Waiheke for a day

Yesterday on Waiheke island I rode my scooter down to tranquil Rocky Bay. I spied a good parking space, but was aware of a guy sitting nearby at a picnic table smoking a cigarette and gazing at the bay. I parked there anyway, and as I turned off the ignition he said, “good to have a scooter to look around the island.” I replied, "yeah, you can have your tranquility back now." He didn’t seem too fussed. I sat down at the table and started devouring my supermarket pizza, and as we talked he pointed to schools of baitfish close to shore. His kayak with fishing rod inserted lay at the water’s edge less than 10 metres from where we sat, and he said that at high tide he can pop open the sunroof and catch a snapper from his car, which I thought was a bit dismissive of the beautiful surroundings. “Drive-thru fishing”, I joked.
I asked him if he knew Sam McLean, an old Scottish guy who lived in Rocky Bay and owned a 50-foot yacht that I crewed aboard to Fiji in 1993. He didn’t know. That was a long time ago now.
“What do you do on the mainland?”, he asked me. “All sorts of things”, I replied, “cheese gives me really weird dreams.” At first I thought he was joking when he told me his job, but as he went on I knew he was for real. For a sea captain I thought his glasses looked too trendy, and he looked too young and homeless, but maybe that’s just the dress code in Rocky Bay. He explained that oil companies pay $500,000 a day for offshore seismic surveying, and that, with its eight-mile-long lines trailing from the stern of the ship, pilot boat out front and rear-guard boat, his get-up is the largest moving object on earth. “Oil companies think nothing of the cost - for every dollar spent they get 20 dollars back”, he added, relighting his exotic cigarette. He pointed to his recreational craft, a 23-foot yacht moored out in the bay, which he’d bought for $1800 in the Bay of Islands and taken a week to sail home due to a lack of wind. He'd had to motor the whole way. I had more island to see, so with a full tank of vegetarian pizza I hopped on my scooter and buzzed off.

Morning delight (1983)

One morning I went down to my mini deserted, very mini bush. I checked the hut in case any wreckers had come. There is a little stream that treakles down. It glistened in the sun,... everything glistened. It was morning delight. Even the thrushes thought that. Every thing glistened in that sun.

Moons

Suburban beach

Standing on the beach where the
strong wind blew in the full moon
at one end, and the high rise ship
on brim tide at the other

The wind blows diagonally across my face
and the silver dollar moon beckons the lover in me.
I can’t tell if the ship is coming or going


Morning Moon

Low slung full moon
Soft orange, cloud shroud
Easy on the eye
Unlike his sun brother

Tower Bakers

Tower Bakers proves that limited space is no obstacle to creating a distinct, original feel. Interesting curiosities and books - including a few withdrawn library books - start drawing you in the second you step off the footpath outside this quiet, suburban row of shops, through the door of possibly the smallest baker shop you’ve been in. Upon entering you immediately find yourself standing, ready to pay (and even tip some stray coins into the piggy bank), at the business end of the counter. The wise man standing behind says hi and gives you space to peruse the simple yet original cabinet selection of toasted sandwiches and slices for sale, and keepsakes that are not. With the clock struck 12 o’clock-National-Radio-news playing softly on the wireless behind the counter, I order a rissole & gherkin toasted sandwich, and a Coffee Supreme coffee. Plopping down in a cute, blue wooden seat at the end of the sole communal table (through the large front window I also spy a small outdoor table and stools on the pavement), I reach for a library book. A cheerful British woman standing at the counter has struck up conversation with my wife about our baby boy’s toothy smile, and, with our lunch up, assumes the role of popup waitress, passing a plate the few feet from counter to customer: “who’s having the rissole sandwich?”, she asks. “We both are”, I answer rye-ly. Just because there is no room on the small plate for anything other than the sandwich (space is at a premium), doesn’t mean that presentation can’t still be everything - pressed into the top of the sandwich, like your nana’s pressed flowers, is the ornamental garnish from the counter. As you’d expect, the bread is good - they’ve been perfecting it here for 20 years, and the rissole, cheese, gherkin and tomato makes for a balanced meal all round. The wise man, sensing our wish to just sit and read our book & newspaper for a few moments before chowing down, had previously been out back brewing us a fine cup of jo.

Oldsmobile

Both my grandmas drove pretty cool cars, but for different reasons. One drove a brand-new red Ford Laser hatchback, and the other drove a mint condition black Volkswagon Beetle. My cool gran was the one who drove the laser, because she took more of an interest in us kids, or at least showed it more. She took us out to things. I don’t remember nana ever doing that, however, I do remember climbing into the back seat of her black beetle, the smell and texture of the grey vinyl upholstery, and the interesting purr of the boxer engine behind me. So maybe nana did take us out in her car, but I don’t remember ever going anywhere with her. Gran took us out in the Laser. She took us to the Mercury Theatre to see ‘Fiddler on the Roof’, and told my brother and me off for clowning around in the foyer (the only time I can remember her telling me off). She took us to work with her at the haberdashery shop and bought us orange stanley knives and meat pies from the shops next door. She drove us to the port to board the cruise ship for Sydney when we moved to Australia.
My nana lived across town in the posh suburbs. She was hard to get to. She served tomato goulash and toast for lunch from her tiny kitchen that smelt of cigarette smoke. At her place there were only boring pictures of birds on the walls, and nothing on TV, but in the garage lay this black beauty. Probably not a major head turner back then, other than the fact that it was pristine black, but definitely a novelty to me. Years later when it was sold I vaguely remember it being snapped up with some artful enthusiasm by someone. The Laser was pre-loved and sold. Gran hung on to for a long time tho, proud of the fact that she provided the power steering.

4 poems

A movie theatre foyer is a peculiar place to sit down for a coffee. There is a vibe and a hubbub in the room but everyone is standing - no one can chat for long because they are all coming or going.
Sentences are very short - just the headlines please - and people skip gaily from one topic to the next until the stone can skip no more and drowns, then they turn to the person to their right.
Everyone has a person to their right.
Conversations are nimble on their feet - everyone knows that to sit down is social suicide, to get bogged down in unnecessary detail and stall.
That is why the chairs, while neatly laid out, remain bare.
This person has their arse to me

Mission Bay has had the life frozen out of it to the point where it emits a faint glow onto the cold, dank air.
It has taste when no one is there - not even the famed Movenpick ice-cream shop can boast a crowd.


View at Langs Beach

Floor to ceiling window pane
Framed in A4
Acres of blue sky, inky white clouds cast giant seaweed shadows on turquoise seas,
Moving quickly underwater like rays
Solitary island sits atop vertical ripple sea
That fills up lower third of frame
Like they taught me to do at art school


Rain

Why can't a beautiful day include rain?
Rain is beautiful
It makes a noise to let you know it's here to help
Why do we despise the rain, and
devise so many ways to shun it -
The umbrella, the window wiper, the parker, the house -
That we forget to embrace it?
To feel it
To have it straight from the source
Before it winds up in the gutter

Go outside for a shower

Afloat

On Saturday I went sailing on my dad’s 30-foot yacht. I made the boat sink, but I can’t remember why. The half-submerged sails continued powering the boat forward, and as the last of the rig slipped beneath the surface, I somehow remained standing on something solid, yet I knew I eventually had to jump off. Before I leapt, the water seeping through my trouser pocket to my iPhone, I dunked my head and looked through my expensive sunglasses for sharks. Sure enough, one was waiting below near the hull. This morning, drifting back into consciousness, I felt disappointed that my iPhone was ruined.

I do everything in my dreams except see a shrink to get my reality interpreted.