I’ve been crook. I’ve had to go to the hospital a few times and had to recover.Still on the mend. Haven’t written much, had wanted to submit for the Ada Cambridge prize that closed on Tuesday 8 March 2016. Instead I was in a morphine and anaesthetic fugue from the emergency surgery I’d lived through the day before. I hadn’t been able to polish the piece I had been working on for submission in the week leading up to it because I was very ill but passing myself off as okay. I keep coming back to this picture: The Sky-father and the Earth-mother. They were pulled apart by their children, Tane the god of forests and trees managed to tear them apart. That’s how I feel.Torn apart. Torn in two. Never reconciled.
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!
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!