As the stomach turns...
September 5, 2005Onemana (get used to it), New Zealand
8:20am
It will be difficult to fill these pages with tales of wonder and awe. I am living in a town of 200 people in a two-bedroom house that smells of new wood and old bug spray. My guess it will become a little bit like a boring soap opera. Me, Steph and Hud the main characters, the neighbours, the secondary characters and the random people we meet the tertiary motley crue.
Take Carol for instance, our greeter, our neighbour across the street, our supplier of a toy bear for Hud, and one of the fastest talkers I have ever met. She says the word yeah after every thought burst, although it sounds more like yeh, more like a bird call then a sentence break. And her hands, brown spotted, fingers full of rings, some real, some not, wave like T-rex arms, flailing, random air punches and slaps as she tells us what television show is on tonight that Hud might like. She was a librarian and Steph accurately suggested that maybe, after all the years of shushy silence, she is making up for it. Her husband, a man I have yet to meet, works outside constantly. When we arrived he was painting the fence surrounding their quite large house. My bet is that fence has changed colour about twenty times since they retired here to Onemana. Him just seeking solace in the gentle up and down strokes of a large brush. Instead of being driven to murder by the non stop chirping of his harmless, bespectacled wife.
We met another neighbour yesterday as well. Three doors down from Carol. John I think his name his. Retired here from Palmerston North 14 years ago. I think he was lit up and he admitted he was hard of hearing, so the conversation went accordingly. Gives you an idea of the age of the people that live around us. At least the people that live here year round. Most of the places are weekend or summer homes. In early evening, when blackness has taken over, I stand on our balcony off our bedroom and look at all the empty homes. One in five has the familiar flicker of fire, or reading lamp being switched off, and by 9:00pm all the houses are dark. Bedtime comes quick in this docile community.
So will I become bored? Hopefully. I want boredom to drive my writing. I want there to be nothing else to do but write. Steph is fervently seeking clubs and groups to join to occupy her and Hud’s time and before you know it, she will be rooted here like new tree. I appreciate and am terrified of the time she is offering me to write. It is up to me now.
The question remains: What am I going to write? I love the story of my novel; I can see it from start to finish. But the voice is hard to come by. I have another idea that may suit me more. Food and friends and the drama and reality of everyday life. That may be more my thing. I have taken advice from a treasured ex-coworker about finding my voice and to stop writing so linear. This is day one, and no matter what, I will still write this journal. Perhaps as something to fall back on when all else is stymied.
This is also day one of our diet. Yesterday we proved that by going out for lunch and dinner to celebrate the end of rich food. Before lunch we drove into a park and did a short circuit walk to a lookout point hovering over Whangamata.
We watched two kayakers walk their vessels out past the waves and Stephanie counted twenty surfers riding the small swells in. It is a true coastal town, population 4,500 in the winter, and 45,000 in the summer. Being a local here must be maddening. So quiet and lovely for ten months and so chaotic and annoying for two. I guess the money that pours in during the holidays is worth the Aucklanders strolling the main street guffawing at all the small town fare.
Lunch was basic, in Whangamata at a café, where a number of other families were stuffing their kids’ faces with fries and crud. Back to the grocery store after to ensure I have all my food for a rigid diet I wrote out in the morning. Five days of low fat, low carbs and then the weekend to indulge a little. Not gorge, indulge. I hope I know the difference.
For dinner we went to the restaurant here in Onemana. There is one restaurant and one convenience store in this town. And a real estate agent. That is Onemana. Sunday is roast night at the restaurant so lots of families were out. We walked through the door and everyone said hi to us. I of course probably scowled, completely taken aback by this kind of familiarity. I may have salvaged my rep by being loud and funny with the waitress. She thought I ordered a Pina Colada instead of the beer I was requesting. The whole exchange was funny as I feigned doing a salsa. The waitress laughed, and Steph, well, she just shook her head.
Dinner was pleasant even with Hud’s wild eyed, I need sleep, hysteria. We were all stuffed after so we walked almost to the beach and then back to the car to burn off some of the sugar and fat we just shoved down our throats. It was repulsive, feeling that stuffed. I am going to take this diet one meal at a time, and I need to look at food a different way. Not as a comfort, but as a simple, basic requirement, like oxygen, or orgasms.
This morning I also began the exercise portion of my routine. I walked down the hill to the beach, along the beach to a red container housing a lifesaving ring, back along the grass to the sidewalk, and then up the massive hill, the last part being a steep walkway through the bush that ends right at our house. It took 35 minutes and I was sufficiently sweaty and out of breath for a good five minutes. This leads me to believe that it is a good start to the diet and my day.
My breakfast was one egg, one tomato and a grapefruit. And a litre of water.
Let the soap opera begin.
Love to all,
J.
posted by Jason @ 2:32 PM
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