I live at the edge of the universe, like everybody else

Just got home from a weekend away in Wellington. I was totally struck (again) by how incredible the waterfront is there, and at how wonderful it is to be able to easily wander around the city. People really make use of public spaces in the Capital, which happens less visibly in Auckland.

All that being said, as someone who has called both cities home, I really don't get why some Wellingtonians are so anti-Auckland. I don't know if Aucklander's feel the same way. They seem to be less visceral about it than the Wellingtonians I know!

Anyway, things I like in Wellington: cauliflower, feta and parmesan fritters from Olive; boots from GAG (eep!); Madame Fancy Pants fixing my much treasured cat in the moon necklace; Peoples Coffee; how much Wellingtonians talk about coffee; seeing all my sweet Sweet's friends and eating quesadillas.

Pictures are of the Wellington Writers Walk, which is another thing I really like about the place.

not everyone can look up, even at me. it hurts their eyes

"Not everyone can look up, even at me.
It hurts their eyes."
"Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!"

"Thanks and remember I'm watching.
It's easier for me to speak to you out here.
I don't have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.

And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space."*

Frank O'Hara is one of my favourite poets. When I was little my Aunt sent me a book called Talking to the Sun, it was an anthology of poetry illustrated with art from the Met. It was the first context in which I read Frank O'Hara, and many other poets, as well as many lovely traditional lullabies and proverbs which have stuck in my mind.

Anyway today I read this post on This Recording, and it reminded me of all of this.

*That's an excerpt from A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island and the picture is of Frank O'Hara and Grace Hartigan

since i'm feeling literary

if there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be (deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)


- e. e. cummings

A teacher told me years ago that I would like e.e cummings, and boy was she right.