Reciprocal
December 10, 2005Ruby Bay, New Zealand
3:54pm
Five days since my last post. Not because I have nothing to say. Ok, partially because I nothing to say. Mostly its because our first week in here was pretty low key, with Steph and Hud off to playcentre in the morning, and either chillaxing in the afternoon or doing something small, like the aqua centre or the library, you know, real life things, simple things.
We have spent a lot of time with the couple up the road, and their methodically talking son, who on occasion tells Hudson he is annoying. I bite my tongue bloody, holding back what I think of his forced fucktard way of speaking. How it grates on my soul, how it feels like peeling off the skin on the back of my calves and forking a lemon over it. He is only seven. Forcing me to climb to the next plateau of the old mountain of patience. Slapping my own back in congratulation.
The novel writing started. It will not be finished by the time my father arrives. So he will have to wait with the rest of the masses to get a taste of the magic that is my writing. Please note the sarcasm. Please understand I am battling the inner demons of inability. At this point, it’s about finishing it, polishing it up like a statue, and perhaps tossing it into a fire. The sense of completion being the true reward.
The walks started again, up to just under 8km every morning, a third on the main road, a third on a very quiet farm road, and the last third on the beach. The beach close to us is not the white sandy tropical beach we’ve seen in other places on this journey. It is rocky and a bit stinky. Steph breathes in the brackish, seaweed smell and revels in it. I breathe in and think: Dead fish. Maybe because I never really dug seafood, so the smell if it rotting is not something I want to bask in.
Two weeks until the visitors arrive, which you will all never hear the real dirt about, because they read this as well! Maybe I can slip in a couple of clandestine references about any embarrassing tales. We shall see.
As far as my little Italian friend’s arrival, his tales of embarrassment will be documented in point form for easy laughter reference. His scorn I can take.
We went out to lunch with the couple and slowmo, up the street to a small café with a river running through it. In the river are many many eels that you can hand feed meat on a stick (only $2 a stick!). Eels are gross. Their little mouths opening up and snatching the meat off the stick, their little eyes staring at you, wishing you were on a big stick. Total ick. As a three year old of course, the ickier then better.
So, the other night, I suggested we have dinner together, the couple and their son and us, up at their place (it’s bigger), insinuating a potluck sort of deal, nothing too fabulous, just good drinks and good eats and mediocre conversation (the bar was set low). So Steph and I, as we do, made couscous with peppers and onions, a bean salad that was so good it should be outlawed, and 10 chicken kababs, with tomatoes, onions, peppers, mushroom, zucchinis, three draped in Thai curry flavour, three in a peanut satay sauce, and four plain. I spent the last part of the afternoon pushing meat and vegetable onto the skewers I soaked in water, arranging them beautifully on a tray, so they would be impressed. They were impressed, and we set up all our goodies on their table. I cooked all the brochettes and brought them inside and we sat down to eat. Oh, what did they make you ask? Potatoes. In the microwave. A squash. That they mistimed and served after everything else. I think it cost them maybe three bucks. They are 40 years old and retired. Maybe that is how they saved all their money. I don’t get it. We have been invited back to their place tonight. It’s their last night and I asked if we could bring anything. She said no. I accepted. Although on the way home we stopped off and bought a bunch of pastries we can cut up for dessert. We just can’t arrive with nothing.
I am going to get drunk and tongue kiss the woman while smothering the little boy’s mouth with my hand. The father is shy so he may say something. He may not. Something I will risk. Here are some shots of us and horses.
Love to all,
J.
posted by Jason @ 7:37 PM
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