Five short vignettes, completely unrelated but also very much related
six degrees of separation to kevin bacon.
Story 1
I gave a talk at a club this week for retirees. About sustainable fashion. Which seemed like a slightly odd match but they were lovely. and, so I quickly found out, full of great information and ideas about what we need to do to get sustainable fashion in fashion, particularly when it comes to their grandchildren. My presentation was truncated somewhat as the audience honed in on the quality of what their kids and grandkids are buying. Together, we chatted, somewhat anxiously, about how our clothes are made today and what they are made from. There were many, many comments around local charity and second hand shops now selling (or having to discard) clothing that are of a vastly inferior quality. One spritely gentleman stood up to show his friends (and me) the fleece he was wearing. It was in perfect condition and it was 30 years old. An exuberant lady with very high hair, who kept playfully slapping the man next to her (I think he was her husband) as she told us about the paid of shoes she owns, her only pair of shoes, which her sons bought her last year to finally replace her last pair of shoes. The man with a kind smile who, ever so politely, seemed perplexed when I spoke about our ever increasing wardrobe sizes. “Why anyone would ever need more than three polo shirts at any one time?”, he asked. “You wear them until they wear out. That’s when you buy another one.” ANd then there was the self described socialist marxist man, who wanted to chat to me, and the room, about the need to fight capitalism at all costs. He told all of us that for his whole working life he had only ever wanted a wool suit. But he never bought himself one. He regretted that. I regretted that for him. I felt sad but I also felt happy. I liked their enthusiasm and the fact they were still so very interested in this, despite the fact that, for a lot of them, sustainable fashion is, really, the way they have always lived.
Story 2
Korean drama. I. AM. OBSESSED. Obsessed. Especially when the drama is situated in Seoul, which a lot of them are. That means I get to watch the exceptionally good looking characters be all moody and lovesick (which means loads of lingering, close up shots of faces) and I also get to see the streets of Seoul again. I love my streets of Seoul. Inevitably, there will be a scenes around Jongno and I will cry. There are also many, many restaurant scenes - the food. It makes me both happy and hungry and, usually, means a cheeky trip to the Korean supermarket store herem aptly called the Best Store, because it is the best.
Of course, I also love seeing Korean fashion on display. It’s my fashion (in my mind that is as I am writing this sitting on the couch in my tracksuit pants that no Korean would ever wear). It is funny how much I do like Korean fashion now because, when we first moved there, it was totally not my thing. In fact, when I first started walking the streets of Seoul, I took a lot of photos of the “love match” couples. These are couples who might wear the same sneakers (it was New Balance back then) but as their love grew, their outfits merged and it would be common to see couples dressed head to toe in the same outfit. I was obsessed with them. I still am. And when I see it in K-dramas (like I did just now) I feel happy.
Story 3
The fight continues between my oldest and my youngest. Sigh. It’s exhausting but also interesting to watch. The 14 year old is extremely angry at the 18 year old a lot of the time. Sometimes, it is for things we are not sure she should be angry about but other times, she has a very good point to make. One of the good fights - that has lasted now for six months and is showing no signs of ending soon - is to do with the 18 year old claiming that (yet another) new top is needed for (yet another) party. I asked why. “Because”, was all she said to me, slamming her door for emphasis I guess. The 14 year old is not letting it go. “This is not good enough”, she tells all of us, talking specifically about her sister’s purchasing habits, and she presents, again, her slide deck on the evils of fast fashion to the 18 year old, who is now out of her bedroom but is wailing on the couch, claiming that no-one on the family understands what it is like to be 18. The 14 year old is not buying any of it.
Story 4
Yesterday, I was on my mountain very early. It was misty and foggy and, actually, super hard to see more than a metre in front of me. I was with my dog and we were on our favourite track. It’s, literally, the road less travelled on. Not many walkers know of its existence, and those who do keep it secret as it is an incredibly special path. It winds around the base of the mountain and through a patch of Eucalyptus trees that are magical in the way they have grown so close to each other. I always feel that I am part Hobbit and embarking on a quest when I walk through there. And, sometimes, I feel I am about to be sucked into a wormhole and enter another time, especially when I pass the gnarly trunk of one tree and give him a friendly pat. So I am there yesterday and the fog seemed to be sitting right on top of me when I saw a very large kangaroo standing in front of me. This is not unusual. I often walk past a mob somewhere on the track. But I’ve never been in the middle of the mob before which, I soon realised, was exactly what had happened here. Along with the kangaroo facing me, I had kangaroos to my left, my right and behind me. I was in the mob. For just the briefest of moments.
Story 5
I think I may have mentioned in a previous edition of this newsletter that I have started horse riding lessons. It’s linked to investigating what it means to live with values, in this case wanting to be closer to nature and challenging myself (and possibly because I am way closer to 50 than 40 and this is a mid-life crisis (my horse riding teacher tells me that this is common). I love it. I tried to explain to the kids last night just how much I loved it but I had no words. All I could do was bounce up and down in the car, as I attempted to show them my rising trot (the teacher says I am very good at that!). Apart from one time riding my bike around the backyard pretending the bike was a horse, named Gallipoli, I never wanted to learn to horse ride as a child. I did like movie, The Man from Snowy River, (a lot), but didn’t everyone? So this horse riding thing is fairly new for me, and my family. And I think it is here to stay.
Yesterday, as I was heading out on the highway to my lesson, The Cranberries were on the radio. It was their classic song, “Dreams”. I wasn’t paying that much attention to it at first but, as I turned right, onto the road that leads to the stables, the mountains came into view. Their were some goats milling by the fence, and cows in the paddock behind them. It was mid-afternoon and the light was that romantic, sepia tinged colour that happens only in winter time. It was quiet. Except at that exact moment Dolores sang “A different way to be” and commenced yodelling. YOu know the bit? It is around the 1:30 mark. It is glorious. I played it all over again (and again) and marvelled at the fact that it - this life - is never quite as it seems and there are so many different ways to be.
jb
“A different way to be”