randomness

I feel personally persecuted by the radio programming. Obviously this is a narcisstic projection. All of New Zealand must be craving schmalzy songs. Here's some of the recent fare: Do you really want to hurt me / Nothing compares to you / In too deep / waterfalls / The Joker ...

I just finished one of the weirdest books I've ever read: Gore Vidal's Myra Breckinridge. The most inspiring aspect in this 1960s sex-change, sex-fantasy, man-to-woman-to-man book is the protagonist's attempt to describe any moment in exactitude.
So, I'll try to emulate this and use you as guinea pigs (I admit I'm a little bored right now).

At Coromandel Island:
It is warm, even sunny, showers come and go. (I cannot count the number of times I've heard the hilarious statement that in New Zealand, you have all four seasons in one day.. yawn...) The wind disturbs any serious enterprise, like a kid that keeps trying to play with you long after you've told him you're busy (sorry - metaphors are actually forbidden in this, but it's hard not to..). My skin is dry and scarred from scratched sandfly bites. Altogether I don't feel particularly charming & I'm surprised that people insist on talking to me.
Palm trees. Public toilets that close at 5pm (but free toilets, free water everywhere). No spiders. No rubbish, no noise. Sometimes I think everyone here is on dope. (On the other hand, they all have road rage.) Just think of the endearing explanation on the sheet for the Tongariro Alpine Crossing: "Please do not walk too close to the edge of the Crater because if you fall in you will not come out." What's that about, huh? I do need some more clarification on this point..
Tried to take out a bike, but the chain broke. tried to go to the Hot Water Beach but there is no returning bus. Horserides don't start from Thames, and no treks are leaving. I considered going fishing, except it sounded depressing in my current mood. I wish they had a shooting range here, that is still on my list.
These houses here in little towns and the stories they are telling, stories I can't read. They have palmtrees, but no stones in their walls. The streets are wide, the houses flat, it's a frontier feeling. Architecture like I imagine the American Midwest: Towns made for cars. Big signs, spacious parking, junk food. Nothing invites you to linger. Come to shop, comfortably, and leave quickly please.
Within two minutes outside of town, paradise lies before you.
Like the tiny, tidy bushes and miniature trees of toy trains at my grandmother's attic, grazing sheep and cows blown up, softly undulating hills and mindboggling Greenness and Peace. The sky's grey, and decorative as ever.

Meeting people who also go cruise supermarkets at night. Meeting "Peter Pan", a charismatic brown-eyed, blonde-dreadlocked, androgynous looking and possibly French (the combination!)woman. I lost sight of her in the hassle and before I could further inquire, but her mate gave me a ticket with an untouched account of time on the internet.