AUCKLAND 2016

Ah. Auckland. I'm flooded with memories. It's not the same without Caroline, gliding into the city, awestruck—it's different. This time it's familiar. An assembly of remembrance. My Father is enthralled. Hence far we've hung out, watching people. The culture has grown. So much diversity, and PEACE. I've missed that. Auckland is packed with neat nooks and crannies, but what makes it truly unique is the general safety of the city. Even the slums. The illicitness rarely reaches out and touches.

So far so good.

But I need to adapt. Feels like I forgot how to function on this level—raw and unrestrained. I'm so used to being cautious with people. Just need to shift gears. And fast, however jarring...

For now, and until the excitement heats up, here are few observational snippets. 

TRIPPING TRANNY

Politically incorrect, yes—but really, this guy was tripping big time on some kind of drug. We were seated on a bench in the sun when a shade was cast upon us. Leopard print, quarter sleeve jean-jacket, short shorts, sneakers, sunglasses the size of tea-saucers. His legs were pale, thighs sunburned lobster red--likely from sitting, unblinking, for hours—and I swear to God he looked just like Michael Cane in DePalma's iconic thriller Dressed to Kill. Michael Cane, murderous in drag. He stood atop a small statue, pointing toward God, giggling, then lowered his hand, gurgled, and leapt suddenly to the ground, where he lunged upon a nearby bench and lay alarmingly prone, unmoving. We walked by a few minutes later. His arm dangled from the bench, fingernails scrapping, and I saw that his eyeliner-eyes were wide open beneath his sunglasses. Wide-open in a "watching demons" sort of way, an LSD sort of way—mental meltdown, crazed and scary and deeply disturbed.

THIRTEEN 

She had nice eyes. Nice smile. What's your name? Nina. I'm Noah, nice to meet you. You too, she smiled. Headed to Taupo? Yeah, I live there. Sweet, what do you do? Actually, I'm still in school. Oh, okay, what do you study? Well, I like to sing. Nice, what type of music? I like Adele a lot. So you wanna be a singer? Yeah, but you never know how your voice can change as you get older. How's that? I'm thirteen.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck. 

MACFLURRY 

His face was shaved raw, uneven and frayed to match his tattered hat and clothes. He bobbed down the sidewalk with his hands behind his back, kicking spent butts and searching the top-trash in garbage bins. He sifted through one and then the next, eventually extracting the remnant of a MacFlurry, sticky with melted goop and gobs of wadded napkins. He picked the napkins from the container then stirred the straw. He grinned approvingly, toothlessly, and continued down the road, slurping the remains.