re-entering the atmosphere

I've spent the evening with this blog, trying to reconnect. I'm like a person in a long-term relationship, trying to rediscover what it feels like to be, once again, in the first pulses of love. A journalist once asked me to describe my blog and I called it "a love letter". Sadly, one day, the letters just stopped. Not because I didn't have anything to say. More like, I didn't really know who to send them to and I wasn't even sure there was anyone reading anymore. 

In September 2008, I started this blog during a rising crest of outfit-of-the-day blogging. We started off taking self-timered photos in thrift shop dresses, against rickety wooden fences, brightly-coloured murals, or wandering idly in fields of flowers. Back then, Rumi posed in Forever 21 mini dresses in front of her garage door. The years ticked by and the wave started crashing towards the shore. One by one, my favourite peers stopped blogging and I felt their absence like friends who one day, just stop talking to you.

There are some of you though who have remained faithful, still posting, still typing, still beaming out into the world. Now, you have pets, children, sometimes both. You're posting about home interiors and travel, not just those cute flats you bought yesterday or how to pack for a summer vacation. Each post I catch up with is a tinder and I am working for a spark.

Today, I realise that I cannot let go of my tiny corner of internet. It's a chronicle of a life - my life. And in a virtual world of unimaginable breadth and depth and size and volume, a tiny little life is nothing but also everything. Though no one might be listening, I can still keep talking and writing and communicating. Then maybe one day, my blog and I will fall in love again.

♥ Location: Lake Rotoiti, Rotorua ♥

to you and yours

To your hearts. They're broken every day and sometimes they mend. Along the crack and the fissures, you'd expect them to be stronger than before like bones that have melded together. But no. Those cracks and those fissures; sometimes they set in a way more fragile and tenuous than before. It's like a baby with an eggshell skull, knocking about, unable to avoid sharp corners. 

flowers for myths

I'm looking for a picture. I can see it in my head. It's of two teenage boys, one with wild, curly blonde hair, the other pursing his lips in the way people look when they're caught in mid-sentence. They stand in a high school music room and behind them, pinned up on the corkboard, is someone's school project on Beethoven. The one talking is wearing a t-shirt with the words Led Zeppelin and the lyrics to Stairway to Heaven printed. The picture is time stamped in orange: 6 6 '98. Today, I find out that boy is dead. 

waterfall bay

In 55 days I'm turning 30. I'm choosing to celebrate it somewhere in the Sounds with eight of my family and friends and my dog. 

I've got big ol' plans to take big ol' naps, pad around in a range of Kimberley River merino socks, play fetch with my dog, shout at everyone during games of Monopoly and mahjong, drink wine leftover from our wedding, mull some cheap red, attempt a clam bake, and cajole someone to make me the Lonely Garden cake.

In my search for the perfect house to rent, I came across this one. Which isn't for rent. So I'm dreadfully off task. But let's just take a minute to perve at this lucky person's house.

The Waterfall Bay House, Marlborough Sounds, Bossley Architects

first day of winter

I started this blog six years ago, riding the crest of the fashion blogger wave. I lived for your comments, dropping into my inbox like a never-ending lolly scramble. But like with anything online, real life interrupts and the gap between posts go from a day to months. The silence bugged me. Perhaps I'd outgrown it all? Some days, getting dressed and smiling pretty felt silly and vapid, instead of an empowering, fresh, exciting, and egalitarian approach to fashion which was what fashion blogging was all about in 2008!

Back then, I lived in a rickety old villa with my boyfriend who is now my husband, complained about mice in my flat, and dressed like Claudia Kishi from the Babysitter's Club. My husband took very many pictures of me in impractical outfits cavorting in flower fields, slouching around inner city carparks, and executing the classic fashion-blogger oh-what's-down-at-my-feet pose. I also took you guys with me on very many vacations. 

Through this blog, I've met inspiring, amazing, candid women who I still slavishly follow and talk to on instagram (Emily, Diana, Aline, Melly, Christina, Anna, Adeline, Laura). I even met up with this beautiful weirdo in Paris and we caused a whole lot of trouble. Some of you have been here from the start. We've emailed, sent packages, and commented on each other's breakups, makeups, tragedies, triumphs, and small joys. I've watched you get married, get published, score ads on TV and front row seats at New York Fashion Week. You've opened businesses, worked hard for promotions, switched careers, and just generally been amazing ladybosses and badasses. I've also observed you grieve, get knocked about, felt devastated at your tragedies, and read the posts where you've doubted yourself the most.

All that and imagine this - we've never. ever. met. Not once. Not at all.

This year I've flim-flammed between deleting this blog or letting it limp along. But today, I decided I can't let it go. Because, here's the thing, guys, it's you. I can't let you go. So let's try this again. You with me? 

Taken at Te Ahumairangi walkway and lookout

practice for readers

"But the problem with readers, the idea we're given of reading is that the model of a reader is the person watching a film, or watching television. So the greatest principle is, "I should sit here and I should be entertained." And the more classical model, which has been completely taken away, is the idea of a reader as an amateur musician. An amateur musician who sits at the piano, has a piece of music, which is the work, made by somebody they don't know, who they probably couldn't comprehend entirely, and they have to use their skills to play this piece of music. The greater the skill, the greater the gift that you give the artist and that the artist gives you. That's the incredibly unfashionable idea of reading. And yet when you practice reading, and you work at a text, it can only give you what you put into it. It's an old moral, but it's completely true." Zadie Smith (Bookworm Interview)

off the cyclone path

Being near the path of a cyclone produced once-in-a-lifetime monsoon-like weather. It was so humid, you felt like you were wearing another layer of sticky, hot air. The clouds purged themselves of torrential rain but, like a child throwing a tantrum, the downpour was over in a few minutes.

During the weekend, we huddled in various low-lit restaurants, keeping warm, eating well, and peering out the windows at the darkening sky. I had oysters, natural, then drowned in lemon juice and mignonette sauce. I couldn't stop thinking about them for the rest of the night.

Anthony Bourdain claims he had his life changed by eating oysters.

"It tasted of seawater... of brine and flesh... and, somehow... of the future. I had had an adventure, tasted the forbidden fruit, and everything that followed in my life- the food, the long and often stupid and self-destructive chase for the next thing, whether it was drugs, sex, or some other new sensation- would all stem from this moment."

{ x o x o }

other people's dogs

I always thought I'd end up with a cat (independent, suitably snarky, loves dairy). Yet, here I am with a black and white ball of fluff named Chester (or depending on mood - Chesty, Fluffball, the Molester, or Fatso). 

The first three months was TERRIBLE. The poor kid was barely 4 months, he didn't trust us, we didn't trust him, he didn't know what to expect, and neither did we. 

There was poo and piss everywhere except where it was supposed to be, the barking was so loud when you left him in a room by himself that your ears were ringing and you understood why, in comics, dads threw slippers at dogs. The classic activity of "walking the dog" wasn't the peaceful, happy idyll I'd imagined, but a battle of wills between me, the dog, the leash, and terror whenever realised I was outside without a plastic bag.

So every single day, he came close to being dropped off at the SPCA or being foisted onto a friend. Only our pride kept him with us. Raising a puppy would not break us. We were two intelligent people. This dog would not beat us. We would raise him and raise him well, or else...

My friend with a thirteen year old dog she'd raised from when she was barely out of university was reassuring. "Once they're trained, a dog is easy," she said. 

And I'm happy to confirm, she's right. Just like with anything worth having in your life, hard work resulted in a totally awesome seven-month old puppy who can high-five, sit, settle, come, shake, beg, up, down and everything in between. 

You know, falling in love is like owning a dog.... 

{Photos by Rob and yours truly} {Jersey from S'wonderful, Jacket from Kate Sylvester, Scarf is secondhand from Recycle Boutique} {Acacia branches & blooms, early cheers, and wild onion pilfered from the banks of the Upper Hutt river}

mad skills

Buying a central city apartment then promptly tearing it apart to transform it into something that's truly, uniquely yours is scary and stressful but it has become a constant source of pride. It's also a great opportunity to learn all sorts of new, mad skills. Like...oh, when you're painting, prep is everything. And sandpaper comes in different grades of coarseness; the lower the number, the coarser it is. 

There's also the long conversation we could have about the different types of curtain pleats and the advantages and disadvantages of each. I've even become quite opinionated about German brand dishwashers (Bosch or Miele. Invest!). Another thing - once, you switch to wood floors, there's no going back to carpet ever again. And switching off the power when you're changing the light fittings hanging from a 9-foot ceiling is a bad idea because when you drop that screw from the top of the ladder in the dark, there's just no hope of finding it ever again. 

benadryl haze

Notes for Sick Days

♥ Don't try to read Jane Austen. Too hard.

♥ Instead squint at books like Open Studios by Lotta Jansdotter, Modern Vintage Style by Emily Chalmers, and Garden of Eden by Walter H Lack. Oooo pretty.

♥ Antipodes Saviour Skin Balm is your friend. Get to know each other.

♥ Don't use three year expired Vicks. Won't work.

♥ Eat sandwiches and fruit with a side of nacho chips. Boosts morale.

♥ Kenzo Spring 2012. Do it if only for the Jason Schwarztman-ised version of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.

♥ Watch as many of these videos on this channel as you can. Like a lullaby or some kind of weird, Japanese cooking peace pill.

♥ Talking about Japanese cooking peace pills, try luxirare.

♥ If Homeland doesn't give you a reason to live, then don't ask me for any more help.

Remember when you were healthy and happy with tons of energy? Enough to cavort around a river picking flowers and chasing after bees? No? Here's pictures to remind you.

♥ Film and Digital Photos by Rob D ♥ Dress and Earrings from Glassons ♥