tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29582275836816257792024-03-05T19:33:20.680+11:00Kirby BeeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-42722592792765406922016-12-31T14:38:00.000+11:002016-12-31T14:38:22.501+11:00on failure and courageIt was the last weekend in April when I first fell. Or at least when I first remember falling. I went to Clunes Booktown and came home with three volumes of Virginia Woolf's diaries and two volumes of the Penguin Classics Greek Myths—battered and worn in a manner that only made them more appealing. Later it would be Kate Tempest's The Bricks That Built the Houses when I saw her speak at The Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-23677213605854050472016-09-23T12:33:00.001+10:002016-09-23T12:33:38.372+10:00journey to the bottom of the tbr pile: Nell Zink/The Wallcreeper
I’ve never been much for birds. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate their existence. And I’m aware they’re likely related to dinosaurs so that gives them some cachet. But beyond an occasional glance as one sweeps across my line of sight or flies just a little too close to my head, nothing.
Maybe that’s why I felt compelled to know what a Wallcreeper looked like. So I googled, and beganAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-88475981856386244002016-08-09T20:34:00.000+10:002016-08-09T20:34:01.226+10:00journey to the bottom of the tbr pile: Stephanie Bishop/The Other Side of the World
Stephanie Bishop’s The Other Side of the World begins with a quote from the Russian writer, Svetlana Boym about nostalgia; Boym says that nostalgia is a ‘longing for a home that no longer exists or has never existed’.
I’ve been thinking a lot about home lately, about what home means, about how it can and must and will inevitably change. I’ve been asking myself if coming back is Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-8588695739295440492016-06-21T19:49:00.002+10:002016-06-21T19:49:57.788+10:00journey to the bottom of the tbr pile: Cheryl Strayed/Tiny Beautiful Things
Reading Cheryl Strayed feels like talking to a high school friend's wise and cool mum. I don't mean that I feel as if I've been transported back to high school, but that it feels like that kind of relationship. Where someone with mountains of life experience, who shimmers with compassion and empathy, whose words feel wrapped in understanding and patience is chatting to you over the kitchen Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-89532475885347668352016-05-04T20:19:00.001+10:002016-05-04T20:19:27.403+10:00journey to the bottom of the tbr pile: Charlotte Wood/The Natural Way of Things
Charlotte Wood’s The Natural Way of Things has lived in my tbr pile for many months now, its beautifully drawn cover pretending at the story inside. I was warned that this beauty belied a truth within its pages, a story that was difficult and rough. I was warned that these words simmered, that they pushed back against a world that too often mistakes ‘woman’ for ‘empty space’. You’ll need Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-30304697515033418422016-04-11T23:33:00.000+10:002016-04-11T23:33:44.869+10:00journey to the bottom of the tbr pile: Miranda July/The First Bad Man
I’m new to Miranda July. Her writing has been on my radar for a while but it wasn’t until late last year that I finally added her debut novel, The First Bad Man, to my TBR. I’m glad I did. It’s an enthralling story - and I say that mostly because of my reaction to it. At times I found myself repulsed by the characters and yet I was also intrigued by them. Often I felt unsure who I was Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-27523287504476808182016-03-12T18:01:00.001+11:002016-03-12T18:01:21.237+11:00journey to the bottom of the tbr pile: Robyn Davidson/No Fixed Address
‘In every religion I can think of, there exists some variation of the theme of abandoning the settled life and walking one’s way to godliness. The Hindu Sadhu, leaving behind family and wealth to live as a beggar; the pilgrims of Compostela walking away their sins; the circumambulatory of the Buddhist Kora; the Hajj. What could this ritual journeying be but symbolic, idealised versions of theAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-2542117120146124972016-02-04T21:43:00.001+11:002016-02-04T21:47:19.626+11:00journey to the bottom of the tbr pile: Freeman's/Arrival
In the introduction of the inaugural edition of esteemed writer, critic and editor John Freeman's new biannual anthology, called unselfconsciously Freeman’s, the former Granta editor opens with a story about a flight he took as a child. He uses the flight as a metaphor to explain how books, and the stories within them, can transport us.
‘Stories and essays, even the right kind ofAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-88522460463264445902016-01-28T22:58:00.000+11:002016-02-03T20:50:07.646+11:00journey to the bottom of the tbr pile: Rebecca Solnit/The Encyclopedia of Trouble and Spaciousness
I first discovered Rebecca Solnit through her book Men Explain Things To Me, the title essay being the piece that introduced the term 'mansplaining' into the lexicon and gave voice to an experience that countless women could identify with, an experience I could identify with. I loved Men Explain Things To Me, a distinctly feminist work, it focuses on issues that were, are and continue to be, Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-57787614885078117692016-01-21T16:44:00.001+11:002016-09-23T12:34:27.743+10:00and so it begins: journey to the bottom of the tbr pile
Last year I made a whole list of resolutions. Inspired by the ending of one year and the beginning of another, I compiled a list of things I wanted to do, things that meant something, that I felt would serve some purpose, would serve me.
I called them goals because that felt more achievable; resolutions are abstract where goals are concrete. Or so I imagined. I didn’t manage to Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-32153147666571761182016-01-06T20:14:00.000+11:002016-01-06T20:14:44.930+11:00dust and cobwebs
It’s been so long since I’ve been here I can almost smell the dust, see the cobwebs forming in the corners of the screen.
Despite my absence this space has been on my mind. A dull ache sitting at the base of my skull, travelling down my spine and then moving into my belly where it sat like a stone. I could feel its weight as I moved. Constantly reminding me that this space sat waiting Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-2544410954741657562015-06-08T08:01:00.000+10:002015-06-08T08:01:29.609+10:00two months, failure, etc.
Today marks two months since I left home. Since I boarded a plane and shifted myself to the other side of the world. For what? For something I couldn't find at home. For an adventure, one that felt so incredibly necessary. And yet, if I'm honest, the past two months have been characterised by intense emotional experiences that have tested everything I thought I knew about myself and this Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-52443870952289031042015-04-15T08:11:00.001+10:002015-04-15T08:11:27.281+10:00a week, a roller coaster
A week is a long time. And yet, no time at all. I've been in London for a week now. And I've found myself cycling through some intense emotional experiences. I'm calling it my emotional roller coaster. Up and down and up again. It's a strange thing, but not an unexpected thing.
Moving your life halfway around the world, far far away from family and friends, from the people that are Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-24866201835872072492015-04-06T21:53:00.001+10:002015-04-06T21:53:33.741+10:00endings and beginnings
One of my cacti is dead. Well, dying at least. Its stem has lost the vibrant green of its youth and is now dried and twisted. I noticed it this morning as I pulled my bedroom curtains open for what will be the second last time. It caught me a little by surprise, as death is wont to do. And yet, the sadness is permeated by something else. Something that feels just a little hopeful.
DoesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-87539540288709424292015-02-25T14:21:00.000+11:002015-02-25T14:21:49.463+11:00comfort is a double edged sword
I’ve been trying to narrow down a list of possible suburbs to live in using a tube map from 2008 - the first time and only time I’ve been to London. On the back of the map is an advertisement for Ikea: ‘Travel is a means to an end. Home.’
I wonder if that’s really why we travel. If the reason we take ourselves out of the comfortable and force ourselves into the uncomfortable is to attempt to Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-12468691095327422112015-02-11T17:26:00.000+11:002015-02-11T17:26:37.104+11:00forever a rookie
I stopped being a teenager nearly a decade ago. I am currently very much ensconced in the late-twenties age bracket. Which feels increasingly odd. It is a space in which I sometimes I feel like an outsider, removed from a life and lifestyle that doesn't fit. This feeling becomes stronger when I glance around at many of my contemporaries: long-term relationships, marriage, children, houses Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-19780125873662984192015-02-04T20:23:00.000+11:002015-02-04T20:23:57.164+11:00one day, one sentenceSleep in.
Wake up, finally. Curse yourself for sleeping in. Get up, have a shower and get dressed.
Make breakfast. Make a mug of tea. Eat and drink.
Sit outside to enjoy morning sunshine, ensuring daily does of vitamin D.
Sit down at desk.
Get up to make another cup of tea.
Sit back down at desk.
Check email.
Check Twitter.
And Facebook.
And Instagram.
Fine yourself typing youtube intoAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-13762190257736080502015-01-20T18:42:00.000+11:002015-01-20T18:42:55.511+11:00the pursuit of perfection
Two years ago I bought the most delicious fabric. A shiny burgundy with a gold and white paisley design swirling across it. Delicious. My plans for it involved a simple bomber jacket, something easy and casual wrought in the most detailed and intricate fabric I could find - it felt like the perfect reflection of my sartorial leanings. Last weekend I finally cut that fabric. I pinned the Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-34530365007332382142015-01-08T20:40:00.000+11:002015-01-08T20:40:42.163+11:0089 days
3.17 months
12.71 weeks
89 days
The closer I get to leaving, the further I feel from ready. What is that about? The abstract is most certainly a landscape now. The details become clearer every day, the reality more potent.
I wondered about cold feet. And turned to the internet. And Italian proverb? American writer Stephen Crane's 1896 Maggie: A Girl of the Streets? Change is daunting, Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-31769757945619290442014-12-31T16:38:00.000+11:002014-12-31T16:38:00.583+11:00goals, not resolutions
I've never been one to make new years resolutions. They've always felt arbitrary and pointless - their timing probably contributes to most of that. Why do we wait for this one specific day to make change? Or, at least, to resolve to make change.
Goals, however, I like.
Especially ones that are in some way measurable, ones that are specific enough that they don't allow any Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-48433327562334420522014-12-30T19:45:00.000+11:002014-12-30T19:45:55.960+11:00my favourite words of 2014
I wasn't going to do one of these posts. Mostly because they are so ubiquitous this time of year. And you know I lean away from the zeitgeist more often that I lean in.
But, I guess start - or in this case end - as you mean to go on and seeing as I intend for 2015 to be the year of words, specifically my own, I figure ending this year with some of my favourite words from others is aptAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-42215369622898661372014-12-28T22:53:00.000+11:002014-12-28T22:53:23.697+11:00a hundred days
It is a hundred days until I fly out to London. A hundred days until whatever this is that I’m doing begins.
I wanted to write a post about it. About my move overseas and about the plethora of emotions that are along for the ride: the excitement, the sadness, the fear. About how all these things are spinning around me and crashing into each other and how strange it all is.
But Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-80674351399567733752014-12-17T22:17:00.000+11:002014-12-17T22:17:40.093+11:00to be read
Tsundoku is a Japanese word meaning buying books and not reading them; letting them pile up unread on shelves or bedside tables or floors. It is a word that is at once beautiful and tragic.
It's also something I'm guilty of. Buying and borrowing and stacking and rearranging. Telling myself that I'll read that next, but then quickly finding something else instead. It's not somethingAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-90415062010214828392014-12-11T22:09:00.001+11:002014-12-11T22:09:12.112+11:00Meredith, oh Meredith
Memories have a way of blurring. Of becoming fainter and less reminiscent of the reality that originally bought them to being. Often the details leave, off to take hold somewhere distant and untraceable; it’s the basics that stay.
This year marks the 24th Meredith Music Festival and as the second weekend in December approaches I’ve been enjoying those blurry memories that have Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2958227583681625779.post-50313749509870101772014-12-07T22:06:00.000+11:002014-12-07T22:06:55.271+11:00space, man
Sometimes you read something that just sticks with you. That lingers long after the last syllables are uttered in your mind, long after the last page is turned or you've scrolled until you cannot scroll any further. Something about those stories, maybe it's the subject, more likely it is the way they are told; the language, the style, the way the words fit and move together - all of this makes Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10856703341885909360noreply@blogger.com