• You should buy swag from the Webstock shop. They’re comfy and hip. And who’s modeling the men’s shirts?
• I sold work at the New Zealand Affordable Arts show in Wellington. There were 563 artists in the show and together we made $992,000
• I attended Mark and Jill’s wedding in Ireland last month. The wedding was beautiful and I am so happy they invited me
• Dan visited me for two weeks this month. We flew to Christchurch, hired¹ a van, and drove around the South Island. Highlights include hot springs, glaciers, fjords, beaches and sheep
• Amber and I pierced our ears

§

It was great seeing Dan. We met at 15. He drove me to school in the morning. His car was a broken station wagon covered in bumper stickers, bonnet to boot.² What I remember from English class is learning the word “dilatory” and thinking “that’s Dan.” Back then, he was always late.

Especially in the mornings, we usually left late for school. It made me nervous, you know, as we studied in a Catholic high school and God burns kids who are late to class. So on the drive I was usually uneasy.

Then he would stop for a bacon-filled bagel.³ Torture. When we parked I would run to class and he would saunter. He charmed the teachers with piety and respect, so they all adored him, like he was a joy to have in class.

My relationship with the faculty was strictly master/servant. Once my math teacher, Mr. Glennon, rummaged through my bag and took out my gym shoes. He opened the window and chucked them outside during an exam. The class stared. I think he was trying to break the tension. He looked me in the eyes, raised his arm and pointed at the window. He said, “Get your shoes.” The class snickered.

I dove through the window headfirst.

Master, servant.

<sub>1. rented
2. hood to trunk
3. I know I’m skinny, but his appetite is impressive. On our trip he ate all the time</sub>

The time: Sometime after coffee but before lunch.

The chief offender: Rod Drury.

§

My phone receives a text message:

“We will probably go to drink around 4. Do you have a lot of work today?”

I look at my phone. It’s sitting on my desk. As my hand moves from the keyboard to the phone, time slows. From out of nowhere, Rod swoops down like an eagle, and within a jiff his talons dig into the guts of my phone, lifting it off my desk.

I see his index finger slide across the surface. He has successfully unlocked my iPhone.

His fingers work it over. He responds:

“It’s Jeff’s boss¹ here. He works until 5.”

Slave driver. The nerve! To think I have to work all day.

At least the message was innocent. I thought an iPhone was a full-proof mechanism against Rod. I guess not. The rumors are true — His fingers are in all the pies.

Now if I leave early he’s going to notice!

_{1. Not only is he the boss, he is the CEO of Xero}

(click to make bigger)

Photoshop was not used on this image (although I admit I stamped out some dust from the scan).

I’ve been documenting Mount Victoria and I might submit some prints for the New Zealand Affordable Art Show.

Last year the show exhibited about 900 artists and they collectively earned just under one million dollars. I almost submitted paintings, but missed my chance.

§

I would trade sloth for gluttony any day.

“Hey! You!”

I turned around and saw a red faced man wearing a bright blue vest, which identified him as library staff. He looked like Michael Moore because of his glasses and the fat belly, but he sounded twangy.

“Who gave you permission to take photos?” He barked.

“Oh. Do I need permission?” I asked.

“Yes in fact you do, you need my permission before you take photos inside the library, and you haven’t asked me, so you shouldn’t be taking photos.”

I was shocked into silence. The conversation went on for a bit, and it ended badly.

“Well next time you want to take photos you need permission,” he said.

“Don’t worry, next time I’ll ask for sure!”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“Oh.”

§

As I walked out of the building he followed me to make sure of something. I don’t know what.

I still can’t believe a librarian yelled at me! Now I have to avoid the library until I recover my ‘I can do anything because I’m free’ ignorance.

I only wanted a picture of the library so I remember what it looks like.

I felt like a cock in the city streets. The pedestrians mocked me. When a young hippy and I crossed paths he called me a wanker, and a wanking motion ensued as he walked across the street.

I thought that was a bit redundant, hippy!

I shrugged my shoulders. After all I was driving a car that demands confidence, a sort of affluent indifference that can only be bought.

I loved it. Now I think I will move to somewhere desolate where dead animal skulls line the highway. I need a fast car.

In an unrelated manner Xero is hiring and we’re looking for an HTML and CSS uber-guru. Here’s the pitch. Go on, apply!

I poured a bottle of cream into a whipping machine, and while fiddling with the plug the machine slipped from my hands! In one instant my kitchen floor went from dirty to rancid².

While this commotion was in locomotion, the chocolate on the stove was burning in the pot.

Burnt chocolate, cream-less pavlova, rancid floor. How lame.

<sub>1. a dessert consisting of a meringue base or cup filled with fruit and whipped cream.
2. our floor was already gross, cream excluded. Instead of tiles we walk on doormats.</sub>

It was an ordinary fork, prongs to food then food to mouth, but suddenly it acquired a new, hellish aspect. I asked, “Did you just hit me with a fork?” I saw his teeth bite his tongue piercing.

My eyes moved from his face to the gentle hippies, high on organic coffee with their beady, unblinking eyes. I think they expected me to do something. Did I steal the fork from his hand and run home, like Charlie and his golden ticket? No, quite the contrary.

I said, “So. Why did you hit me?” He slouched and his eyes looked down, like a sinner in a church pew.

He looked human. I felt guilty. Damn you, nuns!

And then I apologized (don’t ask, even I don’t know why) and went to the nearest book store and bought a book, because they delight me. The book I bought is about poetry, and I think I will write a poem about the man who hit me on the back of my head with a fork. How odd!