Stacks and Snacks

Posted on July 13, 2019 by sagesomethymes

When I was a child I had to go to Italian School every Saturday morning. I hated Italian school. But I loved that afterwards I was allowed to walk to nearby Liverpool Library where my mum would pick me up after she’d finished her grocery shopping.

Each week I’d come home with a stack of books to read. I remember my delight at discovering Flambards by K.M Peyton, a series of novels about an orphaned heiress who is sent to live with her horrible uncle on his rundown country estate in Cornwall. Although I wasn’t an orphan, and didn’t have a horrible uncle, I still related to the main character, but most of all, I envied her the adventures she had to have to keep me turning the pages.

My other favourite books at the time also featured difficult quests and perilous journeys.  And whilst I’d outgrown the Famous Five and Secret Seven stories, I still dreamed of coming home from school to a luscious tea of scones, cherry cream cake and ginger pop, rather than a note telling me to peel the potatoes and take the clothes off the line. Instead I’d throw down my school bag, ignore the note, and curl up with the next volume of the Nancy Drew mysteries or the Trixie Belden Girl Detective series.  My only disappointment with these books was the characters’ lack of interest in food.

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Child Reading by Henry Lyman Saÿyen

Liverpool Library was where I learnt to browse and it was a skill that helped me through university.  During my four years at Sydney Uni I practically lived in the Fisher Library stack honing my unique research methodology. I’d bypass the catalogue (and the research topic) and simply  browse the shelves in my areas of interest. This was usually the 700 – 900s (Art, Literature, History), with rare forays into the 300s (Education) when assignment deadlines loomed. But on my way to those shelves that were loaded down with boring tomes on curricula and public policy issues in secondary schools, I’d have to pass 641.5 (Food) and so my essays would often cite some interesting sources.

Customs House Library, Sydney

To this day, although I love a good book store, I pop into a library at least once a week, browsing the shelves in the same haphazard manner that was so successful at uni and taking home a stack of books to read. City of Sydney is my local area so I’ve borrowed books from all of its eleven library branches. Each, with its own quirky characteristics, is a  little adventure to get to and wander around in. There’s Customs House Library at Circular Quay with its stunning spiral staircase and light filled reading room full of novels and people working quietly on their own books. There’s the modern, glass clad Surry Hills branch on busy Crown Street, which contrasts wonderfully with the older historic buildings that house the Waterloo, Newtown and Glebe branches of the library. And soon the Haymarket branch will move to a brand new reading nest housed in a timber spiral, designed by Japanese Architects Kengo Kuma & Associates. 1

The new Haymarket library in the The Darling Exchange by Kengo Kuma. Source: City of Sydney

But if I was going to give a Best Library prize it would go to Woollahra Library, which I’m still a member of despite having moved out of the area. It houses an excellent collection of both fiction and non-fiction and an enormous number of new books.  Best of all, the Double Bay branch has a giant red slippery slide connecting two levels of the library. It made carting my books to the borrowing kiosk a scream, until the library ladies told me to shush and let the children use the play equipment. So lately I’ve been visiting the Watsons Bay branch instead. It’s in a tiny house on the waterfront in this charming seaside hamlet and although there are no slippery dips, and very few books, it’s the most fun of all the libraries to get to – just a quick trip across the harbour on a ferry.  And if my adventure on the sea makes me hungry I can always stop at Doyles on the Beach for a light snack; for their famous fish and chips or a seafood chowder, or the dark chocolate brulee with a side of mint gelato and home made biscotti.

Robertson Park, Watsons Bay

I often wish that I lived on the north side of the harbour, then I’d be a member of the Lane Cove Library. I had the pleasure of attending an event there once and was gobsmacked by their collection. But even more memorable was the bus trip I took to get there. At Wynyard, I missed the 285 Express via the Freeway, and boarded a bus that also said it was going to Lane Cove, via the scenic route, I soon discovered. Although I arrived late for the event, sadly missing the canapes and bubbly that had been served to welcome guests, I didn’t regret my 55 minute journey along tree lined winding roads, complete with enormous mansions, high above the loopy inlets of the Lane Cove River.

But ironically one of my favourite libraries is a place where I’m not allowed to borrow any of the books. This just enhances the adventure of visiting the Mitchell Library which houses the magnificent collection of manuscripts, maps and pictures donated by David Scott Mitchell in 1907. You can look at these, if you book ahead and specify exactly what you want to examine, but you can’t touch. You’re asked to put your belongings in a locker, keeping only a pencil and notepad with you, and then you’re given white archivist gloves with which to turn any pages. The librarians have eagle eyes, instantly spotting any wrong doing. They immediately rush out from behind their desk to scold you and threaten eviction. Luckily, it’s part of the State Library, so when you are inevitably evicted, you can meander into an exhibition, or better still, visit the cafe and gift shop which are filled with lovely things that you are allowed to eat and touch.

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Mitchell Library Reading Room

I keep a list of libraries that I would love to one day visit. The list includes the British Library, which I actually have visited but don’t remember. It was straight after uni, after a year on a full time teacher’s wage, and sadly I was much more interested in London fashion, and how much of it I could cart home, than in looking at Shakespeare’s First Folio, or hand written originals  of Alice in Wonderland and Beowulf.  It’s now as lost to me as the Great Library of Alexandria, another on my list, and one of the most magnificent libraries of the ancient world. Tragically much of it was destroyed by fire in 48 BC, the rest was wrecked by revolution in 275 AD.  I’d also love to visit the New York Public Library as featured in The Day After Tomorrow, one of my favourite block buster films about the end of the world. But each time I think about splurging on the air fare I decide to buy another iTunes card instead and watch one of the fifty films and TV shows that have been set in this beautiful building.

Map Division Room, New York Public Library

So perhaps I’ll have to content myself with exploring two libraries closer to home and more fitting the current style of my budget. I’ve been told that both Katoomba Library in the Blue Mountains and Kiama Library on the South Coast are beautiful spaces with  stunning views. One looks out onto the blue of Storm Bay with the Pacific Ocean twinkling beyond. The other apparently has panoramic views of the misty peaks and valleys that surround the town . Each is a two hour train trip away – perfect for curling up with a good book and and a little bite to eat. But how to choose which to visit first?

Once again I turn to  my childhood reading for inspiration. What would George, Anne, Julian, Dick and Timmy the dog do? They’d either toss a coin, or choose alphabetically. Katoomba it is! They’d have a jolly good breakfast before they left home and pack some scrumptious snacks for the train ride. Then, on arrival in this high mountain town,  they’d visit one of the six bakeries and patisseries to get a few essentials for lunch. And after a good browse in the library they’d pop into the two delicious bake houses at nearby Blackheath for supper supplies. Then they’d do it all again the next day at Kiama which also has six bakeries!

So these are some of my favourite book places. What are yours?

The slippery slide at Double Bay Library

Sources and images:

1 https://news.cityofsydney.nsw.gov.au/articles/new-library-at-darling-square-to-take-flight-in-2019

Attributions via commons.wikimedia.org: Henry Lyman Saÿyen: Child Reading; Customs House Library staircase by Jason7825; Watsons Bay by Adam J.W.C.; The map division room of the New York Public library by GK tramrunner229

Image of the new Haymarket library in the The Darling Exchange by Kengo Kuma, courtesy of City of Sydney

All other images authors own.

Posted in Habitat, Spirit of Place, Uncategorized, What Are You Reading? | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Lepidoptera

Posted on April 7, 2019 by sagesomethymes

Did you know that a lepidopterist is an entomologist who studies butterflies?

But what is someone called who kills butterflies?

A little while ago I realised there was a problem with my Lime. It’s three years old and lives in a terracotta pot on my balcony. With a lot of care and nurturing I’d finally coaxed it to bear fruit. Four tiny limes had formed beneath the waxy yellow-white blooms that had recently flowered. I was excited. So you can imagine my distress, when on one of my morning inspections, I noticed that something had munched about a third of the tree. I could now see the street where before there had only been dark green foliage. I was livid. So you can imagine my delight, when a few days later on a mid-afternoon meander around my potted garden, I spotted the culprit. A small but savage ogre, with a scaly chocolate, caramelly coating of miniature horns, spiking out from all over its body, was the villain responsible for the potentially fatal damage to my citrus sapling.

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And then my heart lodged in my throat as I spotted the rest of them, stationed like an army of vicious little dragons all over the tree. There were at least ten of these two-toned titans splayed against the bottle green lime leaves that were left. Someone said they resembled bird droppings: maybe without your glasses, and from a long way away. And bird droppings would’ve been a cinch to flick off. But when I tried to gently nudge one of these small thieves off the leaf it reared up at me, with its fangs stretched wide, spitting vitriol. Perhaps I exaggerate a little, but the monstrous little leviathan refused to budge.

So I took action, as any good gardener would to protect their domain. And in so doing I did sacrifice a fair few more leaves of the tree but I felt the means justified the end. Taking a deep breath I mustered my courage and quickly plucked the leaf that the barbarian still gripped, from its branch.  With a firm flick of the wrist, I hurled it over the balcony and down onto the footpath below, checking for passers by as I watched it tumble away.  And then I did the same for each of the other leaves that harboured these beasts.  I would have to keep a careful eye out from now on for the return of danger, as it wouldn’t surprise me if these brutes were capable of crawling up several stories of brick wall to get back into my tree.

In between my hourly border patrols on the following days, I delved into the online world of caterpillars to try to understand why my citrus plant had been attacked. And that’s when I discovered that I’d committed lepidopteracide. My scaly monsters were actually the larvae stage of butterflies. Suddenly I was flooded with memories and knowledge from childhood. What kind of idiot doesn’t know that a caterpillar turns into a butterfly or moth? Remember cocoons? And who could forget silk worms? Oh how we consign the world to oblivion! How we become hardened and criminal as we age! My ravenous little chewers were actually the instar or pre-pupa stage of the Papilio aegeus, or Citrus Swallowtail Butterflies. Probably named after King Aegeus of Ancient Greece1.

I was horrified. You can imagine my anguish as I read that these were just the innocent immature larvae who would’ve turned green with white or pink markings once mature, growing to a maximum length of 45 mm. Then they would’ve deftly attached themselves to the leaf via a silk cocoon and spent weeks or even months (depending on the temperature) in this trans-formative stage, before emerging as adult butterflies, with black and yellow markings, and red and blue eye spots.

Oh what a fiend am I!

To have selfishly destroyed these winged beauties (albeit in their ugly, horny stage). And particularly in these despairing times when pesticides are already killing off thousands of bees and butterflies, these creatures are essential for the pollination of our plants and the creation of our agricultural food bowls. Oh, to have added to this tragedy of the commons (albeit unintentionally). Oh wail and weep. What to do! What to do! How to make amends? If I had a first born child I’d gladly offer it to the gods in recompense!

I was devastated. So you can imagine my surprise when a few days later, miraculously, as I have no offspring to bargain with, the universe answered my call, and a Faustian pact was born. The life of one of my other young trees would be sacrificed in exchange for the return of the Papilio aegeus to my garden. Well the message wasn’t delivered in quite so many words. But I gleaned the general meaning when one evening I stepped onto the balcony to pinch a leaf from my baby curry tree for the vegetable casserole I was stewing, only to find an immature caterpillar rearing at me once more. No wonder they are so admired in lepidopterist circles. Not only are they handsome but they’re smart enough to avoid the tree of death and find something new to chew on.

So I have now fulfilled my part of the bargain and let the little monster be. It sits and chews all day and seems to sleep on the underside of the leaf at night.  I look forward to seeing it transform through its various stages. But just in case younger generations are dumber, and decide to re-colonise the Lime tree, I have a strategy. I will still pick them off, leaf by leaf, but this time I’ll place them carefully in a box and transport them to a new home. According to Wikipedia2, caterpillars feed on the leaves of the Rutaceae family of plants, commonly known as rue or citrus. All I have to do is find a common orange, Finger lime, Australian willow, lanolin bush or pot of parsley that is anywhere but on my balcony. Actually my mother has a full grown lemon tree. And now that I think of it, the neighbour has a rather lovely kumquat.

1http://lepidoptera.butterflyhouse.com.au/faqs/glossary.html#instar

2https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rutaceae

Images: 1. sagesomethymes; 2 Orchard Swallowtail butterfly by Summerdrought via wikimedia commons; 3 Lemon Tree by Fastily via wikimedia commons.

Posted in Habitat, My Mother and Me, The Animal Kingdom, Writing Nature and Place | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Like living on a yacht

Posted on March 30, 2019 by sagesomethymes

The windows of our one bedroom flat open to both the south and north. In the early hours of the morning after a hot summer day I hear the cords rattle against the blinds, like rigging slapping the mast of a yacht. Then I hear the rustle of the scout breeze, the warm air that’s travelled ahead, and feel it wash over me. It’s pushed north by the Southerly behind it, which comes roaring through a few minutes later.  I pull up the blinds and the rooms fill with newly chilled air. Loose notes fly off the desk, calendar pages turn, and the corkboard tumbles off the shelf onto the floor. Suddenly this six story apartment block feels like a small boat on an open ocean.

Recently I was reading Elaine Bunting’s description of the mental map of sounds you develop while living on a yacht. “…a change in the usual symphony of noises can tell you when something is wrong. No matter how deep your sleep off watch, the slightest new sound or change of frequency will wake you instantly.” 1  Even though I don’t live on a yacht I can relate. Our kitchen is so small, just a bench and sink in a pantry space off the lounge, it’s like a galley. In fact the whole apartment is so small that, what with the wind blasting a gale around the balcony and the sounds of the suburb marking the hours like a ship’s bell; it does sometimes feel like we’re living on a boat.

Some mornings I wake up to the blast of a fog horn. I know instantly that it’s the cruise ship season and that there is thick mist on the harbour. Once a week I’m woken by the bells of the Greek Orthodox Cathedral ringing in parishioners, and I know instantly that it’s Sunday. But my usual morning wake up call is via the flock of resident lorikeets that begin to screech for their breakfast in the neighbour’s eucalypts as soon as the sun comes up, and I know instantly that I’m not going to get anymore sleep. Luckily there are also the delicate curlicues of currawongs, and on cloudy days, the ‘aaaahhh, aaaaghhh, aaaarghh’ of a raven, to round off the symphony of sound that brings me back to consciousness most days.

During the day I’m very much surrounded by land sounds.  There’s a lot of foot traffic outside the south windows. As I sit at my desk typing I’m often privy to the traumas of passers by, usually expressed through loud conversations on their mobile phones, or as a desperate soap opera conducted by yelling back and forth across the road. This is the soundtrack of poverty and drug addiction in a sometimes sad and desperate suburb. I don’t usually hear the whole conversation though, thanks to the constancy of traffic and the roar of the bus as it pulls to a stop. And luckily there is also the squeal of children in the school across the road signalling that it’s time to put on the kettle or eat lunch. Most afternoons I also hear the clip, clop, clip, clop of the mounted police horses as they make their dignified way up the street. An hour later I hear the same ambling gait echoing down our back lane. I once read complaining letters in the local paper that the police were not cleaning up after their horses. According to the Daily Telegraph, who also got into the act, a police spokeswoman said, “The waste from horses is often sought by members of the public for their gardens.” 2 I should leave my desk more often to avail myself of this free local produce for my pot plants and so indulge my sense of smell as well as sound.

In the evenings, as I prepare dinner in the galley, all the cool little bars on our street are open and there is a lively buzz in the air. And as I’m trying to fall asleep I know it’s midnight when the closing time laughter and shouting spills out onto the street as patrons walk to the station or stand chatting while waiting for an Uber. If I’m still lying awake in the early hours of the morning, listening to the creaky squeak of a fruit bat flying by, I’ll hear the first train horn on the railway line and know instantly that it’s four-thirty am.  I can try to get a few hours of sleep or I can get up and enjoy the unusual silence emanating from the street.

Like the ship’s bells that regulate routine at sea, these are the sounds of my suburb that whirl around me wind-like, night and day, anchoring my sleeping and waking hours with the knowledge of exactly where I am and what time it is. So I don’t need a watch but I have invested in a pair of ear plugs thanks to the advice in Elaine Bunting’s article. “Being attuned to changes in sounds is such a useful skill that many skippers sailing on long passages offshore forbid crew to listen to music on earphones while on watch. …That said, you can’t visit any length on board a crewed yacht without stashing away some good earplugs in your wash bag. These are among the best value bits of nautical equipment you will ever buy. There are times when their magical ability to extinguish a cacophony of noise, especially the man made ones, is absolutely priceless.” 3

Quotes

1 & 3  https://www.yachtingworld.com/blogs/elaine-bunting/listening-noises-board-yacht-mean-60517

2  https://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/newslocal/central-sydney/nsw-police-have-defended-the-right-of-horses-to-poop-in-sydneys-city-streets/news-story/fcef691d470843e98d0b138e10d01a95

Images via Wikimedia Commons: 1. Sailing Boat, Evening Effect  by Claude Monet;  2. Container Garden by saskia; 3. Peacemaker ship’s bell by Doug Coldwell;

 

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Imaginary Good

Posted on January 14, 2019 by sagesomethymes

“Why is it, that doing something, is so much harder than thinking about doing something?

This fascinating existential question confronted me recently while I was thinking about my mother’s solar panels.

She lives in a suburb where roofs outnumber trees 10:0.  A perfect place to harness the power of the sun. I’d been telling her for a while now that it would be good for both the environment and her hip pocket to install solar panels. Together we’d sit at her kitchen table, eating her delicious Olive Oil, Fennel and Chilli Biscuits, and drinking a glass of her home made wine, as I pointed out that she’d be able to run her air conditioner all day and save money on her electricity bill at the same time. To myself I’d think, “Why doesn’t she just get them?” To her, I’d say, “Why don’t you just get them?” But I’d return on my next visit, and the one after that, and still her roof remained bare of photo-voltaic membranes.

Then one day, during one of these conversations, trying to be extra helpful, I said, “Why don’t you ask someone who’s already got panels on their roof to tell you how they did it?” Frankly I didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of this herself. Well it turns out she had. She told me all about feed in tariffs; and that you have to use all your appliances in the day time, because that’s when you’re using the electricity you generate, but at night, you’re using electricity from the grid, so you pay for it.

“So if you only use electricity in the day time, you’ll never pay an electricity bill again?” I asked.  Although it didn’t make any sense to me, I was quite excited by the idea.

But she explained that it was a little more complicated than that. You could also get a battery she told me. And then you could store your electricity and use it at night.

“Wow,” I said.

But batteries are very expensive she said, so that was out.

Although my mother now had a lot of information, she still hadn’t done anything about getting solar panels. Just as I was wondering why, if she really wanted them, she didn’t just get them, she handed me a leaflet. It was one of those ads that gets shoved into your letterbox, the type that most people are too busy to look at, so put straight into the recycling bin.  But my mother, being retired, had not only kept it, but also carefully examined it, and now she wanted me to do the same. It was an ad for solar panels offering a 50% discount on products and installation if you called the number NOW!

And suddenly I had one of those rare flashes of insight. My mother was actually asking me to install solar panels on her roof. Well, not expecting me to actually get up there and do it myself, but to organise it. I realised that she’d been trying to politely ask me to do this for weeks. And I’d thought we were just sitting around eating biscuits and drinking wine.

“Just ring them and get a quote,” my mother said. Was that a little frustration I detected in her tone? Was she, an Italian migrant for whom English is a second language, wondering why a tertiary educated first language speaker couldn’t make a phone call?

So because I’d disappointed her in so many ways so far in my life, by not getting married, by not giving her grandchildren, to name just two, I decided that this time I would come through for her. I would give her solar panels. Well, she’d still have to pay for them. I’d just organise it for her. There and then I appointed myself her solar panel project manager.

And so I rang the number on the brochure and I wasn’t wrong in naming this a project. Forty five minutes later, I’d inspected the electricity board, taken photos of the roof, checked out my mothers house on satellite maps, got out the compass to work out which way was north, and trawled through her last year’s worth of electricity bills, all so that the sales person on the other end of the phone could generate a quote.

But it felt great to take action.  And so I got straight onto the internet and found two more companies that installed solar panels and rang them for quotes too. They were stunned that I already knew that my mother has single phase electricity and an average pitch to her north facing roof. It didn’t seem to tweak with them that perhaps I’d done this all before.

After three phone calls I was exhausted. Just getting quotes for solar panels had taken all afternoon. This could takeover my whole life! I might never be able to lie on the couch, and just imagine things, again.

But just two years down the track, I’m standing in my mother’s front yard admiring the solar panels on her roof. She’s disappeared inside so I follow her in. I raid her biscuit tin as a reward for doing our bit in the battle against climate change.  Then I lie on the couch in her front room, with the air con blasting, sipping a glass of her home made wine and imagining a world where we achieve net zero carbon emissions by 2030, one roof at a time.  That’s when my mother comes in with a leaflet which she hands to me. It’s an ad for installing a solar battery. It offers a 50% discount if you call the number NOW!

“Just ring them and get a quote,” she says. “It is not so hard.”

 

 

 

Images: 1)  An aerial view of housing developments near Markham, Ontario, photo by I Duke – Wikimedia Commons;  2) & 3) Writer’s own;  4) Wayne National Forest Solar Panel Construction – Wikimedia Commons;

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Unsheltered by Barbara Kingsolver and other books that marked my year

Posted on December 29, 2018 by sagesomethymes

If you’ve ever looked at the world and asked yourself, ‘What the hell just happened?’ you’ll enjoy ‘Unsheltered’ by Barbara Kingsolver, one of my favourite fiction writers.

Set in Vineland, New Jersey, in 2016, we meet Willa Knox, a woman who’s just lost her job and whose house is literally crumbling around her. Meanwhile an egotistical, misogynist bully is about to be elected President of the nation.

“How could two hardworking people do everything right in life,” Willa asks, “and end up destitute?” 

We also meet Thatcher Greenwood and Mary Treat, in the same place 150 years earlier, scientists and kindred spirits, who battle the status quo in their small town.

‘Unsheltered’ is an amusing and engaging portrait of bewilderment. Of ordinary life becoming impossible. It depicts the fear of those who still have something to lose; and the sad realisation that doing the right thing, doesn’t make them right. But sometimes the path of loss leads to hope.

Kingsolver accurately measures the political and emotional pulse of our times and renders it beautifully on the page.

It’s been, for me, a year of delving into fiction and the discovery of new voices  whose works I’ll now avidly await. It’s also been a time of re-immersion into writers whose past work I’ve admired. Interestingly, both in my fiction and non-fiction reading, it’s been mainly an American year. And most, but not all, of the writers have been women.

 

Three novels that I loved, discovered while browsing through Basement Books in the Central Station pedestrian tunnel, were ‘The Cookbook Collector’ by Allegra Goodman, a luscious tale about two very opposite sisters and how they navigate love, death and reality;  ‘The Garden of Small Beginnings’ by Abbi Waxman, a very funny book about taking the risk to love and hope, and get your hands dirty again, after a terrible tragedy; and the sensual and spell binding, ‘Breath’ by Tim Winton: a tale of sex, the wildness of adolescence, and the  spiritual pull of the surf.

Another book that I spent a lot of time with, and that spilled its influence into my writing was an Australian book, although not entirely Australian in content, ‘A Place on Earth: An anthology of Nature Writing from Australia and North America’ edited by Mark Tredinnick. It’s a varied and sublime collection of pieces about places, both wild and the urban, and the magic to be found in our communion with landscape.

And ‘Thistles’ by Australian playwright Noelle Janaczewska is the book I intend to enjoy over these last days of 2018. It promises to be a humane and eclectic curio of place, plants, literature and the exploration of what it is to be ‘home’.

I hope you have enjoyed some splendid reading this year and wish you magic finds on the shelves of your local book store in the new year!
Posted in Book Review, climate change, democracy, Habitat, Spirit of Place, Time, What Are You Reading? | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Desire Path

Posted on December 21, 2018 by sagesomethymes

The clock on this silly season is counting down and I only have a few days left to indulge my passion for beautiful objects in the name of gift giving. I leave the house and head into the city but at the last minute decide to eschew the department stores and label name boutiques in the city centre and veer to its eastern edge, where I know I can fulfill my yearning for the artisanal, and my hunger for the hand made.

At Martin Place train station I follow the signs to Sydney Hospital and emerge just a few steps from Macquarie Street, opposite the statue of Il Porcellino. Right next to it is The Little Shop housed in what was once the Northern Gatehouse of the hospital. Run by the Friends of Sydney Hospital volunteers this tiny space is filled with a menagerie of crocheted animals, beautiful hand knitted jumpers and anything else you can imagine made from wool. Perfect gifts for newborns and young children and anyone that hankers after a cute animal toy. I buy my mother a knitted purple pig. A miniature of the statue outside I guess.

Emerging from this wonderland of yarn I turn left into the hospital courtyard and walk through to the Domain – the people’s park. A place of lunchtime crowds, outdoor concerts and, in days gone by, cricket games and soap box oratories (see Get on Your Soap Box). Following the path across this part of the city’s lung system, leads straight to the Art Gallery of NSW, which is worth a whole day visit and several returns, but today I’m just here for the Gallery Shop.

I browse the bookshelves packed with titles about art and artists, fashion and photography, classic novels and modern literature. I relish the beautiful collection of children’s books. There are also posters, prints and postcards, and original jewellery and artefacts that would all make wonderful gifts. I covet umbrellas, arty socks, scarves and bags; boxes of gift cards, diaries and calendars; and beautifully illustrated exhibition catalogues. Defying the temptation to load up, and grateful that it’s not yet Christmas Eve, I leave with just a small book by one of my favourite writers. This traipse is still in its early stages and I realise now I should have bought my little red shopping trolley.

Outside the building, after I admire Walter Vernon’s early Greek classical stone façade, I find myself at the edge of the green that spreads south from the gallery. A few metres away is Art Gallery Road, with its tarmac footpath, but before me beckons a dirt path through the grass. It runs past the Police Memorial and stretches on towards the Domain Car Park.  It looks like the kind of rough goat track that you might find in a country field.

I’ve read about these strange pre-roads. Town planners call them desire paths and they are sometimes referred to as desire lines in urban design circles.  They are paths “created as a consequence of erosion caused by human or animal foot-fall.”1  I follow this unexpected trail all the way to St Mary’s Road, across it is the continuation of my haphazard track, now a real asphalt path through the lower eastern side of Cook + Phillip Park, which sits in the shadow of St Mary’s Cathedral.

I contemplate a quick visit to light a candle and utter some prayers of gratitude in the gothic structure that towers above me but decide that’s a separate excursion, as is the Australian Museum that sits grandly at the top of William Street, when I emerge from the cover of Port Jackson figs, at the other end of the park. Besides, it’s time for cake.

I walk a little way east and turn left at Riley Street, discovering I’m not the only one craving sustenance. On the bench outside Flour and Stone bakery an older lady sits with two teenage boys. They eat pies. I can’t tell  if they’re her grandsons but I can tell that they’re eating the Chicken, Leek & Tarragon pie and the Slow Braised Lamb, Potato and Rosemary pie. She enjoys a Pannacotta Lamington.  Her eyes are closed and I recognise the look of bliss on her face because I’ve had one of these before, when a work colleague generously indulged us for afternoon tea. It’s how I heard about this amazing little bakery.

Inside a crowd of well dressed professionals, absconded from their offices, treat themselves to perfectly baked Madeleines while awaiting their take away coffees. There are also parents with children, tourists perhaps, or locals enjoying the first day of the school holidays, and rich slices of the Valrhona Manjari Chocolate – a baked chocolate mousse cake. When it’s my turn to order I scan the counter. The chocolate cake is gone. I can choose from Italian Christmas cake; old fashioned vanilla slice; hazelnut torte; pistachio, raspberry and rose tea cake; or a buttermilk ricotta and poached pear muffin.  I order the muffin and a coffee, and squeeze into a seat at the window.

Once suitably fortified I head back out to William Street and walk two blocks east along this grungy artery that connects the CBD to the Eastern Suburbs. Once the haunt of Kenneth Slessor’s “dips and molls, with flip and shiny gaze”2 it’s now a car hire corridor. There are also plenty of cafés, a chocolatier, a hospitality supplies shop open to the public, a traditional hardware store, and plenty of eating houses in the nearby streets. But I’m not ready for lunch yet. I’m headed to the corner of Palmer Street and the Australian Design Centre’s Object Shop and Gallery.

As I step inside I fall in love. This is the kind of place that inspires my inner artist, and gives me buckets of hope for the future of our little globe, and of course plenty of options to fill the Christmas stockings.  I wander through their current exhibition, Designing Bright Futures, admiring the ingenious and exquisite work of twelve emerging designers. I love Hannah Goddard’s Material Ecology, a hand made dress put together from ‘repurposed linen, silk, lace, and recycled wooden spools’3.

In the object shop I’m mesmerised by the whimsical ceramic houses of Central Coast artist, Keiko Matsui; the charming hand painted monsters by Emma Kidd; and Catriona Pollard’s beautiful baskets and, and, and actually everything else. Because I want to buy all the beautiful pieces in this shop, I get that this is the time to practice my slow, deep breathing, as I carefully step away from the counter, and nonchalantly back out the door. I will return, once I’ve trawled their website and worked out exactly what to buy, for who.

Back on the busy street I cross the road and walk up the gentle slope towards the famous Coca Cola sign to Grand Days, a vintage boutique and book shop whose name harks back to the 1930’s and a Frank Moorehouse novel that I love. There are luscious clothes, eclectic bric-a-brac, an entire room devoted to vinyl, and hundreds of books. I try on a pink and purple sixties shift dress and buy it, along with a book about a cat that visits a lonely Japanese couple and decides to stay. Obviously I have no problems making decisions about what to buy for myself. Just other people.

It’s now time to end this jaunt so I head to nearby Kings Cross station. I briefly consider walking back to the city via Potts Point, and the McElhone Stairs, down to Woolloomooloo, and back through The Domain but decide to stick with the train option. But not before I devour several Vietnamese rice paper rolls at AnNam Café on Darlinghurst Road.

Afterwards, as I meander to my train, I muse on the magic to be found exploring these old quarters of our city, becoming a true ‘citizen of the street’, as coined by Rebecca Solnit in Wanderlust: A History of Walking. Sydney, like many other cities, is a great place for roving afoot. If you can find the forgotten corners and pockets of one of its many suburbs, you can experience the heady delight of discovery and the return of wonder. And also cake.

 

 

1 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desire_path   

2https://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/kenneth-slessor/william-street/

3 https://australiandesigncentre.com/designing-bright-futures/hannah-goddard/

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Whales to Starboard

Posted on September 20, 2018 by sagesomethymes

“What’s there not to love?” Paul, my partner, asks. “Two days and three nights surrounded by the ocean; cocktails delivered to your deck chair, sublime sunsets and dancing the night away.”

But I’m thinking Poseidon Adventure and Titanic.

Then he tells me the price.

“Only $100 a night. That’s everything! Except drinks.”

Allowing myself to be swayed, I say, “Guess there aren’t that many icebergs in the Pacific Ocean.”

And that’s how I find myself on a cruise ship; heading out of Sydney Harbour on a Friday afternoon with no destination but the sea itself.

I’m relying on the 9 bars, 7 restaurants, 6 Jacuzzis, 3 pools, 2 theatres, 1 casino and a flying fox to keep my mind off the possibility of this 260 metre, 77 000 tonne liner sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor. But soon I relax and begin to enjoy life on board ship. A Strawberry Daiquiri while watching the sunset at the Ocean Bar. A Pina Colada as we while away the dusk listening to Jazz in the Quarterdeck Lounge.  And a Semillon, with dinner at the Waterfront Grill. Despite myself, I’m getting used to this more quickly than I thought possible. Later that night in my cabin, gently rocked by the almost imperceptible sway of the ship, I sleep like an infant in a cradle.

The next morning, after several coffees and a buffet breakfast, we walk the promenade deck. I’m mesmerised by the deep blue of the ocean. I could circle this ship all day. But alas it’s time for morning tea. On the lido deck some of our fellow passengers are already quaffing their liquid lunches. I limit myself to the sweets bar and choose a lounge chair. There’s very little swell. We might survive this after all. Soothed by a slice of baked lemon cheesecake, and the shimmer of sunlight on the sea, I doze off.

Suddenly I’m woken by an announcement from the Bridge.

“Good Afternoon. This is your Captain speaking.”

I bolt upright. It’s the call to abandon ship and man the life rafts! Thank goodness I paid close attention at the safety muster yesterday. And I popped my life jacket under the deck chair earlier, just in case.

“Apologies for the interruption,” he continues. “There are whales straight ahead of us, with a couple of calves. We’ll go about. So stand at Starboard and enjoy the view.” Sheepishly I remove the life jacket and move to the railing. I’m glad Paul’s playing shuffleboard on the sports deck and hasn’t witnessed my panic.

Then I see them: six humpback whales, swimming in pairs, two of them smaller than the others. They must be the babies.  It feels as if the ship has stopped. Around me, people have gathered, lining the deck, staring in silent wonder as the whales roll and play, spraying watery liquid from their spouts. We drift, quite close, alongside them.

Like us, these magnificent creatures are travelling north, but unlike us, they’re fasting. Living off their fat reserves until their return to the Southern Ocean for a summer Krill feast. As we watch, the largest whale lifts its tail clear of the water and slaps it back down onto the surface.  A collective “Oh” exhales across the ship. A moment of deep communion between these awe-inspiring animals and a pod of humans. Is this what the ancients meant by the grace of god?

Paul is beside me now. Together we watch the whales merge with the waves as the ship sails on.  And then it’s time for lunch. But as I turn away, a low bellow echoes across the water. The lunch bell? A siren? A whale song.

Later we stand at the railing until the sun slips over the earth’s edge.  As the remaining light seeps slowly away, and dusk deepens into twilight, I spot Venus, the evening star. Just risen, it hangs low in the early night sky. I think about my new Cetacean friends, swimming through the dark waters, and wonder how our species can bear to pollute these oceans. How can we stand by as the ice caps melt and the Krill disappear?

Back on shore a few days later, I’m waiting for my takeaway coffee. The ground seems to sway slightly and I’m back on the boat, reliving that soul stopping moment watching the whales. Then my name is called; I grab my latte, my mind already in the office, as the baleen dream dips away over the horizon behind me.

Whale image unfortunately not the author’s own 
- By Christine  Zenino from Chicago US via Wikimedia Commons
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The windswept doorstep of the year

Posted on August 30, 2018 by sagesomethymes

August is almost over. And so is winter. I’ve loved the slowly lengthening days that carry the hope of spring. The newly lit hours that creep in after the solstice always seem so familiar; like a lost memory returned, promising warmth. But the nights are still chilly, and although during the day the sun is warm, the shade is bitterly cold. As I round the corner at the bottom of my street the wind suddenly cuts raw across my face. It’s an icy alpine gust. Although it’s not actually snowing here I have no trouble imagining it covering the ground somewhere to the south.

This wind is like a quirky local character; its furious whistle follows me around, and indoors it hovers at the edge of my conscience. When I wake in the mornings I lie in bed watching it play in the Lilli Pilli outside the window. And as I wash the dishes in the evenings, I see it again, this time from the kitchen window, capering in the Crow’s Ash on the footpath. But usually I just feel the freezing gale that races up the ridge of the hill our street is on.

We first moved here in late August and on the first day I opened all the windows wide. The purifying south winds swept through the house like auguring spirits. At the time I thought this was just the way of this place and nicknamed it the windy suburb. But as the months went by I realised the winds were both seasonal and directional. In spring the warm northern zephyr floats freely through the house, but in summer it transforms into a hot, dry, north-westerly that feels like it’s traveled directly from the Strzelecki Desert. I can see why 17th century  navigators were inspired to draw up charts that captured the cardinal winds in the imagined stillness of a compass rose.

There’s an old saying that August is the windiest month of the year. And as if to fulfill this promise, each year the sharp southerly, bringing snow wind from the Southern Alps, arrives right on time in the early days of the month. Les Murray put it beautifully in the first stanza of his poignant poem, A New England Farm, August 1914.1

“August is the windy month,                                                                                                           The month of mares’ tails high in heaven,                                                                                    August is the fiery month,                                                                                                                The windswept doorstep of the year.”

And Aunty Fran Bodkin, a descendant of the D’harawal people of the Bidiagal clan and educator of ancient D’harawal knowledge at UWS, tells us in her perpetual calendar that August is “cold and windy: build shelters to face the rising sun; time to begin the journey to the highlands along the rivers; plenty of fish.”2 But interestingly according to Sydney’s weather bureau records the windiest month is actually November. Perhaps August is just the first of the windy months.

Despite the Antarctic sting of the wind, this eighth month of the year is one of my favourites. I love that the sun comes up now well before seven and doesn’t set until almost half past five. There have been sudden days of heat, reminiscent of summer. One day, quite early in the month, the thermometer reached a scary 26 degrees, bringing the fear that Spring was here too soon. And reminding us that climate change is upon us. But then thankfully the month lapsed back into an intense icebox cold.  Perhaps these fluctuations are just the rhythms of this place; the adjustments at the edges of the seasons. The British imported the idea of four fixed seasons but the Dharawal previously recognised six seasons in the Sydney region. But even within the European tradition there was local variation. The new season started at the beginning of a month, but my father, who hailed from Southern Europe, insisted that Spring and Autumn began on the equinox.

The birds however follow no human calendar. For them August is the month where they emerge from their winter quiet with a flurry of nesting activity. Except for the Rainbow Lorikeets for whom every month is just the season of screeching. At dawn they shout from the branches of the paperbark in the back yard before flinging themselves onto the neighbour’s balcony railing. Seeds were once left out for them overnight so each morning now they scream for their breakfast.

But as the month has deepened the Currawong calls now ring out like medieval church bells; a deep, rich, melodic caroling outside the window. A much lovelier sound to wake to  than the shrieking of the Lorikeets.  The pesky parrots have been a little more civilised ever since the larger passerines have arrived. I remember this time last year surprising a Pied Currawong in my blueberry pot helping itself to the handful of purple berries that had sprouted. They were named bell magpies for their calls in the early days of European colonisation. They feed on small lizards, insects, caterpillars and berries. Some also take smaller birds. Perhaps the Lorikeets know this.

They are serious birds unlike the clown like Corellas that flock together at sunset, twenty or thirty of them, squawking through the skies in a swirling storm of white. Where have they been all day? Probably in some park tearing the trees to shreds. But luckily not in our local park where the Ibis rule. As I walk through each morning I’ve noticed that the Ibis are honking impatiently and pushing past each other to get at the sticks floating in the fountain. These regal water birds were revered as Gods in Ancient Egypt but are denigrated as bin chooks in Sydney. That’s because we usually see them foraging through the city’s garbage for food. But in our park they fly gracefully up into the Alexander palms and add their finds to their platform nest of sticks; an all day work in progress that ends only when they settle in for a quiet evening in the tree tops as dusk moves across the suburb.

It’s the Ibis and their nest building that remind me that August is pre-spring and come September we can begin to unfurl and prepare for the long warm months ahead.

 

1   A New England farm, August 1914 by Les Murray   www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/murray-les/a-new-england-farm-august-1914-0577012 

2  Aunty Fran Bodkin  dharawalstories.com/2015/09/24/perpetual-calendar/

Images [Public domain] via Wikimedia: Map of the Winds, 1650,Jan Janssonius; Brisbane City Council (Rainbow Lorikeets); Pied Currawong, Blue Mountains; Australian White Ibis by Fir0002/Flagstaffotos; and snow photo courtesy of Sharon Walker via abc.net.au.

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Dry July

Posted on July 30, 2018 by sagesomethymes

What is it about July that inspires abstinence?

This winter we’ve had the lowest rainfall in decades, amidst record breaking warm day time temperatures. It seems the weather gods have abstained from sending us any rain.

And there’s Dry July, the campaign to abstain from drinking for the month to support people living with cancer. There have been nine Dry July campaigns since its inception that have raised over 28 million dollars1.

But it’s also Plastic Free July2, a global movement that is imagining a world without plastic waste and encouraging people to not buy anything made from plastic for a whole month. It’s been around for a few years but this year the campaign seems to have taken off and the media is reporting on it. Coincidentally, because they are not part of the Plastic Free July campaign, this was also the month chosen by Woolworth’s and Coles to ban single use plastic bags.

We knew the ban was coming. There have been signs in the supermarkets for months and it’s been reported by the media as well. Mainly because NSW is now the only state that has refused to put a legislative ban on single use plastic bags. I guess we haven’t had to. Why regulate something that is going to happen anyway? The other states have done the administrative work and now these businesses have to comply. And because they make their policy nationally not locally, we get the ban too.

But it might have happened sooner if we’d legislated it. And it would apply to all shops not just the supermarkets that have chosen to do it. And like the container deposit legislation that’s now in place, it would have suggested a pro-active environmental agenda. But democracy is complex. In all the great civil movements, it’s the people, not the parliaments that have led change. Legislators formalise the mood of the nation, they don’t usually create it. And that can be a good thing. After all the alternative to democracy is dictatorship.

But no matter how the ban has happened, I’m so glad it has. And although there’s a long way to go before we get rid of plastics, or recycle them entirely, we’re finally thinking about the turtles. And the hundreds of thousands of other marine mammals and seabirds that ingest, or get entangled in, the eight million tonnes of discarded plastic that enter the oceans each year’3.

Albatross-Full-of-Plastic-2

But this transition to no more plastic bags has not been simple. Having to remember to bring an alternative bag when shopping is an enormous effort for the part of our brain associated with memory function. But maybe, like doing Sudoku puzzles, remembering to take plastic bags to the supermarket might stimulate the hippo campus, sparking a positive cognitive neuron response in that part of our brain, and triggering a collective decline in Alzheimer’s. However these positive effects might be forfeited if, when you forget your bags, you indulge in an angry rant directed at supermarket staff.

But perhaps remembering our bags is just too hard. Perhaps we should put our faith in fashion design. If we made clothes from plastic bags we wouldn’t have to remember to take them with us to the supermarket.

Plastic Bag dress

But there is hope. This July I have witnessed the resilience of ordinary people. On the first day of the ban, I witnessed an elderly couple at my local supermarket with a suitcase, something you might use if you were planning to spend six months in South America. They diligently filled it with their week’s supply of groceries and then carted it home across the park. Because I was following them, I noticed that they stopped to eat a packed lunch on the recycled plastic seats by the fountain. Could this be the beginning of a new era of resourcefulness amongst the population of Sydney? Alas the man behind me in the queue negated the good vibes by yelling, “Good on ya. Fucking stupid idea,” at the poor woman behind the cash register who’d told him he’d now have to pay 15 cents for a  plastic bag.

Brooklyn-Marina

Later that week I had lunch with my sister at a lovely seafood café on the Hawkesbury River and we discussed all things plastic. Is our food full of it? Is it really shrinking penises? And why didn’t the supermarkets actually ban all plastic bags not just the thin ones?

“Now they’ve got those thick white bags that will last even longer and cause more pollution. They should just sell the green bags and that’s it. Ninety nine cents big deal,” she exclaims passionately. I get her point of view and I agree with it. But at least a hungry turtle won’t mistake those 15 cent bags for jelly fish. And I’m just so gob smacked that this has finally happened that the critical part of my brain now resembles a stunned mullet.  I feel that this move is a harbinger of hope and we might actually do something in the near future about the environmental problems we’re facing.

Hope has been a dormant emotion recently. I guess that’s the survival mechanism part of my brain at work; that ancient, animal function commonly referred to as the ‘fight or flight response’. I’ve been choosing flight, or avoidance. It causes despair, a close cousin of cowardice. But now I think, maybe it’s just July; the deepest month of winter, the month of hibernation and abstinence. Maybe hope is still alive? I mean, a year ago, would you have actually put your money on a plastic bags ban?  But it’s happened. Quick, let’s move onto a ban on new coal mines!

simone-weil-harmony estate simone weil

But perhaps I’m just experiencing the manic energy born of sudden exposure to warmth and light caused by unusually warm days. Is this how a grizzly bear feels emerging from its winter sleep? And will this energy soon morph into hunger? For plastic. Because, as French philosopher Simone Weil once said, “Imaginary good is easy.” When you get down to the day to day reality of doing real good, it can be bloody hard. Only this morning, as I finished the last slice of bread and emptied the crumbs from the plastic bag it’s baked in, I searched in my stash under the sink for one of those jelly fish bags. I’ve been collecting all our soft, scrunchy plastics for delivery to the supermarket recycling bin. These soft plastics are turned into play ground equipment, park benches and other plastic items too big for turtles to swallow. But there were no single use plastic bags left in my cupboard. I’d recycled them all when I should have been hoarding them.

What am I going to collect my soft plastics in? What am I going to line my bins with? What am I going to use to tightly wrap the disgusting left overs that have been in the fridge for months? Plastic is very good for disposing of not just our rubbish but all of the ugliness of our convenience addicted consumer lives. An entirely single use plastic free world is possible. There are solutions. But how many brain cells will it require?

And then I looked at the calendar and realised that July was almost over and I could abstain from thinking about any of this for another year.

 

 

SOURCES

1 Dry July campaign – www.dryjuly.com

2 Plastic Free July –  www.plasticfreejuly.org

3 Ocean Pollution Fact sheet – sustainabledevelopment.un.org/content/documents

Images: Dead Albatross With Stomach Full of Plastic – www.environews.tv/world-news/video-watch-what-one-plastic-straw-can-do-to-an-endangered-sea-turtle/; Plastic Bag Dress –www.instructables.com/id/Dress-from-plastic-bags/; Hawkesbury River – noelex.org.au/broken-bay-nsw-anchorages/; Simone Weil © the estate of Simone Weil

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Yoga: an ancient Sanskrit word for humiliation

Posted on May 20, 2018 by sagesomethymes

On Sunday morning, instead of sleeping in, like any sane person would, I decided to go to yoga. I’d missed my usual Wednesday night class because I’d prioritised dinner with a friend, over exercise; like any sane person would.

I was the last to arrive. The instructor, who looked like an Olympic Gymnast who’d fallen on hard times and was now forced to teach at a community gym, beckoned me to the only space left.  I reluctantly made my way to the very front of the room and rolled out my mat right next to him. All the yogis would now get to watch two versions of the class. One for seasoned practitioners with triple joints, and elastic instead of muscle in their limbs; demonstrated by the teacher. And the other for people with no joints, and marshmallow instead of muscle in their limbs; demonstrated by me.

Suddenly we were off and working our way through a series of basic poses. Perhaps I’d been too quick in my judgement. Perhaps this class was going to be the nice Sunday morning stretch I’d envisaged in bed after all. We began with a simple Cat Cow to lengthen the lower back, followed by Plank which flowed into Cobra, and then back up and into Downward Facing Dog. So far so good. Then came a High Lunge followed by Warrior 1. Even though I hate standing poses, particularly the ones with frightening names like Fierce Warrior and Reverse Warrior, I managed to keep up. And then thankfully after an Extended Side Angle pose we came into a seated position on our mats. I’m a great fan of any pose that involves sitting or lying down.

With my legs stretched out on the mat in front of me I focused on keeping my back straight. The instructor told us to hug the right knee to the chest. Apanasana. Simple. I’ve done this many times before. Then he told us to take our right foot in both hands and rock our right hip back and forth. Good old Baby Cradle pose. A simple hip opener. Easy. After all I’ve been doing yoga for about twenty years. The image below however is not of me doing yoga; now or twenty years ago.

Then the instructor said, “Place your right foot on the ground. Put your right hand next to your foot. Now put your shoulder under your knee.” That’s when I became slightly alarmed. The top of my body does not usually fit beneath any part of the bottom of my body. Suddenly the instructions were coming thick and fast, mainly thick, me that is, as I was still trying to manoeuvre my torso closer to my foot. I looked up to see what I was supposed to be doing and for a moment I thought I’d swallowed a whole batch of hash cookies for breakfast instead of a slice of toast. Before me, the instructor floated above the ground, supported it seemed by an invisible thread. His legs extended at a sharp right angle from his torso, demurely crossed at the ankles, his head balanced serenely at the front. He looked like a complicated bow on a very well wrapped present.

The image above is not of my yoga instructor, but it is the pose which he was demonstrating at the time. And the image below is not of me, but it is the pose I was demonstrating at the time.

With a snort of disbelief, which did nothing to disbalance the instructor, I looked around the room. I was expecting to see my class mates rolling around on the floor, holding their bellies, tears streaming from their eyes, laughing themselves stupid at the ludicrous expectations emanating from this god of equilibrium.  Instead I was greeted by twenty pairs of eyes hovering above wrists, magically attached to pliant, supple limbs gracefully  balanced two foot above, and parallel to, their mats. Who were these people? How can I hope to make friends in my local community if these are my neighbours? What could we possibly have in common? I turned slowly around and slunk into a simple child’s pose.

Finally they all came back down to earth and we moved through several twists and then into the final corpse position. It’s a relaxation pose that involves lying flat on your back, breathing deeply and trying to imagine yourself anywhere but here. It’s called corpse pose because if you haven’t died of extreme humiliation during the class you’ll probably collapse from extreme exertion on the way home.

But luckily I think I’ll live to see another day. The image below is not of me just what I looked like after the class. As the old saying goes, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or in my case, stiffer.

 

 

Images courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, Shape, Mental Floss, and HYA blog

 

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