“The night has a thousand eyes”

Being fifty-something, I love an exhibition opening. I love any excuse to get together and celebrate creativity.

Unfortunately, we missed the opening night festivities for the debut Geelong Illustrators exhibition, intriguingly titled “The night has a thousand eyes”.

Knowing that the Geelong Illustrators collective is replete with talented local artists, My Girl and I were determined to check out the exhibition during its two-week run at the Meraki Gallery at Courthouse Arts (Geelong).

My Girl and I popped along on Thursday morning and were rewarded with a brilliant and diverse collection of works on paper, beautifully framed and presented in this gallery space. Here are some “detail” shots we snapped purely to tease you:

What is Geelong Illustrators?

By their own reckoning: “Geelong Illustrators is a small collective of young artists from Geelong & surrounds, designed to be a platform for illustrative artists to collaborate and inspire through group exhibitions, meets, mutual support and crafternoons. We aim to inspire each other to high standards of creativity with zero pretentiousness.”

“Geelong Illustrators is the brainchild of three artsy ladies – Morgan Connoley, Jenna Ramondo and Laura Alice – whose love of inky, story-telling pictures and dreams of a collaborative community unfurled into this fledgling project. The idea came with the realization that Geelong had a strong group of amazing illustrative artists whose talent remain untapped.”

Pretty smart, eh? And, yes, amazingly talented across an eclectic range of styles. Inspiring. Envy-inducing. Following their hearts. Sigh.

You might recall Morgan Connoley as the artist who inspired Jae and I to this opening at Boom Gallery Geelong.

I hear that “The night has a thousand eyes” exhibition has been extended for a week, until Friday June 21^st. If you’re in Geelong and you get a chance to pop in to Meraki Gallery, I promise you won’t be disappointed. And you’ll be supporting local artistic talent that definitely deserves our attention.

Leave yourself time for a coffee and snack at The Courthouse Café, right on the fringe of Geelong’s arts precinct. Perhaps make of day of it and wander through the Geelong Gallery (it’s free, too) and their well-stocked Gallery Shop, swing past the Geelong Performing Arts Centre to see what’s on for the season and then check out progress on the much-talked-about library development. Too easy!

And if you’re not in Geelong, why not get out there and see what talent is lurking in the arts precinct in your town? You might even turn up an opening night to swan around at with fellow art lovers.

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Locking in delish produce at the Inverloch Farmers Market

May31

Being fifty-something, I’m more and more interested about where my food comes from, who’s producing it and how.

There’s no better place to find out than at a farmers market. So we’ve been frequenting them whenever we can. You might remember this or this.

As far as farmers markets go, the Inverloch Farmers Market is the duck’s guts.

The weekend before last we were invited to Inverloch to spend the weekend with my sister RH and her partner G. G’s family has a holiday house there in the seaside town and there was a weekend of good food and wine on offer.

RH and G are foodies. They love to create amazing meals from scratch, using quality products. They didn’t disappoint. From mushroom risotto to steak on the BBQ (with special house-made rub) to sticky date pudding with cardamom sauce, we were unashamedly spoiled.

But I digress.

A highlight of the weekend was the monthly Inverloch Farmers Market. What a delight! Despite the weather, there were dozens of stallholders and a fabulous village atmosphere.

Mr P quickly located the donut van and together we looped our way past growers, makers, creators and providores, all eager for a chat.

We grabbed some locally grown mushrooms and potatoes, Grey Box honey, a couple of potted chilli plants, purple (heritage) carrots, jap pumpkin, Indian-style butter sauce, duck and porcini raviolini, gnocchi and more.

We whiled away a couple of hours, savouring the sights, sounds, smells and personalities of the market.

We had a boot load of fresh goodies to bring home.

If you do decide to head to Inverloch for the market (a monthly event) leave yourself plenty of time to explore the stunning Bass Coast.

I can recommend lunch at the Red Elk Cafe.

Coffee and cake (and the view) at the RACV Inverloch Resort.

Farmers markets keep on giving, long after the experience. Since our return we’ve been eating like royalty: roasted vegies (Jamie Oliver style, you know: just mooshed up in a roasting tray with oil and herbs) and an amazing Italian Mushroom Soup (i found the recipe in Sally Wise’s Slow Cooker 2 book).

This soup is a definite winner and reheated a treat over a few days. The flavour was awesome or maybe that was down to the freshest, tastiest mushrooms I’ve ever savoured.

Here’s my house-made Italian Mushroom Soup looking as good as it tastes in one of my retro 1960s Guy Boyd ramekins.

Perfect, and totally inspired by the Inverloch Farmers Market.

Permission to play

May29

Being fifty-something, I don’t often engage in play and I’m wondering why that is.

A few days ago I read this article. It’s long and rambly and takes a while to warm up but I found it worth the effort. It’s about giving yourself permission to play, really play in a pure, carefree, child-like way. How long is it since you’ve done that?

The writer makes a clear distinction between play and exercise/sport. I hadn’t thought about that before.

It really resonated with me. Aha!

I thought about what adult “play” is … dinner parties, conversation over wine or coffee, BBQs, watching sport on TV, watching movies? (If I hadn’t banned myself from talking about sex on the blog, I might well add sex to that collective.)

Nothing child-like, carefree or pure there.

One of my most joyous times of the past few weeks was a spontaneous afternoon of kite flying with Mr P.

We headed down to the breezy common with a couple of dodgy, dusty kites we found in the shed. It didn’t matter that I was in skungy old trackie pants (with no makeup). It didn’t matter that the sky was overcast and the air blustery.

Everything was perfect for kite flying.

What fun.

We ran. And we ran. We chased the wind. We planned strategy. Up on the rise? Down in the dip? Cross-wind? Downwind. We collaborated. We fell down. We picked each other up. We laughed and laughed and willed those kites sky-wards.

What fun.

There was no ego, no competition. We were just playing. Like a couple of kids.

What fun.

By the time we were done, we were wind-blown, grass-stained and suffering from string-burned fingers. We were also exhilarated.

What fun!

Kite flying was also a bridge back to the past when Dad used to craft kites in the shed, from plastic sheeting and quarter inch dowel and ordinary old string. Our little house was smack-bang in suburbia but on a windy day you could usually spy a handful of kites on the sky-scape.

Dad was allowed to test launch the kites from our back yard, midst the rotary clothesline and threatening powerlines. We (my sisters and I) had to wander around the corner to the local reserve where we’d launch our home-made beauties up into the big sky above the footy ground.

What fun!

In the article above, the author talks about integrating play into your every day. Have you ever considered meeting a friend (instead of at a café for a coffee) in the park for a game of catch or to throw a frisbee?

What fun.

It got me thinking. Mr P and I walk a lot. Sometimes we even ride our bikes. But we’re always headed somewhere, on a mission, even if it’s only to clock up a half hour briskly walked loop to meet our exercise commitment for the day.

What if, instead, we bounced a ball to the park and then kicked it around when we got there? Maybe we could enjoy a swing or a see-saw while we’re there. Or a spur-of-the-moment game of chasey.

What if we simply took turns kicking a can along the street?

Even that would be fun. Because it’s pure and pointless. You don’t have to win or train or keep score. You just have to play.

I hereby give my fifty-something self permission to play.

Dancing naked with the hippies (or not)

Mar28

Being fifty-something, the notion of aging gracefully is not yet well-defined in my mind. Bit by bit, I’m putting it together.

When I notified my business clients (via facebook of course) that I was taking a short break, heading to the north coast of New South Wales to get in touch with my inner hippy, I used this image for visual punch.

Photo credit: la gross mymy on flickr.com

A couple of my clients thought it was a photo of me. Frightening.

Secretly, I wished it was.

And so it came to pass that Mr P and I found ourselves in the heart of hippyland, at Byron Bay. Beautiful beaches. Lush rainforests. Backpackers, cheesecloth, hemp headbands and finger cymbals. What’s not to love? And we did love it, for a three idyllic days.

On our last day we decided to head out early (very early) for a farewell swim at the famous beach. I (not-so-neatly) tucked my wobbly white bits into my slimming black bathers. My spider-veiny, thunder thighs and tuck-shop-mum upper arms would have to fend for themselves. I donned a floaty (cheesecloth?) cover-up dress for the walk to the water’s edge.

As we neared the beach we heard music and came upon a large group of perhaps 200 dancers, all wearing red (mostly cheesecloth), and moving in fabulous choreographed rhythm to the soundtrack (which was supported by several enthusiastic bongo drummers).

A flash mob maybe? Eventually it dawned on us that it was Valentine’s Day and this was a celebration of free love (in the true spirit of hippy-dom).

About then, I looked down and noticed we were both (coincidentally) wearing red.

Serendipity.

We watched for a short while before heading up the beach, finding a quiet spot and stripping down to our bathers.

I looked down and noticed we were now both wearing black.

Serendipity.

As we reached the shallows I glanced back along the beach to where the hippies were doing their thing. Only a handful were left dancing on the sand. The rest were now frolicking in the shallows, still choreographed, but no longer in a sea of red … they were naked. I could see others throwing off the shackles of their cheesecloth and running for the water to join in the fun and freedom.

The pressure was on. Others nearer us, couples and solo swimmers, went out in support, peeling off their bathers and nuding up for free-loving water play.

Tempted, I looked down at my spider-veiny thunder thighs and tuck-shop-mum arms.

There was only one thing for it.

I gracefully dived under a wave and made for deeper water.

With my bathers ON. Firmly (if not neatly) tucked.

Mr P followed.

Because sometimes (just sometimes), aging gracefully means keeping your wobbly white bits (and your pink bits) to yourself.

No matter how loud your inner hippy is screaming.

[Images of naked dancing hippies and my pink bits, you ask? Now, that would be totes inappropes.]

This post was inspired by a blog hop hosted by Generation Fabulous – the voices of midlife where you’ll find dozens of posts responding to the same theme – aging gracefully.

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Dearest Coffee Machine

Mar1

Being fifty-something, the reality of an empty nest has been on the horizon for some time.

Foresight was cold comfort when I returned from a recent holiday to discover that Boy Wonder (my last little chick) had kicked himself out of the family snuggery and into a new adventure with his girlfriend.

Don’t get me wrong … the possibility had been raised before the event. I guess I was in denial. That is, until I opened up the appliance cupboard and was confronted by a big gap where Boy Wonder’s coffee machine had once lived.

For some weird-and-wacky reason, that’s when it really hit home.

That’s when I knew Boy Wonder was really gone.

And ever since, it’s been about the coffee machine.

Dearest Coffee Machine,

I know you were never really mine.

You were only on loan until you made your way out into the world.

Just the same, I got attached to you (maybe even addicted).

I got accustomed to greeting you every morning and the little lift you gave my day.

As long as you were here, there was the chance of seeing you mid-afternoon, evening or even over dinner.

Sometimes we even shared breakfast. Or lunch.

Sometimes, you sat on the bench top and (together) we solved the world’s big problems.

Now, I miss the kick you gave my every day and I daydream about how to get you back.

Coffee machine, you have left a big empty space in my ~~heart~~ appliance cupboard that no one else can fill.

Not even George Clooney.

Wish you were here.

Love

~~Mum~~ Sheryl x

The fence philosopher

Feb27

Being fifty-something, I’m happy to grab my life philosophy and learnings when and where I can get ‘em. I especially love it when I discover them in unexpected moments.

Last year I blogged about our Year of the fecking fence. As I suspected, our fencing phase overlapped into 2013, though only just.

As soon as our neighbours gave the green light for our new joint fence, I went in search of a fencing contractor. Bill the fencer turned up promptly to measure and discuss the job then mailed me back a reasonable quote the next day. In our book, having dealt with tardy tradesmen who take weeks to arrive or even acknowledge your call, Bill was the front-runner. I didn’t mind his age (I guessed he was sixty-something), his heavy European accent or his struggle with English … I was after his fencing skills not his language skills. And he promised to build me a “schmick” fence.

Yes, Bill got the job.

Before: fecking fence

He arrived early on day 1 and set to work dismantling the old fence, digging the new post holes and finally filling them with cement and new posts before knock-off time.

Day 2 was forecast as a scorcher. By lunchtime, Bill had the horizontal rails in place and the temperature was inching close to 40 degrees (that’s 40 degrees Celsius, folks). I decided to give him the option of knocking off early and coming back to finish the job in the morning when it would be cooler. I tracked him down in our neighbour’s yard.

He declined my offer to head home.

“What else am I gonna do?” he asked. “Another fence to build tomorrow. I said I finish today. I will.”

I surveyed his work so far, noting (aloud) that it was looking good already and that it was going to look great with the palings on.

There, in the dusty dry desolation of our neighbour’s backyard renovation, Bill turned to me, looked directly into my eyes and said (in perfect English): “Nailing on fence palings is like dressing a woman or shaving a man … the finishing touch.”

Like Robert Frost, only different.

In that single moment I understood more about fencing-as-a-craft than ever before and I knew (for certain) that my new fence was, indeed, going to be “schmick”.

fencing, fifty-something, boomers, midlife, philosophy

After: “schmick” fence

And so it came to pass.

If you’re in the Geelong area and after a “schmick” fence with some philosophy thrown in, email me and I’ll hook you up with Bill, the fence whisperer.

A killer production of Arsenic and Old Lace

Feb5

Being fifty-something, I love to discover new and affordable experiences within a walking radius of home.

It gives me faith that if I’m ever asked to hand back my driver license (and that could happen, given my driving skill level or if anyone with any real credibility spies my feeble attempts at parallel parking) I’ll still be able to amuse myself within close proximity of the Mothership.

Ideally, and looking much, MUCH further into the future, some of these activities should be reachable even if I’m sporting a walking stick or a wheelie frame. (Just in case.)

This past weekend, we were introduced to a little gem that dovetails perfectly into the above category … the Woodbin Theatre.

This wee little local theatre seats roughly 70 patrons and is the spiritual home of budding thespians and Geelong Repertory.

Our neighbour had kindly organised tickets for us to see the Geelong Repertory’s production of Arsenic and Old Lace at the Woodbin Theatre, a teensie weensie facility hidden away in a mostly residential side street in the heart of Geelong West; the very same territory we went planking in not so long back.

At $25 a ticket and with the theatre literally five minutes walk from the Mothership, this was an easy sell. And who doesn’t love the rollicking black comedy style of Arsenic and Old Lace (I had only previously seen snippets of the Cary Grant movie version)?

We arrived at the theatre to be greeted by friendly, casually dressed staff and complimentary sherries. The diminutive bar was open for business and in the pint-sized foyer it was easy to spot acquaintances and friends (there were a few in the crowd; for a big city, Geelong is a small world).

The bells rang to summon us into the theatre and Mr P was happy to learn that he was welcome to carry his beer into the auditorium (which could be an overstatement) provided he poured it from the glass stubby into a plastic mug (supplied). Done and done.

What an intimate setting … we were in the second row and so close to the action that we might as well have been sitting amongst the actors themselves.

I stole a quick squiz of the program before the lights went down and discovered that the director had been amongst the foyer greeting party. He’d even sold us raffle tickets to win a bottle of elderberry wine (laughable if you know the plot of Arsenic and Old Lace).

I also noted that my old English teacher was amongst the cast, and that my old Geography teacher had had a hand in creating the set (which was quite spectacular and intelligently designed for maximum effect and function).

There was a quick intro and the curtain went up … well not really, there was no stage curtain, more a metaphoric rising of the drapery.

Without delay we were transported to another time and place by a cast of brilliant actors, perfectly rehearsed for both their lines and the physicality that is so much a part of this work. We laughed, and laughed … and then we laughed some more.

We laughed through a brief intermission (which was long enough for everyone to refresh themselves via the bar) and then filed back in for more giggles.

To say we were impressed is an understatement. We were gobsmacked by the professionalism of the cast and their crew (and the mix of young and old) … and by the character and community buzzing about the theatre.

More fun than you can poke a walking stick at.

And superb value at $25 a ticket. Yes, I’ll say it again: $25 a ticket!

We’re checking out the 2013 season and there are some doozies coming up including Miss Bosnia, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and Blackadder.

The tiny Woodbin Theatre punches well above its weight and is well worth a visit … for the free sherry, if nothing else.

New year … an enigma wrapped in a resolution?

Jan2

Being fifty-something, I’ve grown cynical about new year resolutions.

My resolve usually gets boxed up around the time of the Christmas decorations (during the second week of January) and remains elusive for another year.

This year, I decided to bypass the pretence of intent, to cold-shoulder the ten-step success schemes and turn a deaf ear to the media-led calls to take January by the balls.

I planned to ignore all the questions about resolutions and 2013 plans … and hope that nobody noticed.

“Stay calm and carry on” would fit nicely. Lazily. Steady-as-she-goes-ily.

Then a parcel arrived, just a few days shy of New Year’s Eve, and jolted me back to resolutions-ville.

The one device it contained summed up a simple plan that I can think I can live with for more than just a couple of weeks … hopefully for a year and much longer.

Yes, my brand spanking new solar-powered bathroom scales are a sign.

They encapsulate two key initiatives that demand my attention:

to be healthier
to be kinder (to the planet, to myself, to others).

Why do I need new bathroom scales, you ask? My previous ones were confiscated by my personal trainer about two years ago (it was a condition of her training program). Since I stopped training with her about 18 months ago, I have been in weight limbo … guessing, via all the usual sure signs, that I was regaining the kilograms but never really confirming it (until I sighted indisputable photographic evidence). I haven’t been able to bring myself to face my ex-personal trainer and retrieve my old scales. I know … I should confront that reality, but let’s not go there.

My new reality is here and it has a blinking (solar-powered) sun-face to remind me, each morning, that we can all do our little bit to help care for the environment.

So, my forward goals are nothing like “they” say your goals should be – no quantitative targets, no timelines, no KPIs (no, I won’t be reporting progress here – that’s a journey of accountability that doesn’t need to be shared).

Just my simple re-align the mindset stuff:

I want to be more, while weighing less.

I want to tread lightly on the planet, and tread a little lighter in my own shoes.

I want to smile broader, but be less broad across the beam.

I want to be more hippy (“keep true to the dreams of thy youth”), while being less hippy (if you know what I mean).

What are your plans for the coming year? May you shine bright and brilliant throughout 2013 … I look forward to reflecting some of that light back to you.

Book Spine Poetry #4

Dec28

Being fifty-something, I do some of my best soul-searching midst the library shelves.

The soul hunter …

I shall not want the promised world:

green-eyed demon trainspotting another man’s life

captive spirit

captive soul.

(Geelong West Library, 24 December 2012)

Earning a wedgie from my big-girl braggy book club pants

Dec23

Being fifty-something, I’ve learnt to laugh at myself. Goodness knows there are more opportunities to do so every day.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been busily telling anyone who will listen that I’m joining a book club in the new year.

I’m quite excited to be popping my book club cherry … it’s been on my mental bucket list (not this one) for many a year.

Now, I’m not up with the latest releases, the hip and happening authors, or who’s hot and who’s not in the literary world. I’ve fallen badly out of touch with all that over the last few years. My day job over here has me reading and researching all day long and by most evenings it’s all I can do to catch up with the blogposts from my favourites in the blogosphere or flip through a magazine I’ve picked up at the library after wandering purposelessly up and down the fiction aisles trying to look as if I have a purpose there.

When my new book club (did I mention that there will soon be a book club to which I belong?) buddies nominated the latest Barbara Kingslover release as our first read, I played along. I pretended I knew the author and her previous works (apparently there have been many) and have since been blithely telling all that I need to get hold of Barbara Kingslover’s latest novel so I can finish it before MY book club meeting in January (I may even have slipped into a braggy, Hamptons-kind-of accent).

Sure, I got some odd looks but I assumed people were intimidated by my new book club “status” or hadn’t heard of Barbara Kingslover. Plebeians.

Today I braved the big box retail centre to purchase said book. There is nowhere local that stocks it and I had brazenly vowed to support the book club authors by purchasing brand new hard copies (not e-versions) of their books. So I ventured into the fluoro-lit plaza and queued with the (other) literary types at the service desk.

“I’m after Barbara Kingslover’s latest novel Flight Behaviour,” I offered up (knowingly; maybe even Hamptons-ly). I spoke loud and clear, wearing my big-girl braggy book club pants on the outside, (over my stylish 7/8^th capri pants and mock moccasins) a la super-heroine.

The assistant looked at me oddly for just a second or two before responding, “Sure, it’s over here.”

I swished my cape and followed her to the front of the store.

There it was, piled high in the window display: my first book club read. Ever. It was even on special. Winning!

I paid for my prize and headed home (faster than a speeding bullet), planning to reward myself by cracking the spine after dinner.

Once home, I couldn’t resist. I slipped the novel out of its giant gaudy plastic plaza-branded bag and smugly rubbed my fingers along its embossed metallic cover printing, spelling out the author’s name, letter by letter, as if it were in braille.

B-a-r-b-a-r-a K-i-n-g-s-o-l-v-e-r

What?

It says KingSOlver not KingSLover. Doh!

How many times have I pronounced that name incorrectly (and seemingly with authority) over the past few weeks?

How many times have people (kind souls) known but not corrected me?

Looks like my cover was blown long ago.

Not so smug now.

It seems my big-girl braggy book club pants have wedgied me.

From the inside.

Well and truly.

Not at all how I envisaged popping that cherry.

Close, but no cigar.

being fifty-something

the good, the bad and the brilliant

Tag Archives: midlife

“The night has a thousand eyes”

Locking in delish produce at the Inverloch Farmers Market

Permission to play

Dancing naked with the hippies (or not)

Dearest Coffee Machine

The fence philosopher

A killer production of Arsenic and Old Lace

New year … an enigma wrapped in a resolution?

Book Spine Poetry #4

Earning a wedgie from my big-girl braggy book club pants

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