Had a sweet day yesterday. Nice work – did good stuff, fairly chilled out, played some wicked basketball at lunch. Massive goodness there, best bball workout I’ve had since leaving home. Workmate Russell loaned me a couple of CDs, including one of his own (he DJs on the side) – very cool – and lovely bosswoman Teresa loaned me a couple of recent BBC History magazines.
After work, tripped into Ephelant House to do some writing. Last week I sat down and started writing the second draft of Ron the Body. Two hours later when I put my pen down, I realised that I hadn’t got it. I knew right then. It was not working.
That is a terrible thing to feel. Instant doubts: am I not good enough for this book? Am I in that rewriting hell where nothing ever seems to work? Will I spend the rest of my life rewriting the front chapter?
Shush, self, I thought. Leave it. Come back. Try again.
The first chunk of Ron is all first-person, from the point of view of a woman named Cass. Last night, when I sat down again and straightened out a clean page and wrote ‘Ron the Body – 1 – Cass’ at the top, Cass came to the party. All is good.
Then Cal and I swung around the corner for a nice meal, headed home to dump our stuff, and hopped buswards back into the middle of town for the Salmonella Dub gig.
SDub are a Kiwi dub outfit, ‘world famous in new zealand’ as the saying goes. They deliver great dancefloor sounds. Cab Voltaire was full of Kiwis, unsurprisingly – the gig sold out with a queue at the door hoping for late returns. And the guys came out and played a burning set. I lost my connect a little early on, but when they swung into a more hip-hop flavoured second half I got right back in, fast. Some magic moments.
Some observations, partly from the downtime early on when my mind was wandering through this stuff:
* a Kiwi band playing to a Kiwi crowd in another country just needs to say Aotearoa and the room erupts. I cringed, I admit it.
* all the usual gig-denizens: the smelly natty-dreaded white guy who dances like a maniac even when the music isn’t on; the skinhead shirtless sixpack boys in the middle of things; the guy with the singlet vest and flat cap huffing vicks and flipping out right at the front; the Steve Stifler guy who doesn’t dance but puts his fists in the air and shouts the name of the band now and then. Heh.
* fashion really is different over here. The audience last night coulda been scooped off Cuba Street, and the it was a shock to realise how unfamiliar it was to see everyone wearing T-shirts and earthy colours; skirts of sensible length (but mostly jeans or trousers); not much makeup, not much cleavage. Less of a meatmarket, in other words. Mainstream young people clothes in New Zealand but scruffy and alternohemian on this side of the world.
And finally home after 2am. Sleep was good. (Waking up, not so good, but this is the price we pay.)