I’ve always liked the sound of rain on the roof, especially
at night; maybe it reminds me of sleeping under a tin roof at my grandparents’
house.
And it’s just as well I like the rain, as it’s been raining
in ferocious squalls ever since I arrived in New Zealand just over a week ago.
Auckland can’t take the blame: I
was in Wellington yesterday, and got soaked through, racing from the National
Library to lunch with my friend, Milton Bell, at a Spanish place on Swan Lane.
Here in the Sargeson flat, where I’m pretty much settled in
now, the rain is loud. I’m living in an attic, and there are sky lights in the
kitchen and bathroom. Every morning I wake up to the sound of birds – the flat
is in a park – or the sound of rain, and sometimes, like this morning, both at
the same time.
There are three different places to work in the flat – a big
desk in the kitchen area, a dining room table, and a smaller round table at the
window overlooking Princes Street and the university. That’s where I’m sitting
now, entangled with phone and modem cords, watching students – in the
international uniform of skinny jeans, big scarves, and messenger bags –
hurrying to morning classes. I haven’t heard the tui yet, the fat one who feeds
off the red blossoms on the tree across the road. Right now I have my eye on
one of the wheelie bins in which I hope to dump my rubbish later on – there’s
no trash can for this flat, so I have to be opportunistic.
The other two tables, by the way, have been strong-armed
into service too, because I can never see a flat surface without wanting to
stack papers all over it. The dining room table is for personal stuff, like the
guest list and spare invitations for my sister’s birthday party; the itinerary
for my parents’ odyssey around Alaska and Canada; cards to send; a mountain of
receipts; New Zealand non-resident tax forms, already months overdue; .and the
local magazines I can’t resist buying. On the desk are piles of books and
notes, divided into vaguely related piles – the New Orleans novel, the New
Zealand novel, and the anthology I’m supposed to have finished already.
It’s a long, long time since I’ve lived by myself, and I’ve
never lived by myself in New Zealand at all. Apparently, my life as a writer-in-garret revolves around
green tea, red wine, and downloaded TV shows. Also, walnut-and-oat crackers,
postcards on the wall, and a calendar in every room. On one calendar, I’m
crossing off days, as though this is a prison sentence – but the idea is the
opposite: I’m trying to panic myself into not wasting time. There’s too much I
need to do. Writing deadlines loom – the first is July 30, my sister’s
birthday, then August 18, my birthday.
The flat is looking more like a home now. Brigid Lowry, the
previous Buddle Findlay Sargeson fellow, left it extremely tidy; she also left
me a tea cup and milk jug. Inside, I’ve moved the sofa, hidden anything ugly
(pictures and tea towels which have accumulated through the years of the fellowship),
and stuck up all the book-relevant postcards I got in the UK – boats on the
Thames, Wesley’s chapel, the Crystal Palace. In the vines that grow up the
north side of the house, I found an envelope of poems intended for Brigid,
which I’ve mailed to her in Nelson. We don’t have a post box or slot here;
there’s no number on the building. Telecom left my modem on the doorstep of the
art gallery downstairs.
Homeless guys sleep under the verandah overhang of the
language school next door. On weekend nights, larrikins leave their cars on the
other side of the building, and shout and smoke their way through the park.
Girls squeal on their way to and from the campus night club. Throughout the
day, language school students on their breaks gather in the grassy common area
to smoke, make calls on their cell phones, and chatter illicitly in foreign
tongues. A few times I’ve fed the birds – sparrows and tiny wax-eyes – outside
my bedroom window.
It’s pouring again; people are running through the rain.
Later I have to go out and mail things; I’m meeting a friend for lunch at a
café on campus, and tonight my brother and I are going to the Maidment Theatre,
about five minutes walk away, to see “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” I live in
Auckland now (or for now, at any
rate). From the skylight in the kitchen, I can see the Sky Tower: it flashes at
night.
Down the steep hill, in town, the film festival’s going on.
The shops are open seven days a week. A hundred different varieties of tea are
available at the tea shop in the very chic Elliott Stables – in Elliott Street,
in my childhood a place best known for the Hungry Horse restaurant and a branch
of Para Rubber. I bought white canvas sneakers there when I was fourteen; I
wore them to my sister’s wedding rehearsal, and they squeaked when I walked
down the aisle. (I didn’t care: the important thing was to look New Wave.)
So far here I’ve done quite a bit of writing, plus finished
reading the final proofs for my short story collection, Forbidden Cities. I’ve
been out to lunch with the nice Buddle Findlay people, and had my photo taken
for their publicity material. I’ve caught the train out to Henderson, and flown
to Wellington for the Montana New Zealand Book Awards. I’ve been several times
to the university library, and even more often to Whitcoulls to buy more
invitations for my sister’s birthday party. I’ve seen my niece off to
Christchurch, my parents off to Vancouver, and Martha, my nephew’s lovely
girlfriend, off to Mexico: she was here for a five-week holiday, and we were all crying at the airport when she
left.
At the Montana Awards, Guy Somerset (of the Listener, winner
of best books pages; all three of us who were reviewer-of-the-year finalists
write for it) complained that I never update my blog. It’s because my real work
has to come first, especially right now, when I have so much to do. But I’ll
try and be more diligent while I’m here. I have nothing to do but write.
