Tom's midnight garden (NYC)

Yesterday while out shopping for printer toner I came across something a lot more interesting: a surveyor's map of New York, drawn in the winter of 1766.

I couldn't stop staring at it.

Did you ever read Tom's Midnight Garden as a child? It is a beautiful story. When an old grandfather clock mysteriously strikes 13, Tom goes outside his grandmother's flat to find that it has been transformed into a beautiful garden. He has been taken back through time, and urban congestion melts away into trees and clover. That is how I felt while looking at this map of NYC.

I lingered in the shop, entranced, and traced my fingers over the drawing. The New York traffic, buildings, people, even the very streets faded and vanished and I stood in an unfamiliar garden, blinking and trying to find my bearings.

There, somewhere in those green fields, or perhaps closer to that river (where did the river go? Does anyone know about a river around about West Houston today?), now stands 68 Thompson Street, the place I used to call home.

Yet nothing of what I know exists on this map. None of the street markets where I would buy cheap art and jewellery, none of the tiny basement venues where I would go to hear my talented friends sing, none of the restaurants where we would eat and drink and laugh and celebrate. There is no such thing as West Broadway, let alone the little cafe on the corner of West Broadway and Grand where I met the man I now call my husband.

It is all forests and a patchwork of fields.

I can recognise Bowery, called Bowery Lane, which merges into something simply labelled "Road to Albany and Boston" (written as Bofton). In what we now know as Downtown, there is a short road called Broad Way. It ends at a little triangle square of green in which is written "The intended Square or COMMON." You and I know this square better as City Hall.

The map cuts off at Greenwich Village, and the only named road up there is labelled "Road to the Obelisk." I did a bit of research. A little later, this road was also known as "Monument Lane," and until the 1770s, it did indeed lead to an obelisk, a memorial to British Major General James Wolfe, who died in the Battle of Quebec. Today you'll recognise this lane as Greenwich Avenue, and the site of the obelisk (now long gone, nobody knows exactly when or why) is Jackson Square Park.

Is this all boring you? I am so taken up in the magic of a world I know but completely don't know, that sometimes I forget I'm a bit of a nerd about these things, and not everyone shares my passion for finding links to the past.

I'll stop now. I promise to resume our regular programming tomorrow.

ps. You better believe I bought the map (it's a facsimile not an original, so I didn't have to sell Mr B's firstborn to buy it).

Dance for joy

Happiness is infectious. Just seeing someone else's joy - like the little girl in this picture* - makes me grin, and a little of her happiness rubs off on me.

Do you remember Matt Harding? He shot to Internet fame a few years back for nothing more than dancing (badly) at numerous sites around the world. What a wonderful and ridiculous celebration of life. Go Matt!

Once, on the bridge in Avignon, France, I danced in public too. I knew I was supposed to dance, because the French song from my childhood told me so. Sur la pont, d'Avignon, l'on y dance l'on y dance, the song goes. (Rough translation: "On the bridge of Avignon, one dances, one dances." Please excuse my French spelling if it is off, it's been a decade or two.)

After this video became a bit of a YouTube sensation, Matt managed to get funding for a couple more world journeys, just so long as he was willing to dance in public again. Take a look at wherethehellismatt.com to find out more about his story.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7WmMcqp670s] Now tell me: when joy takes you, just takes over and you are truly happy, what do you do? Me, I want to go sing with a camel.

*This image is all over the Internet, but I can't find the source to link to it. Does anyone know?

Best. Workspace. Ever.

My favourite room in our new house is definitely my study.

It is my very own, a square room with soft seats under the window for reading (or dozing, if you are Ruby the cat), a lovely old fireplace, a clean desk in the middle of the room for writing, and another desk for my artsy, crafty, projects. I have a little pin-board on which I stick notes, letters, photographs, sketches, and all kinds of other found paraphernalia that may bring comfort or creative sparks (or both).

Behind the big desk is a wall of shelves filled with the reference books I use most for writing, and items that inspire me like my film cameras, snow globes, my grandmother's typewriter, and a little barometer that belonged to my other grandmother (when the weather is dry, a lady comes out of the cottage; when the weather is wet, a man comes out and bares his chubby, white knees).

For years, I have worked from the kitchen table or the living room, so this room feels like the greatest possible luxury, and I love it.

What is your workspace like? What luxury do you dream of having?

Lovely clusters on my hearth

Cluster of little vintage glass bottles from The Design Villa (arrived by mail today). Clusters of lavender, snowdrops and mandarin blossoms picked from my new garden in Adelaide. Cluster of sweet, homey, happy feelings all mine.

My ancient, isolated, inscrutable country

This weekend, Mr B and I packed up our suitcases, the dog, and the cat, and drove more than 2000 kilometres across Australia to our new home in Adelaide, South Australia. The drive took us through the heart of the Australian outback and I wish I had the words or pictures to do it justice.But we covered the distance in just two days, so there were few stops, and the only photos I have are Instagram snapshots taken from the moving car.And words... well if you've been in the Australian outback, you'll know it pre-dates words by about 30 millennia.

The outback is too ancient, too isolated, too harsh, and too inscrutable for a city dweller like me to be granted the right words to tell its story. So here, instead, are snippets - little totems - from the journey.

Day 1:

The houses disappear first. Then the hills, and any tall trees. The road stretches into a distance where the horizon starts to curve, and we drive an hour without meeting another car in any direction. It is all very silent.On the rare occasion that we do pass another vehicle, most often they are shipping trucks or road trains, Mr B gives them what he believes is the Salute of the Road, an unspoken camaraderie. This consists of him straightening the fingers of his right hand into a stationery wave, without actually lifting his hand off the wheel. To Mr B's dismay, most truckers appear oblivious to the Salute of the Road, but he persists in hope.I put on a reading of The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, a welcome and very entertaining diversion as the desert relentlessly unfolds.

As dusk gathers, our drive becomes dangerous. This is the hour that kangaroos get lively, and a Big Red leaping onto the road at the precise time that we meet a rare oncoming fellow motorist almost has us. When you're hurtling along the open road at 110, 'roos crossing are a lethal hazard.

After the sun sets, quite spectacularly and blindingly in the red dust and directly in our eyes, the tension builds and we are both on high alert for animals appearing out of the darkness. We turn off the story. Night draws in. From our place directly underneath the Milky Way, the stars appear as big as plums. We encounter more 'roos but manage to avoid catastrophe, and Mr B spots an echidna ambling by the side of the road, going about its private business.

By the time we pull into Bourke, our stopover for the night, we are both wrung out. Pets are not welcome, so the dog sleeps in the car and we sneak the cat into the hotel bathroom in the little fruit box she has slept in all day.

Day 2:

We wake before dawn and are on the road as the sky begins to open up. It's almost two hours before we get to the next town (the next town = breakfast, so I am starving).Today, we see all the animals we mercifully missed last night. Kangaroos of course, grey ones, red ones, and the smaller wallabies. We pass emus, mostly in twos but once or twice in a whole flock. Feral goats are everywhere, and cattle, wild boars, foxes, and a sheep that sends the dog into a frenzy when it runs clumsily away from the car, unshorn wool dragging along the ground.(Oh! Joy of joys! Someone has just returned Mr B's Salute of the Road. He lets out a "WOOP!" and then "YEAH!" and punches the air with his fist. You'd think he just won an Olympic gold medal.)

When we stop for fuel in a remote little town, a flock of red-crested black cockatoos lands noisily in the tree above us. With their wings spread, the sun glints through the red underneath and the cockatoos appear otherworldly: dark and fiery and unpredictable.

Fuel and food stops are fascinating. We pass through towns of utter isolation, rotting fence-posts and rusting corrugated iron buildings bowing in the winter wind and sun. There are wildflowers, this time of year, but no pasture. It is a cruel place. We wonder how people survive out here, and why they choose to. I admire but I don't understand them.

At one stop, Mannahill, an abandoned race track sinks back into the desert. We think about the town it must once have been.

Then I put The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie back on, and we drive into another dusk.

Have you ever felt like a foreigner in your own country? Tell me I'm not alone.

Yellow!

Yellow, clockwise in a pretty spiral:

1. The colour of today's gloriously scented lemon harvest, taken from the tree in my back yard and carried inside in my butterfly skirt, and with which I will make lemonade, and this lemon meringue pie 2. The colour of some lovely vintage fabric that arrived in the mail today, all the way from Pixie Dust Linens in Texas 3. The colour of winter berries, thick and glowing in trees that line an entire avenue on my walk home through the Parklands (and from which nesting birds dive-bomb my head) 4. The colour of my 1970s Speedwell ladyframe bicycle, parked among the sweet lavender as I took a break on today's afternoon ride 5. The colour of my toes, all dressed up and ready for spring. Spring, which starts in two days. TWO DAYS, people 6. The colour of the book I am reading right now, The Magnificent Meaulnes by Alain Fournier. Isn't this a glorious yellow cover? 7. The colour of the picket fence and sun-warmed sandstone at the front of my house, about 15 minutes before the rain came down 8. The colour of the little candy flowers I put on top of the three-dozen cupcakes I made for Mr B to take in to his workmates as a treat 9. The colour of the very first, early-season mango

Yellow, the colour of sunshine. The colour of happy.

What colour are you loving today?

Radio silence

(Image via)

Sorry for the radio silence, I am moving house. I am moving States. It is pouring with rain and I don't have a car. Lots of our things were broken in transit from storage. I'm missing some furniture. I am hungry and I have no food, although the 'fridge is now connected. The carpet cleaner is here right now and I forgot to take out cash. There are 525 unread posts in my Google feed reader. But our house is absolutely beautiful. I'll be back soon!

Yours truly, Naomi

Favourite things: small packages

If you’ve been reading my blog lately you’ll know that I’m about to make my third interstate move in 12 months. As usual, we seem to have accumulated at a rate that would make even the most seasoned capitalist blush. I’ve been playing Tetris with our belongings to try and make everything fit. Wouldn’t life be easier if at least part of it could be shrunk down? Today I wistfully bring you these five artistic things in perfect miniature.

1. Miniature sculptures on crayons, by Diem Chau (found via Honestly WTF) and on the tips of pencils, by Dalton Ghetti

2. Miniature books. Printstagram puts your Instagram photos in print. My favourite has to be this adorable miniature book. It's like a coffee table book for Thumbelina. You better believe I'm doing this. (Thanks to Poppytalk for the tip-off.)

3. Miniature literary figures. Debbie of Uneekdolldesigns makes the funniest miniature dolls inspired by literary and film characters. If you didn't recognise them, these two are Pip and poor, crazy old Miss Havisham (complete with tragic wedding dress), from Charles Dickens' masterpiece, Great Expectations.

4. Miniature perspectives. At a first glance, Scott Moore's paintings look hyper-real. But wait - is that a PERSON in this scene? Miniature people, just going about their daily lives inside our own (relatively giant) lives. (Found on My Modern Met.)

5. Miniature gardens. This is Cockington Green, an entire village in miniature, just outside of Canberra, Australia. It's open to visitors, so you can go see it for yourself if you like. Why did they build it? Erm, some people are just strange, I guess. But I think that's a good thing. Don't you?

Let's imagine you have access to Wayne Szalinski's gun from Honey I Shrunk the Kids. What will you shrink?

Hello, little robot, are you lost?

Say what you will about New Yorkers, they are very good at giving directions. They'll even stop to help a sweet and vulnerable little cardboard robot find its lonely way across the park.

What you're seeing here is Sam the Tweenbot, and I'm willing to admit he is EVEN CUTER than the vintage pink robot called Mavis that I gave Mr B on our first Valentine's Day as a couple. And Mavis is pretty adorable.

Artist and designer Kacie Kinzer set this little guy loose in Washington Square Park, with his destination printed on the flag so that passers-by could help him if he got into trouble (read: fell into a pothole, ran into a bench, got stuck in a bush). Here's a video of his journey.

[vimeo http://www.vimeo.com/22825752 w=525&h=397]

Tweenbots from kacie kinzer on Vimeo.

Good thing, bad thing

Good thing:

Today in the mail I received this lovely gift card, a surprise all the way from California, the home state of the very lovely blogger Cassie of Moon Face. I sent Cassie one of four travelling copies of Airmail, because I love reading her blog so much.

Bad thing:

Mr B has gone out for dinner tonight (don't worry, Government, he'll be back in time for the Census), and I'm spending the evening doing this.

Good thing:

I just ordered this beautiful little necklace, a turquoise ball suspended inside a vintage brass cage, from The Blue Balloon on Etsy. I can't wait to wear it. (Mini bad thing: I was alerted to this lovely shop by Brittni from Papersnitch, but I FORGOT TO USE THE DISCOUNT SHE OFFERED.)

Bad thing:

I couldn't sleep last night, so I've been up and working since 4am. My eyebrows hurt.

Good thing:

Only three sleeps to go until our little weekend away in Sydney for Mr B's birthday. Then on Monday I fly to Adelaide to move us into this sweet, cookie-cutter sandstone fronted cottage (complete with a wine cellar, a swimming pool, and my very own office, no less). Let the nesting frenzy begin.

What's good and bad in your life, dear friends?