Went to hospital on Wednesday and had my cast removed. Have to wear unwieldy moon boot thingy instead. Do some light physio exercises and try not to kill anyone because I’m still house bound. They wont let me drive yet. Which is killing me, hence the need to pass on the deathly sentiments to any and all who head my way. Which doesn’t augur well for the 40th birthday I will be emc-ing tomorrow night.
It is also an irony filled situation (not lost on me, just mildly despised) wherein I am suffering not just the indignity of having to be in a wheelchair (which sucks because everywhere I wanted to go is really steep and uneven when faced in a chair) and ask friends for help, which I am no good at doing. The irony is that I can’t drive and yet I have espoused the virtues of vehicular mobility loudly and often, both publicly and privately, including academically. I have spoken at several conferences on the issue of driving and tino rangatiratanga (Māori self determination) for wāhine Māori (Māori women). Now this Māori woman is stuck in the house and is not allowed to drive her car….
I talk about the importance of wāhine being able to leave the house, not only because they and their children may be facing domestic violence situations, but also just to strengthen their ties to the community in which they live. They are able to become full and rounded citizens, participate in normal activities for leisure and social purposes such as weekend sports, hobbies and visiting family. These strong ties help prevent isolation which enables many unhealthy situations such as mental health issues and susceptibility to domestic violence.
Having a car also enables wāhine to be able to apply for and maintain a job. Particularly in rural areas, which are ubiquitous in New Zealand. Having a job or career strengthens these community ties and also gives women an outlet for social interaction, friendship networks and money to provide better lives for their families.
I currently have no car and no job. However I have friends who visit and I have lots of writing to get done, so I probably don’t have time for a job. Once I’m mobile again, I’m sure I will reassess the situation. Some people may think driving isn’t really that important. I usually reply “Tell that to a lady in Saudi Arabia’. Nothing subtle about me
In the Antipodes it’s called ice hockey. I try to go most weekends, during season and when I’m in the state/ country. I’ve just returned from a game. We lost to Newcastle, 2 – 0. They’re hard to beat every game, every season. I’m not a puck bunny. I’m the antithesis of such a notion. I’ve been following the team before they moved to their nice, clean, and resplendent rink. I followed them when they needed me to help out making sandwiches for the team on tour, buttering sandwiches on an ironing board, helping the mothers of the players and board members/ staunch supporters who travel with the team interstate… Before we won three championships in a row. Whether they win or lose, I’ll get outrageously drunk at the pub after it and talk a load of old bollocks to lots of people. Because that is what you do when you follow a team whether they win or lose.
Just because your new boyfriend (real or imaginary) plays (or wishes he could), doesn’t mean you should start showing up/ taking an interest. Oh, you only pretend to care because he does and you get paid in orgasms? That’s more like it, you mercenary, you! That was me being facetious. Yeah, I didn’t think you would pick up on the subtleties. Hence why I pointed out the glaringly obvious. Even though I am very drunk, post hockey. Currently having to triple and quadruple edit everything I type. I’ll move on to writing my magnum opus now. See you all at the bar… Or if you’re a real fan, at the game. Even when the team loses.
I am the voice of the Witika. Sometimes I am called the Wendigo, sometimes the Weetigo or Wetiko or other variants. It all depends on the region you’re from and the belief system you share. I roam the frozen north especially, northern Minnesota, the wastes of Canada, and New York State in the snowy winters.
The Wendigo, the Wendigo
I saw it just a friend ago
Last night it lurked in Canada
Tonight on your veranada!
So wrote none other than Ogden Nash.
I make an appearance in The Orphanmaster as the vicious monster the European settlers find themselves terrorized by when children start to go missing from the colony.
As everyone in New Amsterdam knows, I stand around nine feet tall, with greenish, putrid skin, long fangs, and a voracious appetite for human flesh. The Algonquins made me part of their belief system. The name is thought to mean…
Soooo… This is a quick one about the writer who is fairly unco at th best of times (except on the dancefloor, go figure). The surgeon says Iʻm healing up okay after his assault with a scalpel. They took the cast off and had a look and were quite satisfied with their handiwork. I looked and thought I was colonising some necrotising fascitis (flesh eating virus). Talk about black death (yersina pestis) just hanging about on the back of my leg. If I could cry I probably would. But I can’t so instead I write about it.
Iʻm lamenting the ta moko (tattoo) that runs down the back of my leg that looks like Wolverine had a go at it. There are two lines of script running Matrix style down the back of my legs.
The left one is a quote from Romeo and Juliet. I had this done on January 8, 2011(Elvis’ birthday), to commemorate my move back to New Zealand to deal with unfinished (family) business and continue my studies.
The right leg is a poem called Again and Again by a German bloke called Rilke. This was done on September 8, 2011 (just after mine and Keanu’s birthdays) to commemorate surviving the continuous earthquakes in Christchurch where I was living in NZ. This is the leg that was ʻmodified’ by the surgeon’s touch. As far as I can tell only the first four or five words of each line are now illegible…
Again and Again is a beautiful love poem that froze my heart over for a good fifteen to twenty seconds (in a good way) and then jumpstarted it with some dodgy frayed cables the first time I read it. I don’t know much about love at first sight (except with dogs, particularly black labs) but that poem kicked my arse. And it was a great thing and I knew after a few re – reads that I wanted those words on my skin forever. Which I did the following year.
Eventually in a few years time I may think about getting my tattoo artist, Holly, to fix it up in some way. For now I’m just glad I may be able to walk without the help of a frame, crutch or the menacing wheelchair that manages to leave some spectacular bruises, particularly when I get drunk (legless) and decide to wheel myself home from a friends house party…
The filthy bruise marring my dragonfly and sakura (cherry blossom) tattoo showed up Saturday after my escapades the night before. I thought I’d gotten lucky at the party and had some rough (passionate) sex because I was covered in bruises on my non cast covered left leg, aforementioned tattoo marred arm and my throat felt like I had been choked. I’m not into breath control/ play so I had to ask my housemate if I had gone home with someone and just forgotten.
She figured out that my assorted bruises were not the good kind (sex bruises) but from the wheelchair and its unwieldy metal parts. The choking was caused by being in a room with four people chainsmoking. Joy!
Eventual free range mobilty is even more sought after now that I know my ability to leave a room for fresh air is also impinged upon by the red chair of death. I’m trying to see the bright side, someone suggested it was my chance to get falling down drunk and get my friends to enable this behaviour. This someone may have been me in a mental note to self… Which I fully intend to indulge this coming weekend. Punk gig Saturday afternoon and first home game of the season for the ice hockey, here I come. Both days I will be ably assisted by willing co- conspirators, so life isn’t all bad (this week). Just got to get the chair o’ doom to cooperate and we might try for a bruise free weekend. Treat yourself, TX!