers the morning cup of 'hot, steaming Joe', which it is not by the time I pull-up on one elbow. My fingers peep out from under the doona, feeling bitten, looking for pen and paper. My arse does an excellent impression of a trombone. I consider risking frostbite up to the elbow to reach the coffee before it is beyond repair.</div><div><br /></div><div>This was to be the weekend I meant to rent a six hundred dollar snow chalet overlooking Lake Eucumbeen. Poverty, once again, has forced me to live behind my hopes. Our next fabulous weekend planned in the country of my day-dreams is Dubbo Western Plains Zoo. I shall wake up in August and think 'I dreamt of lion's roaring last night - in Gladesville'. </div><div><br /></div><div>It hurts. I like to concentrate on pain in the morning. By afternoon I've worked my way up to mild discontent. If I plan an outing I can enjoy slight boredom. In the evenings I turn to drink. I've decided that making money might get me truly wondrous. That way I can use it to gawp at expensive magazines, spread my legs at top-class beauty salons and ideally visit African animal resorts and centrally-heated winter cabins. I would alleviate my ennui with trips to IKEA and post large packages of gifts to my nieces instead of the piddling efforts I'm currently guilty of.</div><div><br /></div><div>For this week's menu, in order to buy myself a book or a bra, I'll plan meals that rely heavily on noodles and vegetables. That old temptation to toilet train Chuckles returns every time I enter isle three for nappies. By the time I pay for my trolleyload I'll experience the equivalent of a tiny thrill, smug in the knowledge I can feed the family for another week, or is it just seeing a three figure number on a cash register. In my Coles dream I spot Eunice shopping, I bet she never has to count carefully for groceries. In real life I did phone her for a loan so I could rent the snow chalet. She never acknowledged the request, she did however tell me of her own plans to take her children skiing. I pray to be a considerate friend, so blog bitching about them isn't very good as they are my only readers. Names have been changed.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is a particular time of morning, when I am due to get up, the sun enters the window, piercing my dim, sleepy world. I am not a morning person because I wake up angry, covered in sleep-mud. Writing helps me beat off depressing, rabid-dog thoughts. I have to mentally kick the little fuckers off me. Sometimes that small, happy square of sunlight drifts over me and picks me up from under my armpits and props me up on the pillows and says 'here, drink this'.</div><div><br /></div><div>The clouds mask the sun with a grey filter, everything is not so sunny, there is no pick me up. My pen is grumpy, the coffee has gone cold. But today I remember the science, that if I lay here as usual, I know that somewhere the sun is swimming in its blue sky as usual, just behind the clouds, right there where it always is, only obscured by a passing earth mood. It will come back. I cheer myself with thoughts like 'when I am dead I will get to sleep in a bit longer'. My Auntie Christine (pictured in the 60's) died in her mid-thirties of a brain tumour, cleaning the kitchen cupboards.</div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-65656122549789026102008-07-21T14:44:00.007+10:002008-07-24T11:40:46.250+10:00Space and Time<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUyCL4hf0WTf1JOjkDM9xW8y_U702E5_BwaU1t4dV0fVTIAZdZuf0LuV9-YfG0Ula5zWxM0LfP1yX2cpQhoV3dbF3etGhaQUgR0Sqw0z8AHcCYpjqpXaUHSWNGLIH5mX5hbLDSr9HBMPc/s1600-h/DSCN2454.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUyCL4hf0WTf1JOjkDM9xW8y_U702E5_BwaU1t4dV0fVTIAZdZuf0LuV9-YfG0Ula5zWxM0LfP1yX2cpQhoV3dbF3etGhaQUgR0Sqw0z8AHcCYpjqpXaUHSWNGLIH5mX5hbLDSr9HBMPc/s400/DSCN2454.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225409989937236066" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lying under the flight-path, I like to listen to old, heavy planes rake across Sydney, this one at ten-thirty pm, half an hour before curfew. Some come later, in bad weather - you pity the pilot, egg him on to his landing strip via tantrummy clouds. The growl of engines taking their time across the sky, big and slow, travelling in an alternate universe it seems, time slowing down. I think of them from my bed. The old ones sound different, probably it's the props or the weight of them. Coming in from the desert or some map-dot of a place where things are run differently - places that don't have a curfew or runway lights. They must see Sydney from a hundred kilometres away, a huge hub of light, even at this late hour. In that glow the Pope is here, somewhere, awake - are his rooms full of 'groupies', post-mass on this Sunday night?<div><br /></div><div>Sydney mums sigh, everywhere, with both relief and sadness. School holidays finish soon, the last day of freedom tomorrow - we'll fork out some goodies for the last time and make sure the uniforms are clean, bananas & ham stockpiled for lunches. Baby siblings say goodbye once again to your playmates. Be ready to rise for the school bell everyone. The roads will clot once more with cars full of kids heading towards ABCs/123s. Families return from all corners of Australia, from far-flung relatives, spare rooms, the snow or the farm, back home tonight by air or road. The rain falls for the first time this sunny, quiet week they were gone. We are always the ones to stay in town whilst others leave, left to enjoy the empty streets.<div><br /></div><div>The sewage pipe is still broken, the real estate office is useless, all these holidays we've had our waste spilling onto the lower lawn and down into the earth-sponge and sadly, to the swamp I love. Nobody cared, nobody came when we asked, all were off somewhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>Me and my children, my husband occasionally wafting in from the world of men. What did we do apart from play imaginatively, roam in pyjamas, make snacks, watch DVD's and read laying in the sun, crawling all over each other?</div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-59642656501917725402008-07-06T13:05:00.011+10:002008-07-07T10:16:38.534+10:00I Love Books<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PUYhkD7M_-WgX_KEwtMEjGawBuM8YemFGLkvN_dbSxD73Nxjy2HDjJ9fwBAuxPJKqhucdExUd-xjICSRef6VDHCvPQFvF-srMORV9wXHvWDGTmcoLd3ZasyiY7OMMna-I93i2yB5zdk/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PUYhkD7M_-WgX_KEwtMEjGawBuM8YemFGLkvN_dbSxD73Nxjy2HDjJ9fwBAuxPJKqhucdExUd-xjICSRef6VDHCvPQFvF-srMORV9wXHvWDGTmcoLd3ZasyiY7OMMna-I93i2yB5zdk/s400/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219738676395187890" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">I</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> am supposed to be making a booklist for my pregnant Melbourne buddy, the only smart one from school (apart from moi, in our circle of jocks and social climbers anyway). I </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">loathe </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">going to Borders without knowing what to get, finding myself frazzled by all the designer dust jackets and busting to go to the loo, it must be just the smell of books that makes me want to 'go'. At home we have Gabriel Garcia Marquez short stories as a loo read. At age 18 a family friend put together a great list for me of 'must reads', they were all fantastic, none of which are included below.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On this list there might be one you like or have not read yet. After trolling our fiction section these fell on me. Must get shelves. Authors with an asterisk I've found good for more than one book:</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;font-size:12px;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'The Time Traveler's Wife' - Audrey Niffenegger</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'The Mists of Avalon' - Marion Zimmer Bradley</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'The Dice Man' - Luke Rhinehart</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'Moon Palace' - Paul Auster *</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'The Way I Found Her' - Rose Tremain *</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'Lost in a Good Book' - Jasper Fforde</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'The Clan of the Cave Bear' - Jean M.Auel (series) * </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'Atomised' - Michel Houellebecq *</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'Eucalyptus' - Murray Bail</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'The No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency' - </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Alexander McCall Smith *</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'The Red Tent' - Anita Diamant</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'Year of Wonders' - Geraldine Brooks</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'Staring at the Sun' - Julian Barnes *</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'The Restraint of Beasts' - Magnus Mills *</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'The Old Patagonian Express' - Paul Theroux * - non fiction but hilarious and also excellent fiction writing depending on where you start.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In bookstores I find myself wistfully looking at all the books I've already read, wishing I'd never read them yet, and wonder what the fuck I'm supposed to read now. Please return me a list of your favourites (doesn't have to be the definative list as mine isn't), but I've loved all these books.<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div></span></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-22962575237239074882008-06-23T21:06:00.011+10:002008-06-23T22:28:28.673+10:00Stop Scratching Skip<div><br /></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbd5SyxWNYaaJF1NFRUTcb0WzAs4VaXdEHbpUV_lvbC17L6iEXGjp2MdrxRSU16sfnBMQyKGCPQ9u4Tkk3mI6I1_KKDVmUcesonXIrO5ZYaPCD8dXPe4N_aRs8D94SJlRgGDOsFcBXCE/s400/BreamBeach+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215042920368759698" /><div><br /></div><div>Oh god, 20 days since my last post. Am I suddenly unleashing the perfectionist who has been hiding somewhere? I've decided to spank her and send her back to her room. So please bear with me as I get over my blog hump and break through to the other side. I tend not to respond to compliments as well as criticism so now my mum has read my blogs and said they are lovely I'm basically cured of all attention seeking behaviour (for a while) and can just retire.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>But alas, something burning at the back of my mind wants to be born, something called 'a family trip to the country', the remnants of which are still haunting me in unpacked bags strewn all over our bad carpet. My husband's incredibly reliable habit of finding a way to sabotage any attempt on my part to escape the shackles of domestic bliss worked again. I should have a sticker on my Kombi that says 'MY OTHER CAR IS A MERCEDES' (a shit one). That likes to run down its battery whilst the car doors are open to air out the mysterious source of mould.</div><div><br /></div><div>'Lucky we have two cars darling' said I in a very good impersonation of someone with anger management classes under their belt. Perhaps all the self-help books are actually working. Or more likely I was so exhausted from packing I couldn't put up my fists. Not only was there too many things, I had also worn myself out getting the cat vaccinated and then shipped to Meadowmist boarding school for waaay bad ass cats.</div><div><br /></div><div>VW to the rescue. South we were heading, overtaken by EVERYONE. Even really tiny little Jap Crap cars that were 20 years old. I'm starting to worry about the old girl and if she'll make it through rego. I finally won the battle of the Berry Donut Shack stopover cause I was driving. I can report they are very hot, sugary and nothing to blog about. </div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXf3LNcdtPGgSaWEZZq_6uLPJ04OLvQk0UGwDsLx3SFRxGEX_I-ZVBOvSVc_AFGKdG32YkP7e7SA6ly_xejQQ5xrud1yYkaY3p5vmyNObmUTiTijRa8AmY0zB3lee4b4Y6Z2QaNbNZw50/s400/BreamBeach4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215044442491398066" /></div><div>I'm still scratching, you can't </div><div>be too sure once you find one tick, there won't be more. Nurse Alison, my favourite removalist took to my neck with a pair of tweezers (that I packed) and deftly took out the the tiny bastard of page 55 on 'Family First Aid' (packed by me). The Paralysis (bush) Tick <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">loves me</span>. One year I had one on the labia majus and it wasn't till after a bottle of gin, a match, a wombat and some marital bonding that it was out of my life. Now on this dawn the 'weakness of the face and eyelids, then arms' alerted me to the fact that it wasn't just a hangover, certainly 'irritation at the site of the bite' (jugular) and 'breathing becomes difficult' (more of a panic reaction) - I thought it might be the mattress (holiday cabin quality), but the tingling fingers were an exciting addition to symptoms of the previous years, which I remembered well. I had a tick. I pulled out the secret weapon - homeopathic anti-insect-bite-potion.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLKcFM2WHhoXEUKhE2KWR1rpcFwn-P6iCtfn6g21rp6jMfM6JkrLwtHEsXe4cxPik7FNcV67j423rq5vC3xp0KspFDgLjjEBZvbA2O-6TKj9qn-5EIpriJ0s46GOdW0DJSfC3HH5KChrI/s400/BreamBeach+1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215045190672815970" /><div>Bream Beach is lovely. We are usually the only ones there, every winter solstice. The whales are passing on their way to Hervey Bay to birth. The sun sets early over St Georges Basin, we </div><div>are on a small neck of land between there and Jervis Bay. The best part is we hire 6 cabins, all full of people who shall be called friends, old and young. Someone always swims, someone always sleeps, someone has firewood and nobody ever has an axe. The VW cosied up to a motorbike and the whole scene swum with kangeroo, kookaburra and possum. We burnt through 40 kgs of wood to get the fire just right for all the variety of meats. Nobody claimed the Portugese chicken which was cooked to perfection by the end of all 20 bottles of wine. It's always the Kiwis to bed last.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-11108912106803601742008-06-03T12:32:00.016+10:002008-06-03T16:19:21.229+10:00Call of the Wild<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzE-yQ4MaTtR9RoCZY9sRLocfYDoMdwO9UkphV4fCjJ7GyPW4zuqgDFDQZqjeKW8BQLEraLPXCiE6CUfsnucj8_Do3yKA3sQ7lF0nJFXhtIRIKug5j7phOT66cwmyH1KZPrtulMHuKsCE/s1600-h/DSCN1807.jpg"><img style="text-align: justify;float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzE-yQ4MaTtR9RoCZY9sRLocfYDoMdwO9UkphV4fCjJ7GyPW4zuqgDFDQZqjeKW8BQLEraLPXCiE6CUfsnucj8_Do3yKA3sQ7lF0nJFXhtIRIKug5j7phOT66cwmyH1KZPrtulMHuKsCE/s400/DSCN1807.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207487245820160610" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:24px;">A</span></span> Japanese man jogging in flip flops. His tight, brown calves are the best I've seen in the selection of leg muscles running past me on the Bondi to Bronte coast walk.</span><br /></div></span><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here comes 'Wolf', an alsatian followed faithfully by his best friend, 'Dog Man' who wears Wolf's leash of colourful beads around his own weather beaten neck. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm sleeping rough in the Kombi parked at Bronte Beach and soaking up a million-dollar view between the old-school VW curtains. I'm all alone for what seems the first time in six years, with neither baby in the belly nor crawling up my leg, laying in what feels like my Nana's spare room. Baba Yaga is looking after me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The sound of waves crashing is constant, apparently they never stop. Even renovators go to bed. I am experiencing endless time (for today).<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><img style="text-align: justify;float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_L8FeVhEQvB83mD8L590q8BdlAV9xhgHQ4skVQl1IqsJlg6AIHQzWzenHV3hwcHN3JiKDSipEZUWzwFhBOF01LtXH7me4_KvDD66IUBzsiL3Vo6BTPN4xxq6-7M-7Dc0MfJPEw3q9E0A/s400/DSCN1872.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207487537877936754" /><div style="text-align: justify;">Eat. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Inventory of the food basket offers a choice of grapes, one boiled egg, raisins, banana, bread, peanut butter and a leftover stirfry. Who packed this lunch? I consider a fish burger from the local deep fat fryer down the hill.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Outside my 'room of one's own' are Wild Men - surfers, fishermen, labourers in toolbearing utes cruising the coast for the great wave. I finally find the infamous cliff cave dwelling that is upsetting Bondi house prices and note the holey tarps and begging bowl.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Some budgie cages in a window overlook Tamarama beach, the lucky birds have their curtains drawn back so they can bathe in the morning sun.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wild Women walk, take photos, sleep with abandon on the sand alone, shedding all the weight of life to soak up the earth.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At sunset, near the shore a solo whale arcs her back, heading north to warm waters.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I start spinning poi on the hill so they glow from the last blazing rays of the day. Two dogs run to me excited by the possibility of getting a poi each. I stay away from the playground. A boxer, with his telltale nose in a hoodie accompanied by twitchy manager and trainer pass by. I avoid the paparazzi who ruin my sea air with their smokes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><img style="text-align: justify;float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZRbP1FxvtT8szCo0VOwr2M5rJg2OTZ7787EMh2xD9ySKLOtwm36BJzSJdeurBnBBYCZwED3x8kPRxDyGXoEezhUYQNC2b_VP84MLxsONbm7z6gu1_Pvn_STpZwbsthGkqx1slk-1vAY8/s400/DSCN1820.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207488658864401026" /><div style="text-align: justify;">Another night darkens, at dusk I light candles and pull the floral curtains shut, and turn in at 6pm to read in bed, to rest, to think long thoughts. I sleep alone. Charged dreams wake me, I chase after them with my pen. In this cocoon I incubate words flowing in, words flowing out and watch my mind as it discovers something rare - the final line of a book.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">'Even in poverty and obscurity, (it) is worthwhile' (to write) - Virginia Woolf.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the third day I hatch, aware that my self, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">my wild self</span> is still alive, she is grown and all mine again, never will I ignore her and pretend she can live without being fed.<br /></div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6769771641637071633.post-23486180680225369582008-05-21T22:37:00.020+10:002008-05-22T15:55:09.427+10:00First Trip Since the Theft<img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwo-aJJpZ57JkeZ1HfySVCZ_DhrKMeG2gfqMcMKRQNnlSYkmfvhoMJgQEWcISGD_GKVPwfQ6zomUdRSnjAmkLo4n01iOyI9SD7nCNOohgaaOhZbIP5uVaN0LtaZs8vCMMyLYh0h43l6oM/s200/DSC_0278.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202826849841967746" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">Y</span></span>ou know it's cold when you don't have to keep putting the wine back in the fridge, it just sort of lives on the kitchen bench. Last week the VW had it's first major service in 13 months since it was stolen by <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">the naughty boys</span>, and I patted her big behind and said 'Let's Go' (somewhere). To our funky friends in the Hunter Valley, NSW - where they grow baby trees.<div><br /><div><div><div><div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNacYo0XrnicTsyY3ycIzVd_QtXS8zcTx5nwiZqPhCrI036I7dxWBGsZiKkUed6XorQ8qZ5zCHrWpMIbF5eOqsRPdYEXowNVDxTO9T2Z6EhWECC_kA6ysndpY62ocJqvZZOiv4eyflR7o/s200/DSC_0219.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202810941283103202" /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPBHFGCiUH4ODbTvT92DXUkZqeHaOjLYYlFIVaNMGvbJnYLXXosz6vvGemiS-6BeFR_L_ER-lHuDKlkm7mRd5NZPGjioHz-r5w2Ii4IRBc5DB2prPBA2L2sSU8IGQIWyMDwUmO40ta0kA/s200/DSC_0182.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202825054545638002" /><div>This is what happens to you when you own land. You grow trees, you plant trees, you have trees, you start to think like a tree. They planted a whole bunch just so the native animals could get down to the creek without being seen naked, in something called a 'wildlife corridor'. And you can't just dig a hole and shove in a helpless, defenceless baby tree, apparently you need to stir up the soil, dig a deep hole, put in fertiliser, water crystals, carry water from the little creek up the hill, and then pray, and it doesn't end there, you need to fence off the little blighter and give it a pretty pink ribbon to say 'you are special', 'you will one day become a big, beautiful, wanted part of nature, and we will love and nurture you and never chop you down for firewood'. Although this is coming from a man who burnt down his shed.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8BsDLGO4XixhmFLRQpkPpNWz9g1RPGc-JvXCIQBpCNi2x4FyYiBvy02DKnmiaprbjv_ivspi93D3cPC_T_8vzZBwP6U0klMmRBNQTHd-tcYnRYlWd_nC92wTGOCiinPipLQQH6XtR99w/s200/DSC_0203.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202813960645112338" /><div>Nature is crazy beautiful. It's a breathe of fresh air. You fight it until you are drowning and then it's like you can suddenly breathe underwater in a dream, or a kid's movie. This Wedge Tail Eagle got caught by the wrong lens. That's what happens to you when you start to relax, you just can't be arsed getting up.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLF79GOeiiRhXDUue0jHDP5aG86LETAWZQMywUWMw9n0O00FPquTGzXhyphenhyphent1ydNtbqJlfWxpYU1K-KLnyqj2H01yGsCJUuf_t74Pv2MsS1bIOtsWrXc0W2wZ0MHvIKi_HYhaYZjfphwLCg/s200/DSC_0198.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202814720854323746" /></div><div>But in the country there's always something to do, apparently. You can go get firewood, or make pasta from scratch or clean that filthy kitchen window, just so to admire that glorious mountain one more time. Ever '<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">screw with a view</span>?' You know what I mean.</div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6WuxtncIRIwww8EEsG4z3GW90HCwVOL_eq_hX3QADbQn6_Ynd1U8tVdpw4sdbLI8zYAONx9BvVHzVAhZIXguaGDfcPChuiE33IcwFqYLKyMvUBD8h_pXGdYUP8DDXGzB4aYQiZzdgAg/s200/DSC_0188.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202815884790460978" />This is a wombat hole. According to Peter Nicholson - Wombat Schoolboy of the 1960's, the definitive advisor of wombat research: "if you're going down a burrow you want to meet a wombat in the wombat burrow in the end you know, and see what happens. I was 6 foot tall but I was probably only about 9 stone, long and lean. and, you'd get down 6 or 10 feet initially.... but if you were already down 10 feet and you could see another 10 feet and there was something around the corner, it was very tempting to continue excavating. But then I learned that by digging out the floors of the burrows, you still had the structural shape of the hole and it enabled you to get even further down.'</div><div><br /></div><div>'I was warned that wombats had a habit of squashing dogs while they were down their burrow, and so I was always very cautious that I wouldn't let a wombat get half past me and squash. </div><div>And I also knew that they, that wombats bit. But I was never bitten, in all the time I crawled down burrows, by a wombat, or even outside the burrow.'</div><div><br /></div><div>And this:</div><div><br /></div><div>'I was never fearful of going down a burrow. A burrow's a sort of a friendly place. It's someone else's home, maybe, so you're cautious as you enter it. You don't know what you're going to find or whether anybody's home. But it was never a frightening place.'</div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp3ln0NYTtg75J7KGWaECl8i9ER0DOgeQfApW1QVdWhj2C6OtdMgbUkEg8KvkP18qIWhMCwu9ekJFcf1SgZd0V6-bL-ctybK2uGhcTISvWG7wO81LXC33Yl39azJnogU8VOsNPNAnkva0/s200/DSC_0109.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202822030888661570" /><div><br /></div><div>Thank you ABC Australian Story for that report, just in case you've ever been tempted to travel down a wombat hole. And now in case you've never seen a wombat, here is a dog, Dr Chops to be precise, one who has possibly been down a wombat hole. He's an late rising Schnauzer with pointy ears, 10 years old and has a feisty brother called Bangers. His favourite hobbies are sequesting small titbits from toddlers and snuggling.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZyNaVF893xr9ZYdPJxzcKMHR5RU4Nenq89RxrWTnNa8CTztGnqqiP3ZIru4EubpNMkMSMhr2GrTOQxfMCKqFDLhZg9wBcEnchoHj7cht_brehVE5w9vCX9sFNdvU0sbBhSvo0h3b79A/s200/DSC_0169.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202823010141205074" /><div>Picture of the Kombie.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Kombi Kronicleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11164736280543336972noreply@blogger.com1