THE PITFALLS OF WRITING SPECULATIVE FICTION

“I think you’re fucked up.”

-        Eric Bateman

That is the one and only quote of criticism I chose to include on the back of my first book, Cut Short. How ironic—at the time I seemed to actually relish the implication. It seemed cool and edgy; the sort of quote that sells books, mysterious and controversial. I gloried in the assessment. Implications of a deranged brilliant mind. What I didn’t consider was the obvious: for some people this quote and the stories within would be their sole introduction. A reflection of the author himself. The intellectual handshake and artistic icebreaker. Meet Abner N, disturbed sociopath writer.

Great.

This slender volume of profane horror, a meditation on paranoia and obsession—stories about sex and murder and demons with nipple rings, sub-machine guns in baby cradles, malevolent acne and sinister cysts—THIS will be my agent, descending upon a world of unwitting readers, skewering my reputation.

And though that may be true—though it may be an accurate representative, it is also incomplete one. Because there’s more to me than just that, there is more to me than morbid musings and grim psychoanalysis! I just happen to like my art with a little bit of arsenic—gloomy, macabre—the type of stories to read on dark quite nights with rain outside the windows and skeletons rattling around in the closets.

Sure, that’s me. But it’s also not. I’ve always thought the good guys were boring, so I write about the bad guys instead (with a dash of salt for the wound) and that doesn’t exactly mean I’m a bloodthirsty Satanist roaming the streets with a mouthful of razorblades and broken glass.

Jesus Christ, give me a break!

I’m confident [sometimes] in my artistic identity just as much as I’m confident [sometimes] in the other facets of who I am; overwhelming positivist, traveler, truth seeker, dreamer, defeatist, sometimes a nihilist or existential depressive, and occasionally the most hopeful romantic. Personalities are complex. Even more so the creative lens through which we express our thoughts and feelings. And the fruition of that process isn’t always a direct reflection of who we are as people or even what we believe in. It’s imagination and what we observe. Sometimes it’s the personification of disgust, or taking an emotion—ours or someone else’s—and exaggerating it, putting it under a microscope and dissecting it.

It’s fascination.

And it’s integral, irrevocably a part of you.

The stories in Cut Short are a part of me, but they aren’t exactly WHO I am. They’re a reflection of my interests and observations, and other things also—but they don’t represent me as a whole. How could they? I’m only sorry that Cut Short is such a lousy icebreaker for the uninformed. Either way, I stand on it. I’m proud of Cut Short. And whatever comes next, I’m glad it was my first book. Meet Abner N: art without compromise, art without fear.

And all this sounds great until you meet that beautiful soft-eyed chick who wants to give your shit a read-through. Then it all comes crashing down. It’s back to square one: Meet Abner N, deranged sociopathic writer. Who would have known!

And then because your ego gets in the way you open your big fat mouth and opt to provide her with a copy. And then you do. And then you go home and write a thinly veiled confessional about how your confidence means shit, and that pretty much all men are spineless when it comes to a pretty girl.

THE EPIC

Last night I ate a tarantula, inhaled a ballon full of Laughing Gas, and saw a woman shoot darts from her pussy. 

WELCOME TO THAILAND.

But - before we get into that - several days prior, Kevin and I were barreling up the West Coast in a brand new black-as-sin Toyota Highlander, listening to Lana Del Ray, max volume, with the air conditioning cranked and blasting. We were tired, hungry, and falling asleep at the wheel - joined in our journey by an Israeli hitchhiker named Ombre.

There is a great deal I have failed to chronicle regarding the past few weeks and I find myself once more making excuses, apologizing. 

My Father, Kevin, and I were quite a unique team, traveling over the course of a week in the North from Paihia to Whangarei to Rotorua, Coromandel, and eventually Auckland Airport for my Father's flight home. Imagine the three of us - wandering the streets, entering the butcher shop - a memorable sight, I am sure. Sadly I have no pictures.

We've done so much!

We joined forces with Julia and a sweetheart named Laura and together drove to the ancient Kauri Tree forests. Later, Kevin and I explored an unguided cave system along with the two Danish girls we'd met in Paihia. We traveled to Rotorua and did a tour of Hobbiton with Julia while my Father immersed himself in local Maori culture and acquired a generous share of precious Greenstone. We climbed Monganui and barbecued and spent rainy days in Jacuzzis; we met Tom, a distinctive Englishman traveling the Islands by bike; rode buses, rented cars, hoped on planes. We spent a miserable night battling airport security for sleep in Christchurch; met three wonderful girls in Queenstown - hiked mountains, swam in lakes, explored the gardens by night. We jumped 15,000 from an airplane and slept in the graveyard. 

Damn!

And to think - I haven't posted about any of this yet! You're totally in the dark. You don't even know.  

Forced by circumstance I was dumped at an lonely intersection and had to hitch-hike a couple hundred miles to Picton. I had to board a fully-booked Ferry using the nothing but a crooked smile and the powers of seduction, three long hours crossing the sea.

I've been labeled a "Starbucks  Lurker" - which is strangely accurate.

I was up till 4:00 am, homeless in Wellington, and met again with Cecile. Kevin arrived a day later and we ate African food, drank drinks with Simon (met a month prior with my Father) and a tough-cookie Dutch doozie named Valerie.

The world spun on its axis, accelerated by sleeplessness and jazz as I cruised too-fast round corners long through the night toward Auckland, arriving at 5:00 am in time to catch my much dreaded 14 hour flight to Bangkok.

Again - you don't even know. This is a frigging summery. I'm in Thailand now, hammering this out for you, and I'm moving too fast to record it all in detail. All the stories left behind! All the details! Like the Twilight Zone I passed through when searching for Julia alongside the lake on Valentine's Day. Or that time Kevin almost died. Or when, surprisingly, he didn't. What about the BAMF Unicorn and countless impressions? Franzi with her blue-blue frightening but gorgeous eyes? Can't forget Kristjan. Or lovely Helen who smiled despite her rain clouds and workload. How about running into Martang again, and a night of standing sober amid the noise? Those girls' faces when we were rejected from the bar because of our invalid documents; watching as they passed through, leaving us alone in the street. And Thea - my saving grace.

The best I can do are some memos. Again. Take, eat, these are my notes - and don't worry, we'll get back to that Dart Show later on...

-

"Kevin, not all men with fat stomachs are Wayne."

Kevin and I stood outside the I-Site with our arms crossed. The sun climbs the Islands, sprinkling the ocean with gold fleck at our back. We're waiting for WAYNE. Wayne is delivering our vehicle. We've rented a car for the day so as to visit Tane Mahuta - God of the Forest. 

Wayne arrives and hands us out key. We then gathered our girls - Julia and Laura - and barreled forward, Kevin driving for the first time on the left, cool and collected, with my Father situated comfortably in the passenger seat. I had it bad, squeezed between two gorgeous girls in the back, cramped against their legs and arms and breasts, smooth skins, sweating against each other, bodies hot with closeness.

What a drag! It was positively MISERABLE. Ha.

Three days later:

"We should just wander the streets and die."

- Kevin 

But before we get to that - the five of us spent a pleasant day lost, driving about motion sick, finally reaching the sacred forest and trees the size of girthy gods - frighteningly massive, reminiscent of ancient Cthulhu and all the magical places you read about in Fairy tales. It was a great day. To summarize the finite details would be an impossible feat - the spectacles were wondrous but the company was on another level.

We ate food together and Julia and I went for a walk along the beach till 3:30 am. She sometimes has nightmares about Hotel California.

-

Obsession is rarely complimentary. Sudden, ineffable. I met her on a boat where she graced the rails, grinning. Stunning. Sun-hat. Dressed in blue the color of the Sea. Jean shorts, sandals. Smooth brown legs. She had these sharp cute little creases around her lips that accented her smile and her eyes - eyes like razors, a deadly shade of blue tourmaline, glowing with the radiance of heated steel.  

Her eyes pulled me in and I said, hello. 

We sat together with the wind in our hair as the boat lurched forward; the water flashing and frothing, rippling bright blue.

We spoke little - the engine roaring, drowning voices - but that was okay, her presence was enough - I was compelled even in silence. 

Her name is Franzi and I haven't been able to shake the ghost of her since we met. Twenty minutes, the wind in our hair - her's is a rush of bobbed golden curls - and that was it. Haven't seen her since.

Who was she?

-

We'd been driving for God knows how long and my legs were numb and Kevin was sick and my Father dozed uncomfortably against the window. The two girls in the front seat squinted at the road and rubbed their necks. The road reached through the trees, scattering, dispersed over hills like the fingers of a giant hand gripping the virgin Earth. 

-

We're in a cave. 

All is darkness and sound. 

Wading chest deep through streams and still pools, eels glittering beneath the surface.

I dragged myself through the narrow opening and regained my feet, ankle deep in mud. The others were somewhere behind me struggling through the dark on their bellies. I adjusted my headlamp, looking around the cavern and found no openings - no exit, no escape. Kevin and Mathilda and Emma were moving closer, I could see their lights bobbing in the dim passage. This could be bad.

We'd come down here unknowingly, unaware of the magnitude of our undertaking - the cave is a sprawling network of passages and subterranean rivers, a labyrinthine metropolis hidden deep within the Earth like a plexus of dark cold organs. Glow worms cling to the ceilings, stalactites drip and glitter.

I'm bleeding in a few places, my naked chest smeared with mud. Mathilda reaches the end of the tunnel and peers through the opening at me, "Does it go on? I can't turn around." I drop to my knees in the water and find a way out. Lucky. Now everyone else just has to fit through the hole. Emma shoves at Mathilda from behind, Kevin is a distant echo. 

I guide Mathilda through the opening and half-way through she gets stuck - starts to panic. Can't move, can't breath. Her face contorts into a mask of terror and her whimpers echo down the chamber like the frightened chatter of bats, squeezing through the Earth's stoney womb.

This could be bad. 

Very, very bad.

-

There always seems to be that odd looking blond girl dressed in all black with a nose ring. She has bad posture, walks with lowered eyes and short determined steps, and is usually wearing a day-pack and tennis shoes.

-

Me, alone. Walking beneath street lamps at night, passing through golden syrup; the moon reflected in the lake's waxy ripples.

The most awe inspiring thing I've seen

Is a tree at night

Swathed in shadow

While listening to John Coltane

-

Kevin closed the back-hatch and climbed behind the wheel. I shouldered my pack and waved goodbye. Ombre watched me through the tinted glass, his beard a sledgehammer of immaculate trimmed perfection. They drove down the road and disappeared. I felt like I was in OZ; fields everywhere, the hot asphalt stretching endlessly beneath the ruthless sun.

I found an apricot tree alongside the road and extended my thumb to the passing traffic.

-

I'm on drugs - The Epic, Kamasi Washington's brilliant three hour debut. It's a jazz record of the highest caliber. Should've won more than nominations at this year's Grammys. Bullshit that it didn't. 

I'll be seeing Kamasi LIVE in a month, in Byron. But right now I'm racing through the dark around hairpin turns at a steady deadly speed, on my way to Auckland. The drive is so intense I'm leaned forward, chest pressed practically to the wheel, eyes glued to the road. It's something like midnight and I've got a long way to go. I'm not tired through, grinning, gunning - high on good jazz - speeding down canyons and through moonlit fields.

-

I can see Wellington - an earthly constellation, wavering in the distant fog; we're approaching now, the engines churning deep beneath the seats, hauling us through the ocean, closing the divid, closer, ever closer...

PAIHIA - The First Two Days

Julia gets off the bus and meets Kevin who'd been waiting at the drop off for my Father and I. She smiles and probably thinks to herself, I haven't slept in 36 hours. She'll be joining us for dinner tonight at Jimmy Jacks Rib Shack, an eatery that comes with Kevin's highest recommendation. 

Yesterday my Father and I had driven from Queenstown to Christchurch in a sparklingly new bright blue pickup-truck the size of a small whale. We returned it at the airport and had no way back. So we were broke at the airport and had no cash to get back to the city and no PIN number to use the ATM. And then we ran into some people from our hometown - Hailey, Idaho (population 7,500) - and they loaned us some cash for the bus. At our hostel we met a few Aussies, a Swiss Miss, and a girl from 4 different countries all together who had a friend that locked her keys in her car outside our hostel. The next morning we took a shuttle to the airport, flew to Auckland, caught a shuttle to the City Center and bus from there to here, Paihia - Bay of Islands. 

On the bus I met Julia. 

Julia rides horses and came from Japan. She's German - blond, freckled and nice to look at. She meets Kevin and we all walk to our hostel. Kevin and I aren't able to check in because the middle man through which we booked is a robot. The robot made a mistake. So Julia and my Father check in and Kevin and I are banished to the nearby YHA where we meet a girl outside our room with a bandage on her face. 

"What happened?" I asked, after the necessary introductions.

"Oh it's an infectious thing - very contagious to children. The other girl here also had it," she replied.

And we watch it mortified terror as she grins, slowly reaching for the flap of gauze on her face and peels it back, exposing the sticky bubbling infection to our soft virginal eyes!

At Jimmy Jack's Rib Shack Julia ordered a salad while my Father and I each ordered the largest plate of ribs on the menu (Kevin ordered something else). The atmosphere is nondescript, packed. Half-hour later our meals are delivered, the ribs on large blocks of wood with knives pinning them in place, orders of fries and crab-dip and bread on either side. 

There was a notable difference in size between the ribs my Father was served and my own - a very blatant difference, actually. Excruciatingly obvious. 

When we inquired of the waitress, she merely pointed at my meal and stated, "He got the bigger rack."

Eventually we spoke to somebody who understood the economic dilemma of "getting what I paid for" and my Father was swiftly brought a more appropriately proportioned helping of beef. 

Back at the YHA Kevin and I met the other occupants of our room: Martin and Nicole, Czech Republic. He's a bald badass with a beard and a big smile - she's fittingly attractive. We discuss Donald Trump in the dark from our bunks.

Next day we meet the "Danish Girls" in the grocery store. Nothing happened. 

We take a boat to an island that's mostly deserted and encounter Martin and Nicole who have a lunch cooler and diving gear. We walk with them over the soft rolling hills, barefoot. Everything is green and blue. 

On a high hill overlooking the Bay of Islands we pass four Asians, one of which, when asked, exclaims, "Oooooooh VE-RY NICE!" gesticulating toward the above view; the words struggle to bypass his rather pronounced teeth and he's gagging on his own joy.

He was absolutely correct about the view.

We reach a beach and Kevin and I jump in the ocean while Nicole tans topless and Martin splashes in the coral reefs. My Dad wanders the shore in search of interesting sea shells. 

We're in the water when the "Danish Girls" magically appear on a blanket in the sun near the shore. They join us in the ocean for awhile and I throw a mutant seaweed at them (later on Kevin will nail me in the back with a similar aquatic plant, slightly more grotesque).

We end up cooking a massive dinner together - burgers (beef AND chicken) with Avocado, Spinach, cheese (Brie AND Swiss); pasta, chips, beer. It's pretty great. The girls - Emma and Mathilda - and Kevin and I watch a horror move that none of us understand in an empty hallway on my MacBook.

It was good.

NOTES: QUEENSTOWN

Ah, yes - and now my glorious return. The Bathhouse is a cafe situated right on the sands, overlooking Queenstown's gorgeous Lake Wakatipu. Sunbathers occupy the shore, stretched out at the foot of reflected mountains and bobbing ducks. 

I've reclaimed my seat at the entry window. 2 years ago I'd established myself as a regular, knew the whole staff. Now I'm a stranger again amid new faces. My waitress is from Belfast on a working Visa. And so the process begins again. Jokes, jabs, who's who in Queenstown. What's your name? Mine's Noah. Etcetera. I make it sound very mundane, don't get me wrong - I'm enthralled. Glad to be back. Queenstown is small, but there's always something going on. Somebody to meet, something to watch. And the whole damn place is gorgeous. Mountain ridges like standing teeth, jagged and dark in every direction. 

-

Sun-baked, platinum blond stretched out on the grass. Her cat's eyes wander the lake and her legs are slung lazily before her with feline grace. She's reading, and so am I.

Anyways, we talked for awhile and decided to eat ice cream. Then we went to the lake. Here name is Lisa.

Later on I met two French girls on the sidewalk baring the weight of their packs and looking a bit lost. Imene is tall and dark skinned, her hair tied into braids beneath a head scarf, while Leila is razor-eyed and tough and smiling. They're looking for a place to crash, bed down in the grass, save some cash. I ran the pizza I'd been carrying  back to the hostel and into the fridge and guided them through the city in search of a quite place. They've got a bus to catch in the morning. Turns out they're headed to Thailand in a month, same as me, and we decide to meet there.

-

Back at the hostel everybody is Israeli except my father and I, who aren't, but have Hebrew names. One girl is rather stubborn. In conversation I mention that it had been windy in the morning; her response - no it wasn't. Taul is pretty cool. He sleeps in the bunk above my Father. He has a beard that is matched in density only by the hair on his chest

-  

James tells us where to go. James is an American that hangs out at the Peterpan Rental shop. He hangs out there because of the Swedish girl Svea. He wears his hat backward and smiles a lot. Svea wishes he would leave.

- 

First off - she's quite gorgeous. Got those sexy war-like eyes and pointed teeth, smile like the curved blade of a scimitar. Her hair is feathered back of her ears and she's wearing black, blue jeans, and a pink silk scarf. She's perched on the stone wall overlooking the lake. Her poise is something regal, catches my eyes like butterflies in a net. I'm snagged into action, stop walking and approach. Her name is Anita. Where are you from? Hungry. Of course, I say, the most beautiful women in the world usually are. She's quit her job and followed a dream and all of the sudden I've got a place to stay on Saturday night. 

-

We met Kristjan and Lindsey at a bar. My dad knew them from earlier. I didn't. He's from Estonia. She's from Washington. He's a skateboarder. She's a botanist. They've been traveling together for awhile and are parting ways in Queenstown. He tells his stories with wild gesticulation - what a great guy, great heart. We need more people in the world like him. The picture he paints of Estonia is a grim one. He left home and spent two years in Australia, in the dirt bowl Outback with the Aboriginals, now he's in New Zealand and ready to immigrate.

-

Asian New Year. Imagine: dozens - if not thousands - of Asians dumped off, arriving in large bus loads, snapping pictures with iPads and Selfie sticks. Yammering at each other. They approach my father and take pictures of him, blank faced, without a word spoken and slowly sidle away...


-

Lisa and I climb the mountain and she takes a dozen pictures of the view. Her skin is so fine and tan it's like caramel, and her smile is a sunny slice of perfection. She exudes mystery - though not in shades - it isn't her life, but her emotions; they're enshroud and subtle, locked behind thoughtful eyes and the occasional shrug. Afterwards we bask in the sun in the grass and discuss decisions. She eats a muffin and complains about her weight even though she's perfect.

-

Some shirtless guy, fifty years old, with a single standing dreadlock and a nipple ring.

-

Anita and I are stretched out beside each other, burning now. Our skins are red in places, hair pulled back, shorts rolled doubly for maximum exposure. She's so full of life, having escaped the stagnancy of her homeland and employment; she's here, ripe and ready for adventure, so eager, so smiling, so lovely.

-

I sit down and see:

Two handsome, very ripped dudes holding hands. 

A pretty girl with too much hair on her arms (face woefully dusted with fuzz).

Asians progressing down the sidewalks with their cameras, sidestepping like crabs, shooting loads of nothing committed to their camera-cards till the great upload and eventual printing. 

Backpackers with bags of groceries, perpetually trudging.

Party boys who all look the same - same hair styles, same shirts. Same uninspired personalities.

"I like it longer on the top, but shorter on the sides." Some guy explains to his friend. He says it with such excitement and conviction. Yeah - you and everybody else, bro, I think.

And every morning the local psychic wheels his sign to the waterfront and sets up shop.

-

How is it that I miss you? Even now. Amid so much motion and noise. My heart is in Noosa, swathed in a dream.

-

An Austrian carrying 15 pound barbells in his pack to maintain muscle mass during 4 months of travel. He brought only tank tops and cargo shorts and his arms are sunburned and scabby. He refuses to buy sunscreen, rationalizing the burns as a necessary step toward the perfect tan. He lays on the beach all day and uses his barbells after dark between the bunks. Curling, curling, curling. His name is Renolph.   

-

This portion of the city is dead, the occasional passerby no more than a stray pulse.

-

Throngs of girls in their sleeveless blouses and hot pants and jeans parading the midnight streets, half-drunk, looking to fuck (for the price of a few drinks and a guy in flip-flops). My father and I drink two pitchers of ale with Greg and Kristjan. Greg is a tall well-traveled Englishman with a long goatee and an air of distinction. He wears a cap and a sweater. Kristjan sports a sleeveless shirt and a straw hat decorated in shells, there are about a dozen bandages on his arms and legs from a skateboard wreck. He's grinning and excited. Eventually we wander toward the beach where we encounter Max and Phil and Tanja. They invite us to The Cowboy which is a bar with an electronic bull and cheap beer. Kristjan rides the bull.

-

I'm shockingly, shamefully slow moving, lethargic after last night's iniquitous debauchery. Not that I'm hungover. Not that my head hurts. I'm just feeling sluggish. Floating around moderately sick and depressed. Yes - there are low points even in travel. I have the wretched sneaking suspicion that giving someone the benefit of the doubt is essentially denial; the emotional equivalent of social retardation. In other words: No, I'm not picking up what you're laying down. Sorry.

-

Frank introduces himself to other people as Marco. He's got Jesus Christ tattooed on his stomach. 

-

How is it that I have run into 3 other people from Hailey, Idaho in New Zealand? WTF?

-

I slept on the linoleum floor of a bathroom one night, having climbed through an open window two stories high from the banister of an outdoor stairwell, sliding inside like an insidious hobo. The next night I slept snuggled in the nook of a grave in the Queenstown cemetery. This is what happens when Chinese New Year occurs and all of the hostels are booked.

- 

This is not a pick-up. I tell her what I think, and resist the urge to touch her. I'd hate to spoil it, cheapen it. Give it motive beyond the simple truth of what I see in her. 

Seduced by the somber song of the street pianist. She smiles and glows and the whole world around her dissipates. It's only she and I that are left, sitting in the street with the music. Our wine is finished. The moment fades, unraveling. I realize that this isn't my poem, but hers. She vanishes, and the dream vanishes with her. It's not about me. It never was. I pass through lives, fleeting, falling. Bright, perhaps. For a moment. But also alone, trapped in psychotropic space - a despondent comet, transmission lost.

She is a star but can't see it.

I am a comet, fading fast.

THE PAST TWO WEEKS

Okay, okay, okay - I guess I've fallen apart. This is the third post in how many days? Ah, all the adventures unwound, shamefully unrecorded. I wince, been baring the weight of "got behind" for far too long. I'm going to fix this. Now. 

We've arrived in Queenstown at last. I met with Marcina today and then bailed on her and on all of our plans. What a jerk right? I just wasn't feeling it. What can I say - I'm moody and I find most people boring? I miss my Golden Bay pals! Adrian and Caitlin and John and John's girl and Cecile and Aina with the succubi eyes. Those kids were positively dope! We spent all night, from bar to campsite, and all morning, from 8-3:00, talking about what we all love and had in common. I can't say I've ever in all my travels met a cooler group of people and felt more among my own.

My father and I had previously been in Christchurch, and before that - Picton, Wellington, Taupo. I already told you about Taupo. Here are some notes, pieces of those ventures.

-

Wellington.

Arrived from Taupo and right off the bat loved the hostel, situated across from a grocery store in the near-center of downtown Wellington, where everything's slightly-worn and unbearably hip, packed with surprising little shops -restaurants, cafes, bars, tucked into street-sides and alleyways. Out of place neon slung in low dirty windows and parquet floors and mismatched furniture, quirky decor and old posters, faded, frayed, and framed. We've got two losers in our room. Moana and "Peter Lorre" as we've taken to calling her rather repulsive travel companion. They spend their days lounging in their bunks and refuse to talk. Fortunately we met Simon - a very un-German German escaping Germany for a year in New Zealand, a bit disgruntled at the sheer volume of other Germans also traveling, permeating the hostels and cities. He tells us all about the Kiwi Fruit farm in The North - a concentration camp of rowdy Germans and militant, mechanical Asians. And of the Pakistani owner who forced the workers, when working inefficiently, to hit themselves. Yeaaaaah. HELLO Wellington. Another guy checked into our room wearing a tie-dye tee shirt and about a million arm-bands from various concerts. He's from Chicago, in the [rather complicated] process of immigrating to Australia. He introduces himself as Pancakes. 

Simon and I go to a concert in the Botanical Gardens and meet Leo and Baktie, both French, we sit on the grass and they share their wine and after the concert we go for drinks and on the second round discover my Dad, seated in a pub, who then joins us. Before bed I meet a girl named Elisa who's on her way to take a shower. One side of her hair is tastefully shaved and pulled into a bun. She's from Belgium.

Following day we hit the Te Papa museum were I met two French beauties, Nancy and Vanessa. The Museum was also nice. That night Pancakes and Elisa and Vanessa and Nancy and I went out. 

We danced and ate pizza.

-

Picton.

My hostel is by the cemetery.

I'm walking down the street when this scrawny - though somewhat sexy - bitch with short hair meets my eyes and draws me in. I sit and am introduced to a brother and sister and some guy with a mustache. The siblings are feeling each-other up. Everybody is on drugs. I excuse myself after a brief excursion on the subject of defensive metaphysics.

Walking again. The usual group of drunks crowd outside some bar, smoking. Local goons. One objects to my passing, says, "Cut that thing of your head and you might get laid." He is referring to my hair, pulled back. I said, "You could, and I could cut your throat and you'd never get laid again," then laughed. We all laughed. Then some runt tried to light my hair on fire.

Don't go to Picton.

-

Christchurch.

Something about the empty scaffolding, perhaps. The distant clatter - a lone hammer burst, ringing in the silence. Buildings in ruin, street corner rumble sprayed over with colorful names and shapes and nondescript nothings. Shipping containers stacked and graffitied. The locals, rubbed raw and wrong by hundreds dead and irreparable damage - and now the tourists. The economy writhes. Pubs expose dubious signs of life and bombed out grocery stores where everything is for sale but hope of resurgence.

A group of screaming goons pass in a sudden blur of headlights and taillights, going nowhere fast. The writer stalks the busy streets while the night wears perfectly thin around him. 

Some of the off-beat places harbor good looking strays in stripped dresses. Clackitty-Clack: into the night. The sound of your pretension is obscured by a passing Saab with a busted muffler. 

Try as I may, I just don't like going out in the conventional sense. Beers and Bars and those who drink and dress up, all in excess, fail to interest me: I become bored. This isn't fun. The expense is your worth - you become cheap. Pardon me if I'm not involved. I am guilty of wanting to know you. Guilty of adoration - would rather converse than drink, loosing you amid the noise. You look fine without make-up, outside your dresses and off your high heels, barefoot in the sun. Guess I'm a bore. I'll smile for you, but I won't demean you. I am guilty of wanting to know you.

I'd sprinted from the Thai place to meet with the musician, Elle, who I'd met in the bar while drinking cold ciders alongside my Father and the Swedish dude from the hostel, David, with the odd shoulders who had malaria once. When I got there she wasn't there anymore. She'd packed up and left because I'd been late, untrue to my word. I met the Brazilian woman on a street corner holding a map. I never knew her name but she licked her lips before each smile and I found her rather boring despite her good looks and long tanned legs. Matter of fact--I wasted $15 bucks on the bitch. I suppose it serves me right, coming at it with this wannabe sexpot shit. As if I'm Don Fucking Juan writing the Irish-American Karma Sutra. I finished my drink and left her there. Left her there with her immaculate smile and finger-nails and long brown legs, and shorts cut so short you could see the fringe of her lavender lace panties. I got out of there and onto Facebook and Angelina from the bus today beckoned me back toward the Pub down the block but after the Latino Slag I'm too broke to choke down another pint or slug of whiskey, so I whisk away toward the hostel and decide to call it a night. I walk a mile before realizing I've walked the wrong way typing this while I walked.

We tried to escape Christchurch and couldn't. So we rented a car and drove back the way we came.

- 

We hiked Abel Tasman (so gorgeous) and arrived in Takaka - beat after a night sleeping in the car. We drifted around, awesome town, slept, met the aforementioned group the next night and left the day after that for Greymouth through the winding hills and beautiful forests. Greymouth was grey. We left in the morning for Hokitika where we bounded with local shop owners over a mutual appreciation for New Zealand jade and spent two nights. My Dad went crazy. We spent money and met Malachi and Martang. We drove to the Glaciers and then on to Milford and now, Queenstown.

I haven't been writing. Just the notes. 

There is so much there, the stories, the people, the adventures. I've had to severely summarize these just for a record, to catch up and continue on. I hope someday to write of the last two weeks in detail. Through ups and downs, my Dad and I have had a lot of fun. 

This trip is precious.

TAUPO.

Here is a review I posted to Hostleworld yesterday.

I gave this hostel a 2 because it's only the SECOND worst hostel I've ever encountered. For starters it's located ridiculously far from ANYTHING, way out in the dead-lawn burbs. The guy at the front desk was shifty and rude, and didn't bother explaining anything (although, to give him credit, he did show me a map and draw some lines on it). The room was filthy. The bunks lacked ladders. The mattresses were practically holes, soft, sagging through the lower bars. And the toilet plumbing dripped and gurgled throughout the night. I woke up at 2:00 am to catch a spider crawling on my back. Next morning I left despite having booked two nights. Keep the change.

Yup. Hated that place. The town itself was okay, a bit drab, but the lake was gorgeous.

AND.

She held the camera to her eye, watching the lake, the shifting clouds and waves, and the light painted her dark hair an almost-blue. Her name is Marcina Marie. She smiled and we walked to the harbor. The plan? She had hopes to crash a boat tour to the Maori Rock Carvings across the lake. We specked the place like old pros, noting the shuttle, bobbing at the docks, and the captain, kicked back on the shore.

The tour was pre-booked, likely packed, and she would merge unnoticed with the crowd. We discussed integration and waited for them to arrive—gleaning useful information from a foursome of Belgian girls, just returned. Turns out, the Captain was shifting shuttles for the last go-round. From a jet-boat, party ship, to a small sailboat. Which is awesome, but wouldn't make things any easier. Marcina suggests I join her, but smuggling two could provide difficult, I think. Could ruin her last chance to see the carvings before leaving. We decide to meet up in a week in Queenstown. The crowd—mostly Brits—arrived, shuffling down the docks, cases of beer under their arms for the guys, wine bottles projecting from the purse of the females, and integration seemed unlikely as the captain counted heads and called names and rejected several passengers. But we did it. She sat silently on the boat amid the Brits and I waved goodbye, seated on the bulkhead as the captain undid the riggings. He looked at me—in my snappy-cap and ascot and bare-feet—and said, “I need a hand with the ship,” then nodded for me to come aboard. I slung my bag over the rail and leapt onto deck. The Captain piloted the ship from the dock and the harbor and into the open sea… 

After awhile he summoned me to the wheel and had me guide the shuttle nice and easy toward the peninsula and the Carvings. Marcina got some good pictures. The sun set, and we sailed under the night sky and stars atop an inky sea of glass.