The Never Ending Story: Probably my biggest childhood crush, besides Erik Zyderfelt, who gave me my first kiss in the field behind my house, was Atreyu. Especially when his shirt fell open and bloody gashes appeared on his beautiful skin. I was terrified of Morg, the heterochromic wolf puppet and had dreams of being the Childlike Empress. (If only because it meant getting closer to my dreamboat, Atreyu). Imagine a girl in chocolate stained pajamas whose been stood up for her prom, wailing hysterically into a limpid hanky. That’s me when Artax dies in the swamps of sadness.

The Labyrinth: I watched this movie a lot as a kid. And yet somehow I never picked up on the scariest part of the entire movie. David Bowie’s crotch. Encased in high waisted grey Lycra and gyrating far to close to “babe” Toby throughout the entire movie. It needs its own mention in the credits. Seriously. You’d find less bulge in a male lead in Swan Lake.

Willow: Long before Peter Dinklage was flying the flag for little people as Tyrion in Game of Thrones, there was the original mini-hero that was Willow. This movie had everything a good fantasy movie should have: magic, mischievous pixies, three-headed animatronic beasts, trolls (that’ll eat your face off) and sacrificial babies. It also provided the viewer with myriad ways to insult their enemies, “Peck!”, “Burglekutt, you’re troll dung”, “Your mother was a lizard!”, subtle pick up lines, “Wanna breed?” and hints of bestiality. Fun for the whole family.

The Princes Bride: The best kinds of children’s movies are one’s that are really adult movies in disguise. There’s something about this movie that makes one feel dashing. Capes and swords and leather gloves should be donned and revenge exacted. Never trust six fingered men, especially if they keep a chubby tongued albino in an underground lair and masks will ensure that even your true love cannot rescue you (unless you have a handy catch phrase for your love already in place.) Be sure your sidekick is a WWF giant who is good at rhyming and if you’re going to kill yourself, a dagger to the breasts is always the best way.

The best thing about these movies is coming back to them years later. And realising you still love them just as much as you always did. Jennifer Connelley had it wrong when she said “You have no power over me”. These movies still continue to weave a spell on me long after my belief in magic has faded.

As I write this I take note of my nails. Today is October 7^th. On August 5^th I attended a wedding. The morning of the nuptials I had a very basic manicure. Nails washed and buffed, filed and clipped and then painted in gold. Probably the most care and attention they had seen in years. My own form of nail care usually consists of letting them grow long, biting them back down to size and using some kind of sharp object to dig out dirt. Classy. But back to the manicure. For one week my nails were perfect. And then the polish slowly began to chip away. Now most normal girls would probably delve into their nail kit (for of all those weird looking metal tools that look like they were used in Ancient Egypt to remove brains) and remove the mess from their fingers. I prefer the slow decay approach. My nails still have blotches of gold on them. I’m going for the world record! Or testing a scientific hypothesis. How long can nail polish last before it finally withers away? Watch this space.

Another thing I just can’t resign myself too is watching rom coms. It is the most unsatisfying kind of movie going there is. There’s a guy. There’s a girl. Guy/girl has sex addiction/disease/former emotionally scarring experience/fear of commitment/bifocals that prevents them from entering a lasting relationship. Until, that is, they meet their romantic lead. A series of montages involving laughter, and spinning, quirky dating activities and hand touching, and glasses/clothes removing ensues. Over time they think screw my sex addiction, to hell with the past, oh what a fool I’ve been! The one that I love and shall make babies with is there right in front of me. But there’s a secret, secret is revealed, love interest is shocked and hurt, love of life leaves, won’t answer phone calls, changes Facebook status to “its complicated”. At this point I scream at the screen. Idiot! You’ll get him/her back. Us simple minded audience members need the emotional closure. Haven’t you ever seen a romantic movie before? It always works out. Just like real life.

And just in case anyone had romantic notions about me in mind, be warned! I would make a terrible wife/mother. I can’t sew. Or knit. Or do any kind of crafty thing like make retro video game pillows or weave friendship bracelets from organic cotton. My cooking repertoire extends to epic salads, decent sandwiches, simple pasta and heating and stirring. My children would be ill clad, have scurvy and long, dirty nails. (Yet a fine appreciation for nouvelle vague French cinema). If I had to host a dinner party I would look fabulous but be serving canned French onion soup, overcooked pasta and fruit salad in mismatched bowls.

I carry around the contents of my life in canvas bags. They’re cavernous, impractical and get dirty very easily. Yet even if I could afford it I would never trade them for a Chanel or Louis Vuitton purse. It just doesn’t make sense to me. Why I would spend my hard earned money on a statement? I’m sure contained within these are tools required to handle any womergency. Like female MacGyvers these Fendi toting females are able to whip out straighteners, hairspray and bobby pins. Tweezers, clippers, and floss. Needles, thread, vodka, strapless bras, panty house and Kleenex (for drunken peeing or crying. Or both). In my bag I have a wallet, a phone, keys and Burt’s Bees. The only girl crisis I’ll be solving is chapped lips.

I suppose then I should consider myself lucky that I live in a society where I can be whatever kind of woman I want to be. That I can express myself how I choose. Wear a dress yet not know how to French braid. Never wear sneakers in public but have 3 year old undies on underneath my clothes. I have the choice to be pretty much whoever I want to be. And that’s better than any Hollywood happy ending.

This was a trip with purpose. Northland was my home. I had grown up here. Run barefoot on its beaches, washed clean beneath its waves, clambered over rocks and camped out beneath its trees. Mangonui sits at the mouth of the Mangonui Harbour and is home to the best fish and chips in New Zealand, a dirty, barnacle encrusted, yet still bustling wharf and Rangikapiti Pa, once belonging to the Ngati Kahu tribe. (Now, less of a defensive position and more a site for late night teenage parties.) I had lived here for the first nine years of my life and somehow, though sheer coincidence, or perhaps fate, I had met Ria, whose parents now resided in my childhood home.

But this wasn’t just a trip down memory lane and a chance to show Lynne and Brian where I came from. Lynne had a deeper purpose for wanting to take this trip. An obligation she had to fulfill, a quest she wanted completed. A close friend of hers had passed away before she had come to New Zealand. The parent’s had taken their child’s ashes and given them to close friends with the request that they scatter the ashes in a place that held meaning. Lynne had carried the ashes across oceans and now she believed she had found a final resting place for her friend.

At the top of the North Island lies Cape Reinga. From Mangonui it is a two hour drive, over rolling hills, past farmland and ramshackle houses, past stores where you can have a “Hangi in a pie” and on and on. The road turns to gravel, narrows, twists and turns downwards towards a narrow peninsula. On the road to the end of the land of the long white cloud is Kapowairua, or Spirit’s Bay. Here, according to Maori legend, is where the dead would depart our world for the next. From the top of an 800 pohutakawa tree they would slip into the land of spirits. Here is where Lynne decided to say goodbye to her friend.

The day was grey and cold. Ria and Brian stayed in the car while Lynne and I trekked over the sand dunes and down to the beach. In my hands I held Lynne’s camera. She wanted me to document the ‘ceremony’. It was the perfect kind of day for it. The wind buffeted our hair, tried to force us back towards the car and the waves pounded the shoreline. Rocks jutted out into the water and we clambered up them. Standing at the tip of this small outcrop you really could believe you had reached the end of the world. Ocean spread out beneath our feet cold and grey and infinite. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon two worlds collided, the Atlantic and the Pacific, and here perhaps two worlds overlapped: the land of the living and the land of the dead.

I set up the camera and waited for Lynne. She stood at the edge, perched just above the teeming waves. The ashes were wrapped in scarf. She unfurled its contents into the air, silhouetted against the fading light. In an instant it was all over, the ashes gone, the scarf empty. We were quiet as we made our way back to the car. Even though I had not known her friend, I still felt like something powerful had transpired and I felt honoured Lynne had allowed me to share the moment with her.

We stopped halfway up the beach. A stallion had just crested one of the dunes. He stood poised at its brink, staring down at us, the wind tossing his mane. And then he began to gallop. Wet sand broke apart beneath his hooves as he stormed down the beach. Towards us. Right at us. I stood frozen, half in terror, half mesmerised as it charged. At the last minute he swerved and galloped off into the distance as though guiding the spirit on to its final resting place.

Its one of those moments that is hard to describe. Still to this day I can remember the feeling of the horses’ eyes on us. The blood coursing through my veins. Of the wonder. I don’t know why this moment was so profound to me. I’m not a very spiritual person. I’ve been to church twice in my life. The supernatural, and eerie, the magical and the divine are not things I feel I have experienced.

Except for that one day. On that wild, murky shore. With a kindred spirit at my side and another spirit slowly leaving. I experienced something truly magical.

-Riding my bicycle down empty, lamplit streets at night.

-Waking up and realising there is still a whole joyous hour of weird dreaming before my alarm goes off.

-Terrible reality T.V.

-Having the exact change for something. If you are behind me in line, be warned. I will make you wait an extra minute just so I can dig around in my wallet to brandish with relish that 97 NT I knew I had.

-2am conversations.

-Puns. The cheesier, the better.

-Sibilants. Somehow so superbly satisfying.

-Shopping alone. And finding exactly what I want.

-Pad Thai on a Sunday afternoon in Donghai, with bleary eyes and hungover body.

-Sad movies. Ones that punch you in the gut, drag you through the wringer and don’t give you a happy ending.

-Doing the Listener crossword with my mother.

-Speaking German whilst tipsy.

-Books and their smell. I think there should be a perfume called Bibli Eu Tech.

-Ira Glass.

-Certain sounds. Like heeled shoes on a hardwood floor, or a leather jacket crinkling.

-Landing in a new place. (And just being able to dismount planes in general).

-Falling asleep to my mother playing piano.

-David Bowie’s obscene crotch in The Labyrinth.

-D90 shenanigans.

-Anything from before I was born. Retrophile to say the least.

-Karangahape Road.

-Life, mostly.

Space. It’s something that Iceland has in abundance. In a country with only 300, 000 inhabitants and 3 people per square kilometre finding other creative types could be something fo a challenge. Luckily for us the members of Sigur Ros did indeed stumble upon each other on the frozen tundra. After a hectic year of touring abroad the band returns to their Heima, their home, to rediscover and reclaim some of this ‘space’ for their own. Bringing along long time collaborators, Amiina, they travel around the island staging impromptu and free concerts in unexpected and unique locations.

The Iceland that unfolds before us has many faces, but all of them a fierce beauty. Iceland is a land that seems to be slowly fading. Shells of houses melt into the land, grass takes over, thatch giving way to field. The decaying remains are fading memories with only time and nature to witness their demise.

This is the backdrop for many of the band’s performances. In one memorable scene the group visit a village perched on the edge of a glassy sea. Once a home to a bustling fishing trade, all that remains now are two inhabitants and endless empty skies. Rotting fish heads swing from skeletal houses, the husk of a ship perches on the shore, rust giving way to dust, and behind it sits the old factory, silent and disused. Sigur Ros music is matched perfectly to the nature and long gone industry of Iceland. Ethereal and heavy all at once. They make their way across Iceland, playing shows and meeting local oddities (such as the man who constructs an organ out of shale found on a mountainside.) And all the while Nature looks on.

And what a nature it is. Glaciers that groan as they inch their way across the land, soaring mountains, waterfalls hidden behind the mists and barren grasslands dominate the screen. A constant that existed long before humans came to the island and one that will exist long after. But even the permanence of nature is not assured. The band treks out to one of the biggest grasslands in the world, which was still being built at the time of filming but has now been operational since 2009. Joining a group of protesters at the site they perform a haunting acoustic set. The wind drops and everything is silent except for the sound of their music drifting across the land.

But if there is one thing that does remain throughout this film it’s the feeling of community that arises not only from creating music but the act of performing to an audience itself that has gathered together to witness it. Space, the band argues, is what is needed to have closeness. At each small town they visit entire communities congregate to watch the band. From grandmothers to babies every generation is present. For music is something that joins us and brings us together and that is something Sigur Ros want to foster. As singer Jonsi says ‘People come for the gathering as much as liking the music and I think that’s nice.’ For them its not important so much that people are fans of the music, but rather that the music brings them together.

And if this all seems a bit too warm and fuzzy for you then even at its simplest Heima is beautifully shot, turning Iceland into a visual feast. The shots are as complex, striking and layered as the songs themselves, that wend their way throughout the film. The music and the images complement each other perfectly and create a peaceful nostalgia in the audience for a place of which they hold no knowledge. The perfect example of this is the opening sequence where the camera flies over the Iceland landscape as rivers, lakes, waterfalls and waves all flow in reverse as Jonsi’s falsetto rises over the images. Like a giant intake of breath before the ensuing beautiful exhalation, the result is truly magical.

So sit down, relax, grab a friend, whether they be an avid fan, someone new to the music or just someone caught up in the busy pace of life who could benefit from a little bit of space.

Take skiing for example. Being half Swiss you would think that I would have some kind of super alpine DNA that meant the skis and I would become one, merge and together glide gracefully down mountaintops, yodeling all the way. Not quite. Last year I was in Switzerland for a family reunion and we spent a day skiing in Grindelwald. Well skiing is what my father and stepbrother did. While my sister and stepmother cleverly decided to forego the skiing I threw myself into it wholeheartedly. Or rather, I threw myself to the ground. Again and again. Not trusting the traditional technique of bringing ones skis together, I decided the best way to stop myself going faster than five kilometers an hour and plunging over a cliff was to fall sideways and collapse in a pathetic heap as five year wunderkinds flew past me.

So mountains in winter, not so much fun for me. And theme parks and me don’t seem to mix either. I went to my first theme park at eight and while I braved the rollercoaster, one minute into the pirate ship ride I decided that a life on the high seas was not for me, raised my hand and forced the operator to stop so I could get off and do the amusement park walk of shame. I spent almost $80 in University so I could watch my friends be dropped from 90 feet, dangle from a Lethal Weapon rollercoaster and go from 0 to 160km/h in seven seconds. I rode the Rugrats rollercoaster and squealed as it made a leisurely dip. Its not that I am afraid the wheels will fall off, or my safety belt will snap or that an inattentive Carney will push the wrong button. I just don’t like the feeling of my stomach being forced into brain as my spinal cord is yanked toward my feet and my lungs purged of all oxygen. It’s just not natural. I don’t scream on these rides, I groan, like an old man expelling his last breath after a giant tractor has crushed his trachea Uhhhhhhh.

Yet these are activities I can avoid. I don’t have to go gallivanting up mountainsides in expensive fleeced clothes that cause me to waddle rather than walk. I can pass up the oh so exciting opportunity of being herded into a caged ride like a lamb to the slaughter. Flying, however, is something that I have to contend with, even though I don’t like it very much. Travel I must, and therefore fly I must.

It’s not a logical fear. In my rational mind I know it’s infinitely more dangerous for me to walk to the 7/11 on the corner of my street than it is for me to fly 12 hours economy. A donkey has more lethal potential in those hooves than an airplane does. That doesn’t matter. I’m not in the habit of spending time with asses and, living in Taiwan, well breathing can be deadly. I’d have to become a hermit if I thought about all the possible things that could hurt me outside my door.

As soon as the plane starts taxiing down the runway my heart decides that its not audible enough and needs to be heard all the way up in first class. After the wheels leave the ground, every shake, every rattle, every tiny dip of the plane leaves me convinced we are plummeting to our death. I hate taking off. Once in the air I can forget that I am 10, 000 metres above the earth in a metal box and lose myself in in-flight entertainment. That is unless we hit turbulence.

The fasten seatbelt symbol beginning to glow may as well be a signal for me to prepare to plummet. As the captain comes on over the loud speaker I expect him to tell me to say goodbye to my loved one sitting next to me (generally oblivious, sleeping like a baby or laughing at my terror eyes). Worst-case scenario I’ll be going home to my parents in pieces (or flakes of ash), best cast scenario I’ll find myself in some kind of Lost island situation. And I wouldn’t be like the Kate from the T.V series, all lean and alluring and good with guns. I’d be more like Hurley, hungry, with sweaty breasts.

But maybe I should stop being afraid of all these things. Tackle them head on in some kind of über fear factor challenge where I jump out of a plane onto a mountain side, ski to the bottom and land in a pirate ship ride. Or maybe I’ll just continue to avoid slick surfaces, ride the spinning teacups and suppress a sob every time the plane wobbles. Makes me appreciate landing that much more.

Now I’ll admit, growing up musical taste was never that cool. Encased in bright yellow plastic, my two Elton John tapes were played over and over in our ancient stereo that was probably new when my mother was young. Crocodile Rock, was my favourite, but I most likely had dance moves to Don’t Go Breaking my Heart and Bennie and the Jets. We also owned a record of Sleeping with the Past. I used to run my hands over the black and white cover, thinking Elton looked like an adult baby: bald and smooth, yet wrinkled. If an Elton John song ever comes on the radio I can still recall all the words, they have imprinted themselves permanently upon my memory.

Every few months as a kid we would make the drive to Auckland. Over the tummy bridges of Kawakawa where, if mum was willing to drive fast enough, you could imagine you were on a rollercoaster, just for a second, then on to Whangarei, two hours from home and the first time we encountered traffic lights and fast food restaurants. We would then make our way up and over the Brynderwyns, stopping at the same rest stop each time, where I would always order a steak and cheese pie, burning my tongue on the scorching cheese. The thrill of arriving in Auckland, such a huge city to this small town girl, is one I still experience. Driving over the harbour bridge, looking through the thousands of sailboats to the city, whose skyline in those days was not yet dominated by the Skytower. When I was nine we made this trip for a specific purpose, to see Les Miserables and Cats.

If I say I was transfixed by both it would be a lie, it was something more than that. I was transported, transplanted, and transformed, taken away to revolutionary Paris and the world of rogue cats. My mum bought both the tapes for me, as well as printing out the lyrics to all the songs so I could continue to listen long after the curtain fell. I would lie on my mum’s bed, with the tape in my Walkman and belt out the words to “On my own” or “Memory”, fancying myself a singer. (Let’s be glad New Zealand’s Got Talent never existed at that time or I may have tried to convince my mum to let me audition.)

I was the perfect age for pop. At 11 I was listening to Aqua, The Spice Girls, Hanson, Backstreet Boys, N’Sync and All Saints. We would roll up our uniform skirts and un-tuck our polo shirts, sit on the steps and watch the boys play basketball while making half-hearted attempts at writing songs. Our school had a lip-syncing competition and along with four other pop obsessed friends we choreographed a routine to Wannabe. Somehow it was decided that I would best represent Scary Spice. I have often been told I resemble Mel B….

At 15 my friend Nicky and I would sit in her room listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Limp Bizkit and Nirvana and write stories in her red notebook she carried around full of poems and pictures and facts about her friends. Kurt Cobain had been dead for 7 years by then but I was only just discovering grunge. At 16 my first boyfriend introduced me to Rancid and NOFX and how to drink $8 Scrumpy’s cider straight from the bottle. At 17 we were the seniors of our school. We had our own common room with couches and a stereo. Fights would ensue over what we would play, rap or metal. It was the bogans versus the gangsters. We would drive around late at night blasting Sublime and Green Day through cheap speakers.

By University I was finally 18 and could go to shows in dingy, dark bars. We would drink cheap cask wine and sneak it in to the venues in plastic bottles. The music scene in Auckland was loud and brash and sweaty. Whether boys in long hair and tight jeans banging out tunes on guitars and Korgs and computers or a gypsy band with a red headed Tom Waits front man, we danced to them all. Each night before we went out we would play Seventeen Years by Ratatat and dance like robots in stockinged feet. When I cried, it was to Jeff Buckley or The Smiths.

I lived in Ireland when I was 21 and flew to Poland for one week. I met a girl from Australia and she convinced me to change my flights, blow off work and come to the 3-day Opener music festival in Gdansk. Best. Decision. Ever. It rained. A lot. My feet turned blue from the 3 Euro shoes I bought in the old town centre. At night under four layers of clothes I still froze to death and there was mud everywhere. But it was probably one of the highlights of my year in Europe. One day we jumped in a van of some Latvians we had met to escape the rain and drove to the city. As the elements raged outside we drank Zlatarog and sung along to Blind Melon. I can’t hear “No Rain” to this day without being transported back to that time.

Two weeks ago I sat with a group of friends as a guitar was passed around and we all sang along together. Music is powerful. And songs are part of all our collective memory. People can come from the other side of the world and yet we can both know every single word to the same songs. What songs hold memories for you? And why?