Back at it

It never fails to amaze me how some people seem to act as lightening rods for crap, and some of us seem to miss out on it all. Nothing specific happened to illustrate the fact - but thinking about it gives me continued amazement. get it where you can, I say.

It was a Tuesday like every other. Early start to the day with the dreaded alarm waking me from a mildly erotic dream at 05:30. A quick - and somewhat unremarkable - splash to begin the day. Ironing the day's clothing choices, dressing in the same one-foot-at-a-time way I have these past 38 years - well, except maybe for those years when I was dressed by a caring adult. Into the car and along the semi-silent streets of a still slumbering Los Angeles.

Skirting the city - from east to west - and west to east (Hollywood, that is).

I like my desk. Very much. The assortment of photos - the majority are of Dean I am pleased to say, the phone lists and stacks of papers in the black Office Depot Hospital issue stackable trays, the computer screen hovering to the right, and the beige (what an insipid colour) file cabinet to my left. It's a nice little place to spend the day. A large cork board - supposedly for important work-related documents - looks more like a quick history of me.

Postcards from a visit to the Georgia O'Keefe museum in Santa Fe, prayer cards with the smiling Rebbe from Habad, a postcard of the New Zealand flag from the UN, and an assortment of photos - one in particular I adore.

A bare breasted Maori woman - cast on bronze - from some statue near Te Papa down on the waterfront - right near Downstage Theatre. Kupe - the ancient mariner stands next to her (or rather she leans against him) as he looks out to sea, peering through the centuries to find the cloud hidden land - Aotearoa. New Zealand.

The board makes the day bearable. There is so much that goes on around me that I wish I could escape - but I am bound there by some strange force - need.

Needing to work - not just for the money - but also the actual need to do the action of work. I sometimes wish I could just be one of the lucky few who do not work at all - and live their life without the constraints it brings - but I think I would get horribly bored with my own company. Horribly.

So here I am...Again...

I'd tried this before, a while back. I'd enjoyed it and all, but then managed to forget my sign-on details. Kinda like loosing your front door key - except, well, there wasn't a locksmith to call. Or at least I hadn't been so fussed as to bother contacting anyone to get back to where I was. I think I was done with it, truth be told.

So here goes, another attempt at making it in the world of weblogs.

Eh...Don't really care so much if anyone reads it or not. Reality is that this is more for me than anyone else.

Just a place to rant and rave, some. Have a bit of a sounding board/bored where I can put it all out there about live in this crazy self-indulgent, self-obsessed city I call home. Even tho I don't. Call it "home" that is. This is just where I live. Home is far far away, on tiny emerald islands in the distant depths of the south Pacific.

I'm from New Zealand. Exotic I know. But it is more than just the singularly most beautiful scrap of the planet. Much, much more. It's my soul. It's my heartbeat. It's my face in a mirror, and my echo in the night. My breaths last exhaling rush, and it's first gasping inhalation. My marae - my standing place. My tribal meeting ground, and sacred earth-place.

It's impossible to explain, and yet the endlessly fascinating topic of my conversation. The only thing on which I am an expert.

It is greener than the richest wettest moss, and browner than the darkest most pungent humus.

But there will be plenty of time for me to rave on about her - my mistress - Aotearoa.

For now, I'll just try and make sure I remember the sign-on, password, et al.

Ka kite - See ya...