Precious magnolias of the Inner West, stayed somewhere different and strayed to new places.
The kids these days love a bar with no name on the door that serves fried chicken and craft brew, and I have grown old and turned to whiskey and wine, to seed and twine.
Projects continue all the time, little things here and there, the ever continuing curation of life, which is at the end of the day about what you allow into your head.
The weeks run fast and cold, and time is spent with those of the like mind.
Something b r e w i n g
Agnes De Mille speaks truth, words from a dancer of the past and the words come thick and fast from my hart to my hands, can write, but not read for great lengths of time, and wake in the night with ideas. In the best possible way.
Pegs and thread and shearling hides, waiting for the deer to arrive. Scrubbing and glycerin.
There are rainbows in the paddocks above the tropical grasses and the rosellas leave their feathers in the machinery sheds for me to collect,
Persimmons, jelly fruit of winter, with their pretty flowered tops and clouded bodies give delight with Whiskey in the Kitchen.
And a good treatment for the old boots,to get them through the frost
One of the chickens believes itself to be a quail, and lays tiny eggs.
And finally it is Winter.