Let's Restart (With Jumper Cables)

The new job, as far as I can tell, is fine; as in mediocrity-fine. Nothing special, and nothing, besides nominal funds, to gain; but it's fine. "Fine. Fine!" I'm often saying.

I'm working in a pub; a bar bitch, really. Muscles and beer: I'm slinging both all day. 10 hour shifts, and non-tipping Kiwi's everywhere, chattering at me, and not paying me a measly dime more than is on their bill.

It's come to me, that waiting on tables when you have no possibility of making a lot of money makes it very hard work, for very little payoff. My co-worker, a Swedish physiotherapist unable to get certified to work in her field here, stopped me today, looked me directly in the eye over the stack of her stomp encrusted plates, and said: "I can't believe that I'm working this hard for THIS little money."

So, I think I'm going to try and move to retail. The wage is apparently better, and though I don't need much, per say, this is really only the first leg of the world tour, so I'd better be making enough to enjoy myself at least.

I'm glad to hear that the job is bordering on that country Rewarding, the cleaner body nonwithstanding. New Zealand looks to be synonyms with "Dry-out" for me... although me and the booze haven't parted ways exactly, we're more neighbors now than live-ins; and our other friends haven't made it across the ocean. My nose feels positively radiant, a month and a half away from those narrow roads.

I like it here. It feels far away and close at the same time: sometimes as if it could masquerade as being a part of North America, and then at others it's so quintessentially different that you know that the surface of the planet pulls out around thousands and thousands of kilometers of volcanic rock. I'm on the other side of what I know.

And the time away is starting to feel restful. I was getting caught up in so much back-log, the residue and resonances of all the constructions that had been the day to day of Toronto. What? Trunks? Leaves? I can see the roots, for sure...

There's no fucking forest.

That's starting to go away.

Though I'm also in the tail end of summer here, and the air feels familiar... it makes me think of Al's cottage, and my heart compacts, a little.

To answer your question, I am getting your texts, and they do make me feel less lonely. I know that I haven't left. I'm just away.

Love you.

Love, me.