I've taken to reading away the first part of my Sunday at Mecca. I like getting there at eight, before it's too busy, and having exactly two lattes and burning through a few chapters. The light there is nice, flooding in early through the old iron windows.
Afternoon light on my cup of tea (again).
It's lovely being back into the swing of things, and by 'the swing of things' I mean yoga. After a very lazy month or two over Christmas, I managed an advanced class first thing Sunday and it felt spectacular. I kept up, I hit all the poses (or all but one) and I even got to do some call and repeat chanting at the end.
To top it off with a glorious sunny afternoon pub lunch with two of my favourites and I couldn't be happier.
My Sunday, on the couch, post-migraine, keeping company with my Cassie Byrnes and an Agnes Martin postcard I got in New York last October.
I was up at 4 with my head, but by 9 or so, and a few cups of Lady Grey down, I was on the mend. I managed a good three hours of long overdue cleaning with some good music and the doors open, and then rested with my book and some good messages to friends. Text convos for the ages, I tell you.
Also, this is my FIFTH YEAR of Sundays, and I'm soldiering on. I have hopes to get around to a new years post one of these days, and some actual writing, but please don't hold your breath.
When it's stinking hot and your mate down the road says he'll bring you a Zooperdooper ice bock (raspberry), you let him. It's better not to get up from the couch and the fan, and it's a kind offer, even if it does mean having to put pants on.
Otherwise reading, and an evening drive down to Little Bay with Lucy and Lil for a good hour of lolling about in the cool water. These women make me laugh, and are so delightfully smart and down to earth. It's as good a way to Sunday as I know.
When I think back to me at 19, say, working long hours in London, or at 25, studying like mad in Adelaide, or even at 27, finding my feet in Sydney, I wonder how I managed. For the most part I think I had no idea what I was doing. I mean, I had hopes, some direction - I made bold and brave decisions, and I'm actually quite proud of how I navigated the whole mess of being a Young and Romantic and Not Very Confident Woman in the World. It isn't that I'd change anything, but I just feel like I sleepwalked through it all.
At 35, I feel like a different person. Something about maturity, certainty and happiness that just opens the world right up. I used to make myself smaller. I spent my days dreaming of wonderful things but never thinking I could do them. I broke myself into parts, trying to please people but not quite feeling whole.
I'll be 36 in a few months. I am so glad to be done with all that.
The thing about seeing a film in the afternoon is it means me, in a dark room, right in the middle of the three o'clocks. It's the hour I fade at the best of times, and Sundays are 100 times worse. But we saw Jackie, and it was brilliant, and I only slept for a small part of it. I mean, performance drama and a honey-malt choc-top is my kind of day. As is a late afternoon gin, which we also managed, so not mad at any of it.
I haven't had a day this good in ages. Iced lattes and an hour at the beach, a late breakfast at home with the radio and the paper and one of my favourite guys, and after it all, a nap - because being happy can really tire you out. I managed a few hours of work and some reading in the afternoon, and then Redfern Continental for wines and pasta and some very good talks.
Oh, and then PJ HARVEY. Live, in the flesh, in her glory, full of power and easily the best thing that's happened to my ears and heart in forever. She marched on stage with nine men and resounding drums and her voice was flawless, ringing out into the night. I was drawn in with her stories or war, the way she creates another world and evokes another time, and then I lost my mind for the thrashy emotion of her early stuff. It was so good I barely slept and don't even mind - I woke on Monday feeling wrought and full.
Home yesterday, and baking today. Just the way I like to settle back in.
It was a case of a sleep-in, coffee with a friend, and a go at the carrot and ginger cake from Everything I Want To Eat, the Christmas gift I have loved and poured over for the past two weeks. The recipe did not disappoint - carrot and ginger, with cinnamon, almond milk and apple sauce (though I used pear instead). It was nice to be home, to not wear shoes and water my plants and enjoy the afternoon light.
A friend came over with a couple of pale ales (as all nice guys should), and we ate cake and talked and before you know it, the day was gone.
Deep in Yorkes with this one. Every day a mess of morning coffees on the deck, hats and drives down to Innes, sandy orange quarters and salty crisps on the beach after a swim, naps, cold beers as the sun sets and cooking dinner with all of my favourites. The days become one, but I think this was from Sunday. Daisy is like a fish, she loves the sea.
I had plans for my New Years day, this particular Sunday, but it was rainy and grey and I had just a third of A Little Life left to read. So I cancelled it all and stayed in bed reading, napping and crying, getting up only to make a cup of tea or some toast. I finished it just before dinner, an emotional wreck; so sad to leave the world of the book, so wrought and undone by it.
It is, without hesitation, the saddest and hardest thing I've read. Parts of it made me ill and had me sobbing outwardly. And yet, and yet. I found so much beauty in the relationships of the characters, of the men. Compassion and loyalty and deep, deep abiding love that I was also amazed and inspired by it. Full with the heart of it.
There was something so wonderful about starting my year in bed, lost in another world. It's a story to immerse yourself in, to give over to.