Random raves

Some sundry impressions:

• Auckland drivers and the traffic get more abominable every time I come here. Unless I lived (somewhere sufficiently aesthetic) within walking distance or a direct <1/2 hour busride to work, I wouldn't live here. Mind you, that's my criteria with just about any city, after London.
• There have been some interesting blasts from the past. I found a cocktail bar called Mo's, on the corner of Federal and Wolfe Sts, which is open to 3am. Makes a change from the dive that used to be there which the sailors and protties used to frequent. It's a wee hole in the wall, and the cocktail list is only the "classics". A mai tai was not on the list, but who on earth puts raspberry syrup in it????? So, nice place, but perhaps I should have stuck to what was on the (limited) menu.
• After Mo's, I walked up to St Paddy's Cathedral, through the park were Tania was gay- or Maori-bashed (or both) in the late 80s. It's a nice wee park though. The waterfall with big rough-hewn slabs of stone is still there splashing away, nicely lit-up at night.
• The Formule 1 hotel here in Wyndham St is nice. I am only staying here as a last resort (cos the three in which I've stayed in Oz were horrendous), but for $75 a night, I've got a kitchenette, nice bedding (not the flashest sheets, but they're clean), no bunks, a good shower and, get this, sea views right off Queen St in Auckland. I gather that Formule 1 didn't build this particular place and only took it on in the last 6 months. I thoroughly recommend it for budget accommodation, before it gets grotty. I'll post up pics tomorrow, possibly.
• The Women's Bookshop is hardly worth the name, these days. Between the books by blokes, and "self-help" and "spiritual" twaddle, there were about a dozen different authors in the lesbian section. I think there are probably more at Borders. Let all us Alison Bechdel fans reflect on the irony. Two (small) paperback books cost me over $70. One of which is Bechdel's Fun Home, which was a fascinating read, on a number of levels.
• After talking to my friend D at great length about the need for an anthology of NZ nature poetry, I found a book published last year that is exactly that, complete with nice photos. It's called Nature of Things. Here's the first one, by Ruth Dallas:
  
  Deep in the Hills
  
  Once I thought the land I had loved and known
  Lay curled up in my inmost self: musing alone
  In the quiet room I unfolded the folded sea,
  Unlocked the forest and the lonely tree,
  Hill and mountain valley beach and stone,
  All these, I said, are here and exist in me.
  
  But now I know it is I who exist in the land:
  My inmost self is blown like a grain of sand
  Along the windy beach, and is only free
  To wander among the mountains, enter the tree,
  To turn again a sea-worn stone in the hand,
  Because these things exist outside of me.
  
  O far from the quiet room my spirit fills
  The familar valleys, is folded deep in the hills.
   
• And the anthology is even better because it has my favourite ever NZ nature poem, as I go on about here.
• My friends are absolute treasures. Thank christ for their input and wonderful selves.
• I've needed this break, and to return to my turangawaewae (resting-place for feet, which metaphorically means the place where you have the right to stand up, and where you always return to).
• Off to the museum tomorrow to see an exhibition on the Pacific explorers... the original ones.
• The new titchy coins here are hilarious. Since they're completely different weights and sizes, I'll have to start feeding my old coins (still at home) into those Aussie parking meters. I'm so bad.
• Home to Canberra Wednesday night. When are they going to invent that goddamned matter transporter so that I can see all my loved ones anywhere when I feel like it?

damned_colonial

Greenish blues - WH Audit

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone

Shoot the pianist and with feelings glum,
Put away the coffee, don't let the diners come.

Let the waiters circle moaning all as one.
Scribble on the menu "It's all gone".

Put great bells around the red necks of rugby jocks.
Let traffic policemen wear white bobby socks.

It was my nosh, my spread, my feast, my boast,
My breakfast and my Sunday roast.

My lunch, my midnight snack, my feed, my scoff
I thought my choko frittata would last forever. It was off.

Pickles are not wanted now, put away every one.
Pack up the spoon and dismantle the bun.

Pour away the vinaigrette and sweep up the pud.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.