Touring in New Zealand reminds me of how much my writing depends on irony. To the point that when nothing is happening to arouse my cynicism, or even my ironic amusement, I have nothing to say.
NZ -- or at least South Island -- is a land of such searing serenity that the ironic mind pokes about in vain, like a caterpillar at leaftip. Finally, desperate habit unleavened by perception hauls up a lame alliterating oxymoron -- "searing serenity" -- a bit of ego-graffiti that obscures all it purports to describe.
All of which is to say, I'm having a fine time, and will have some interesting posts on NZ cities and landscapes. But the irony may have to wait until next week, when I get to Sydney, and can once again see the aura of absurdity limning all the ten thousand things.