Thursday April 30, 2009
better homes and gardens
In my neighbourhood:
this window - fake roses stuffed in odd vessels, dead real roses in screwed up tissue paper - I can’t decide if an old lady lives here, or a bogan-goth
there’s a guy we called ‘Elvis’ because he’s about 70 and still has the dyed black, slicked back quiff of his rockabilly youth. He wears jerseys with intricate pictures of landscapes on them, which he knits himself. He’s always trying to talk to me about his knitting. He also knits picture jerseys for CYFS kids. Poor buggers.
there are abandoned houses with the ghosts of gardens - I sneak in there and steal the passion-fruit, the feijoas, the spotty apples
there’s the ‘Sapphire Beauty Salon’ where very old ladies go for their perm & sets with crystal silver
there’s Joe’s Hangi House - boil ups, fry bread, steamed pudding - hangis on the weekends only
swans made from old tyres
abandoned bike bits in the gutter
the man with the full face moko and the grimy leather trousers who sits outside the dairy and glares at me until I say ‘Hello’ and then he’ll always break into a toothless grin and say ‘Howzit?’ - like looking bloody scary is just a hobby & he’s really a sweet guy
the brightest dahlias, the thorniest roses, laden lemon trees
the four Samoan brothers around the corner who always play tennis ball cricket on the road outside their house, even though there is a big green space 100 metres from their gate
the grave yard, the tyre yard, the old brick and pipe factory
and us in the middle, growing our vegetables, taking photos of the sky and riding our bikes around and around in circles