First morning of a brand-new year landed on New Zealand’s shores all wet and shiny, shivering from wind, and still full of things yet to be. The new things we know not of. Not yet.
May they be kind to us all.
On average, 2016 was not terrible to me.
I read some good books and watched some terrible movies.
Or it might have been the other way around.
I was occasionally struck by an overwhelming need to cry or say “I love you” to perfect strangers.
Or both. In the same time.
Once or twice I did.
Taking wines (some even sweet) from a wine merchant who wanted to be a writer of erotic trilogies.
Or perhaps he wanted me to write them for him.
It cannot be resolved.
Sky is low and colour of sour milk. Sheets of rain fly over the city on the wings of winds as strong as this land’s flightless birds.
All of which makes me remember why:
Why I Am Like New Zealand
My feet stick out from beneath the sheet, Pointing to where death thrives.
I am right side up.
I wake between tectonic plates that hurt.
I have five faults, called senses.
My brow is furrowed into alps.
My best volcano thinks
It’s high geologic time
To euthanize the sky.
Excuse me while I euthanize the sky.
My fjords ache.
My glaciers hurry.
My spine is a train wreck in a tunnel.
No one survives.
There is a bridge to nowhere, and it’s mine.
I count on being left alone.
I love the Abel Tasman Sea.
I can’t remember my discovery.
By James Galvin