Further despatches

DEAR CRUNDLESTEIN,

PAST THE CABBAGE tree bordering my neighbour’s back garden, further on still from the chimney pot proboscis of the next bod along, long wispy clouds flick up and about in all directions with the rampant fervency of an older man’s eyebrows against the silvery water backdrop of the boulder bank and distant Glenduan.

Reorganising my backyard the other week, I have inadvertently created for myself quite the whimsical little outdoor nook. Come… this way… slip through the unassuming dampish curtain of towels and endless toddler garments slung up over the undercover washing line to reveal, not only the ideal place to surreptitiously tuck oneself away should the JWs or Inland Revenue come calling, but to while the hours pleasurably musing and whatever else one can do with such a view.

I realise, upon discovering its potential just this very morning, further renovations to this fine writing space ideally are required… some mood lighting weaved hap-dashly through the upended garden implements in the corner pot perhaps, the acquisition of an outdoor gas heater or childproof brazier (???) given the season, and a decent tea pot/distillery utility, at minimum.

My old (and now deceased) granny’s rocker has a vacancy, but I have been preferring instead to take seat at the ramshackle wooden table, thickly sweatered and sneakered as fitting for the thrill of the chill running across my face this time of year. I rather fancy it could also be a very good place for cards or bullshit talk. There's a little blue swing for Claudie hanging from the pergola rafters, and a mini trampoline, should playing with clothes pegs get dull or one has a need to keep warm.

This little nook may not be grand enough for your decorous tastes, Crundlestein, but personally I rather like its rustic appeal and romantic sense of adventure - as long as one has decent merinos and a healthy constitution. I can well envisage good whisky also adding value, in cases where the company is boring or the writing flow needs a helping hand.

I once made habit of writing in bathtubs at odd hours you know. Especially in hotels when travelling for work in a previous life. For one reason or another, which I don't altogether comprehend, these various aquatica worked well for me back then. As for this quaint space… well, I feel it may hold great promise. We shall sea.

I trust you are travelling well.

Love,
Me xx

Along the merry way

I’VE BEEN WRITING and not writing here for some eight years. That could well be a record for anything I’ve done or not done. Except breathing, and being some girl that likes horses, neat handwriting and imagining things.

This began as company, when I moved my life to a new place, knowing next to no one and nada. Smoking endless reefers atop my keyboard to relieve the boredom, dreaming up romantic touch typed writerly dreams. Pleasantries tapped out, amusements, experiments – generally lolling about here often times for the lack of anything better to do. And pontificated, or my ego has, scathed and ranted in some perceived justification of whatever my crackled heart yearned for then. At the very least, I hope it can be said that I did so creatively :)

Life is fucken hilarious when you look back, which is just as well. And pretty wonderful too. Aah yes, the joys of feeling and self-expression. Which is why – although many times before now I’ve been tempted to delete this blog, to remove all evidence of some of the seemingly trivial shit my mind and fingers dallied themselves with through much of my fourth decade – I haven’t and am unlikely to. I kind of like it sitting here as a reminder of forever growing up, honing skills, fucking myself up and getting unfucked again along the merry way.

Listening into other peoples’ conversations over a cafe lunch today, I was reminded of how much I used to think I had to say. I don’t have anything particularly poetic, witty or inspired for you just right at this moment, but nevertheless, perhaps I can squeeze out at least another eight xx

Taking the long way home

SYMMETRICAL DUCKS LEAVE Vs in their river wake, peace signs, fitting for this dusky subtle hour when folk, like me, launch their dogs and/or bodies about the neighbourhood. I am escaping a long day's work not yet complete, the man in my house whose primary hobby appears to be television sentry, the fact I'm so tired I want to ball, and yesterday's dishes. I ask the ducks what they're liberating themselves from, but no response. Perhaps they think I'm quackers.

A stringy cat and I make friends via mutual smooching. He's a cat on a hot tin roof, literally, only this aint Mississippi, it's The Wood. The shed he orgies himself upon is trooping in ants on reconnaissance some place to or from, who can ever tell. But Puss and I are both civilians and don't much care, we are bonding, that is until the little bastard bites me on the hand. I resist from cuffing him about the ears as I continue on my way because he's just a cat on a hot tin roof and that's what cats do.

Fused over time into letter Ls, two old white fellas stop on the bridge in front of me to resume a more natural position, elbows nosed over the iron hand rail, commenting on the lack of eels but plentitude of fish. As we three alight onto a leafy street bedecked with modern aquarium houses and insurmountable fences of irony, my heart smiles when the Ls break out into a loud, melodic and Maori rendition of God Defend New Zealand. Indeed.

They have chosen another path by the time, homeward bound now, I pass the clutch of tall poppies dressed as sunflowers dancing about happily of the evening from their dizzying heights. These make me happy too as I continue on my way, glancing as imperceptibly as possible into secret crevices of people's properties never before noticed, despite my frequent meanderings about my hood. Modern baby carriage waits patiently at a back door under an old lady shady hydrangea alcove, while another front door lies open onto the street revealing the butterfly décor preferences of the matronly-efficient woman often to be seen clipping her insanely tidily manicured hedge. And here lives the Rawleigh's Man.

Cornering my own picket fence, dinner fills any vacant space left in my curious nostrils and the world now seems like a definitely more aligned place. Fairies have even done the dishes in my absence, sort of. I am hungry, tired, happy and grateful. Peace.

Rolling with it

“What was left of her hair formed a vaporous tangle of white that seemed not so much to grow from her head as float in its vicinity.”

“So perhaps the greatest worry of all was that one day you would realize that all the worries of your life amounted to one thing: the desire to just stop worrying.”

LIFE HAS STEPPED BACK a chop or two, no longer lived at a thousand clicks an hour. I don’t mind it. I doodle snippets in my wee notebook that particularly take me along with them while reading. Like these from Justin Cronin’s ‘The Passage’. A not-normally-my-cup-of-tea genre, and yet for some reason, strangely compelling.

The usual burgeoning ‘to-do’ list instead replaced with a stack of ‘to-reads’, corralling in fervent invasion of my bedside table. There are worse problems to have. So far this has not resulted in my being clocked about the head with too much writing rampancy of my own or anything. But there’s something growing steadily inside me readying to pop out with its own brand of fanfare, I’m sure of it.

I read. I sleep. I eat. I doodle. I even search for new recipes that appeal to my senses and cook. How about that? Time passes swimming at the beach, sitting in the river, or whispering things into my horse’s delightful brown ears, even though I’ve hung up my stirrups for a while. I drink lots of water. Sometimes I even work. I ignore people. They talk too much, most of it of little interest or originality. It's nothing personal. Right now I just prefer a teeny-tiny coterie.

Junk shops get the once and twice over for creative purposes – inventing mystical spaces and cutesy dioramas in my little house – while other inspirations are dutifully catalogued on Pinterest for some future crafty date. Sometimes I even think about covering my head with a sarong and meditating tomorrow morning when I wake up. Always tomorrow so far. And I’ve learned that there is the equivalent of seven and a half teaspoons of sugar in a can of baked beans. Diabolical.

It’s a new year and the beckoning of very new frontiers. My grand master plan is just to roll with it, with as much serenity as possible xx

Intimacy at sea

SHE IS A MOUSE in his trouser pocket, snuffling around. Hearing echoes of footsteps trouncing up the gangplank, overheard conversations muffled by cotton lining and big city grime. The 5pm East by West ferry is departing on time.

-- "I love the way you see the world," he laughs at her once back on the telephone line. "A mouse indeed!"

The same merry amusement as upon discovering she likes to dress up cowgirl - boots, denim skirt, flannel shirt, horse head belt buckle with an old metal toy cap gun slung into her belt.

-- "You go out in public like that?"
-- "Of course."

A pause.

-- "Are you okay?"
-- "Yes.
    ...I just wanted to hear a friendly voice."

-- "Oh yeah?"
-- "Of someone special. Stop fishing for compliments. You know that's you."

-- "Uh-huh."
-- "Who doesn't judge me."

-- "Talking to you opens my mind, girl."
-- "Have you departed the shore now?"

-- "Yes."
-- "Goody. Keep a watch out for dolphins for me. If they appear, you could swim home with them. Even if just in your mind.
    ...So, how are you?"

He is, as always, busy. Busy being ridiculously good at whatever it is that he does.

-- "We haven't hung out for ages. Is it time for a weekend adventure with you, Ms P. and me?"

She loved his freakishly stunning Amazon-legged girlfriend of eons, because he did. That simple.

-- "Yes! I miss you. And I want to rub your belly, to see how it feels, your little guest."
-- "Ha, ha. Are the dolphins there yet? I've been feeding the fish too. But it's okay. I'm over that now."

-- "A grand adventure it is then. I'll check my diary as soon as I get home and text you. I'm going to lose reception soon."
-- "Surely swarthy sea dogs don't need cellphones. They have Morse code, semaphore, talking parrots on their shoulders and hooks."

-- "Hooks?"
-- "And probably warm wenches below deck with ruddy and inviting thighs... do you think there's any real pirates in Eastbourne?"

-- "Anything's possible. But I know one thing for sure."
-- "What's that?"

-- "That there's a mouse on this ship, snuffling about."

Semblance

WE MEET. NOT FOR the first time. I watch you considering me, wondering still, after all these years, where you begin and I might end. The lines on my face may tell a story, but the look on yours says more.

Wherever you go, you are there. So am I. I am the first to avert from our reflective gaze. Because I am of age, as my face honestly purports, and wise enough now to know how we feel without need to see your expression.

We are one. The mirror agrees.

Right as rain

It rains and still it rains and then it pelts some more. Officially it’s summer, it has been for six whole days. Seemingly, no one told the weathervane, silly cock.

While the atmosphere continues to spatter darkly outside my window, I don’t feel too much like grizzling of the drizzling dampening this town’s sunny reputation. Even for a girl who loves feeling the warm kiss of relaxed summer sunshine on bare skin, it’s somehow calmingly, refreshingly serene.

I’m imagining the sodden cowboys out on rainy plains in the brilliant novel I’ve just laid down, where it’s also pissing down racoons. I’m infatuated with the Wild West at the moment, you see. Well, more than usual that is. I might have to venture to the American wilderness just to get it out of my system. Or in it, depending how you see it. 

In the puddles I reflect on another year. I pulled finger in this one and haven’t been at the old homestead much. I liked it more than I thought I would. This small town, I think, I continue to enjoy not least because I leave it often.

I wrote down 15 intentions back in January, of which, looking back today, I’ve done pretty well. It ain’t over yet. Perhaps for the very first time ever it feels like I know where I’m heading, even if the exact trail remains a bit of a mystery. I guess I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Next year I will most likely move house (who knows where), grow my hair longer (because I feel like it), write like Oscar Wilde (I wish, and maybe not here), ride madly like a cowgirl (with a bit of an English twist), laugh like a crazed banshee (I love that) and shout out to the hills, “hello wildest dreams!”

It all comes out in the wash.

Have a fantastic summer xx

The silk worm and the monkey

There’s an effortless lightness.
Legs swing gaily in the sunshine atop a sleeping log, scanning across tall grasses and seed heads bowing allegiance to the spring-time breeze god.
Slipping nakedly into the river, into the slipstream, life becomes silk. Floating, smooth, natural, free. Flowing across skin beautifully.
Alongside discarded garments strewn on the riverbank, a monkey scratches at its pits. Clothes gone from the back, so too the ape’s hairy grip.
No more skulking inside a bulbous back end, the heaviness of dark. Great things begin subtle, the silk worm tells the monkey.
With an ever expanding heart.

11.11.11 at 11.11

I spent mine amongst the daisies.

Scream

You scream until your throat hurts like a bastard, until your ears crackle and shrill inside your own head. This was your exact intention when you stopped the car on the top of Takaka Hill, but that it's coming out of your own body still astonishes you.

Head thrown back wild animal-like, your tonsils vibrate and pitch for miles down the rock-scattered hillside. Out they leap past the golden sandy crescent far below and across Tasman Bay, where it seems like the distant cliffs must be bouncing the decibels back at you.

It ceases only because you know someone somewhere, even up here in all this nothingness, must hear you. It would be difficult to explain. “I’m desperate,” you would say “to alter the current trajectory. Maybe if I can make something jump over, even just half an inch, then something important might change. I need to believe that good people get rewarded in the end.”

They would look at you strangely of course, or assume you were from Golden Bay and raise their eyes, not unlike a Tui advert. That would be bad, because then you might feel the need to convince... “It’s not that I’m unhappy. I know exactly who I am, and I can do anything I put my mind to... but after all this time I still don’t have a clue where I belong... and I’m not sure I see the point.”

About then they’d start freaking out big time. Hopefully enough to see them high-tailing it out of there immediately, but in the case of a goody-do-gooder you’d be stuck until the men in white coats arrived to whisk you away. That’s always another option. It might not be so bad to be drugged up to the eyeballs, living an emotionless life playing scrabble for the rest of your blank days.

Perhaps the easiest explanation would just be to say you’re trying to be a writer, but you can’t get the words out and, right at this point in time, you're feeling a wee bit lost in the frying pan of life. This would be followed by their understanding sigh and sympathetic smile, because everyone knows that writers are mad.

100 things

Yes I know it’s not all about me but… Alice Gray did it and it made me want to too. But no, I wouldn’t jump off a cliff just because she did it first.

1. My favourite foods are potatoes and cheese
2. And salty, sour or savoury things
3. I am the youngest of 5
4. One of two girls
5. My mother says I was an accident, but a nice one
6. I was almost called Andrea (they came to their senses)
7. I am a terrible daughter and never call
8. My favourite colour is red
9. It speaks to me of passion
10. I have one tattoo
11. And a few scars on the outside
12. A black cat called Mary-Plain was my first pet. He was actually a boy.
13. I cried when my Doberman died. I was 33.
14. I suspect I think about sex more than other girls
15. I love my body
16. It only took about 30 years
17. I am my own worst critic
18. And most loyal friend
19. I have been in love 3 times in my life
20. My ex-husband wasn’t one of them
21. Only 2 of them ever knew
22. And I still am, because to me that’s what love is
23. I think people are hugely interesting and monotonously dull
24. This could be due to my extremely low boredom threshold
25. And very active imagination
26. I like the shape my mouth makes forming certain words beginning with C
27. I should stay away from brown-eyed puppies and bookshops
28. For fear of bringing them home
29. I feel my way through most things in life, rather than pure logic
30. I didn’t always
31. But I find it helps a lot
32. I learned HTML in 2001
33. It’s the only other language I know apart from English
34. Unless you count XML and basic SQL
35. And a few Maori words. I'd like to learn more.
36. And to do calligraphy properly
37. There’s just something I love about ink
38. I never say “never”
39. And also try to avoid using the word “should”
40. If I could have one domestic servant, it would be a chef
41. I once thought I really, really wanted to be a veterinarian
42. But it seemed like too much effort
43. Which are unusual words to hear uttered from my mouth
44. I’m a firm believer in nana naps, but not for too long
45. Taking a bath, riding my horse or dancing is how I de-stress
46. Just generally being horizontal works well too
47. I notice whenever you make spelling mistakes
48. But won’t judge you for it. Much.
49. I started going grey in my 20s
50. But will take bets that I won’t go bald ever
51. I have never broken any bones
52. But have smashed 2 yard glasses at 2 separate twenty-firsts
53. I only drink Tequila with people I trust
54. And can get a hangover while still drunk on white wine
55. I’m a country girl at heart
56. But also like the town
57. The suburbs are the pits
58. If I had to choose, I’d rather be watched than do the watching
59. Would like to time travel
60. Don’t watch much TV, it’s a waste of time
61. I love the sound of torrential rain on a corrugated iron roof
62. And the feel of clean sheets
63. One day I want to have my own tack room
64. Where I will sit in an old-fashioned armchair
65. Drinking copious amounts of tea
66. While listening to music
67. Kept warm by pot belly rays
68. Writing and sometimes cleaning tack
69. Eeewwl, number 69. What to say about that?
70. I’m right-handed
71. One of my most favourite things in the whole wide world is the feeling of warm sunshine on my back
72. I’m a perfectionist
73. Except when I can't be arsed
74. I’m healthy as a horse
75. Strong as an ox
76. Soft as a kitten
77. Loyal as a dog
78. And woolly as a sheep at times
79. I like antiques
80. And boots
81. I like to dress up, in character sometimes
82. I buy nearly all my clothes second-hand
83. It’s much more fun that way
84. My favourite variety of apple is Eve
85. I drink hot toddys and consume chilli en masse as the only remedy for colds
86. I can’t stand the taste of coffee!
87. Unless it’s in alcohol or cake
88. I notice the smallest details
89. I can tell when most people are lying, even those I don't know very well
90. Although I don’t usually say anything
91. I’d make an excellent detective
92. I’ve always wanted to jump out of somebody’s birthday cake
93. But the opportunity hasn’t arisen
94. I’d also like to ride in a hot air balloon
95. Jump a proper round of jumps on my pony
96. And go on a horseback cattle drive
97. Make me laugh and respect you and I’ll be yours forever
98. I see humour in most things
99. If not at once, then after a while
100. I try to see the goodness in everyone

Lyrical

When anybody asks me “Is it easy to forget?”
I’ll say “It’s easily done you just pick anyone
And pretend that you never have met”
~ Bob Dylan

The Mild West

At the foot of the bed lie a shotgun, a serious looking baseball bat, didgeridoo and a purring pussy cat called Pansy curled up in a tight ticklish tortoiseshell ball.
 

Aztec-patterned Pansy blends right into the furnishings as Geronimo, chief of the Chiricahua Apache, gazes out from his nearby wall-mounted frame of glass with troubled eyes and a chiselled mouth set in sepia tones. He too brandishes a shotgun within his well defined hands telling tales of strength and wisdom. He lived some eighty years Geronimo, until 1909. A grand age in those times no doubt, he must have known a thing or two.
 

It’s autumn and in the corner of the living room of this basic little rustic converted woolshed abode, the fire already crackles warm and hearty in the firebox. Horizontal dogs adorn its surrounds; the best place to be on such a grey, rainy day. Tools, horse shoes, bridles and other times-past knick-knacks are slung over nails banged into old hardwood timber struts, probably salvaged from some ancient bridge fallen into disrepair somewhere or other out in the boonies.
 

I’ve died and woken up in the Wild West after slinking back to bed at 10 o’clock, unable to function, absolutely worn out before the day has even begun. I’m delirious, I must be dreaming, but it feels... well, like it’s doing me the power of good.
 

So, in the absence of a gunslinger to coil up cosily with and snuggle, I stroke Pansy back to full throttle purr, roll over, closing my eyes sleepily once more. Vaguely aware of the soft rustle of wind through the oak trees outside the bedroom window, nature sets to gently healing my exhausted self by way of restful sleep and wonderful empowering dreams.

As good as your word

I like words, a lot. I’m not exactly sure why, as despite my love for them, actions do speak louder. Too many empty nothings have been whispered to believe everything you hear. Many of the people I respect the most don't feel the unnecessary need to fill up all the silences, thankfully. Because understated is dead sexy.

But a word or phrase in the right tone and time conjures meaning, understanding and imagery way beyond the rudiment. The lilt of a tongue... the impression of crisp black font on a sea page of white... original thought and original expression without fear... long vowels in the throws of passion... now that’s what I like.

A trick of the tongue and a word in the ear take me where actions alone cannot. Ironic really, for dirty old fickle old words of which I hardly believe a jot.

Taken for a ride

When in doubt, talk about your horse. I sometimes use the icebreaker: “What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever killed?” but you get a few sideways looks at that, so you’ve got to be in the mood. Horses are safer. Let's talk about horses.

The thing I like about my brown boy in particular is, he’s such a dude, a hard case. Do anything most days, but also perfectly capable of putting you in your place. I like that in a bloke, just quietly.

So the aforementioned bareback buccaneering thing, it's fantastic. Natural. Second-nature almost. It’s a bit like this – and you un-horsey folk - this is a new experience just for you.

Legs enclave. A warm, fit, noble body moving, rhythmically with you. Hopefully. Otherwise it's much more awkward and clumsy. Gentle, yet definitely bold. Your skill of balance, flexibility and sense of adventure growing ever-stronger. In good stride.
 

Your skin. Their skin. One skin. Tuned, without needing to speak out loud. But sometimes you might, or inside, just to catch a briefest of flickers across their face. Adrenalin, endorphins, flickers, flutters. You each feel everything of the other.

No kicking yanking slapping to slow down or speed up, no visible movement at all perhaps. Because every bit of it is in your… breath. Building up the energy and electricity in your body to achieve quick accelerated exhilaration. Slowing down, deep breaths, every ounce of tension relaxed, gliding smoothly… or even a sharp stop. To start, on urge, again. In the motion and the moment.
 

Of course, I’ve no idea if my horse would describe our bareback rides the same way. He can get a bit cantankerous if he wants, although he’s seems pretty happy these days.

Airport bingo

I’m delayed in the airport en route to somewhere that isn’t here. Still, what better excuse to watch and write, as I sit sipping a ludicrously extortionate cup of hot water with flavouring of tea.

Ms Snooty stalks around, nose in the air and a carrot up her arse. Perhaps she’s perfectly lovely... but nonetheless, there’s something repellent about the unhappy set of her haughty mouth.

A lady sits at a table across the café, full of sadness. It’s there in the vague, hollowed lifelessness of her eyes and the lanky droop of her hair. I'm fighting the urge to walk over and give her a big hug.

I haven’t yet heard the middle-aged man across from me speak, but I bet you $20 he’s a Yank. The iPad, loafers, beige chinos and style of his jacket give it away. But more than anything, it’s his face structure, the cap and his affected wife.

The podgy woman to my right is onto me. Full of cheeky grins, twinkly eyes and her chin constantly a-laugh. I like her immediately. A wave of passengers arrive and she embraces the two blackest people I’ve ever seen.

A spectacular example of a handlebar moustache is in direct line of sight. Peter Plumley-Walker has nothing on this guy. I admire his individualistic approach, but I wouldn’t want to be revving up that particular bike at night.

The guy behind me is a writer. I know, because I’ve met him somewhere or other before. This could be a chain reaction: me watching and writing about him watching and writing about me. Just as well it’s time to board.

P.S. I was totally right about the Yank. He just opened his mouth.

Sweet sixteen

This is the last time I recall sitting on Santa's knee. With any luck, it was also the last time I sported a mullet or used crimping irons in my hair in the mistaken belief that either were cool. What do you want for Christmas this year little girl?

Nothing

For me, the most difficult thing about writing is finding something inspiring to write about it. With most of my working week spent writing about inanimate objects that I care little if anything about, I struggle crossing the divide into anything loosely resembling creativeness. I have an urge to write, but too often just can’t get past the very first hurdle.

Many writers write about themselves in one way or another. This is probably what they are most qualified to write about. But honestly, I’m with myself 24x7. I bore myself, not to mention everyone else, into oblivion banging on about yours truly. It just doesn’t work for me. I don’t like the way the words come out and the result is that I stop writing all together.

Okay. So to recap – so far I have come up with nothing inspirational to write about. But then, the more I think about nothing, the more I see the beauty of it.

Nothing is like a holiday from something.

Nothing is like that space where anything can happen and usually does. Like the unplanned impromptu things that are almost always so much more fun than anything you may have spent weeks looking forward to in anticipation.

Nothing is giving up all those futile attempts to control that which circles confusingly around you; because there must be better things to do with energy.

Nothing is just going with the flow. Akin to floating lazily on a lilo with a rum cocktail in your hand just experiencing the motion of the ocean.

Obviously we can’t be about nothing all of the time, because that would also drive me up the wall. But perhaps we should focus less more.

So there you go. Nothing further just now.

Today

I came across this poem written by NZ author Anne-Louise Philpott back before I was even born. I really liked it though; some days I can really relate and I've great admiration for those who can smile at themselves through their own confusion.

TODAY
I've smoked
a little
McKuen,
read a
banana
or four
eaten my
correspondence
and posted
a packet
or more
and TOMORROW
I"ll run
over my
hair with
a toothless
comb,
stalk in
a park
or three,
fritter an
hour or
two typing,
and wonder
what's
happening
to me.