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it's been most heartening to read the comments on the previous post
as well as those over on my FarceBook page
[for those who haven't yet dipped a toe into the water, you have until December 13 to do so]
all of which encourage me to keep poking at the keypad
in the hope that words will form and flock together

i managed to create order from chaos +
restrain my belongings sufficiently to allow them passage on a plane
leaving Portland behind
where i had enjoyed not only the precious gift of time
[you'll find some of the results here, beautifully documented by my friend Christi]
but also enjoyed a life very different to the one i lead at home
where everything other than the post office is at least 30 minutes away by car
which encompassed
walking to the store to buy food
having frequent dinners with friends [and cooking for them at mine]
and wandering Portland on foot [fabulous bridges and more of them than you can point a forked stick at]

and now
via two blissful nights in San Francisco
[you really appreciate a queen sized bed when you have slept for six weeks in a single where your feet hang over the end]

i wandered to a favourite hill
found a heart in my pocket [thank you Sandra]

and hung it on a tree
[the one in the middle of the first photo]

a little later i wrote a poem about it
other people have left hearts not far away too

and my friend r tells me that Tony Bennett
was in SF just last week
eating [but not singing] at his favourite restaurant
that's ok
i sang it for myself.
and another one for the heart.

i gathered leaves
at a place where i know i will always find them

wandered down to Aquatic Park
had a quiet talk with some stones i know there

and left them to the incoming tide

yesterday morning i reluctantly gathered my bits again
picked up a rental car
and motored northwards

on the way i met a man
tall, sturdy, silent type.

i liked his kitbag
[that nice boy over at Whipping+Post makes a similar one]

i stopped at a railway line
to collect dogspikes for the class

made a silly self pawtrait

and kept on going
until i reached the ocean

i have arrived in Fort Bragg for the ultimate class of the year
[please see definition '1' here if confused by that pronouncement]
slept encircled by redwoods
where i am now consuming a most excellent breakfast

a salad of organically grown mixed leaves
smoked wild caught salmon
chopped green onions
a tomato
a handful of pepitas
dressed with greek yoghurt
salt
hot sauce

washed down with black coffee

and now it's time to go to work!

to bee, or not to bee

the passing and commemoration of Aotearoa's best-loved beekeeper is in many minds today. family members reminiscing about Sir Ed remind us of his humility and his extraordinary insistence on the state of ordinariness. his response to an interviewer pointing out his modesty regarding his achievements makes me smile..."well, there's a lot to be modest about." we wish him well on his next adventure...which, according to Peter Pan, is an "awfully big one".












with beekeeper in mind and a fondness for bees, when friends suggest we break our evening bread together at the Busy Bee (in Raumati) given our first choice Lembas is closed on Tuesdays and there is a hurricane blowing i am favourably disposed to be pleased by the establishment.

having experienced aromatic deliciousness, warm smiling speedy service, unparalleled cleanliness, soothing surroundings and general bliss at the Mussel Boys in Paraparaumu some nights ago i could even describe my attitude as comfortably optimistic. the waitress at the Mussel Boys understood her wine list, was clearly delighted by the food she was able to offer and indicated by her very demeanour that she had been waiting all day, just for us to walk in the door. this is how i like to be welcomed, particularly when i am far from home and especially when hard earned shekels are to be exchanged for edible commodities.

sadly the Busy Bee now joins the list of places to be avoided at all costs when visiting Wingnutcentral; among a range of dining experiences which are rapidly beginning to resemble local terrain - peaks of achievement separated by deep valleys of despair. if only those metaphoric valleys had rivers to flush out the dining debris. high points have included the Wellington Trawling Seamarket, that nice place on Cuba Street called Satay Palace or something very similar, the aforementioned Mollusc Fraternity and of course the octogenarian favourite, the Green Parrot.
lows have included an appalling cafe in Kaikoura, whose chowder brought to mind Lord Blackadder's pungent and graphic description of one of Baldrick's cream-coloured culinary offerings. the chowder presented by the Bee's ample waitress isn't quite in that league and redeemed by recognisable morsels of sea-creatures; however finding a small black hair at the bottom of the dish was more than a little disconcerting.
the crowning glory of my present evening is provided by the appearance of four diminutive and decidedly deceased objects erroneously described on the menu as king prawns. it is obvious from their dessicated appearance that some time has elapsed since the Reaper popped by for cocktails and canapes at the prawn family residence and despite the promising description of the dish on the menu it is a dull affair.
in contrast my friends are pleased with their meals. the scallops are certainly plumper than their crustacean cousins...however once immediate hunger is assuaged and we begin to more closely observe our surroundings it is clear all is not well at the Bee. the waitress keeps flicking her hair everywhere. the state of said hair conjuring lines from an early Dire Straits song, that bit about the conductress on the number nineteen. the hair slides over a plate of muffins she carries to another table. uggh. too tired and too stunned to protest, we cough up the cash and depart.

grub may well be a simile meaning food, but grubby is not a descriptor one likes to associate with dining.
and $16.50 for four shrivelled shrimps is scandalous. no wonder i have a bee in my bonnet.


ps, actually posted on tuesday, non-usa time...

musings at the green parrot

overheard on the wharf at dusk... "that's odd, even here the sun sets in the west". a visitor from another planet, perhaps? days end finds me in Aotearoa, land of the long white cloud, a whirled away from my usual haunts.
nonetheless there are familiar paths to tread, flowers to pick and slip unobstrusively into a pocket, rusted fragments to find. i go down to the sea. the tide is out so my quest for a bottle of seawater takes me somewhat gingerly down slimy steps. winkles cluster busily about. there are mussels in abundance. water bottle filled i turn to Taranaki street and the familar comfort of the Green Parrot. my luck is in, there's a corner table where i can establish my defences, back to the wall, behind the journal/keep, and play the watcher.
three men whose sporting days are long behind them consume vast platters of grilled meats. they chew open-mouthed and manage conversation at the same time. old friends who can dispense with niceties. the waiter brings bread and butter, i spread one on the other, liberally apply salt and am well content.
no walking up Taranaki in the rain tonight. the dimming sky is soft, blue, gentle. last year, caught in a thunderstorm after dark, i was gathered up by a kindly police officer who would not hear of my quest for a bus and insisted on driving me back to my digs in Island Bay. only in Wellington, where (no doubt to that bizarre visitor's ongoing surprise) the sun has just gone to rest, in the west.