This is the last watercolour picture painted today and the following poem from the storm the day before.
Summer storm Outside, deep air filled rumbles Echoed by pre-breakfast stomach gurgles Rapidly fading morning light rays’ Impeded by gloom grey clouds
Tinkle ping crash flash overhead Panes rattle in frames Storm’s expected to last for an hour Stan pants, shaking on my lap I type this on my phone with an index finger
Internet’s gone off, using mobile data Light rain increasing to very heavy in thirty three minutes The worst is yet to come
Drops pelt Hammering heavily on the tin roof High pitched whooshing increases ear pressure Tinnitus swells
Stan lies rigidly vibrating Momentarily stops awaiting the next sound On it goes seldom slows
I am pretty certain I read about crepe myrtle in Anne Rice novels, set in New Orleans, Louisiana. The first time I saw crepe myrtle trees in red, pink, purple, lilac, and white was when we moved from New South Wales to Queensland in 2018. Since then I have been fascinated by the council planted trees along the streets of Morningside.
I was heartened to see our next door neighbour has a hot pink one in the corner of their garden. It proudly displays its dark green deciduous foliage and cerise blooms above the dividing slatted timber fence.
With my watercolour painting, I am attempting to find my groove. I appear to be in an ovoid phase. Given I am at the start of a journey, an egg shape is perhaps apt.
The picture at the top of the post has seven elements signifying research analysis and deeper understanding. I cannot see the point for myself to paint reality as I can take a photograph. I wanted to paint a representation of next door’s myrtle tree. Working on the basis of the approximate proportional amounts of each of the colours, I light touch painted three ovals in pink, three tear drops in dark green and a surrounding oval merging the three colours.
The next step is to try a painting including the pale blue of the sky.
We had the latest COVID-19 booster on Monday. Alas my body continues to battle against the vaccine. After a restless night’s sleep of hot and hold and ruminating about getting something perfect, Tuesday’s aches and pains bring on listless pathos.
Knowing the side effects will subside, we opt for feeling wiped out in the air conditioned living room. It is just as well I made chicken bolognaise for dinner last night as today, I barely have energy to munch a finger of KitKat.
We usually have the shot on a Friday so that it does not impact the working week. No such luck on this occasion, I’m in no fit state for an hour each way commute for the weekly ‘contact day’.
I wonder if the overlords have made a decision about being able to work from home for the first two weeks in January. The new cross river rail service needs to be connected to the line I use. Adding an extra thirty minutes each way as the train terminates at Northgate then a bus service fills in the gap. I guess I will find out tomorrow.
Back in the eighties, I was gifted a set of Daley Rowney Georgian tubes of watercolour; I still have them. At the time, I was inspired to paint a hotel doorway in Whitby, UK and the view from riding pillion. I will post pictures of them when they resurface.
Over the decades that followed, I dabbled with watercolour painting. Lacking confidence because of my self doubt and fears of failure, of not being any good, and of looking stupid, I have hidden and stifled my art enthralled inner child.
Sixtieth birthday gifts included, Mont Marte A3 paper blocks and a compact Winsor and Newton Cotman watercolour set.
On the day of our thirtieth anniversary, on the way to lunch by ferry, we narrowly missed a heavy downpour on the Noosa River. The first picture is a representation of the malevolent view from our table at Lucio’s Mariner, Tewantin.
With a need to suspend my self disbelief, to allow my inner child to stretch their arms and reconnect with its creativity, I have opted to have a go at abstract painting.
The second painting is a section of my inner vision of the occasion, an abstract sky. Freed from the heavy constraints of assumption and expectation, it represents a lightness of hearts and a hope-filled future. My mind sees other shapes there too.
This conceptional style of painting allows me to experiment with the properties of the watercolour medium and normalises the reduced dexterity brought on by aging. It accommodates less than nimble and unintended jerky movements.
The third painting reflects a vegetation lined riverbank.
I don’t feel comfortable with the whole abstract image. My inner critic believes there is a disconnect between the ‘sky’ and the ‘earth’.
View through the bedroom shutters, Noosa River Retreat
Last Saturday evening we enjoyed a pleasant pre-dinner hour watching a cute dark haired, tattooed young bar person making cocktails. They appeared to be shy; glancing and rapidly snatching their deep blue eyes away from our vampiric gazes.
While seated at the bar, a waitperson wafted past asking if someone was wearing Égoïste. I threw myself on my sword, proclaiming, ‘tis I’.
They asked, ‘do you know what it means?’ ‘No’, I responded. ‘Selfish’ they said with a French accent. I looked into those dark harried les misérable eyes, unsure whether to take offence or not. My tendency to catastrophise had me questioning if I was being labelled a self centred person by association with a perfume.
‘It’s Chanel’, I mumbled. Then becoming defensive, I shared, it was the only fragrance I had managed to find that my skin did not cause to disappear or turn into something foul smelling.
Égoïste Platinum is the only eau de toilette I have worn since 1993. Considering it an extravagance, I seldom put it on and only to go out. A bottle lasts around ten years. As we were on a celebratory vacation marking thirty years together, I had atomised precisely three squirts from collarbone to collarbone.
Hazy pale blue emerges through layers of cloud. The sounds of the traffic builds as people go about their Saturday busy-ness. The area surrounding the pool looks invitingly clean after a heavy downpour. The orange-red blooms of the poinciana tree to the right of our suite reminds us Christmas is a tad over three weeks away.
My husband levels the pictures in the living, dining, kitchen; it is not yet seven a.m. We are on holiday in Noosaville for the third time this year. Preferring familiarity in these uncertain times, we are staying in the same apartment as when we were here for my birthday in October.
I’m looking forward to stretching and exercising away the tightness in my weary bones and muscles in the cleansing water and maybe some time for bubbles in the jacuzzi.
Our only commitments today are pre-dinner drinks at Apero followed by dinner at my favourite pizza place, 250 Grammi food and wine bar. We have an umbrella if more rain threatens, all set for the first full day en vacances.
In October, we enjoyed a couple of bottles of this cheeky nero d’avala rosato at the final lunch of my birthday celebrations, Whiskey Boy, Noosaville.
Pretty Boy proved to pair well with flame grilled chicken with a whiskey based jus.
A Google search revealed this delicious drop is from the Delinquente Wine Company, South Australia. The following is their story in their own words from their website. Delinquente Wine Company
‘Delinquente makes small batch, minimal intervention wines from Southern Italian grape varieties grown in the Riverland, South Australia.
We were born and raised in the Riverland, surrounded by vineyards and the mighty Murray River. Delinquente is our attempt at making the best wine we can from the place we grew up. Organically grown, minimal intervention, honest, hand-made wines that not only are great fun to drink, but represent the sun, the red dirt and uniquely Australian terroir of the Riverland.
The Riverland can be very hot and very dry, particularly through the vines growing season. For that reason, we’ve chosen to work with Southern Italian grape varieties – varieties that are suited to the climate, need less water and are naturally drought resistant, are late ripening and retain natural acidity. In this way, they are more environmentally sustainable, and allow us to make wines with lower alcohol levels but heaps of freshness and flavour.
Delinquente is “delinquent” in Italian, which speaks to our desire to always buck the trend, break rules and do things our way. To that end, all of the incredible artwork for Delinquente, from the labels, to cartons, tees and even gifs, are created by our good friend Jason Koen, AKA “Ankles”. Delinquente is his passion project, evident in the intensity of his hand drawn labels which pop from across the room, and the deeply important and personal themes that they speak of.
Sometimes you’ve got to heed the call of the wild child within.
Sometimes you’ve got to go home with a bunch of grapes who’re ugly as sin.’
My work colleague and friend introduced me to Malaysian laksa in a humble back street near the University of Technology, Sydney (UTS), Australia. Since that slurping lunch as the sun set on the twentieth century, I was was wearing more of my lunch than eating it.
After Thai food, Laksa has been my go to Asian meal of choice. I adore this soupy, noodle concoction of coconut milk, protein, fresh vegetables, and spices.
I had a line manager from New Zealand who had lived in Japan. They were surprised I was not so adept at using chopsticks. Well honey, all I need to be able to do is use them to extract the hunks of gorgeousness from the sauce and use a spoon, pleeeease!
This week these charming pink blooms popped up in the front garden.
Every day we are surrounded by life burgeoning around us. It is from this point of view I remember my youngest brother, Michael’s birthday. Yesterday, he would have been 51.
He was born six weeks’ premature at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Birmingham, UK. I remember Michael as a happy, bonny lad with dark curly hair and olive skin.
The last time my mother left my stepfather, Michael chose to stay with his Dad. This was the point we began to grow separately.
Michael became a New Age Traveller. Mom was always thrilled to welcome him and his friends with a shower, clean clothes and a hot meal. Although, she found Michael’s anarchistic beliefs challenging.
At 23 years’, Michael died of a heroin overdose at a music festival in Prague.
I regret not spending more time with him as an adult. The last time I saw Michael, he was an inpatient at a mental health hospital, struggling with extreme paranoia. Micheal was convinced people were trying to kill him. I can’t help thinking, maybe he was correct.
theINFP 