NYC vibes

Hark à la lune ici, l'enfant tsigane

Cosmic gypsy vibes for an upcoming zine shoot~ Listen

Diary Photos

Mena and Tom after a party, Banana, cinnamon and honey on toast, Mena outside my house.

Me in some strange green vehicle, after a party at Morgana's, Gairie Beach for Ghostly shoot, Henry in Leichhardt. 

Tegan and Marley outside Bar Century, Japanese chocolate (but my hair ruined the photo!), Henry with a candy blue tongue. 


I really need to post more. 

Yet another post about the end of Harry Potter

I was so sick yesterday, and have been for the past few days, so I had to miss the last ever Midnight premiere of a Harry Potter film, which was pretty tragic, but at least I've delayed the end truly ending for a bit longer. I feel as if, when I go to see the last film, it'll feel the same way as going to see the first film. I went on a school excursion with the quaint little private school I attended in primary school. We all dragged along Harry Potter toys- I had a fuzzy Hedwig that I had adorned with glittery clips, and a three-headed Fluffy. We sat in the cinema with our teachers, giggling and feeling as if we attended Hogwarts ourselves, and had arrived here on the Hogwarts express, rather than being chaperoned by parents and teachers. Our tiny feet didn't touch the ground. We ate the Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans and Chocolate Frogs they used to sell (where did those go!? I always loved giving my brother horseradish flavour and telling him it was raspberry). We spilled popcorn, and then the curly golden font we've all come to know so well descended onto the screen and we were in awe. My friend Lauren pinched me when Harry came on screen. The cinema was decorated with tackily beautiful gold streamers and cutout owls and black and gold glitter. Everyone was silent, and my friend Matilda started crying when Professor Quirrell unwrapped his turban and exposed Voldemort. That first screening was magic, as we'd spent our whole childhood with Harry up our sleeves. Our dog eared copies of The Philosopher's Stone and The Chamber of Secrets came with us everywhere. There were count downs until the books appeared in delicious smelling local book shops (I always bought mine in Balmain- the really old store with the ladders and the soft carpet). There were competitions in the primary school playground as to who had read the books the fastest. We grew up with Harry, with our own imaginings of Gringott's and Hermione. We laughed at how we imagined Crookshanks to look, and the quips made by Fred and George. Harry was ours, he was everyone's.

And then the films came out, and our imaginings of the characters were replaced by Rupert Grint, and Daniel Radcliffe and Maggie Smith, and the magic of the owls descending for the first time on Privet Drive. We grew up with Harry. Everyone who says that this is the end of an era, is right. This is good bye to our childhoods. We can no longer make new trips to Hogsmeade, or watch as Harry and Ron play Wizard's Chess. We can no longer eagerly anticipate the release of a new film or book. The characters grew as we grew. When Ron first showed an interest in Lavender Brown, we'd started getting crushes too. As Hogwarts crumbled and the ministry was taken over, our innocence was lost too. Harry was no longer the young boy staring into the mirror of Erised, and neither were we. We'd all grown. We were older, things weren't as simple as buying a packet of chocolate frogs, and avoiding Snape in the corridors. Things were new, and sinister, and imbued with a never before felt sense of responsibility. This is why this last film is so monumental. The Harry Potter Generation, we're all around 18, 19, 20 now. We've grown up- as Harry has. We have to say goodbye to Hogwarts, and childhood, and magic. This last film is how we're all going to do that. We're going to sit in the cinema, and cry our eyes out, because we really are letting go of something important, something precious within ourselves.

Map of Hogwarts hand-drawn by J.K. Rowling

This is an important goodbye. I hope we can all keep the magic somehow. Childhood is over, and the world we're faced with now certainly holds less Hogwarts feasting, and rivalry with Draco Malfoy. However, J.K. Rowling's final dedication included us all- 'and to you, if you have stuck with Harry until the very end.' We have, and he will always be a part of us, even when we're forty and working in an office. When we're doctors or lawyers, or real estate agents, with children and mortgages, we'll still know whether we're Ravenclaws, Huffelpuffs, Gryffindors or Slytherins. We did stick with him until the very end, and he stuck with us. For this, we should all be proud. We may have left Hogwarts, but we will never forget it.

The Rise of the Local

After living in Sydney’s Inner West for a whole eighteen years (minus time spent overseas) I think I can officially call myself a local. An elusive title, The Local seems to have formed into a breed of its own. There are varying degrees and sub-categories of Sydney locals; as the Two Thousand and blogspot generation, we’ve put labels on everything, and being a local of a particular suburb has become almost like being in a particular scene or clique. 

Whether people unconsciously mould to their surroundings, or purposely buy their way into the vibes of a particular suburb, there are the obvious differences between locals and non-locals.
For example, the Eastern Suburbs. After a brief foray with a tanned Rose Bay (born and bred) ex-Cranbrook boy, it occurred to me just how much I’ve dug my heels into my local surroundings. Not to say I don’t get wanderlust every now and again, but whilst Nameless Boy and me were together, it became blatantly obvious just how different our two area codes were- and more surprisingly, how dependent our mindsets were on these areas. Just to clarify- there are exceptions to every rule. I’m sure Inner West-Eastern Suburbs relationships can be fantastic, we aren’t separate colonies, but this particular experience just reinforced how things in Sydney really do differ from suburb to suburb. For a start- everything was clean. We walked down the main street in Rose Bay, amid rushing businessmen, BMWS lazily cruising, and nannies walking yapping daschunds, and all I could think was: Where is the litter? I could see no cigarette butts squished into the pavement, cans of coke rolling at the base of overflowing bins. Does the Rose Bay city council have superior hygiene and waste facilities to the rest of us? Or are we, in areas like Newtown and Annandale, just slobs? The air feels different out there. The nights are quieter. People are more reserved; they look at their feet as they walk, not out around them. I couldn’t tell whether it was just my particular experience, or whether there really are unwritten “cultural” differences between suburbs with less than fifteen minutes distance between them.

Introducing our English friends to a few Sydney localities- namely, goon.

              An impromptu house party during Newtown Festival, with the band Sticky Fingers  

Which brings me to my next point: What makes a local? Our parents are local- more local than us. They’ve lived here longer than us, know how to drive anywhere in Sydney in under twenty minutes and (usually) don’t have to use a GPS. They can say with authority, “Kings Cross was never that dodgy when I was younger! Things used to be safer around here!” etc, etc.
However, when you think of an Inner West local, your mind doesn’t automatically jump to the Baby Boomer generation. You think of someone young, trendy, and possibly with a hipster beard. Someone with an intricate knowledge of markets, concept stores, underground concerts and amazing cafes. You think of the people you see on the streets of Surry Hills, riding blue bicycles and carrying shopping bags from Cream. They truly seem like they own the area. The very pavement is theirs; they wave jauntily at café owners and know where hidden wine bars are. But do people look at us, and think the same? How can you determine whether you’re a local? Does it just depend on where you live, or how immersed you are in that community? Does it depend on whether you can wave to your neighbours or whether you only just moved from Adelaide? 

Being a local is also dependant on your institution- where you work, where you go to school or university is just as important as where you live. You begin to feel, with an undeserved sense of pride, that you represent that suburb. After spending years 11 and 12 at school in Glebe- we all felt as if Glebe was ours. It became a patchwork of memories for us. We became oddly possessive, our bus-stops, our cafes. Everyone else, even the residents, were outsiders. No matter where we caught the bus or train home, we were Glebe locals, our uniform a badge of locality that we flaunted relentlessly. Is this attitude, that we’ve all felt, snobbery or participation in our local community? Is it simply, a feeling of home and familiarity, or something deeper? More akin to the primitive marking of territory? Of owning turf, and having your own space.

I think being a local is about your knowledge, not just your address. Not in a way of superiority, just how you make your own environment yours. The secret tree houses and marks in the pavement. The way you walk home. Your favourite clothes stores, the bus you catch home. Not everyone can be a local, it takes dedication. Being a local has become an ideal and an image. Every suburb has a stereotype you should be promoting, but I think it relates more to how your surroundings become exactly that- your surroundings. Something you can wake up to every day and enjoy regardless. 

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Snapped for Myer's Sydney Street Style

Hyde Park- before school

On that note, as a self-professed Sydney local, here are my recommendations for where to start:

Step One: Coffee at Sappho’s. You can smoke in the Courtyard and buy second hand sci fi

For dumplings ready made by Kylie Kwong, or breakfast by Neil Perry-

Eveleigh Street Markets

Granted, I can almost never buy things from here, but they are delicious for looking around!-

Bloodorange Boutique and The Corner Store

Samauri in Balmain for Japanese (always a reliable option), Bar Italia in Leichhardt for Italian and Hannibal's in Surrey Hills for Lebanese.

And of course, Sydney would not be Sydney without Jet Cafe!

Blackberry Diaries pt. 2

Sunny mornings in Hyde Park, arguing with mothers in different states.

Ellie's 10th birthday party, bless.

I like to believe he was holding my hand.

Sappho's

Looming clouds 

Sugar Mill, Kings Cross.

Sideways Majra at Hogwarts

Winter Wonderland Party