I've finally updated my online shop with prints, which you can check out here. 

I also bought a new urn plant, which, as you can see from the photos, I'm pretty happy about. The only thing to worry about now is how to keep it alive through the imminent Melbourne winter...

We got lost on the way out there, as usual. Got in a fight about how I can’t navigate with maps, and he doesn’t look for signs.

But we got there in the end, anyway. I knew we were on the right track when I saw the cutting horse stud – and I was jealous of the cowboy riding a chestnut horse alongside the road. We knew we were in the right place, for sure, when we got to the emus. We stopped the car in the middle of the dirt track and met them at the fence, where they stood twining their necks together, sliding their dinosaur feet in the dust, blinking their pale lids across overlarge, skittish eyes. 

The river itself is a mix – someone’s always blasting eighties hair metal from one of the first campsites, and sometimes there’s ruckus at night. Sometimes there are lots of kids. Boats. Four-wheel drives. Dogs. People bringing their horses down to the sandy riverbank beach, to swim in the 40-degree heat.  

But the campsite we chose was isolated and quiet, and apart from the ski boats roaring along the river, it mostly felt like we were alone. I watched the sulfur-crested cockatoos cross the river each morning, and collected their yellow-tinged white feathers along the banks. I watched the sun rise golden and set dusky pink. I got scared at night by koala sounds and wandering animals and our restless dog.

And I mostly liked the quiet, with the high stars behind the gum branches, the river still blindly flowing. I mostly liked having a little bit of time to tap into the real world. 

Procrastination breeds weird creations. But I kinda dig it, in a raided-the-primary-school-crafts-cupboard way. 

Volcom dress, Wandering Coyote boots, Vanessa Mooney necklace, all else vintage. 

I'm trying to keep an eye out for that unseen everyday wonder. Trying to stay sharp to the notion of encountering something new, special, unexpected. To the idea that tiny natural miracles are taking place all the time: quietly, amazingly, and totally unperturbed by the lack of audience, in a kinda tree-falling-in-the-woods manner. But it's hard to keep a hold of these thoughts in the suburbs, in a place dominated by humans and all the things we make and consume, and are so deeply familiar with. While impressive in their own right, the things we make, control, consume have a distinct lack of mystery or wonder – because they're ours. 

But I was overwhelmed by this kind of local magic when I visited the farm over summer. All the time, everywhere you look – if you look, quietly, long enough – there's something strange and beautiful to encounter. Baby hawks fought for prey right over my head. I stumbled over a clutch of unearthed water dragon eggs in the paddock bordered by the creek. Streaks of light skated across wide, silent, star-crowded skies. Flowers bloomed and died within hours. What was there one day, was never the same the next. 

And all the time, all these things are working hard at whatever it is they're compelled to do. Quietly, wonderfully.