I have left Birdsong in a blaze of solstice-full-moon-eclipse glory, and after spending the night at a Christchurch hostel, Iam about to hit the open road for some much needed camping and tramping. This is assuming that a) my eminent car purchase goes through; and b) I manage to safely drive said automobile out of the city while remaining on the left side of the road. My stomach is currently contemplating this with a series of spasms.
Anyway, with the approach of Christmas, a holiday I love but am currently trying to put out of my mind, I am of course missing my family. And the sensations of over-indulgence in the food and drink imbiding. And the snow. And fireside naps on the floor. And putting my cold feet on my sister Isa's warm legs. And aggressively snuggling whatever fuzzy animal is around and willing. And the six to eight black men.
Every Christmas my family listens to David Sedaris's essay "Six to Eight Black Men" - which details the finer points of the Dutch St. Nicholas Tradition. It involves blind hunters in Michigan, the former bishop of Turkey, grotesque elves, former slaves, and a Spanish-speaking Santa. If for some horrible reason you are not already familiar, read it or listen to it immediately. Sadly, I cannot work the link from this interwebbing device, so you are on your own.
Be well, and happy holidays!
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Latest Book Review for Orion
Check out my most recent book review for Orion.
The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating
Good stuff.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
To Do List
Various tasks from the past week:
- Weed (around baby fruit trees)
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| View from the front porch |
- Sheet mulch (around fruit trees)
- Collect seaweed (for fertilizer)
- Collect wakame seaweed (for eatin')
- Collect wakame seaweed (for eatin')
- Weed (front garden)
- Mend things that need mending
- Help groom the poodle
- Build new raised beds
- Arrange floral bouquets
- Weed (back side-garden)
- Make jam
- Fill in ditch
- Fiddle with compost
- Fiddle with compost
- Weed (gully area)
- Prune peach tree
- Cook
- Weed (just keep weeding)
The illustrated version:
 |
| Kelp to feed the gardens |
 |
| Collecting wakame seaweed for salad |
 | |||
| The Poodle |
 |
| Le bebe alfalfa, clover, and meadow foam ready for planting. |
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Close Encounters
The following photograph is:
a. of jellyfish
b. of a flower
c. a figment of Dr. Seuss's imagination
d. beautiful
e. proof of alien lifef. looking at me?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
An Introduction to Birdsong
Greetings from Birdsong, my fabulous first (and most appropriately named), home-stay! For your locational reference, they are on Wainui Bay on the Banks Peninsula, about 1.5 hours southeast of Christchurch.
If I currently had access to a computer operating system that was born after 1999, I'd attempt to get all fancy with providing you with a fine, fine map to further illustrate my location. And if my dear, dear camera had not been pulled into the ocean by a cruel wave a couple of days ago, I might have set aside the necessary two or three hours of patience required to attempt uploading photos as which to dazzle you with as well. But luckily said Canon is currently buried in a bowl of dry rice, about as responsive as a rock, trying to dry out, and so I am not tempted to produce an illustrated account just yet.
That is all just the long way of saying... 1) shiiiit, and 2) hopefully at some point I shall have some photographs to share with you in addition to my rambling. But contrary to the start of this post, I am not in fact here to talk smack. Sooo...
I write to you from the happily chaotic home of Bruce and Kathy (and Nina, the young little poodle who looks like a lamb and often jumps into my lap at unexpected moments), ex-pats from San Fransisco. It's also the home away from home for a changing cast of characters and friends and WWOOFers like me. There are seven of us bumbling about this week, working on various renovations and horticultural endeavors. They're not an established farm, per se, but are rather in the process of getting things going. Most the work we've been doing so far this week is planting in the Permaculture Way, and working toward converting big grassland paddocks into sustainable, permanent Food Forests.
What does this mean exactly, you say?
Well, for the body it means sore fingers and cut-up wrists, and the persistent but hugely satisfying ache of backs and arms and legs. It means taking a hit out on the grasslands--rip, pull, pull, rip--around our little fruit-tree islands in an ocean of grass. It means hauling loads of buckets, sloshing with super vitamin water, with rich, composty dirt, with leaves, with grass clippings...
For the land it means converting poor-soil grasslands into lush, self-sufficient, perennially productive, and biologically diverse little eco-topias. It means planting a fruit or nut tree, then in slow, expanding circles planting various companion plants around it... good nitrogen-fixing plants like tree lucerne and lupine...herbs like wormwood, feverfew, hyssop, thyme, rosemary, clover, alfalfa, meadow foam, and bergamot... plants whose names alone invoke a soothing, healing feeling on the tongue that utters them. More on all of this later.
The house itself is surrounded by gardens teeming with flowers on all sides. Oh, the olfactory glories put out by such rosebushes, jasmine vines, lemon, and lavender! The buzz of bumbles, the fantastical whooshing wingbeats of wood pigeons, and the baaahs of neighboring sheep are always on the air. Past the flower beds, and past the veggie gardens and the out-buildings teeming with tools and experiments, are the woods and the creek. About 13 acres to roam here... a giant Monterey Cypress to climb (treehouse in the works!)... another native NZ tree, whose name escapes me at the moment, has been pruned into a giant, cup-shaped nest. I like to sit in there and pretend I am an egg. There are many secret little places here, faerie places. It is the perfect place to spend my first couple of weeks in the country.
I am very happy indeed.
If I currently had access to a computer operating system that was born after 1999, I'd attempt to get all fancy with providing you with a fine, fine map to further illustrate my location. And if my dear, dear camera had not been pulled into the ocean by a cruel wave a couple of days ago, I might have set aside the necessary two or three hours of patience required to attempt uploading photos as which to dazzle you with as well. But luckily said Canon is currently buried in a bowl of dry rice, about as responsive as a rock, trying to dry out, and so I am not tempted to produce an illustrated account just yet.
That is all just the long way of saying... 1) shiiiit, and 2) hopefully at some point I shall have some photographs to share with you in addition to my rambling. But contrary to the start of this post, I am not in fact here to talk smack. Sooo...
I write to you from the happily chaotic home of Bruce and Kathy (and Nina, the young little poodle who looks like a lamb and often jumps into my lap at unexpected moments), ex-pats from San Fransisco. It's also the home away from home for a changing cast of characters and friends and WWOOFers like me. There are seven of us bumbling about this week, working on various renovations and horticultural endeavors. They're not an established farm, per se, but are rather in the process of getting things going. Most the work we've been doing so far this week is planting in the Permaculture Way, and working toward converting big grassland paddocks into sustainable, permanent Food Forests.
What does this mean exactly, you say?
Well, for the body it means sore fingers and cut-up wrists, and the persistent but hugely satisfying ache of backs and arms and legs. It means taking a hit out on the grasslands--rip, pull, pull, rip--around our little fruit-tree islands in an ocean of grass. It means hauling loads of buckets, sloshing with super vitamin water, with rich, composty dirt, with leaves, with grass clippings...
For the land it means converting poor-soil grasslands into lush, self-sufficient, perennially productive, and biologically diverse little eco-topias. It means planting a fruit or nut tree, then in slow, expanding circles planting various companion plants around it... good nitrogen-fixing plants like tree lucerne and lupine...herbs like wormwood, feverfew, hyssop, thyme, rosemary, clover, alfalfa, meadow foam, and bergamot... plants whose names alone invoke a soothing, healing feeling on the tongue that utters them. More on all of this later.
The house itself is surrounded by gardens teeming with flowers on all sides. Oh, the olfactory glories put out by such rosebushes, jasmine vines, lemon, and lavender! The buzz of bumbles, the fantastical whooshing wingbeats of wood pigeons, and the baaahs of neighboring sheep are always on the air. Past the flower beds, and past the veggie gardens and the out-buildings teeming with tools and experiments, are the woods and the creek. About 13 acres to roam here... a giant Monterey Cypress to climb (treehouse in the works!)... another native NZ tree, whose name escapes me at the moment, has been pruned into a giant, cup-shaped nest. I like to sit in there and pretend I am an egg. There are many secret little places here, faerie places. It is the perfect place to spend my first couple of weeks in the country.
I am very happy indeed.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Joyce Kilmer, can I get a witness?
In the cit-ay...
So, I have been wandering around the fine city of Christchurch the last two days, waking around the main square, checking out a couple of museums and galleries and cafes and such. Many of the older stone buildings are surrounded by skeletal scaffolding, and all buildings have inspection papers taped to their front doors. It took me a while to realize that these were a result of the big earthquake that came rumbling through this past September. Apparently they were still getting aftershocks up until just a couple of weeks ago. Miraculously, no one was killed as the quake hit at 4:30 in the morning when few people were out. All of the scaffolding does give the city an odd feel. While I wandered, I did end up spending most of both days in the amazing Botancial Gardens. This brings us to part two of today's program...
Dryad Dork-Out: In which we rhapsodize about our sylvan friends.
What a place is this! Ent-haven, faerie-wood, magic-land... Place of old, old friends. The trees! Oh, what trees! Trees with stories, trees with soul. It is a dendrophile's paradise.
Towering redwoods, eucalyptus to make a koala cry, cork oak (we salute you!), weeping willows, monkey puzzle, king of all horse chestnuts, sweet Monterey cypress...and the atlas cedar...giant of the wood, great many-fingered palm of a tree, poised and reaching, ready to hold the entire world in her cup.
Oh, how I wanted to climb! I felt such a strong and instant love for this place, I sort of walked around feeling high on such happiness. These trees... They make you wish you could just be taken into them...like a drop of water hitting a needle or leaf. To rush through those slick elevators, xylem and phloem...to lean toward the sun and stretch to the sky, breathing out tremendous puffs of oxygen.
At times it felt like it wasn't quite enough to merely rub a palm over roughed bark or rest my head against a trunk. At times I wanted to become that tree.
Yes, I am a tree-hugger. But you already knew that.
Ode complete.
But seriously, if ever some terrible apocalyptic event were to befall the human race, and I was, you know, like the only survivor and had to stay within the city limits... You know I'd be kicking it in these gardens...scheming, surviving, booby-trappin'. Watching the manicured lawns turn back into jungle. (Yes, this is the kind of stuff I think about, thank you Margret Atwood.)
All that said, not being a very urban person,
I am ready to get out of town.
Tomorrow I head to my first farm-stay.
Bum bum bummmm.
So, I have been wandering around the fine city of Christchurch the last two days, waking around the main square, checking out a couple of museums and galleries and cafes and such. Many of the older stone buildings are surrounded by skeletal scaffolding, and all buildings have inspection papers taped to their front doors. It took me a while to realize that these were a result of the big earthquake that came rumbling through this past September. Apparently they were still getting aftershocks up until just a couple of weeks ago. Miraculously, no one was killed as the quake hit at 4:30 in the morning when few people were out. All of the scaffolding does give the city an odd feel. While I wandered, I did end up spending most of both days in the amazing Botancial Gardens. This brings us to part two of today's program...
Dryad Dork-Out: In which we rhapsodize about our sylvan friends.
What a place is this! Ent-haven, faerie-wood, magic-land... Place of old, old friends. The trees! Oh, what trees! Trees with stories, trees with soul. It is a dendrophile's paradise.Towering redwoods, eucalyptus to make a koala cry, cork oak (we salute you!), weeping willows, monkey puzzle, king of all horse chestnuts, sweet Monterey cypress...and the atlas cedar...giant of the wood, great many-fingered palm of a tree, poised and reaching, ready to hold the entire world in her cup.
Oh, how I wanted to climb! I felt such a strong and instant love for this place, I sort of walked around feeling high on such happiness. These trees... They make you wish you could just be taken into them...like a drop of water hitting a needle or leaf. To rush through those slick elevators, xylem and phloem...to lean toward the sun and stretch to the sky, breathing out tremendous puffs of oxygen.
At times it felt like it wasn't quite enough to merely rub a palm over roughed bark or rest my head against a trunk. At times I wanted to become that tree.
Yes, I am a tree-hugger. But you already knew that.Ode complete.
But seriously, if ever some terrible apocalyptic event were to befall the human race, and I was, you know, like the only survivor and had to stay within the city limits... You know I'd be kicking it in these gardens...scheming, surviving, booby-trappin'. Watching the manicured lawns turn back into jungle. (Yes, this is the kind of stuff I think about, thank you Margret Atwood.)
All that said, not being a very urban person,I am ready to get out of town.
Tomorrow I head to my first farm-stay.
Bum bum bummmm.
Day One Redux, an exercise in brevity
Long flight. Sore body. V Australia is humorous. Arrive Melbourne. Run. Sweat. Reach gate. Almost immediately sent back to the US due to return-ticket-date mishap. Terrifying twenty minutes. Changes made. Cost unknown. Chat with a friendly Tazzie and Kiwi. Both say "yea" a lot. Arrive Christchurch. No luggage. Apple-sniffing patrol beagle. Stamp. Customs. Wait for shuttle. Kooky van. Quiet driver. Crazy traffic. Tired. Breathe. Arrive at hostel. Realize reservation is for the following two nights, not the current night. Breathe. Begin to seriously question own international traveling skills. Get map. Walk. Find new hostel. Walk. Smell lavender bushes. Walk. Grocery store. Picnic. Local wine. Shower sans soap. Stretch. I'm in freakin' New Zealand. Sleep. Sleeeeep.
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