The absolutely brilliant National Digital Forum is holding its conference again in November at Te Papa, and after having such a wonderful time last year, I most definitely intend to be present and enjoy every minute of this year’s offerings. In fact, I’m busy thinking about what to submit for a talk.

There are two possible choices I am sorting through at the moment. The one (Paul will be shocked and amazed to hear) has nothing to do with metadata and the gloriousness that is ordering and adding an analytic element to information, and the other – which I am warming to after blindsiding me at 4am this morning – is more on the subject of my heart (I can hear Paul groaning all the way from WA at this): Linked data and how it is shaping the way we perceive, create, and present information to the masses. Not only in the GLAM sectors, but across the internet. FRBR and RDA go a long way to this, but this is a step above and beyond. It’s metadata at it’s purest. I just wonder if there would be those out there who would be as interested in this idea, or if I am reinventing the wheel again.

The other (slightly metadata-ish) topic would be a reflection on the future-proofing of stagnant and dated information services based on the theoretical work I’m currently doing, and therefore cannot say much more at present. Yes, there is digitisation and a review of data quality in this project and would be covered in this talk.

Both are timely and interesting, but I am stuck dear reader. And torn. Do I take the considered case study, or do I jump back into the seething insanity that is the sea of data on which we are all adrift (why yes, I am feeling better – I guess you noticed?). I have a few more weeks to knock this all out, and I may just toss a coin in the end, but I am just looking forward to being a part of the amazing environment that is NDF. It was glorious to be amongst people who speak the same language, and I can’t wait to do it all over again.

In other news, I’m working my way through Discworld again. If you haven’t read it since you were a teenager – I strongly suggest you go back and do so. Pratchett is singularly brilliant on several levels. I’m sure one or two of them are even quantum.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression 12 years ago, and after one lot of nightmare drugs which amplified everything instead of helping, I swore never again.

So I decided to deal with it in other ways: throwing myself into study, swearing off alcohol but for the odd whisky every now and then, indulging in my love for yarn. And that all did some good. I’d have my good periods and bad periods, and I could just fix a smile and go.

Until now. Over the last 5 or 6 months the walls of that dark hole we all try crawl out of has been getting steeper and more slippery. The light at the top getting further away, and those insidious little voices in the night have been getting louder and more persistent until they are all that I have been able to hear. You can fight them in private and keep up appearances until they wear you down, until one day you begin to believe them. About a week and a half ago, I hit that point.

Now as bang on as Allie and Ken’s discussions about depression are, theirs are not universal descriptions of the disease.

The darkest is when you are numb to emotions and feelings, but you can also spend years with your feelings muted – like there is dirty glass between you and how you should feel – all the while negativity and self-doubt cloud your senses. This is when you can still feel, but you can’t trust these feelings either because your brain is playing tricks on you half the time.

What you do feel, however, is an overwhelming sense of guilt: for thinking about asking for help, and if you do, for being a burden on others because you feel useless, and that there is nothing they can really do because it is all in your mind.

I was brave enough to ask for help last week because I couldn’t do it on my own anymore, and I accepted those damned pills because something had to give. So hopefully things will start to look brighter sometime in the near future, although there is a long way to go.

But while it took a great deal to admit that I was losing that battle, I haven’t been prepared for the crippling guilt that has come with it. The feeling of failure for needing to ask, the cloud of doom and foreboding that has settled Cthol Mishrak-styles over all my actions (more so than before), and the fear of abandonment by those I love and have asked for support. They will be getting sick of having to reassure me that it is all in my mind before this is over, but knowing and believing are currently two vastly different kettles of fish.

I know they won’t lie to me, but convincing myself that I am honestly not a waste of space and time and not worthy of love – that the world would be better off without me – is not true, however convincing those gremlins are, is my big battle for the foreseeable future.

So I am going to keep on forcing myself to get out of bed in the morning, interact with others, throw myself into my work, and exercise. I will try to remember and regain the pleasure in all the little things I appear to have forgotten and work on crossing more things off my bucket list. I will enjoy the up days and battle through the down ones, and one day, I may wake up and the cloud will have passed, this time around.

So why am I writing this? It’s not because it is suddenly en vogue to do so. Far from it. Today appears to be an up day, so far, and I want to put it out there that I am struggling, but I’m not going to let this Black Dog beat me.

Be patient with me, dear reader. If I bail on seeing you, it’s not because I don’t want to, it’s because I am exhausted and I need to look after me. If you don’t hear from me in the course of day to day communications, it’s because I can only really focus on one thing at a time at the moment, and I will get back to you when I can.

Depression manifests itself in different ways, and no two people will experience it the same way. It is an incredible shame that mental health is still treated as such a taboo subject. For something that affects a significant portion of the population, we shy away from acceptance and there is very little support, really, for it.

Thanks for reading, and I will see you on the other side. Blog posts will be intermittent, and hopefully interesting.

Tattoos are also a bit of a cultural quirk. Early last year, in one of the departure lounges at Wellington Airport, I sat next to a woman with a beautiful coloured Aztec sun on her arm – in the same place I have my endless knot – and we smiled knowingly at each other before she continued her reading and I, my knitting. For some reason, we both ended up bemused by a youngish lass – barely out of her teens – in daisy dukes and a crop top rush towards the gate. She had a large and garish piece of inkwork all the way down her thigh, and cartoon-like cats on her arm. The pieces she had weren’t in places that would age well, and looked like they could smudge (as it were) after a few years. They were “pop” pieces, for want of a better term: having ink for the sake of having ink. The woman next to me watched this lass’ whirlwind through the lounge before sighing and returning to her book. “That poor girl. She didn’t really think those tattoos through, did she?” the question came to me with an air of pity about it. I agreed, seeing as I was thinking the same thing.

I got my first tattoo when they were still considered taboo. And it’s rapidly become more mainstream ever since. The woman and I discussed the consideration and importance of design, placement, artist selection, and meaning behind any piece that you may want permanently needled to your skin. You are displaying somebody’s artwork after all. I found it refreshing to have such a discussion with somebody else who approaches this body adornment with the same attitude I do. And we lamented the lack of respect tattoos receive today.

No, they are not for whores and sailors (even though that may still be the attitude of many from more conservative countries). And while some may just look trashy, others out there are tattoos that tell the story of a person’s life. You see this in many of the stunning Māori and Pacific Island tattoos and moko. You see it in some Native American cultures, and in Africa. Yes, sometimes it can be a brand, or sometimes an identifying bond: just looked at the armed forces the world over. Or athletes that represented their country at the Olympics or other such international events. There are tattoos that are badges of honour. Others are yardsticks or memory posts.

I got my fifth tattoo this morning (marriage #5 – they all cohabit quietly, so this is fine). This was my 30th birthday/Camino tattoo. I have one for my 18th, one for my 21st, and one for my 30th. These aren’t just signposts on the road. There’s far more to them than just that. They are snapshots of who I am and what I have done, and carry with them the recollections of each period in time. Tattoos 2 and 4 are slightly more difficult to explain, but are portraits of a state of mind, and in the case of 4 – in emblem and placement – a momento mori (funnily enough, I will forever associate the very basic explanation of said symbol with a line from this song.They said it best, after all.)

Number 5 has been in the works for about as long as planning the Camino was. It was time for a new tattoo, and one with Significance. The shell, of course, had to be there. But was it just going to be the shell? The words came on a walk, of course, and were cemented by James’ remark that he had a new respect for The Lord of the Rings after a mere 5 day traipse through north-western Spain. And so I had it. One of my favourite pieces of verse from LOTR, and it tied in beautifully:

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not touched by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
(FOTR I.x.167)

There are many more elements in the story behind the why’s and the how’s and the places and the images of each of my pieces. But they are my bookmarks. They all age with me and show me how far I’ve come. And I love each and every one of them.

And my newest addition… is just perfect too.

“Not all those who wander are lost”

And then there was me, with no children of my own.

And this just confirmed one thing that I have been quite certain of for a few years now: Thank heavens I don’t have any.

There have been many posts by other women who get lynched for declaring that they don’t want children. Like you’re failing your gender and your species by not having your sole purpose in life be the creation of offspring. Yes, there are some who dearly want kids and are not able to fall pregnant: my heart breaks for them. I have sat and comforted a fair few of these poor souls in my time, and the injustice of it all upsets me. But there are also those of us who are just not maternal.

Like weddings (and that’s another whole blog post/soapbox rant), I have never grown up wanting children. I have never been clucky. I am happy to play Aunt Shelley and give the child back to their parents when the nappy needs changing/is hungry/ is tired/fuelled by the sugar I have plied it with. I will treat the little person like the absolute treasure it is, but I have no inclination to have one of my own. I’m not selfless enough, and if I find other people’s kids little bundles of chaos and anarchy the moment they are able to walk/run/talk/think, I would not want to inflict any spawn of mine onto the world. I couldn’t do it. I can’t ever see myself being able to do it.

I seem to have reached an age where the talk of children (and weddings) come up in almost every second conversation. I hope people are going to stop talking weddings with me given my very scathing opinions of frothy white dresses and stupid amounts of money spent on a ridiculously short amount of time (for what?! one-upmanship?), and I have managed to avoid the “are you going to have children?” question almost as often as I’d like.

I’m putting my answer here about having kids so that I can just refer people to this post: I can’t ever see myself having kids.

But I’m about to confuse the whole issue. (Nobody has ever accused women of being logical. I know I’m not).

One should only think about having children for the right reason: That you and your other half love each other so much that you want a little mini-mix of the two of you running around so that you may love, and be loved, and know that your love lives on in your children. Your child needs to know that it was wanted, yearned for, and adored – from the moment its existence was acknowledged, all the way through the tantrums, the fights, the accidents, and the tears, until you die.

I have been incredibly lucky to have been brought up knowing that I was wanted, yearned for and loved from the very beginning. I have an excellent relationship with my parents. I have wanted for nothing, I have been encouraged to do amazing things, I’ve been supported through all sorts of ups and downs, and I’ve been allowed to be whomever I want to be. As has my brother. And my god, we have achieved some unbelievable things between the two of us.

So, if I have had all of this, and the stars align – why wouldn’t I have children?

Quite simply, the desire to hear the pitter-patter of little feet is not there. The clock does not seem to be ticking – loudly or otherwise. I cannot look at a baby and wish it was mine (I think of 9 months of pregnancy, then labour, then 18 years of torment before they leave and only talk to you when they want something – see what I mean?). And I would never be able to do the same sort of stellar job my mother did. Not with the lifestyle I want to lead, and the adventures I still want to have.

There is a part of me that will always be a little sad that I feel this – I am female after all, and mother hen is my default switch – but I still don’t think that by saying what I’m saying, I am a disgrace to my gender. I’m pragmatic. If I do by some twist of fate ever find myself expecting, then the child will be loved, and cared for, and encouraged to live and dream and be. But it’s just not something that I intend to do.

I can love and be loved without needing a child to prove it. And I can be part of whatever village I am able to be in to help raise and support my friends with sprogs of their own. I can teach and I can enjoy this miracle of life without causing any damage to the continuation of the human race myself. And that is fine with me.

*(More on my presents to them when they’ve finished blocking – I hate set-in sleeves)

This one is a doozy. It’s like trying to untangle a skein of knotted silk yarn. Not pretty. A little patience and teasing a few kinks, and I’m finally making headway, but it’s a delicate operation. I seem to be torn between what the hell am I doing?! and what the hell were they doing?! which startles me somewhat, but since I appear to know more about what I’m doing than what they were doing, I think I’m on the right track.

We have had such a golden summer here in the Capital

There is an element of parallel in how I’ve been feeling over the past few weeks (stuffy/allergied/slightly panicked) and this scenario I’m needing to sort through, and that’s actually having somebody care. This poor library that I’m trying to analyse to fix hasn’t been given any love or serious attention in years. It had been cast adrift to certain extent, and now people have noticed, and are looking at ways to restore it. While it is not sentient like I am, I have tended to disregard my well-being for the sake of an I’ll sleep when I’m dead attitude. It’s just me, after all, isn’t it?

Well. No. Not when you find yourself being looked after. When there are others who go out of their way to make sure you’re alright, this sort of attitude screeches to a halt. You have to reconsider that you can’t just do what you’ve always done. It’s kind of surprising, really. Humbling, too, in fact. Especially when you get to the point where you swallow all pride and bravado, and ask for help. There are a few of you who know how that feels – DrK writes very eloquently on the subject too. And I’m so very proud of her too. She’s come such a long way, even the (relatively short amount of time I’ve known her – a whole, what? 6 and a bit years?) She’s off on another adventure after something that knocked her to the core of her being, and, well… she is amazing. And I am learning from her.

I have a new cephalopod project bag. I think I may have a problem…

But in all honesty, I have actually consciously started to reign myself and my mad shenanigans in. I didn’t walk the half marathon a few weekends ago. It was good for my body that I didn’t, even though mentally, it was complete and utter hell. I could have done it. And quite easily, but: I couldn’t do the possibility of crutches again. Not where I’m now living, and I’m not going to do that to anybody else.

And then there was Melbourne last weekend. And that brought on a whole other gamut of thoughts, emotions, and illumination. How? This is going to be slightly around about, but let me try to explain.

The aliens I saw in France and Spain have begun their invasion of the southern hemisphere.

For me, place can effect emotion, and music can transport one back to a place or time. It has been a week of processing this information, and one example really struck me last night.

I was going through a music playlist, and lo – there was Chris de Burgh’s The Spanish Train and Other Stories – which I would have listened to over and over again as a child in the car, travelling, but it was Simon and Garfunkle’s Sound of Silence that brought about this introspection of place and emotion.

You see, I love that song. It speaks to me. It is possibly one of my top 10 songs if I had to choose 10 (and that would be ridiculously difficult), and while I have listened to it countless times, now it will always take me back to a split second in the middle of winter in 2004, Dunedin, at about quarter past eleven at night.

I had just finished closing up the Science Library there, and was on my 3 minute walk home. The wind had dropped, and it was clear (and dark), and I had paused before crossing Cumberland Street. I have no idea why this image of the hazy streetlights and my breath hanging in the heavy air, the empty road and darkened windows (Dunedin in mid-winter can be cold and miserable) has stuck with me. Yes, I was listening to Sound of Silence at the time, but I had listened to it countless times before and have done so since. It was like a musical photograph. I can be anywhere, and when I listen to the song, that image, and the feeling of being there, will come unbidden to mind. It was particularly clear last night, and I have to wonder why.

But this does follow on from my trip to Melbourne last weekend to see another brilliant performer live on stage. And be able to sing along to every song (and I’m still trying to figure out where this crazy little gnome reference/song comes from). But it was the first time I’d been in Melbourne – properly – since August 2009. For good reason.

It was a lovely evening, and we had a perfect spot.

You see, I jokingly had said I’d given the city to my ex when I left (apparently Amanda Palmer has a song along these lines too – I need to find it), but it turns out, I wasn’t joking after all. It was a very odd feeling to fly back into Tullamarine, and catch the skybus in, and take the train out to see Becky and the Wee Scot. Everything jarred.

Degraves street. My once-Mecca

The city really hit me. It reminded me of how caged and isolated I had felt, and how miserable I was there. It offered me a(nother) snapshot: of how I could have been had I stayed (not nice)… And just how much I have matured – on all levels. The streets, while familiar, had no pull – and while I was happy to visit a few favourite shops – the place was cold, blank, and blah. It’s amazing how it impacted on me.

And yet: Seeing Nick Cave live: there are no words. And three of my favourite songs of his live was just… That was great. And hanging out with Becky and the maniacal Scot was very, very overdue.

But those two flashes of light aside (and the only reason why I was there anyway), it was such a relief to touch down in Wellington on Monday. To be home. To be so very lucky with my job, my friends, and to finally be happy. And to have felt, truly, how far I have come. Some people may never know the exact extent of my journey because I really don’t like talking about any of it, but I am closer to who I want to be than I’d ever thought. Maybe this new decade will be one of laughter and fulfilment. I now know where I’ve come from and where I am. Where the road will take me is going to be a great adventure. And accepting all of that makes it better.

I went to an old pen shop haunt of mine and they fixed my pen(s)! Geekery ensued

So it’s time to be good to me. And to take care of myself. Maybe I really did learn more about who I am on the Camino than I thought. This being a responsible adult thing really isn’t too bad, is it? That being said, I’m going to go read some more Terry Pratchett. I’m re-teaching myself how to read and enjoy fiction. He’s a very good place to start.

This is possibly why I’m currently surrounded by wips at the moment. Lots of squishy yarn comprising cables, Oods, and lace. I’m project hopping (doesn’t make for significant progress, I can tell you). I think I’m going to concentrate on finishing my Strider, as it’s been on the needles the longest. I’m 8 rows away from the smaller size, but I have more than enough to do the full 4 repeats – so that’s going to happen. Then, Oods and the second sleeve of the Old Port, so that I can start another jumper for me guilt free. And all the while, my pi blanket (baby alpaca – so very light) keeps growing round by round, inch by inch. I’ve started the 92 row section, and I’m only on my 2nd skein of alpacky. It’s also taking 10 minutes a round. Tough going.

While I’m contentedly knitting through my wips, and enjoying the ability to finally breathe, I’m taking stock on some things being put into play in the next few months. Some have been in planning since November, others I’ve been pondering for the last few weeks. All will be revealed, as and when it’s worth telling. Once thing I will say is not going to the gym (yoga/pilates/swimming) is making me feel blah and unfit. I can see me having to start from scratch again. But since my new workplace is on the doorstep of my gym, I’m gleefully looking forward to a couple of lunchtime swims and a few weight sessions now and then because I can, and it’s right there.

What’s even better – I can justify a detour along the waterfront to work soon – something that I have missed since living in the CBD and working at the railway station. It was with a real pang of regret that I realised I wouldn’t be doing that walk when I moved to Thorndon. But now… the tables (and tides) have turned, and I can go be windswept in the morning. This makes me happy.

So new beginnings¹, and I’m hoping to one day soon wake up and be stoked (as I should be), rather than emotionally exhausted from all the uncertainty (as I currently am). At least, now that I know why I’ve been feeling as I have, I can work on it.² And get back on the goals bandwagon. There are things I’m going to achieve this year. January has been a holding pattern for me. February is when it all begins.

But for now, there’s a little tennis in the background (Djokovic is currenting pawning Ferrer in the 1st semi-final), and I’ve got a pattern repeat to finish. In Malabrigo Worsted Verde. Mmmmmmm. Malabrigo. So smooshy.

¹Sorry. Disney earworm.
²Speaking of fixing things, and the Black Dog which has seemingly been haunting me with all of this: Check out Live More Awesome – it’s a brilliant approach and attitude towards depression, and that waterslide looks amazing. I’d love to give it a go.

I’ve spent the last few months, getting back from the Camino trying to get to the point where I could do an ocean swim. Wrecking my rotator cuff in 2011 and not having it heal properly has put paid to any sort of freestyle action, so I was going to do the 1000m version of the swim by breaststroke. I was pretty much there too. I can comfortably do 1500-2000m in a pool, and could do it in open water (I take forever though), but I managed to wrench my shoulder again last week – so no ocean swim for me. The fact that my knees are starting to complain about the correcting of my feet and ankles means, in all likelihood, if I do the half marathon on the 17th Feb, I will be on crutches again. And where I now live, and after the last time, I do not want to go back there again. Pilates and Yoga is also off limits. All the will safely be open to me over the next few weeks is a kickboard and endless lengths of kicking (I have just invested in a snorkel for this – as it is probably to only thing that will keep me sane).

I spent so long sitting and not being active due to pesky things like my knees and my wrist during my university years, that it has been an absolute delight to be a) back in the water, and b) being able to be more active than I had been in a very long while. To have my joints disagree with the sentiment is highly, highly irksome. But I guess life is giving me pause, and telling me to choose one thing, and go with that. And it’s difficult.

I love to walk. I love the pace, the cadence, the being a part of the scenery and not rushing through, the ability to observe, and to contemplate. To be able to interact and to enjoy one’s surroundings. And I can walk. Not that wiggle your hips ridiculousness, but to stride. A good walk is just amazing. But sitting here, with ice packs on my knees and triple-clicks through both knees when I climb stairs now tells me something. I’m hoping it all sorts itself out in the next couple of months as the bones and joints realign properly from all the work I’m doing with my ankles, but my walking may have to be toned down some. And this saddens me.

And then there’s the water. I love water more than I can tell. Just looking around at my photos, water is a significant part of the memories I keep in my frames. The sea soothes me, and, as I have mentioned in my Camino posts, being too far from water pains me. I feel quite anxious and upset if I’m not near a coastline. Canberra was hell for it. Even Melbourne, really, was too far away from the ocean for me. To wake up in the morning, and walk out onto the driveway and see Wellington Harbour is a balm for the soul. The South Coast even more so – and nothing can beat a stormy coastline for sheer perfection. To be in water is… I may not be the most graceful thing in the element (I know many who are heartbreakingly at ease in water – real merpeople and a joy to behold) but I am comfortable just messing about.

Swimming, like walking is also a very introspective activity. Again, if I get the right pace and cadence, it’s sublime. Time flows all around you, and you move with little effort. There is no ability to observe while swimming though, but it is all contemplation and concentration – and eventually – complete automation. A moving meditation, if you will. You are literally in your surroundings, as the water envelopes you, and you have to interact directly with it. But in many cases, you’re not going anywhere, and that’s what I love about walking. The journey. I’m not going to realistically be able to do anything open water-ish to be able to have that sensation through swimming. I can just working on swimming more strongly, and perfect my technique, but that’s probably the sub-total of what I am able to do. It’s just a more friendly element to me than the hard earth.

It is a difficult choice, but I think I am going to have to sacrifice the serious walking for a while, and swim to build up my legs, ease the joints, and work on the stamina and flexibility I need to be able to do things like the full Camino, or the Cinque Terra, or the Routeburn and Heaphy Tracks. I need to take some time, and concentrate on making myself as strong as I can be in water, to build up my strength on land.

But this also needs balance. My brain needs to be engaged. I’m going to be working hard on my French this year. And doing something about all my WiPs in progress (I have one from mid-2011 sitting next to me that I’ve been working on today, and will try whack a significant chunk of it off tomorrow), as well as all these books I want to read. I’ve also enrolled in Harvard’s edX course on The Ancient Greek Hero with Gregory Nagy (whom I cited endlessly in my PhD), and in MIT’s Introduction to Computer Science and Programming (I always thought I should have gone back and done CompSci – now I can).

If I can keep the body/mind balance in check – I think this will be a good year. It’s going to be challenging, but I like challenging. I like balance. There’s much to be said about spontaneity, and a great deal about planning. I think I can strike a mid-ground with both. Yes, this should be fun.

After a beautiful, but blustery NYE in the capital (cancelling the fireworks. Again.), the first day of 2013 has graced us in a similar fashion to what the start of 2012 did: gusty (only, with less rain this time). Speaking of the beginning of 2012, I decided to take a trip down memory lane, and see what I wrote this time last year.

Food pr0n aside, it’s almost disgustingly similar. I went back to the Bay, only to have the former Cyclone Evan wreak havoc on my lovely summer escape – so I went to the pool to swim. (That 10 trip from last year still had some swims on it). Still breaststroke. Only this time, I’m in training. For this. Breaststroke.

Why yes, I have entered an ocean swim (1000m only, until I can do freestyle again) and will compete using one of the most inefficient ocean swimming strokes possible. I will never take the easy road until I have to.

Anyway. Yes, I was home. There was swimming. And packing the 40-odd kgs of books that I’m going to have shipped to Wellington. And the culling of vast swathes of cherries. Swathes. And lime and chilli rice crackers. And cricket was watched, tea was drunk, and general unwinding ensued. It was good. And it was a great time to reflect on what this year’s resolutions are going to be.

Would you believe that they are identical to last year’s? Although my #7 may have to change to yoga from boxing (with my injury record… yeah). But even more impressive is the fact that I didn’t break any of those resolutions. So let’s recap (Zipf’s law and all that) on what was last year’s resolutions, and my minor adjustment for this year:

1. breathe
2. don’t sweat the small stuff
3. travel
4. read
5. cross a couple of things off that bucket list
6. swim
7. box (ankle injuries) yoga instead
8. do more library stuff
9. spend more time with friends
10. more music concerts
11. work on being more spontaneous (there is method to that contradictory madness)

The other amusing this is I started last year on a yarn diet, and I think I may have lasted a month at the most. This time I’m almost two months into my imposed knit-from stash until it is done (gifted yarn is still accepted, but cannot be touched until the stash is decimated, or I break). Surprisingly, I have yet to be tempted. There are too many things I want to make, and I have the yarn to do so. This year I need to stick to that.

All in all, 2012 was a fantastic year. Terrifying (in a good way) in several aspects of my personal and professional life. I dared, and in almost all cases, I succeeded. I did some things I never thought I would in my wildest dreams. And I made some of my dreams come true. Indeed, this song could sum up a great deal about last year (I wish these guys would hurry up and tour New Zealand again already). It is one of several I could have chosen, like this one, but you get the drift… It was also a trying year in some aspects, and one of learning. I hope the 2013 is one of continued learning, but without the trying episodes.

Some highlights of my 2012

I’m looking forward to many more fantastic adventures with some fine people who I call friends, and to continuing in my attempts to be mindful, calm, and patient with life. Here’s to 2013. What do you have in store for me?

I spent most of my walk home after work recapping the things I have done this year. And it has been quite an impressive list of places I have been and people I have met. As I sit in my beautiful apartment – my anchor and my space – I’m just marvelling at all the possibilities and opportunities for next year. There are a few on the horizon already, including an ocean swim and another go at the half in February.

My feet are also getting itchy again. I had to laugh – I have a fairly windy and steep pedestrian path up a hill to get home now, and for some reason today it reminded me of the first damned hill on the outskirts of Sarria that just wouldn’t end, which had, in turn, reminded me of the seeming millions of stairs on the trail up Mt Kaukau. I was really worried that most of the trip through Spain would just be an absolute blur – but I’m just so happy (and surprised) at how much of the little things have remained, and are quite clear. I could close my eyes and redo the walk quite easily in my head. My pile of photos has been great to sort through and look at too. But they also make me want to travel again.

My next planned adventure (next year if I’m lucky enough, 2014 if I’m not) will be coastal Croatia and possibly Montenegro. For this, I lay the blame squarely on a fantastic documentary series called Francesco’s Mediterranean Voyage (2008). I absolutely loved his section on Croatia – and the history of the area is just fascinating. And it’s beautiful. And warm. And yeah. I may just be able to hop across to Venice as well. Murano glass, anybody?

But there will be more, I’m sure. The Alexander Exhibition in Sydney is well worth some consideration, as is visiting friends in Canberra (maybe), Dunedin (possibly), and Melbourne (certainly). There are books to read, and my stash to knit from. I’m also going to do more yoga and learn more French. This year has proved to me that old adage nothing ventured, nothing gained is all true. And as scary as it can be, it is also quite rewarding. Can’t wait to see what else is around the corner.

I’ll do something about photos and knitting progress (my pi blanket is coming along swimmingly, as are the ood socks), and a good old recap of the year once I’m up in the sultry Bay. For now, I’ve the last of my packing and tidying to do, and photos to reminisce over.

Until next time.

NDF is what a conference ought to be. Are you listening, LIANZA? It was positive, collaborative, enthusiastic, and with no clique-y politics in sight. As a GLAM event, it was clear that communication only within each individual sector does not work when the problems faced and innovations made apply across the board. In short, it was absolutely nirvana to be in a place with people who all speak the same language and understand the context of the problems faced. And while I really was depressed when the conference finished and everybody went their separate ways, we all left in excellent spirits and with a great deal more to think about.

The keynote recordings can be found here, and I recommend at least a dip into some of them, but the one that I am still mulling over belongs to Courtney Johnston, the new director of The Dowse Art Museum. Her talk can be found here. Watch it, I beg of you.

It was enlightening, inspirational, and moving. If her future work is anything like her ideas and raw passion about art and life, then the Dowse is in for a golden age. I, and many other conference attendees were in tears with her by the end, and the journey that she took us all on was profound. It really is how all our institutes, across all sectors should be thinking about developing and engaging. Last year, we were told, Courtney’s catchphrase was “Do good sh*t” – this year, she was talking about bringing emotion back into the gallery.

She told about about the fun she was having with DigitalNZ‘s photo sets, and described a picture from her private set that “spoke to her”. It reminded her, she said, of a poem by Richard Brautigan called “The Castle of Cormorants” and recited it to us, with the amazing Deaf Radio signing out the poem for us. It was beautiful, and as I said, we were all crying by the end.

Hamlet with
a cormorant
under his arm
married Ophelia.
She was still
wet from drowning.
She looked like
a white flower
that had been
left in the
rain too long.
I love you,
said Ophelia,
and I love
that dark
bird you
hold in
your arms.

Big Sur
February 1958

There are few poems that have caught me like that – but the only other is that vein comes from Anne Carson. It was introduced to me by the lovely Jenn, around the same time she introduced me to Knitty and taking knitting seriously. The Carson poem, is from Plainwater : The Life of Towns

But you
love I
knew by
heart

I had written on a post-it note, and on my office wall throughout my postgrad career. It, a drawing of a stick witch/Wyrd Sister from Macbeth, a copy of the Anglo-Saxon fragment of The Ruin, and Captain Wentworth’s letter from the end of Persuasion (the most romantic letter ever written). These little pieces spoke to me, much as Courtney’s pieces speak to her, and I find myself wanting to leaf through my box of knick knacks from my office at ANU to see if I can still find them and bring them back with me.

Courtney’s talk was about engaging through the evocation of emotion – not just the five senses. Emotion stirs the senses and the recall and impact lasts far after the experience (case in point, this keynote that I’m still reeling from, a week and a half later). It is something that we who deal with people, and presenting information of all types and formats, need to be thinking about.*

I’ve been mulling over this for a while now, and walking back from enjoying my solitude-in-a-crowd, I decided it was time to try and articulate the links, for me at least, of why this talk rattled me so much (in a good way). I’m sure there will be more to think about, talk about and write about as I draw together the last threads of this year and my adventures in it. But for now, just go and watch this talk – please.

Until next time.

*(Speaking of this, whoever decided to call the National Library of New Zealand’s new exhibition Big Data needs to be dragged out before a firing squad and publicly shot. We have enough trouble trying to define and explain big data in plain, everyday speak, we don’t need people who can’t comprehend it to muddy the waters. It’s embarrassing, really, using buzzwords out of context. They’re going to be dealing with true big data soon enough, no need to mis-educate the public – however flashy the term may be).