Friday, November 20, 2015

A Post that is a Bit All Over the Place.

A long post. Consider your lovely self warned ; )

Officially speaking, my hols have begun. Officially speaking.

But what this actually means is that all the neglected chores and jobs that I've skived off doing for so long, because, well, "I'm working" are now shouting at me. Loudly. Except this time, I can't shout back at them with smug excuses.

One of those chores was the laundry. *Gulp*. The Final Frontier. Or more fittingly: The Gulag. 

This tiny and grotesque room contained the last of our unpacked boxes from our epic move earlier in the year. 

No pictures of scary laundries, or boxes. Here's a picture of a climbing rose instead. Albertine, I think. Growing over the wall of a local cafe.
It was the kind of box that contained a confusing array of detritus. Such as spanners, kilometres of garden wire, bite-y spiders, and nails. The kind of box you don't want to unpack without the company of a stiff drink and sturdy gloves. 

And until two days ago when I took the wilderness firmly in hand, it was also the last room in the house to remain unpainted, (read: grunge-y lavender-beige-brown). For me, the gulag laundry has represented every psychological block you could conjure. 

And like many a gothic horror, (including Merlin, my Pretty), it's the room that's been lurking diabolically behind the door off the hallway. It's where the cats eat, and it's also Merlin's occasional crash-pad when he's had a particularly fiendish night. It's the room we mustn't show visitors lest they think we're filthy, and generally medieval in our habits. Or, that they think it's where we hide the bodies.

But now, the laundry is done! 

And I am all too aware that I am blogging about my laundry. 

There are no photos to show for it, I'm afraid, (a blessing in this case, methinks). But do please pause a moment and imagine shelves arranged in an OCD fashion, and a drunken posey of pelargoniums to brighten the room....

Despite the paint-job, the clean-up, and conquering of dreaded box-dom, the room remains, still, tiny and grotesque. But any Freudian would be sighing their relief at the fact that it's done. And it's one thing less to for me to be twitchy about. 


To be honest, what is uppermost in our minds chez Rapunzel, are Fire Plans. And all the decisions that need to be made as the bushfire season begins. Because I'm afraid that this beautiful part of the world we live in, is not only a National Park and World Heritage site, but one that figures as a severe to catastrophic fire risk. 

The Plan that the Bloke and I have worked out is that we will not stay and defend our home in the event of a bushfire. If the worst is ever to occur, we will leave with all that we love, (which amounts to our human and creaturely loves and nothing material). The truly irreplaceable is all that shall be of concern to us. So in the event of a severe or extreme fire danger day, we shall be bundling child, dog, cats, and chooks into the car and heading across town to my brother's house in the city. 

It would be like the Beverley Hillbillies with slightly less people, and considerably more animals. 

For the Chook Ladies, it's business as usual.

Aside from all of the obvious concerns, the idea of Merlin in the same vehicle as the chooks beggars belief. He wouldn't want me to tell you this, but he is utterly terrified of the Ladies, who certainly are formidable. Violet the Affable is, for the most part, all puff and no peck, but Daphne...well...

Exhibit A...

Slightly evil-looking chicken. Miggins is photobombing, as is her wont.
Isn't that the face of an evil chicken? Merlin thinks so. Miggins, however, remains oblivious to anything remotely resembling psychological complexity, including psychopathic poultry.

Speaking of Merlin, he just jumped up on the table and stole my piece of cheese. Then he looked straight at me and licked his lips with the most magnificent sense of entitlement. 

Random picture of borage flowers. Because, that blue!

I seem to have rediscovered my courage. It went underground for a while. I found myself becoming too "safe". Holding myself completely still for fear of doing, saying, moving in some way that could cause trouble. Like a deer in the headlights. I'm happy to say, this self-protective mechanism was only temporary. And I can't remember how or when exactly it happened, but contrary to expectation the return of courage didn't seem gradual. Rather, it felt much like a joint falling back into place with a loud "pop!" And then it was back. As though it'd never been away. I think I've shucked off the skin that I carried with me the past couple of years. 

Not that I'm all brave and filled with valour. Oh no. Just that, I feel unapologetic for being me. That me is not an altogether bad thing to be. 

And I've been really enjoying more time spent with a dear friend. Good, fulsome hours. This friend, I realised the other day, that I've known for nigh on a decade now. And for us to grow closer of late has been a gift. Doubly so because I know now I am seen by her without the influence of another who needed to construct me a certain way in order to serve their ego needs. It's a rare thing for me to share myself closely with others. But I feel safe with her. She can see that my stern exterior is nothing to do with a harsh heart. And she truly has the best of hearts.

 I now believe that it was this friendship that was meant to be. We are more like-minded, and like-souled than I could have believed. It feels old and true. And that is quite something, is it not?

And with another dear friend, a healing. Perhaps this is part of the formula of courage. For me at least. Apart from the love of and for my partner, and for my child, friendship is something I value above almost all else. 


A writing dilemma, (of sorts) has reared its head. 

I already have a draft for a book (about 80,000 words and counting - still a lot of tricky things to write and cut. Much to cut). But I have another idea that is pulling me towards it with the swiftest and prettiest of tendrils. 

Something fun, ever-so-slightly dark, a little wicked and spooky, but altogether lively, (I keep thinking of Bach's Overture No.2 in B Minor: Rondeau, whenever I think on't).

I'm someone who very much likes to "do" as well as dream. I love completion, and to finish what I start, (um, INFJ). So to look away from one major project before it's complete, and to focus upon another big project feels...unseemly. Undisciplined. 


These are my dreams. And it is like music, playing me. 

For me, music is the highest art. I would so love to be a composer, if I had ever been a vessel for  such a gift. I see patterns in everything. Far more than detail, which confounds me. I respond to leitmotif, riffs, themes, symbols, and recurring melodies. If you look long enough into the night, the stars are webbed with patterns, and all of our souls' most intricate yearnings. Much like music, threading through our DNA, and singing us to sleep, to love, to death.  

This tale feels like that. Although that sounds horribly pretentious. Because this is not a big or important story. Just a tiny stand, a simple chord that thrums through me. I don't understand its source, but it's weaving threads of everything through me. The characters speak to me all the time. Even those who can't form words. Yet.


A favourite spot in the garden at the moment. A shady spot by the jacaranda and apple trees. 

And that my dears, is quite enough from me. Such a long, rambling, aching post. I doubt I shall post again for a little while. I'm still without computer, because, well, in truth, times are a little tricky. But when are times not? I'm a fortunate person, with a happy home, surrounded by beauty. 

I will pop in here on my phone and say hello, and hopefully still be able to comment and pay you a visit too.

Wishing you a beautiful weekend, with many goodly things. 

Friday, November 13, 2015

Sweeping by on the Broom.

Well hello there.

I've been having a (somewhat reluctant) sabbatical from this wee space. So much has been happening, and it's rather a difficult thing to try and condense it all into one post.

So I won't try, (and because that would be dull and confusing). And I'm just enjoying the scattered rain and sunlight that is today. Along with a brew of the spiciest honeyed chai, and the namchaka incense that's wafting about the room.

Rapunzel's Cottage has had a fair bit of change lately. Most of it good. Although, all in the space of a week, my little red car died a rather inglorious death, (nearly resulting in a scary accident), and amongst a string of other minor and personal disasters, Melbourne-town, (or rather, the outskirts thereof) experienced a tornado.


I'm still getting over that one. Melbourne is not the sort of place one expects to see tornadoes. But it certainly epitomised the kind of week I was having.

We're well and truly in the throes of late Spring, and all that it brings on this mountainside. Mostly rain, bright sunshine, and delirious amounts of growth. In fact, my herbs, greens, and the baby tomato plants in my veggie patch are now sprinting ahead, and we're enjoying daily salads straight from the garden. I'm trying to convince the slugs and snails not to do the same, but it is an ongoing battle.

Pierre de Ronsard, (a climbing rose).

The roses are blooming, and the hydrangeas are bursting out in their misty blues. It's all quite cottage-y and bucolic, if truth be told.

My work is winding up for the year, and I'm hoping for a relaxing sort of a Summer, (except hopefully with some serious writing in there somewhere, for the ideas are tumbling around, determined to take on flesh).

Apart from that m'luvs, well...things are much the same. Merlin is still a cuddlesome vandal, and we are hurtling towards Chrimblemass at an alarming speed, (how did November just happen?)

I do hope all is well with you? Do tell me how things are with you, if you are feeling so inclined.

Cheerio for now!