Tempus fugit

Haven’t had a decent chinwag on here since the last one… Many things have happened in my little bubble and the great blue yonder, namely the world’s mourning of the great Tata Madiba; Nelson Mandela. Possibly one of the best and most honest response I read after his passing was this: Mandela will never, ever be your minstrel.  http://www.okwonga.com/?p=869  If you’ve paid even a passing glance at a few of my posts you would know my aversion to nostalgia and ever more so, historical revisionism. 

I am day/s away from booking my ticket back to Aotearoa in February. I will endeavour to visit my friends and also bully my aunties into accompanying me home to the family farm up north.  Their eldest sister has Alzheimer’s and it is progressing as these things do and soon she may not remember her younger sisters. So I’m taking them to see her.  If I don’t it will invariably be too late.  Many women I know and particularly these two relatives, tend to put everyone else and external demands first, their own needs barely rate a footnote.  Here cometh TX the taniwha, to scare them into putting themselves and their selfless, ailing sister first.  

Going out to Xmas catch ups with friends, getting drunk, going to weddings, meeting Elvez, the Mexican Elvis, reading heaps and downloading more TV shows than my hard drive can fathom has been the cultural highlights package of this, the business end of the year. In amongst it it all I’ve also managed to acquire a few more obsessions and thus, still have a tangible reason for leaving my bed… I like it when the idea I have of someone as a personality is wildly exceeded by the reality and force of their wairua. In conjunction with this happenstance I may have finally begun to forgive myself for some long ago transgressions, a mark on my soul that has finally been given the chance to heal.  I will see if this is an authentic moment of growth or if I slip and grapple with the troubling nature of being a partially functional mortal.  If the battle within causes a reversion then I will have to fight harder, to forgive myself again, now that I am finally, finally able to try and let myself be what it is I am, and be less anxious about this truth.


I fear this has been a rather self reflexive post full of unassailable issues only I can temper.  I think I should cheer you up now, if you’ve made it this far…



Last kiss

Been busy writing and editing novel. Kicking around ideas in my head for prospective thesis chapters. Rough research on a few subjects that may go on to be articles for submission to journals. Moved house again. That’s only three times in ten months, not even close to my PB.
Want to say that I bit the bullet and had surgery but it feels more like I swallowed the fucking gun. Or wish I had/ could. Trying hard to stay sane/ focused and not kill self/ others because of bedridden cabin fever but it would seem most days this is a Herculean task. Tonight it was fraught with triple layers of vodka, anger and a consuming sense of delayed abandonement.
I’m left to guess what I did/ said/ typed/ thought wrong. There were auditions held and it would seem that I did not fulfil the role of _________. And so I was eventually replaced by someone who could live up to the encoded notions of nostalgia, distorted perceptions and projections for the future. Turns out I’m not ready to be cast in that kind of supporting role and I didnʻt even get to throw my hat in the ring. Nevermind. Iʻm sure Iʻll live just long enough to see someone else shine in the role of a life time. Oh the sticky, conceited irony.
On the upside I may have a job coming up. Training will possibly start in June. I will do what I am best at: bury myself in ʻbusyʻ work and not come up for oxygen, even when Iʻm blue in th face. Zang!


Allusions, illusions, delusions and confusions.

Being a victim of circumstance is nothing I have ever identified with. I’ve always seen myself as a survivor of the complex, tangled and torturous misery others know as childhood.
I have few happy memories of this time period,(from age two to fifteen years), and those glimmering specks in my mind invariably involve being by myself in the backyard with the dogs or reading books by myself at school.
As introverted as I was as a kid, I did have a very close friend made at age six. I thought that if I went to play at her house it would be better than being in the crosshairs at home. Turns out my parents didn’t have the monopoly on vicious and divisive cruelty…
We are still friends as adults, though we have drifted apart a few times: during high school we weren’t quite as close as we had been as children, later again in our mid twenties the gap was widened by our priorities in regards to love life over close friendship.
Happily we were brought back together by a shared passion for team sports. Nothing as lofty as those healthy specimens who find fulfillment on weekends slogging it out in an amateur arena. No, our friendship renaissance was triggered by ice hockey. Being based in one of the world’s hottest and driest continents, this choice of sport can be viewed as an ironic metaphor and also a sweet elixir to life’s hitherto insurmountable challenges.
Between cheering on our team and swilling smuggled vodka, we discuss whatever has happened recently in our lives. Work, significant other, friends, health concerns and occasionally our family members.
Rarely do we speak of the childhood years and traumas. Briefly we may talk of previous misadventures shared in our late teens and early twenties. If we do feel nostalgic for anything from the past, it invariably involves memories of the myriad of hot, young things that were possibly stalked, caught, and then released.
Nostalgia can be a fickle mistress. I found this maxim to be annoyingly true quite recently. A male friend from high school made contact via a social network. He regaled me with his happy memories of knowing me as a young teen.
Perhaps, in hindsight, it was an ego stroke for me. Being thought of well by our peers can be a heady intoxicant.
A face to face catch up was in order, after much cyber chat and a little drunken flirting.
Unbeknownst to him, I’d had a massive crush on him during the first, teen phase of our friendship. For many reasons at that time, I could not act on my feelings. I was intrigued by the elusive possibilities of second chances.
It would seem that this sort of HEA is only found in novels and film. The details are devilish and refuse to be pinned down. I may let that story lie fallow for quite some time and oscillating perspective may provide a more optimistic epilogue.
I try to avoid nostalgia inasmuch as I do not want to go back to a certain time period long past. I do enjoy re telling stories of exciting and interesting previous episodes. This does not mean I want to return to the shores of those distant tales, I like to entertain and my best stories are those shaped, based or inspired by fact.