good days

Sometimes life is so nice
in the smallest of ways
sometimes joy can come
and it doesn't need to be from big loud things
sometimes a perfect day is when nothing goes wrong
and little things make you smile.

I climb up into your jeep.
I love climbing UP into cars.
And the jeep feels like adventure.
Without warning your dog gives a single lick
to the bottom of my ear.
its warm, wet and tickles
it says: hi
I feel liked, and welcome.
And we're off.

Whatipu is so much more wild than any of the other west coast beaches i've been too.
I love the West coast, that there is an element of fear about it.
The reeds and low bushes are damp and rich opaque greens and yellows and greays. The sand is so black it is midnight blue.
leaves and reeds trace their fingers on our calves. Pepper has to stay at the car. No dogs on the beach.
we stumble up the path and out into the open jaws of the wild west coast.
The North Westerly tears down the beach face with nothing to hit against and dim it's racing speed, whipping up a sheet spray of sand that catches and stings your ankles.
In it's race it catches our words and they spin away behind us in a wake. I put my hood up and the noise of the day is like putting your ear to a shell.
The tide is out. Black mounds like the backs of small whales clustering together, create shallow pools between them of varying size and depth. Ankle breakers. You won't take your shoes off and so have hopscotch across. 6 feet of legs and leap. I can dance through wade through splash through throwing up a veil of spray legs stinging with salt feet having the time of their lives mulching sinking squelching.
We walk out to the waters edge, it feels a long way from home.
There are no people. We are alone. Save for the island with the lighthouse.
Emptiness.
Waves come from all directions and crash into each other.
The skyline is unfamiliar, unfamiliar wind carved rock faces and rolling crests of hills covered thickly with native forest.
Going to places for the first time.

I went to look at a flat in the evening. I'll tell you two things about it. 'My' room, has wallpaper that is pink and silver stripes, like barbies handmirror. It has squares recessed into the wall like built in shelves, covered too, lackered, in pink and silver paper. It catches the afternoon sun but that only makes it look more like a cake.
In the only communal space, the kitchen, dining room, lounge, there are posters of expensive cars, and pictures of girls with perfect asses and unnaturally big breasts, alternating, in a line, not scattered but in a horizontal line, the whole way around the room. A trim, of cars and breasts.
You are a car photographer. You will not hold my glance but duck and hide your eyes behind your cap. I distrust this in a person.
There is a moment when I"m leaving (a moment after the car picture revelation) that I know, and you know, that I don't want to live here, and I don't think you want me to either. The moment is very uncomfortable. and then i turn and walk out the door and back to my car and the moment is over forever.
And that is good. it makes me smile. to get in my car and drive away. A world of better possibilities opens their arms.

To be heavy with tiredness and to sleep.
To think, just before you fall, I'm going to go to sleep now, hard and heavy and stay that way all night.