Excerpts, 25-28 December:

Love my new Martin backpacker guitar. It’s small, so you can take it, like, backpacking, and stuff. It is being passed around my family like a joint. Dad has his guitar as well. He can now play A, D and E quite well. We just used them to make up a song 30 minutes long that had something to do with asking people where their cowboy hats were. Mine was on my head.

We are quite drunk.

Am impressed with his improvement. He’s wanted to learn guitar since he was a kid. And then he was “too old”. I guess this means I won’t be getting my spare guitar back any day soon…

Am also impressed with his extemporizing. I always figured I got my creative flair from my mother’s side, but here he is, matching me in making shit up on the spot. That’s not easy. Just ask Eminem.

We sound like old country/blues singers.

We are quite drunk.

This small sleepy seaside settlement where my parent’s old beach house is, was founded by a relative of Ned Kelly.

Obviously they weren’t actually in the gang that went down in a hail of bullets…

Developers have been sniffing around. That would kill this community. No one needs more fucking Aucklanders snapping up coastal property and bringing their traffic and their chai lattes with them.

Although I wouldn’t mind snapping up some coastal property…

Waves wave in waves…

Passing strangers wave at you like they know you, but they don't know you: They are strangers.

This wouldn't happen in the city. You'd have a big front fence to hide behind, and if you wanted to look at strangers you'd peer at them through gaps in the gate like some angry little dog defending their master's lawn.

Synchronicity. Just read a landscaping magazine article that claims that Americans don’t have fences along the front of their properties. It’s designed to foster community involvement or some shit.

If they’re such great neighbours, why do Canadians hate them?

There’s few fish in the harbour. The sharks are here to breed. And fucking makes them hungry.

I still go kayaking, but I take a badassmotherfuckingbowieknife with me.

Dad doesn’t want to take the boat out fishing for some reason.

This is the Winterless North.
It’s not raining. But it’s very windy. The wind blew our tent down. We’re sleeping in the boat shed tonight.

The fucking wind just blew my glass of wine over.

It was the last glass of the last bottle.

On to the bourbon instead, I guess.

Idiot wind.

Blowing every time you move your mouth…

Read my first book in ages: Dave Eggers - How we are hungry.

Different. Poetic. Brilliant. The short stories have no point. But that is the point. Most people’s real life stories don’t.

“
GOD: I own you like I own the caves.
THE OCEAN: Not a chance. No comparison.
GOD: I made you. I could tame you.
THE OCEAN: At one time, maybe. But not now.
GOD: I will come to you, freeze you, break you.
THE OCEAN: I will spread myself like wings. I am a billion tiny feathers. You have no idea what’s happened to me.

”

My parents have a photograph on the wall of the farm where I grew up on. The photograph is faded like my memory of the place.

The bank took it from us.

The new owners, the Exclusive Brethren, burned the forest in front of us.

There's a reason some memories are faded...

My parents have a lolly jar. Or, more precisely, a lolly jar trap. It’s shaped in such a way that getting your hand in is easy. Getting your hand back out, with loot in hand, is not. I should be able to work out a better way to get them out, but Lord help me, I’m just not that smart.

My wife has picked up this realfuckingannoyinghabit where she calls people “Darl”.

It reminds me of an annoying woman at work, who calls people “Darl”.

And now D-Missus is doing it.

She needs to cut that shit out or I’m going to have to either divorce or kill her.

She’s still saying it, but she catches herself immediately afterwards, like she suspects I'm thinking I'm going to divorce her or kill her, or something.

I haven’t decided which yet…

The great thing about this holiday so far, is that with no TV or computer, I have been going to bed early and getting lots of sleep. I am a creature of the night by habit (my most creative time) who is forced to get up early. Not a good combination. Makes Jack a grumpy boy.
But I think I’ve just made up my sleep deficit.

We spend an hour in bed debating whether to extend our stay, or go home and prepare for the second part of our summer vacation.

Then during breakfast, I remember why we never stay too long.

My mother winds me up.

The stress and agitation and arrogance that I hate in myself was inherited from her.

On the way home we stop in to my brother’s place. He has a new X-box 360. I leave with his old X-box and a bunch of games on loan.

I get to bed at 5am. Fucking X-box. What a stupid fucking idea. So much for making up for lost sleep.

29 Dec:

7 loads of washing.

30 Dec:

Off to another beach in another direction. I take my old surfboard. And my new guitar.

The creative juices are flowing. Just composed a song for my father, using the A, D, and E chords. It’s country/blues/folk. I thought it was going to turn dark like my songs often do, but, fuck me, it’s a love song. About a cowboy losing his farm and herd, but he’s still a success because he raised three kids and still has the love of a good wife. And he still has his cowboy hat.

D-Missus is annoyed that I’m still writing in my notebook. I point out that I just wrote a poem for my girls.

Oh. That’s OK then.

It’s not a great poem. But it’ll be fine for their scrapbook. It’s about how one of them likes to make sandcastles and the other likes to smash them.

It’s the first poem I’ve written in ages. These days I tend to prefer songs.

31 December:

Off to the small city to visit friends and brother-in-law.

Fuck me. It’s like driving in rush-hour Auckland traffic. Which makes sense, seeing as the rest of Auckland seems to be down here.

Backpacker guitar gets passed around friends.

We look at guitars on Trademe.co.nz.
Then, a case of Beer vs. Laptop as one of my clumsy daughters knocks over my beer.

Oops.

Had hoped to catch up with “band members” at The Mount and work on some songs. But the beach where they are holidaying has a cordon in place to try and stop all the teenagers flocking there from starting New Year’s Eve riots.

Eh?

Fucking teenagers. Fucking kids! I remember when the Internet was a typewriter! Little bastards.

So I don’t catch up with my friends.

New Year’s Eve with bro-in-law and his friends.

Stopped drinking. Agreed to be the sober driver so we can go home tonight.

Being sober sucks. Being sober on New Year's Eve sucks even more. Still have fun though.

Wife is doing what looks like lesbo dancing with some chick. Where is the camera?

Dammit. Too slow.

D-Missus has sprained her ankle. She was leaning against a wall while sending a txt message and somehow fell over.

She is quite drunk. (Ya think?!)

I'm travelling forward through time,
One day
At a time.

D-missus has a headache. And an ankle ache. Good night. Good night.

Redheads sleeping. Take eldest for a bike ride. But she can’t play at any of the play grounds. There’s broken glass everywhere. Fucking teenagers!

When did I get so old?

Jan 2:
A friend, someone I used to work with, visits.
We pass the guitar around.
She’s now performing in her dead mother’s band. Her friends have a recording studio.
These are useful people to know!

D-Missus hassles me for dragging the surfboard down here and not using it.

I’d rather play guitar. There’s less sharks.

“Yeah, but there’s still sharks in the music industry, man” my friend’s boyfriend says.

Word.

Jan 4:

Home again. X box.

Ten loads of washing.

Gardening.

6 Jan.

Last day of holiday. Catching up with band to record PBT. Break a guitar string before I get there. It’s Sunday. Hard to find a guitar shop open. Fuckfuckfuck. I find a guitar shop open. New strings.

I do what’s meant to be a rough guitar track to get started. But the singer spends so much time learning his bit that that’s all there’s time for. But Brian Wilson seems to think it’s good enough to work with.
The singer, my friend, finds it hard, because he’s not actually a singer, per se. But he has acting skills. Good projection, and usually adopts a character when singing. The problem with this song is that, although I wrote the first draft, his situation was the inspiration for it, therefore the character in this song is Him. And he finds the song a bit too personal.
Fair enough.

But we get there. He begins to realise that although I’m even less of a singer, I spend as much time working on the vocal rhythm of the phrasing as I do on the actual words.

This whole process of collaboration has been hard: Giving up a song so it is no longer mine.
It’s ours.

Ergo, Ego.

But this whole process of collaboration has been a process of positive personal development.

And it’s been fun.

Great way to finish the holidays.

7 Jan.

Back at work.

Fuck.

I need a holiday.