Monday, June 26, 2006
My Last Day in NZ June 28, 2006
On my last day in New Zealand I walked along the beach in Pukerua Bay as if it was all new again knowing it’s the last time.
A beautiful solo walk, listening to the waves hissing as they retreated, a curious fantail followed me and I meditated on a rock near Wairaka Rock where an unfaithful lover is turned to stone by her jealous man, a Maori Warrior. Then NF appeared high on the hill. We went inside a massive rock, next to Wairaka Rock. Deep in the hillside, into a cave, with black jutting edges we listened for the voices. Later we described to each other the soft high pitched cry of a woman’s voice surrounding us in the the womb.
A walk back along the path I pointed out to NF where I saw a cat guarding a memorial cross, facing Kapiti Island. There was a plague honoring a surfer born in 1964, with the date of death, November, 18, 2006. Today’s date is June 28, 2006.
Then off to Plimmerton to the Italian cafe where I had my last flat white with soy and a cheese- less pizza. Back to IP’s I continued packing and we went to Hell’s Pizza where we got vegan pizza to go so we could watch New Zealand’s only soap opera, Shortland Street. I have more than enough carbs for my 24 hour journey. I miss my daughter Dana.
A beautiful solo walk, listening to the waves hissing as they retreated, a curious fantail followed me and I meditated on a rock near Wairaka Rock where an unfaithful lover is turned to stone by her jealous man, a Maori Warrior. Then NF appeared high on the hill. We went inside a massive rock, next to Wairaka Rock. Deep in the hillside, into a cave, with black jutting edges we listened for the voices. Later we described to each other the soft high pitched cry of a woman’s voice surrounding us in the the womb.
A walk back along the path I pointed out to NF where I saw a cat guarding a memorial cross, facing Kapiti Island. There was a plague honoring a surfer born in 1964, with the date of death, November, 18, 2006. Today’s date is June 28, 2006.
Then off to Plimmerton to the Italian cafe where I had my last flat white with soy and a cheese- less pizza. Back to IP’s I continued packing and we went to Hell’s Pizza where we got vegan pizza to go so we could watch New Zealand’s only soap opera, Shortland Street. I have more than enough carbs for my 24 hour journey. I miss my daughter Dana.
Playmarket
At the 2006 Playmarket Aotearoa Playwrights Conference in Hamilton for the week of June 17th. A photo of me at Waikato University and a photo of Nail with his hairdresser, ex-drug dealer in recovery.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
Sex Disease and flowers
Clarification on my Santosha Blog
I knew I had the wrong spelling for my white flowering plant that I gave Rose, but it took Maili, a friend in New York, who lives in the building I left a year ago, to set me straight:
“Hahaahahaa!!! Oh, Diane, you crack me up!
Okay, here's what you're looking for:
Chlamydia is a bacterial venereal disease.
Clytemnestra was the mythical wife of Agamemnon, the mother of Electra.
Clematis is a climbing flowering vine, which you always get confused with....
Cyclamen, the tuberous, white-flowering plant that you left with me when you emigrated, which is still alive, and has flowered a few times, but has never been quite so happy as it was in the living room window of L 1507 [or whatever the number was]. He misses mommy, I suppose.
You are welcome. Love,
Maili ["The Dictionary Bitch"]”
I knew I had the wrong spelling for my white flowering plant that I gave Rose, but it took Maili, a friend in New York, who lives in the building I left a year ago, to set me straight:
“Hahaahahaa!!! Oh, Diane, you crack me up!
Okay, here's what you're looking for:
Chlamydia is a bacterial venereal disease.
Clytemnestra was the mythical wife of Agamemnon, the mother of Electra.
Clematis is a climbing flowering vine, which you always get confused with....
Cyclamen, the tuberous, white-flowering plant that you left with me when you emigrated, which is still alive, and has flowered a few times, but has never been quite so happy as it was in the living room window of L 1507 [or whatever the number was]. He misses mommy, I suppose.
You are welcome. Love,
Maili ["The Dictionary Bitch"]”
Sunday, June 11, 2006
My Last Walk
Mark, my yogi friend in New York, after reading about my walk from the train to my home by the sea says: "“A little reality check while you pack your bags: NYC subways, when they're full, carry between 110 and 175 passengers per car, depending on which size car, adding up to 1,100 to 1,450 people riding every train. So how far do you have to walk on your country lane to bump into 1,450 folks?"
My last walk.
After getting off the train I began the 20-minute trek in the dark, up hill, without seeing a soul. The waxing allmost full moon lit the way and I could see the stars over the sea through bushes and trees over rooftops. I picked a small sprig of jasmine and lavender from dark bushes, rubbing the lavender into my wrists and inhaling the sweet jasmine. My walk was very still except for each step from my soft-soled hiking boots and the clinking of the ends of two zippers on my backpack. I was one with the stillness. No birds, no dogs, no train or cars, not even a distant TV. I listened for approaching traffic behind me, coming up the hill or suddenly appearing in front of me, around each bend, leaving no room either way: on my right, a high cliff, and on my left a slopping ravine.
We're coming into Winter. The air was cold but my body warmed to the fast pace. Passing one house I heard the rustle of bushes from a distant hill, moving towards me, getting louder, feeling closer and closer. A werewolf? Lurking in the dark ready to pounce? I am the dark, I whispered. I walked around the final bend, leaving the rustle of dead leaves from a dog or perhaps an opossum behind me. The darkest part of the journey was now in the past and I saw the sea, lit from the moon and stars. I followed the end of the winding road to my driveway and checked my mail. I hadn't seen another soul since I got off the train, twenty minutes ago, not even those sitting in their living rooms watching the blue glow. I lit my torch (flashlight) and walked down the fifty steps to the bach, (cottage) my home. This part of the walk is very dark from the bushes and trees, even with the moon I wouldn't find my way without my tiny torch attached to my keys.
Once inside I checked the rooms, lit a fire, went through more papers, and went to bed with the usual two hot water bottles. Around three a.m. I woke to a room full of light. The full moon was low in the sky over Mana Island, reflecting on a silver and calm sea from the sky all the way to me. I heard a noise. Is that what woke me? What could it be? There it was again. What is it? It was much too dark and early to be a bird; it would be hours before dawn. There, again, a long soulfull cry. Who was calling me? Were they saying stay or go? Please?
It was so quiet I could see the stillness and hear my heart beat. Re-entry back to New York City could be bizarre.
My last walk.
After getting off the train I began the 20-minute trek in the dark, up hill, without seeing a soul. The waxing allmost full moon lit the way and I could see the stars over the sea through bushes and trees over rooftops. I picked a small sprig of jasmine and lavender from dark bushes, rubbing the lavender into my wrists and inhaling the sweet jasmine. My walk was very still except for each step from my soft-soled hiking boots and the clinking of the ends of two zippers on my backpack. I was one with the stillness. No birds, no dogs, no train or cars, not even a distant TV. I listened for approaching traffic behind me, coming up the hill or suddenly appearing in front of me, around each bend, leaving no room either way: on my right, a high cliff, and on my left a slopping ravine.
We're coming into Winter. The air was cold but my body warmed to the fast pace. Passing one house I heard the rustle of bushes from a distant hill, moving towards me, getting louder, feeling closer and closer. A werewolf? Lurking in the dark ready to pounce? I am the dark, I whispered. I walked around the final bend, leaving the rustle of dead leaves from a dog or perhaps an opossum behind me. The darkest part of the journey was now in the past and I saw the sea, lit from the moon and stars. I followed the end of the winding road to my driveway and checked my mail. I hadn't seen another soul since I got off the train, twenty minutes ago, not even those sitting in their living rooms watching the blue glow. I lit my torch (flashlight) and walked down the fifty steps to the bach, (cottage) my home. This part of the walk is very dark from the bushes and trees, even with the moon I wouldn't find my way without my tiny torch attached to my keys.
Once inside I checked the rooms, lit a fire, went through more papers, and went to bed with the usual two hot water bottles. Around three a.m. I woke to a room full of light. The full moon was low in the sky over Mana Island, reflecting on a silver and calm sea from the sky all the way to me. I heard a noise. Is that what woke me? What could it be? There it was again. What is it? It was much too dark and early to be a bird; it would be hours before dawn. There, again, a long soulfull cry. Who was calling me? Were they saying stay or go? Please?
It was so quiet I could see the stillness and hear my heart beat. Re-entry back to New York City could be bizarre.
lightening up
maybe i can help you with those pots & pans. do you have one that is really small? i have a really small cast iron one, but for things like boiling an egg or melting butter, it would be good to have a small one that i didn't have to wash & dry as soon as it's been used.
helen : )
helen : )
Monday, June 05, 2006
Santosha
As the sun sets I hear little tiny paws running up and down my walls. Each night they come for warmth. Mice? The walls are thin and I expect one of them to poke its head through some crack and run across my floor over my feet, but they never do.
A year ago I came to New Zealand with two suitcases and a computer. I shipped a container of ‘stuff’, ten boxes, which arrived two months later. Everything I felt I could not do without, but did live without for two months: tax documents, books, yoga manuals, original artwork, drawings, tapes, photos, DVDs, CDs, vegan hiking boots, German knives, gifts and many portfolios documenting my work as an artist and performer. Now with only 21 days to go, I have the opportunity to once again donate, throw out, store or ship back the same stuff, as well some new things: quartz from the Sounds, black shirts from the Salvation Army, and twenty pieces of new art work made from stone, wood, glass and photos. If anyone needs free pots and pans that have never cooked meat, let me know.
I haven’t looked at my cartoon portfolio since I put it in a box headed for here. What do I do with this? Ship it again? I’m tempted to throw it out, since there are few that I still enjoy.
Santosha: Contentment: ability to be comfortable with what we do and do not have. Santosha is one of the Niyama’s from the eight limbs of yoga. A way for me to practice non-attachment. It’s all very simple, letting go and letting be. My printer and chair go to Helen the web queen; the only novel Tennessee Williams ever wrote to NF; my Chlamydia flowering plant to Rose, my oldest friend of eleven months; and the Possum Killer can take back the blender if he remembers he gave it to me.
I’m getting lighter making decisions on what to keep, leave, ship. Even my guitar can’t come with me unless I pay Air New Zealand $200 US dollars to take it on board. Kazz Funky Blue has offered to hold it for me when I return. She is certain I’ll be back. In the meantime she can become a blues woman.
Today the weather is nasty. It’s Autumn, soon to be Winter. (Thank the goddess I will not spend another winter in NZ.) I have never experienced this kind of cold. Without central heat, a space heater does some good. But typing with tip-less gloves? I wear an undershirt, shirt, vest, scarf, and jacket along with two heavy hot water bottles, one under my t-shirt, one in my lap. If you could see me walk to the kitchen or bathroom holding on to two water bottles you would have a laugh. There was hail this morning, and it could get down to minus 5 C so the telly weatherman says. Or is it the tellie? I still can’t convert Celsius to Fahrenheit, but it’s cold. Today is a holiday. The Queen’s birthday. I broke a tooth. There was a mild earthquake Saturday night. I felt the earth move.
A year ago I came to New Zealand with two suitcases and a computer. I shipped a container of ‘stuff’, ten boxes, which arrived two months later. Everything I felt I could not do without, but did live without for two months: tax documents, books, yoga manuals, original artwork, drawings, tapes, photos, DVDs, CDs, vegan hiking boots, German knives, gifts and many portfolios documenting my work as an artist and performer. Now with only 21 days to go, I have the opportunity to once again donate, throw out, store or ship back the same stuff, as well some new things: quartz from the Sounds, black shirts from the Salvation Army, and twenty pieces of new art work made from stone, wood, glass and photos. If anyone needs free pots and pans that have never cooked meat, let me know.
I haven’t looked at my cartoon portfolio since I put it in a box headed for here. What do I do with this? Ship it again? I’m tempted to throw it out, since there are few that I still enjoy.
Santosha: Contentment: ability to be comfortable with what we do and do not have. Santosha is one of the Niyama’s from the eight limbs of yoga. A way for me to practice non-attachment. It’s all very simple, letting go and letting be. My printer and chair go to Helen the web queen; the only novel Tennessee Williams ever wrote to NF; my Chlamydia flowering plant to Rose, my oldest friend of eleven months; and the Possum Killer can take back the blender if he remembers he gave it to me.
I’m getting lighter making decisions on what to keep, leave, ship. Even my guitar can’t come with me unless I pay Air New Zealand $200 US dollars to take it on board. Kazz Funky Blue has offered to hold it for me when I return. She is certain I’ll be back. In the meantime she can become a blues woman.
Today the weather is nasty. It’s Autumn, soon to be Winter. (Thank the goddess I will not spend another winter in NZ.) I have never experienced this kind of cold. Without central heat, a space heater does some good. But typing with tip-less gloves? I wear an undershirt, shirt, vest, scarf, and jacket along with two heavy hot water bottles, one under my t-shirt, one in my lap. If you could see me walk to the kitchen or bathroom holding on to two water bottles you would have a laugh. There was hail this morning, and it could get down to minus 5 C so the telly weatherman says. Or is it the tellie? I still can’t convert Celsius to Fahrenheit, but it’s cold. Today is a holiday. The Queen’s birthday. I broke a tooth. There was a mild earthquake Saturday night. I felt the earth move.