Let’s get the ROW80 business over first then I can share with you an delightful find.
My writing is progressing in fits and starts but the first short story is almost drafted. The two books arrived from the editor for me to review so I’ve started perusing them and testing/trying out some of the new spinning techniques.
Weaving has been my main focus last week as the shawl has to be finished. I have completed the “real” weaving and am now doing the “finishing” – tying up loose ends, washing/fulling and blocking should all be finished by the next update. I can’t give you any photos until after the exhibition opens in early June, sorry.
As for establishing a healthy lifestyle, well, clearly that has to improve because not much happened. But I did succeed in throwing out my five things a day. Well, I averaged five things a day over the week.
One of the things I found amongst the rubble of an interstate move was a tiny little notebook which I used to carry with me on bushwalks.
This little book dates from before I bought a digital camera and so the photos which may have gone with it are yet to be unearthed. The notes were written during breaks on our climb up Mt Kosciuszko – Australia’s highest.
Yes it is that round hill in the distance. It was the first time we’d taken our young son up there and at seven he was far too big to carry so there were plenty of breaks during the long slog up the road. Up until 1976 you could actually drive a car to the top and this walk is up the old access road – still used by Parks Management people. The return walk from Charlotte Pass is about 18km. In the lines that follow I’m hoping you will share will me my memories of our journey.
Little dams of rock made by children, turbulence where there was none.
Drifts of flowers close to drifts of snow on the hills.
If you hear the wind behind the chattering kids and the adults with their phones and coffee, you can hear silence.
It’s easy to imagine fairies when you find yourself next to a tiny pocket of violets.
Shimmering clumps of grass seeds silhouetted by the shadow of an old wooden bridge.
High up in the Pass the cars wait poised to carry their charges home.
On another day we walked out to the ruins of an old restaurant which was built to connect two valleys by a gondola – it only lasted a few years before the winds put an end to it.
The fat skink scurried for cover over the dull cracked tiles of a once gleaming and glamorous bathroom.
Twisted, tortured, sinuous, stark white branches of heath dead from the tramp of booted feet eager to stay on the track – bones cracking underfoot.
I find it interesting so many years later how much pleasure reading these thoughts gave me – far more than the 100’s of digital photos that I now take and never look at again. It has reminded me that a big part of being a writer is taking the time to notice things – and maybe even putting away the camera occasionally.
What do you think? Can taking a photo really recreate the experience?