A few years ago the international world of olive people got together and deemed the area of Melbourne just as good to grow olives as that of the Mediterranean.

That was when having an olive grove somewhere in country Victoria started to rank second place to a permanent New York City dwelling.

Autumn is upon us in Melbourne. Olive trees are popping greens and deep violets. Considering my olive obsession, I have to make a conscious effort to keep my public panting under control. Anything olive sends my heart tumbling. The notion of building a Writer’s retreat somewhere in the middle of a field that I populate with olive trees…

Sigh.

I think building up the shack is making me nostalgic. As a gypsy, I’ve never placed myself in anything cozy. I bought a second hand dryer for cheap today. The swirling scents of pasta sauce cooking on my stove and clean cotton spinning in circles is providing flashbacks galore of running around as a kid.

I’ll scribble more about that later I reckon…

I put my books on a proper bookshelf for the first time today. I’ve never owned a real bookshelf. I opened my poetry book during the process and literally said out loud:

“Damn yo… that is some heavy shit.”

I took a break from building furniture and ate vegan food on Victoria Street. I bought a bathrobe.

Two months until New York City… I’m good for eight weeks.

Easy.