I'd had several run-ins with her over the years; nothing bad.
She’d never hit me.
She was ok for a pig.
And when she snapped me at the front door wearing an apron, oven mitt on one hand and the Beatles playing in the background, she was the first to laugh.
“I was just in the neighbourhood,” she says. 'Thought I'd drop in.”
“The scones aren't quite ready I'm afraid.” Despite the uniform she has a pretty smile. You sick fuck.
“Well actually we're looking for a women, new in town, has green hair, a mohawk,, thought she might be staying here.”
“Oh? Well actually, no. I've no idea who you're talking about.”
Unperturbed, she turns and stares at my bike on the porch. It's upside down, dismantled.
“Whose is this bike?” she asks lightly.
“That's mine; another flat tyre as you can see,” I reply.
A frown: “Not swapping parts or anything?”
“Ah, No.”
“Ok, see ya then.”
They came and took my bike that week while I was at Uni; said I had fitted it out with stolen parts and was welcome to come down the station to chat about it. Detective Regulation Mo' didn't give a shit that I'd bought that bike when I was thirteen, saved my paper run money with Mum and Dad matching me dollar for dollar. I guess they would have sold it at the yearly police auction. Well I hope some kid got it, that he gets that tyre sorted and has heaps of fun on it.
Weird eh? I'd imagine that when most people see an old well-loved bike they'd fall happily into childhood memories of tearing about helter-skelter like you owned the streets. Our rag-tag gang had pretend licences and we would argue endlessly over who would get to be the cop.
The cop always had the most fun.
We had no idea. How the power we craved can get so twisted. Perhaps, once-upon-a-time, she had no idea either.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Hutt Valley Heartache
She said meet me at the gates at eight; sweet, the factory whistle would scream and we’d all bail, piling out the door eager to escape the stench of bad food and servitude.
She’d said it like it was a date – the gates at eight, with a smile that suggested more; and so I hoped that with the sun rising on a new day, we’d blow like Thelma and Louise and leave all this shit behind for something, anything, but I’ll be straight with you now and tell you that it all went wrong; no fairytale ending, just stupid and sad.
She worked across the expanse of black concrete, facing me as I scuttled around my machine tweaking dials and pulling levers. This place was all about snakes and ladders for the skilled and those that failed school – or maybe it was skin colour, what ever; anyway, she scanned the ‘product’ for foreign objects while I cooked up what passed inspection at the other end on this chain gang of automation.
Screwing the cooker door closed I hit the steam valves and note the time – this batch was asparagus so thirteen minutes exactly before I send in the cold water, no more no less. Thirteen minutes with sweet FA to do. Wander, ponder, I am the great absconder. I slap my boots down hard to fill the caverns of blackness with my presence and chase away fear. Like distant space stations, clusters of light and life appear and disappear.
Cardboard boxes are stacked like Lego behind workers in an attempt to trap the heat emitting from gutless heaters below their feet. It’s sad. This tomb-like factory was born from imaginations that stretched no further than economics with people as ‘out goings’.
For a long while I thought she was just lost in space like me, until she’d smiled - at me.
Oh. Um, shit.
A smile is nice, so simple a gift to reciprocate. Not me; I have no faith. I do have hope though; but it's a long scary road to reach what is essentially an unknown: to trust. Do I jump? No, I run for the safety of fantasy as the cold nights crawl onwards: to be rich, important, to be everything a beautiful girl would want. I walk tall.
Well, a little taller.
Shit, I might have known my math well enough to run the cooker, but some things just don't add up right and it took many repeats of that smile across the cold darkness before the penny dropped into this heart: come talk to me; it's safe, it's ok. Yeah I was always late.
For eight hours quality control sit on high stools with their cardboard insulation, blocks of wood under gumboots, hands sifting slowly through streams of fresh vegetables. Yummy processed food; we get it half price at the office. I can switch off the conveyor belt from where I work. Easy, see. Stoned giggles erupt, echo off into space as they all fall off their stools, their brains still following the vegetables. Huh.
We drop dead rats prised from the traps in the spice room onto the belt to see if The Ladies really are awake at four am… oops…no. Who buys this, this food? The innocent of course. Each week at Team Meeting the managers solemnly read out letters of complaint: "I'm returning a bolt which I assume is important" or "I found (a feather, dead fly, bee, plastic, metal, wood, hair, fingernail ....) something unidentifiable floating in my Spicy Tomato Cup-a-soup." The fun was juvenile and dangerous, but hey we should all be tucked up in bed with our sweet dreams, not living Orwellian nightmares. We were still kids at school, uniforms and bells, yes sir no sir, lets fuck shit up sir. Heavy machinery and cannabis, food products and snot, company profits and hours spent on the roof star gazing with the joint passing slowly round. Just not meant to be.
All together now: we gotta get out of this place if it’s the last thing we ever do...
The echoes here were just fucking brilliant.
That filthy conveyor belt was the site of my first official warning: covering a smoke break for her, caught alone, reading a book… while millions of tender green peas streamed on past. No matter that I wasn’t even supposed to be there, tripping out to that sea of green. It was her, looping through my mind and growing courage, wings even. Caught in more ways than one eh? I thought she was worth risks; she was worth conspiring with to make mischief. She was fun, her smile intoxicating; I wanted to touch her.
And I did.
The next warning was for an over-cook that had left several hundred cans of butter beans with dents in them. I falsified the time book. Tsk tsk. I’d been perving at her while she worked and as my supervisor bollocked me I could see her cracking up with The Ladies. Her easy laugh, her eyes briefly catching and holding mine sent me straight back to the kiss. The supervisor might as well have beamed back into the matrix for all I cared. Fucking magic.
Collecting a pie and chips for my 2am meal break, I hear:“Hey you need to stop watching me and do your job eh?” Female laughter follows me as I hunker down opposite Tommy. Shit, they all knew. Last night's Shortland Street and then the love-struck Pākehā boy; can ya imagine it?
Tommy was my age, had done three seasons here and sold the drugs that got the team through the night. Important role. Greenery, caps and pharmaceuticals. Blowing smoke out the cleaning room window later that morning we hit the steam valves and strip for a sauna; talking shit, wishing we had lives, girlfriends, something to do.
“This place is fucking suicide; get out quick before you get any HP’s or a girlfriend eh.” Tommy expels wisdom before sucking hard on the joint. His face is tight, eyes bulging as he holds the smoke in as long as possible. It looks like he's drowning, or dead. “Yeah right man, so you going to pass it over or what?”
See? That’s me all over
She’d said to meet her at eight, but I was fucken late. I'm always late.
I tell ya it was a day of some big mistakes, the least of which cost me a cruisey job. More importantly was her.
My third warning meant disciplinary action would be taken: demotion it was and the bitch of a supervisor did not hesitate. I’d sorted a chair for the guy who was emptying the cans out of the big wire bins I push in and out of my cooker; he had a sore back. I found one for myself as well; give him a hand I figured. Wrong.
“We don’t sit on this job – stand up,” the dead fuck had hissed at me. After this quite unjustifiable slap in the face she might have seen my only reason for actually turning up each night cracking up over there on the line – my new friend, but it don’t matter – anyway she turned back around and there I am with me arm still raised in a fucken’ Nazi salute. Her smirk fell lower than her tits: “Right, you’re washing the boxes from now on young man– enjoy!”
Yep I’m a 4th generation New Zealand-made slave; and as I pirouetted on the wet floor with my middle fingers raised at the bosses high up in their warm offices I could almost taste the futility. “There's no justice ladies,” I protested. “It’s just us down ‘ere being fucked over and over.”
Maida, the Jehovah with fifty kids or something, gave me my only applause. Everyone else had buggered off for a fag. I hit the stairs that lead up past the hoppers of soup mix to collect Tommy and climb onwards and upwards to our sanctuary. Sparked up and toked hard. Sedated, deflated. With our feet dangling over a ledge I idly flick dead flies into the open hoppers below. Most of the plant was silent at night with just the odd security light twinkling amongst looming shades of black. Thinking back over the busy harvest when the night shift had come on, we’d dropped a lot of shit off this ledge. Pot if you're lucky, flies, snot, bolts and a good spurt of Tommy’s jungle juice on those nights when things were a little out of kilter if you're not.
It was up here that I kissed her, high as a kite, trying to touch her tongue with mine. I can still taste her. Gave me a push that nearly sent me over the edge and into the Thick Mushroom Soup when I brushed her breast with my hand.
Won’t be trying that again; not up on that ledge anyway.
When she said ‘eight’ she meant it cos she never was one for lingering. Had already missed her a few times, seeing her pedaling off on her bike, headphones on tight unable to hear my yelling over her beats. Christ, I never really knew if she was serious or just playing games as she cruised off to fuck knows where. To do what? To be with who?
Meet me at the gates…. And don’t be late she’d said, cos I don’t wait. Shit, I was trying to save my job, brown nosing the manager that it was all a bit over the top and that the bitch had it in for me. Calm down he’s saying; the union will have to be involved and blah blah blah.
More fool me eh? Man what the fuck was I thinking. The sheer monotony, the humiliation and abuse, a crap wage and shitter of a drug habit to boot. Give it to me baby. There I was trying my hardest to get my leash back on when I’d been all but shown the door marked ‘life’.
Meet me at the gate at eight she’d said. The invitation I dreamed of. I could finally see her out in the real world without a hairnet on; maybe do something normal like look at each other in daylight. We could have some fun; maybe go into town or something.
I’d really like that.
But that invite was only half the story; she was like that, dug her mysteries like where she lived, what she got up to with her mates out there on the other side.
Only cos it was her last shift an all. And I was late.
The sunshine and her smile, it was right there. Well I tell ya, and I really fucking mean it, I'm never going to be late again.
Never going to be late again.
She’d said it like it was a date – the gates at eight, with a smile that suggested more; and so I hoped that with the sun rising on a new day, we’d blow like Thelma and Louise and leave all this shit behind for something, anything, but I’ll be straight with you now and tell you that it all went wrong; no fairytale ending, just stupid and sad.
She worked across the expanse of black concrete, facing me as I scuttled around my machine tweaking dials and pulling levers. This place was all about snakes and ladders for the skilled and those that failed school – or maybe it was skin colour, what ever; anyway, she scanned the ‘product’ for foreign objects while I cooked up what passed inspection at the other end on this chain gang of automation.
Screwing the cooker door closed I hit the steam valves and note the time – this batch was asparagus so thirteen minutes exactly before I send in the cold water, no more no less. Thirteen minutes with sweet FA to do. Wander, ponder, I am the great absconder. I slap my boots down hard to fill the caverns of blackness with my presence and chase away fear. Like distant space stations, clusters of light and life appear and disappear.
Cardboard boxes are stacked like Lego behind workers in an attempt to trap the heat emitting from gutless heaters below their feet. It’s sad. This tomb-like factory was born from imaginations that stretched no further than economics with people as ‘out goings’.
For a long while I thought she was just lost in space like me, until she’d smiled - at me.
Oh. Um, shit.
A smile is nice, so simple a gift to reciprocate. Not me; I have no faith. I do have hope though; but it's a long scary road to reach what is essentially an unknown: to trust. Do I jump? No, I run for the safety of fantasy as the cold nights crawl onwards: to be rich, important, to be everything a beautiful girl would want. I walk tall.
Well, a little taller.
Shit, I might have known my math well enough to run the cooker, but some things just don't add up right and it took many repeats of that smile across the cold darkness before the penny dropped into this heart: come talk to me; it's safe, it's ok. Yeah I was always late.
For eight hours quality control sit on high stools with their cardboard insulation, blocks of wood under gumboots, hands sifting slowly through streams of fresh vegetables. Yummy processed food; we get it half price at the office. I can switch off the conveyor belt from where I work. Easy, see. Stoned giggles erupt, echo off into space as they all fall off their stools, their brains still following the vegetables. Huh.
We drop dead rats prised from the traps in the spice room onto the belt to see if The Ladies really are awake at four am… oops…no. Who buys this, this food? The innocent of course. Each week at Team Meeting the managers solemnly read out letters of complaint: "I'm returning a bolt which I assume is important" or "I found (a feather, dead fly, bee, plastic, metal, wood, hair, fingernail ....) something unidentifiable floating in my Spicy Tomato Cup-a-soup." The fun was juvenile and dangerous, but hey we should all be tucked up in bed with our sweet dreams, not living Orwellian nightmares. We were still kids at school, uniforms and bells, yes sir no sir, lets fuck shit up sir. Heavy machinery and cannabis, food products and snot, company profits and hours spent on the roof star gazing with the joint passing slowly round. Just not meant to be.
All together now: we gotta get out of this place if it’s the last thing we ever do...
The echoes here were just fucking brilliant.
That filthy conveyor belt was the site of my first official warning: covering a smoke break for her, caught alone, reading a book… while millions of tender green peas streamed on past. No matter that I wasn’t even supposed to be there, tripping out to that sea of green. It was her, looping through my mind and growing courage, wings even. Caught in more ways than one eh? I thought she was worth risks; she was worth conspiring with to make mischief. She was fun, her smile intoxicating; I wanted to touch her.
And I did.
The next warning was for an over-cook that had left several hundred cans of butter beans with dents in them. I falsified the time book. Tsk tsk. I’d been perving at her while she worked and as my supervisor bollocked me I could see her cracking up with The Ladies. Her easy laugh, her eyes briefly catching and holding mine sent me straight back to the kiss. The supervisor might as well have beamed back into the matrix for all I cared. Fucking magic.
Collecting a pie and chips for my 2am meal break, I hear:“Hey you need to stop watching me and do your job eh?” Female laughter follows me as I hunker down opposite Tommy. Shit, they all knew. Last night's Shortland Street and then the love-struck Pākehā boy; can ya imagine it?
Tommy was my age, had done three seasons here and sold the drugs that got the team through the night. Important role. Greenery, caps and pharmaceuticals. Blowing smoke out the cleaning room window later that morning we hit the steam valves and strip for a sauna; talking shit, wishing we had lives, girlfriends, something to do.
“This place is fucking suicide; get out quick before you get any HP’s or a girlfriend eh.” Tommy expels wisdom before sucking hard on the joint. His face is tight, eyes bulging as he holds the smoke in as long as possible. It looks like he's drowning, or dead. “Yeah right man, so you going to pass it over or what?”
See? That’s me all over
She’d said to meet her at eight, but I was fucken late. I'm always late.
I tell ya it was a day of some big mistakes, the least of which cost me a cruisey job. More importantly was her.
My third warning meant disciplinary action would be taken: demotion it was and the bitch of a supervisor did not hesitate. I’d sorted a chair for the guy who was emptying the cans out of the big wire bins I push in and out of my cooker; he had a sore back. I found one for myself as well; give him a hand I figured. Wrong.
“We don’t sit on this job – stand up,” the dead fuck had hissed at me. After this quite unjustifiable slap in the face she might have seen my only reason for actually turning up each night cracking up over there on the line – my new friend, but it don’t matter – anyway she turned back around and there I am with me arm still raised in a fucken’ Nazi salute. Her smirk fell lower than her tits: “Right, you’re washing the boxes from now on young man– enjoy!”
Yep I’m a 4th generation New Zealand-made slave; and as I pirouetted on the wet floor with my middle fingers raised at the bosses high up in their warm offices I could almost taste the futility. “There's no justice ladies,” I protested. “It’s just us down ‘ere being fucked over and over.”
Maida, the Jehovah with fifty kids or something, gave me my only applause. Everyone else had buggered off for a fag. I hit the stairs that lead up past the hoppers of soup mix to collect Tommy and climb onwards and upwards to our sanctuary. Sparked up and toked hard. Sedated, deflated. With our feet dangling over a ledge I idly flick dead flies into the open hoppers below. Most of the plant was silent at night with just the odd security light twinkling amongst looming shades of black. Thinking back over the busy harvest when the night shift had come on, we’d dropped a lot of shit off this ledge. Pot if you're lucky, flies, snot, bolts and a good spurt of Tommy’s jungle juice on those nights when things were a little out of kilter if you're not.
It was up here that I kissed her, high as a kite, trying to touch her tongue with mine. I can still taste her. Gave me a push that nearly sent me over the edge and into the Thick Mushroom Soup when I brushed her breast with my hand.
Won’t be trying that again; not up on that ledge anyway.
When she said ‘eight’ she meant it cos she never was one for lingering. Had already missed her a few times, seeing her pedaling off on her bike, headphones on tight unable to hear my yelling over her beats. Christ, I never really knew if she was serious or just playing games as she cruised off to fuck knows where. To do what? To be with who?
Meet me at the gates…. And don’t be late she’d said, cos I don’t wait. Shit, I was trying to save my job, brown nosing the manager that it was all a bit over the top and that the bitch had it in for me. Calm down he’s saying; the union will have to be involved and blah blah blah.
More fool me eh? Man what the fuck was I thinking. The sheer monotony, the humiliation and abuse, a crap wage and shitter of a drug habit to boot. Give it to me baby. There I was trying my hardest to get my leash back on when I’d been all but shown the door marked ‘life’.
Meet me at the gate at eight she’d said. The invitation I dreamed of. I could finally see her out in the real world without a hairnet on; maybe do something normal like look at each other in daylight. We could have some fun; maybe go into town or something.
I’d really like that.
But that invite was only half the story; she was like that, dug her mysteries like where she lived, what she got up to with her mates out there on the other side.
Only cos it was her last shift an all. And I was late.
The sunshine and her smile, it was right there. Well I tell ya, and I really fucking mean it, I'm never going to be late again.
Never going to be late again.
Self-destruction is the first way the shitted-on start showing anger against the shitters (Kathy Acker, RIP)
He sat waiting as instructed in a small lifeless room lined with battered orange plastic chairs, a grubby Warehouse print of something famous his only company; but nothing happened so he went looking for her.
“Fucken hell, what have they done to you?”
Ruby glared up from the mattress on the floor. “Don't you dare say that I look like shit or I'll fucking deck you.”
“Ah... okay.”
Plonking down beside her he looked for a door to swing shut, but there wasn't one to swing. Open plan eh. “Jeez what are you wearing? Is that ya Grans? I can see your arse.”
“This,” she slaps exposed skin loudly. “Is not arse, but rump. In here we're just animals who smear our shit down the walls and howl all night okay?”
He's searching hard, but cautiously for that glint of humour. For her, for his friend. He's not sure yet. “Will they let you out soon?”
Her smile pushes puffy cheeks upwards almost closing black-ringed panda eyes. He can't help but laugh and visibly relaxes. “Course, end of the week hopefully.” She replies. “I get reviewed daily, risk assessment. Have to answer the question 'so how are you feeling' very carefully y'know.” The hope falters, spirals, is lost. “So um... who called the ambulance?” She asks. The smile is now gone but her eyes remain slit-like.
“Dunno, maybe the bar staff,” he tried to make his shrug casual. “Good thing really, no one new what the fuck to do eh; everyone freaking out, screaming 'n shit.”
Ruby's gaze caught him, held him. He quickly looked away, but only found her heavily bandaged forearms, back up. She smiled gently at his awkwardness, let it slide. “Well, what-eva, I'm glad that sad-arsed pub wasn't my last stand.”
He grinned back despite it all. “Fuck we thought you were doing a runner on the bill. I was about to say 'hey the door's over that way', but you were already through the fucking window. Neil burst into tears when you were lying on the footpath.” He started to laugh, but shut it abruptly and the silence is awkward. “So what's the plan then?” he asks.
Better. Deep breaths, that smile again to make it alright. Just like it used to.
“Survive; bloody psychiatrist, bloody case manager, bloody WINZ” She lifted her bandaged arms slowly upwards, fists awkwardly clenching. “And then Casper, we take on the world!”
Their laughter is too genuine to pass unnoticed; a nurse fills the doorway: “Excuse me but visitors aren't permitted in the units.” They could smell her perfume, nails all neatly painted, her teeth whitened.
“Might see that some of us are sleeping in the hall and call the papers eh?” Ruby taunts at her departing back.
Casper rose. “Wanna come stay at my place? Could borrow a car, pick you up.”
“Nah, they'll only release me to a family member so I'll go to my Aunty's up in Brooklyn, but you should come up. No booze though ok?”
“Chocolate and flowers?”
“Always!”
“Love you.”
Ruby frowned. 'Yeah; I guess that I have to learn to believe you Casper, so I don't come back here.'
'F'sure.'
He paused in the doorway; underweight, sickly, offensive. “I'll have to work harder as well; doing my bit in keeping you out too eh?”
Grinning, he flicked her a finger, disappeared from view.
She could still smell him, yelled after him: “And brush ya teeth before you come up eh?”
“Fucken hell, what have they done to you?”
Ruby glared up from the mattress on the floor. “Don't you dare say that I look like shit or I'll fucking deck you.”
“Ah... okay.”
Plonking down beside her he looked for a door to swing shut, but there wasn't one to swing. Open plan eh. “Jeez what are you wearing? Is that ya Grans? I can see your arse.”
“This,” she slaps exposed skin loudly. “Is not arse, but rump. In here we're just animals who smear our shit down the walls and howl all night okay?”
He's searching hard, but cautiously for that glint of humour. For her, for his friend. He's not sure yet. “Will they let you out soon?”
Her smile pushes puffy cheeks upwards almost closing black-ringed panda eyes. He can't help but laugh and visibly relaxes. “Course, end of the week hopefully.” She replies. “I get reviewed daily, risk assessment. Have to answer the question 'so how are you feeling' very carefully y'know.” The hope falters, spirals, is lost. “So um... who called the ambulance?” She asks. The smile is now gone but her eyes remain slit-like.
“Dunno, maybe the bar staff,” he tried to make his shrug casual. “Good thing really, no one new what the fuck to do eh; everyone freaking out, screaming 'n shit.”
Ruby's gaze caught him, held him. He quickly looked away, but only found her heavily bandaged forearms, back up. She smiled gently at his awkwardness, let it slide. “Well, what-eva, I'm glad that sad-arsed pub wasn't my last stand.”
He grinned back despite it all. “Fuck we thought you were doing a runner on the bill. I was about to say 'hey the door's over that way', but you were already through the fucking window. Neil burst into tears when you were lying on the footpath.” He started to laugh, but shut it abruptly and the silence is awkward. “So what's the plan then?” he asks.
Better. Deep breaths, that smile again to make it alright. Just like it used to.
“Survive; bloody psychiatrist, bloody case manager, bloody WINZ” She lifted her bandaged arms slowly upwards, fists awkwardly clenching. “And then Casper, we take on the world!”
Their laughter is too genuine to pass unnoticed; a nurse fills the doorway: “Excuse me but visitors aren't permitted in the units.” They could smell her perfume, nails all neatly painted, her teeth whitened.
“Might see that some of us are sleeping in the hall and call the papers eh?” Ruby taunts at her departing back.
Casper rose. “Wanna come stay at my place? Could borrow a car, pick you up.”
“Nah, they'll only release me to a family member so I'll go to my Aunty's up in Brooklyn, but you should come up. No booze though ok?”
“Chocolate and flowers?”
“Always!”
“Love you.”
Ruby frowned. 'Yeah; I guess that I have to learn to believe you Casper, so I don't come back here.'
'F'sure.'
He paused in the doorway; underweight, sickly, offensive. “I'll have to work harder as well; doing my bit in keeping you out too eh?”
Grinning, he flicked her a finger, disappeared from view.
She could still smell him, yelled after him: “And brush ya teeth before you come up eh?”
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Reality is the new fiction they say (please go away)
The lounge has never been cleaned, curtains only occasionally parted and the dim light mutes the stains, the disrepair, us. We sprawl on yuppie rubbish nicked from out front of the Sallies; no matter that the legs are all busted now cos enough crap's migrated underneath to support us. Some wit has penned ‘the good ship WINZ’ along the remaining arm; our primary sponsors.
Tacked on the walls are creased photos of our mates on the waste, happy drunks all wonky and blurred. Holiday snaps you could say: at the park, somewhere on Cuba Street, out back of The Valve. Also pictures cut from zines and records; black and white, hard scary shit. Their reality. Our response.
A smorgasbord of smells assaults the visitor, but you get used to it after a few hours, or a few beers, which ever comes first. I’d rank them (no pun intended) like so: the toilet, puke, burnt food, dogs, boys, stale smoke and hanging in at lucky last, the sweet yeast of the brew barrels. Hmm, maybe you should scull up and have another beer?
Ok; cool, that's the scene set. As for us, well we’re all here as bloody usual and there's (have you noticed yet?) a crisis. Always a fucking crisis.
On the surface and getting us all bitchy is the daily trivia just waiting for a roll of the dice: money, WINZ, a lost boot or smokes, sore kidneys, visiting parents, no food, a late period, or maybe love going horribly wrong.
Don't laugh; I know.
But pick’n’scratch at these scabs and you’ll find the blackest fucking depression, confusion, and self-esteem so low it crawls. Bottom-feeders. But you can call this shit what ever you want; it doesn't help, doesn't make it go away.
Trust me.
Not much point in just knowing anyway. Smoking will kill you, I know. So anyway, we're here chit-chatting away about this bum trip flippantly called 'life', making plans to... nah, nice idea, but mostly we never really talk. Not honestly anyway. It’s just blah blah blah until it fucking ruptures, screams, is thrown with rage against a wall, against a friend; or bottled tighter and tighter inside till you need to slice your arms open and let it all that 'low self-esteem' spew out onto the floor. In the privacy of your bedroom of course. It’s never resolved. Ever. It stays right here; like us.
The other day I read that intense heavy rock music fractures water crystals and drives them insane; our bodies are 80% water. There was no mention of beer. My mum is constantly telling me that the colour black psychologically draws you in and down. Probably. My boots, tights, skirt and t-shirt are, but my undies are green and my bra is red: the last line of defense against the dark side.
Y'know in winter when the damp clings like an all day hangover, the best place to hide out is at the library. All the bums are there: really good chairs, awesome heaters, and obviously heaps to read. I pretty much stick to magazines, my special interest topics (that's sex, drugs, music, and comics) and then go hang out at the CD listening posts or maybe try table diving at the cafe upstairs. Sometimes tourists forget to log off the internet so I get to YouTube old punk bands which is cool. Makes for a pretty good day out all up.
Anyway, right after I'd finished flicking through Masaru Emoto's book on water I read a short interview with Jia Jing; he’s cute, 17, lives in Beijing and has this to say: “I've given up hoping; I hate this world”. He couldn't decide whether to kill himself in a dramatic public way or just go quietly so that no one would notice.
F'sure.
I moved on to some straight-as Government drug pamphlets with hysterical lists of side effects and tales of sick depravity - they're really quite funny. Well more fun than wondering if Jia Jing was still kicking about. Believe it or not (yeah truly, I’m walking on air), but smoking oil off aluminum tinfoil seriously buggers your lungs. Government literature? Not! Offering a safer option like smearing it on a zigzag paper or using a needle on a hot knife would be logical/sensible eh? I mean we are talking to teenagers right? “Just say no” duh; that's prohibition for you.
Knowledge is power right? Yeah but, nah. I know alcohol is a depressant and that dribbling munters are not sexy. I know cannabis fucks with your motivation.
I know, but not really. Not yet.
BANG!
That’s the library door. I’m the last one out and get a grunt of recognition from security. Our front door sags in the frame like an old homeless man and needs a good hard swing to close: BANG! The needle screeches across the record in shock, but it’s not one of mine thankfully. Home sweet home provides still crunchy roast veggies, a bummed smoke and a cup of peppermint tea to wake me up. The soundtrack with dinner is Misery. Here's a sample: “ You know deep inside you're losing in life, you pray for riches and you fight to survive; You work on, dream on, believe on, you're shit upon. Who drives the slaves, you and me; we work on, dream on, starve on, die on..." Betcha can't wait for pudding eh?
In here it’s cold, heavy, like we’re underground or something and as I stare blankly at friends I wish for someone else’s reality – or twenty-four hour libraries. Look at Paul across the room; he's sucked so much crap into his lungs he sounds like a forty-year-old as he harps on about some shit. Looks like one too. I couldn't imagine anything worse than kissing him and I swear on the grave of my dear Nana never to get so pissed for that to be debatable. Next to him is Casper who is drinking an abandoned beer he's found on the floor. By the look on his face I bet someone’s dropped their butts into it. Yummy. His pants are so ripped I can see one of his bollocks which is a little more that I've ever wanted to see of him (as much as I do love him). Casper and I went to school together; or rather we survived school. Not being rich, sporty, spunky or exceptionally bright you may not have noticed us quietly waiting for something, anything. Still waiting. Anyway, right next to me is my current ‘boyfriend’ but he's gonna be my ex soon so lets just stop right now eh. Boys are so not cracking up to be what I’d hoped for and if I cop any more duds they may well be the first thing I officially ‘give up’. Cool. On my right is our new flattie Ruby who smells terrible, looks terrible but tells me she's "alright". Her thumb is a blur across her cellphone – fuck knows who she texts, don't really give a flying fuck to be honest.
From my pocket I pull a scrap of paper torn from a book. It’s show and tell time:
“If I had a nickel for every piece of someone’s spit
I’ve ever scraped off myself
I’d buy another planet to live on.”
“Who?” asks Paul.
“Henry Rollins, of course,” I reply smugly, like he wrote it for me.
Casper has already begun writing it onto the wall with his fat graffiti pen and while the letters are all wobbly and child-like his voice is hard, old. “He’ll never get of this planet alive.”
Yeah, I know. Thanks.
Today is our 'day after'. We self-medicated ourselves through the shock, the invasion, and the accusations. Now - the vacuum - we just sit and think. For those of you lucky enough to have clear reasoned thoughts and a full support crew, this may seem bizarre, but when a flatmate swallows handfuls of carefully saved anti-depressants and dies alone in their bedroom - believe it or not - it can seem like a good idea. Don’t bother trying… no scratch that, you should try to understand.
Outside our broken front door prowls judgment, expectations and responsibility. The lions den from which we ran; only to end up here, a sanctuary of sorts, a prison of sorts. But still they got him. Or rather they got to him. Our friend Simon.
Knock Knock; Who's there? Dunno, we don't answer knocks, strangers knock.
Y'know, when everyday is exactly the same, from passing in to passing out and you just start to wonder why,
IT SEEMS LIKE A GOOD IDEA
Was that loud enough? Are you listening? Slice those words; slow, deep (in suicide-razor font) into soft white skin, a hasty post-it note, a reminder of the options available. Okay, maybe I’m just tired. Yeah. Definitely tired of playing my part in the game of this reality/fiction though. Y'know that tidal wave of human shit we're all wading through like good donkeys? Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go... beam me the fuck outta here. Paper rock scissors; c'mon c'mon, the record has almost ended and the last of the beer decanted…
Ha! This is where parallel stories in the movie merge into edge of seat tension. Will she? Will they? Are you listening? Can you shut the fuck up long enough? Well,
((Help. Please.))
Knock knock knock; you hear something? Nah, not me.
It's not for me.
Tacked on the walls are creased photos of our mates on the waste, happy drunks all wonky and blurred. Holiday snaps you could say: at the park, somewhere on Cuba Street, out back of The Valve. Also pictures cut from zines and records; black and white, hard scary shit. Their reality. Our response.
A smorgasbord of smells assaults the visitor, but you get used to it after a few hours, or a few beers, which ever comes first. I’d rank them (no pun intended) like so: the toilet, puke, burnt food, dogs, boys, stale smoke and hanging in at lucky last, the sweet yeast of the brew barrels. Hmm, maybe you should scull up and have another beer?
Ok; cool, that's the scene set. As for us, well we’re all here as bloody usual and there's (have you noticed yet?) a crisis. Always a fucking crisis.
On the surface and getting us all bitchy is the daily trivia just waiting for a roll of the dice: money, WINZ, a lost boot or smokes, sore kidneys, visiting parents, no food, a late period, or maybe love going horribly wrong.
Don't laugh; I know.
But pick’n’scratch at these scabs and you’ll find the blackest fucking depression, confusion, and self-esteem so low it crawls. Bottom-feeders. But you can call this shit what ever you want; it doesn't help, doesn't make it go away.
Trust me.
Not much point in just knowing anyway. Smoking will kill you, I know. So anyway, we're here chit-chatting away about this bum trip flippantly called 'life', making plans to... nah, nice idea, but mostly we never really talk. Not honestly anyway. It’s just blah blah blah until it fucking ruptures, screams, is thrown with rage against a wall, against a friend; or bottled tighter and tighter inside till you need to slice your arms open and let it all that 'low self-esteem' spew out onto the floor. In the privacy of your bedroom of course. It’s never resolved. Ever. It stays right here; like us.
The other day I read that intense heavy rock music fractures water crystals and drives them insane; our bodies are 80% water. There was no mention of beer. My mum is constantly telling me that the colour black psychologically draws you in and down. Probably. My boots, tights, skirt and t-shirt are, but my undies are green and my bra is red: the last line of defense against the dark side.
Y'know in winter when the damp clings like an all day hangover, the best place to hide out is at the library. All the bums are there: really good chairs, awesome heaters, and obviously heaps to read. I pretty much stick to magazines, my special interest topics (that's sex, drugs, music, and comics) and then go hang out at the CD listening posts or maybe try table diving at the cafe upstairs. Sometimes tourists forget to log off the internet so I get to YouTube old punk bands which is cool. Makes for a pretty good day out all up.
Anyway, right after I'd finished flicking through Masaru Emoto's book on water I read a short interview with Jia Jing; he’s cute, 17, lives in Beijing and has this to say: “I've given up hoping; I hate this world”. He couldn't decide whether to kill himself in a dramatic public way or just go quietly so that no one would notice.
F'sure.
I moved on to some straight-as Government drug pamphlets with hysterical lists of side effects and tales of sick depravity - they're really quite funny. Well more fun than wondering if Jia Jing was still kicking about. Believe it or not (yeah truly, I’m walking on air), but smoking oil off aluminum tinfoil seriously buggers your lungs. Government literature? Not! Offering a safer option like smearing it on a zigzag paper or using a needle on a hot knife would be logical/sensible eh? I mean we are talking to teenagers right? “Just say no” duh; that's prohibition for you.
Knowledge is power right? Yeah but, nah. I know alcohol is a depressant and that dribbling munters are not sexy. I know cannabis fucks with your motivation.
I know, but not really. Not yet.
BANG!
That’s the library door. I’m the last one out and get a grunt of recognition from security. Our front door sags in the frame like an old homeless man and needs a good hard swing to close: BANG! The needle screeches across the record in shock, but it’s not one of mine thankfully. Home sweet home provides still crunchy roast veggies, a bummed smoke and a cup of peppermint tea to wake me up. The soundtrack with dinner is Misery. Here's a sample: “ You know deep inside you're losing in life, you pray for riches and you fight to survive; You work on, dream on, believe on, you're shit upon. Who drives the slaves, you and me; we work on, dream on, starve on, die on..." Betcha can't wait for pudding eh?
In here it’s cold, heavy, like we’re underground or something and as I stare blankly at friends I wish for someone else’s reality – or twenty-four hour libraries. Look at Paul across the room; he's sucked so much crap into his lungs he sounds like a forty-year-old as he harps on about some shit. Looks like one too. I couldn't imagine anything worse than kissing him and I swear on the grave of my dear Nana never to get so pissed for that to be debatable. Next to him is Casper who is drinking an abandoned beer he's found on the floor. By the look on his face I bet someone’s dropped their butts into it. Yummy. His pants are so ripped I can see one of his bollocks which is a little more that I've ever wanted to see of him (as much as I do love him). Casper and I went to school together; or rather we survived school. Not being rich, sporty, spunky or exceptionally bright you may not have noticed us quietly waiting for something, anything. Still waiting. Anyway, right next to me is my current ‘boyfriend’ but he's gonna be my ex soon so lets just stop right now eh. Boys are so not cracking up to be what I’d hoped for and if I cop any more duds they may well be the first thing I officially ‘give up’. Cool. On my right is our new flattie Ruby who smells terrible, looks terrible but tells me she's "alright". Her thumb is a blur across her cellphone – fuck knows who she texts, don't really give a flying fuck to be honest.
From my pocket I pull a scrap of paper torn from a book. It’s show and tell time:
“If I had a nickel for every piece of someone’s spit
I’ve ever scraped off myself
I’d buy another planet to live on.”
“Who?” asks Paul.
“Henry Rollins, of course,” I reply smugly, like he wrote it for me.
Casper has already begun writing it onto the wall with his fat graffiti pen and while the letters are all wobbly and child-like his voice is hard, old. “He’ll never get of this planet alive.”
Yeah, I know. Thanks.
Today is our 'day after'. We self-medicated ourselves through the shock, the invasion, and the accusations. Now - the vacuum - we just sit and think. For those of you lucky enough to have clear reasoned thoughts and a full support crew, this may seem bizarre, but when a flatmate swallows handfuls of carefully saved anti-depressants and dies alone in their bedroom - believe it or not - it can seem like a good idea. Don’t bother trying… no scratch that, you should try to understand.
Outside our broken front door prowls judgment, expectations and responsibility. The lions den from which we ran; only to end up here, a sanctuary of sorts, a prison of sorts. But still they got him. Or rather they got to him. Our friend Simon.
Knock Knock; Who's there? Dunno, we don't answer knocks, strangers knock.
Y'know, when everyday is exactly the same, from passing in to passing out and you just start to wonder why,
IT SEEMS LIKE A GOOD IDEA
Was that loud enough? Are you listening? Slice those words; slow, deep (in suicide-razor font) into soft white skin, a hasty post-it note, a reminder of the options available. Okay, maybe I’m just tired. Yeah. Definitely tired of playing my part in the game of this reality/fiction though. Y'know that tidal wave of human shit we're all wading through like good donkeys? Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go... beam me the fuck outta here. Paper rock scissors; c'mon c'mon, the record has almost ended and the last of the beer decanted…
Ha! This is where parallel stories in the movie merge into edge of seat tension. Will she? Will they? Are you listening? Can you shut the fuck up long enough? Well,
((Help. Please.))
Knock knock knock; you hear something? Nah, not me.
It's not for me.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Dole day
The dole day that I met Casper was perfect: one hundred and seven in the bank and a new friendship that would survive some pretty tumultuous years. That’s gotta be a good day in anyones books I reckon.
It was usual beginnings: a so-so party, jammed together on a filthy couch and a topic of mutual interest: we were both shit scared of the skinheads who lived here, but had smoked a little too much of their weed to just quietly bail. It ended up being no big deal though, that was the scene and we were young, naive and unsure. He was worried about me heading off home alone which was sweet, but I had my old cruiser and can ride like the wind. Nothing bad ever happened (to us that is).
Casper was deathly pale, painfully thin with butchered DIY hair cut, and shredded black clothes. Normal really. Yet it struck me almost immediately that he didn't belong here, not in this scene, that he dreamed of more than being just another small-town fuckwit. I mean look around, munters all of them. People like Casper stand out like dog's bollocks: they slot in for a few weeks or months, check it out and join in the ‘fun’, but they keep going, they keep growing.
Well me too. Check out the grin; no no it's more than the stone, this is real emotion. Real. You'd think I'd just won Lotto or something.
Well I had. On dole day as well.
The sneer, the snide muttered comments as dumb-arses did dumb shit all around us. It was just totally cool to meet someone who gave a shit, who wanted out, who was going up and not down. I was ecstatic, bouncing up and down on the moldy old couch, saved.
Saved from turning into this.
You have to understand though that at this stage my optimism was just that, optimism. Casper was fully dedicated to eradicating reality and took loads of dodgy shit (in fact that night he told me about being trapped in his bedroom, the floor covered in huge killer spiders, more dropping from the ceiling like a lemming avalanche; bummer.) So no he didn't exactly save me from the stupid mess I was making of my own life. No, not at all in fact. Then there was the other small matter of Casper bouncing between mania and the blackest of blackness even faster than I was and trust me, I was a fucking yo yo back then.
Always at the back, the safety of shadows; head down, eyes hidden behind god awful geek hair. Mutter mutter.
“Doesn't say much”, observes my Dad as he reluctantly sizes up yet another 'potential' boyfriend. No, but neither do I. (Hey Dad! See I'm not the only one not coping:).
But that’s all beside the point eh? Cos I knew Casper was on a rocket out of this grim little town, could just feel it, and now we were mates.
Casper gave me courage. He didn't sort out the fucking mess, but he helped me grow, and he helped me GO. It didn't matter that we had no idea, not a fucking clue in fact, of what exactly we wanted cos that's how it is at seventeen. We were sweet with the vagueness.
Lets just go eh? Yeah ok, lets.
Simple as that really.
It was usual beginnings: a so-so party, jammed together on a filthy couch and a topic of mutual interest: we were both shit scared of the skinheads who lived here, but had smoked a little too much of their weed to just quietly bail. It ended up being no big deal though, that was the scene and we were young, naive and unsure. He was worried about me heading off home alone which was sweet, but I had my old cruiser and can ride like the wind. Nothing bad ever happened (to us that is).
Casper was deathly pale, painfully thin with butchered DIY hair cut, and shredded black clothes. Normal really. Yet it struck me almost immediately that he didn't belong here, not in this scene, that he dreamed of more than being just another small-town fuckwit. I mean look around, munters all of them. People like Casper stand out like dog's bollocks: they slot in for a few weeks or months, check it out and join in the ‘fun’, but they keep going, they keep growing.
Well me too. Check out the grin; no no it's more than the stone, this is real emotion. Real. You'd think I'd just won Lotto or something.
Well I had. On dole day as well.
The sneer, the snide muttered comments as dumb-arses did dumb shit all around us. It was just totally cool to meet someone who gave a shit, who wanted out, who was going up and not down. I was ecstatic, bouncing up and down on the moldy old couch, saved.
Saved from turning into this.
You have to understand though that at this stage my optimism was just that, optimism. Casper was fully dedicated to eradicating reality and took loads of dodgy shit (in fact that night he told me about being trapped in his bedroom, the floor covered in huge killer spiders, more dropping from the ceiling like a lemming avalanche; bummer.) So no he didn't exactly save me from the stupid mess I was making of my own life. No, not at all in fact. Then there was the other small matter of Casper bouncing between mania and the blackest of blackness even faster than I was and trust me, I was a fucking yo yo back then.
Always at the back, the safety of shadows; head down, eyes hidden behind god awful geek hair. Mutter mutter.
“Doesn't say much”, observes my Dad as he reluctantly sizes up yet another 'potential' boyfriend. No, but neither do I. (Hey Dad! See I'm not the only one not coping:).
But that’s all beside the point eh? Cos I knew Casper was on a rocket out of this grim little town, could just feel it, and now we were mates.
Casper gave me courage. He didn't sort out the fucking mess, but he helped me grow, and he helped me GO. It didn't matter that we had no idea, not a fucking clue in fact, of what exactly we wanted cos that's how it is at seventeen. We were sweet with the vagueness.
Lets just go eh? Yeah ok, lets.
Simple as that really.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
A warm spot in the sun
I wake slowly, face mashed into carpet soggy with beer. The world's a blur so I’d either taken out my contacts (please please) or lost them somehow somewhere. I move slowly, checking the floor around me in expanding circles until discovering them gummed to a coffee table.
Brilliant.
Sucking them clean I prise open my eyelids to drop them back in – ouch – and tugging a couch cushion out from under a still comatose Trace, I lie back down.
Everything hurts: my head has been run over by beer, fat spots, sculled spirits and a room thick with smoke; a stomach that’s seen only a few spoonfuls of a rotten chicken curry and white bread. Now it’s eating me. Roadkill.
I stink; I can taste the stink. It’s four days till dole day and the twenty bucks I spent at the supermarket is pretty much gone. I have no plans: not for today, this week or month. But I am thinking of going straight sometime. The blank patches scare me.
Fuck; this is pretty scary as well:
Last night three of us arrive on Nath’s dirt bike well after the party had started. It had been a tight squeeze and a bit hair-raising cos there was only one helmet and Nath was pissed-as after drinking all afternoon. We took the back roads through suburbia until we were free of town, then cut back round the stock car track to dart across the main highway and into the block of flats where the party was. Sweet, no one died.
Two kegs are in the middle of the kitchen, one of them is cracked and frothing like homebrew all over the floor. Bags of melting ice are clustered round them – the bath is too far away to bother traipsing back and forth and in the clammy heat they just add to the beer and mud slop that is already making walking hazardous. There's a tight knot of guys around the kegs clutching their jam jars and stolen pint glasses all going hard. Already there's one casualty curled up on the end of a couch, a clutch of toi toi flowers stick out of the poor bastards pants. Beside him and deep in animated conversation are the only two women at the party; multiple layers of black and purple lace, jewellery and Docs. Yep. Alice Cooper is cranking on the stereo just like the last piss-up held here, but he doesn't dampen our joy. We like these guys, they're cool.
A chopping board beside the glowing stove is covered with tightly rolled spots for anyone in need and this is our first port of call. Pre-drink nibbles. Sucking on a cut up coke bottle my brain seizures, dies, and I slam backwards against the fridge before sliding to the floor.
“Welcome to my nightmare” growls Alice in his scary voice. But that’s it; then I wake up on the other side. I'm pretty sure I had a great time.
And now?
Well to be honest I wish I had some food to cook; hell I wish I could cook. Maybe I should wish that food was important to me; be a start eh? I could wake with the energy and motivation to do, to be. To not feel so fucking insignificant, pathetic, useless, depressed, sick, mad. And yeah, sometimes I wonder why bother waking at all. Not for long though; I get over it, get on with it.
“Why do you want this job?” my case manager had asked.
“I’m really keen on vegetables. In fact I’m practically a vegetarian.”
“Well good for you, but I’m afraid that you’re too old to qualify for the youth rate that they are going to pay.”
“That’s ok; um, can we pretend?”
“Hmmm. Now, last week you applied for a position as a financial controller and the week before that you left with an application to join the Navy.”
Oh.
So I’m a little lost. I’m not sure which way is forward, why I was born. Why. Fuck lets just not go there ok?
She's smiling patiently while I contemplate my career options. I shrug my shoulders - she sighs, fidgets, briefly reveals her disdain for me and my inability to forge ahead. I must be a drag on her monthly job placement stats eh. Maybe we should talk suicide after all? How sometimes I lie on my bed when the afternoons get just too long, hold my knife and wonder about pain, about slicing and dicing. But I can’t be bothered. Doing; talking.
I’m eighteen and I don’t want to work at Watties or learn to fix cars. My excuses always seem to bemuse my case manager. Oil wars? Free trade? Made in China? Well go pick apples then and buy nice New Zealand made things, she tells me.
It’s all insane; must be it, cos deep down I know, I hope, that all that is me… is real. That's all I want. To know. Right now though I'm happy enough knowing that it's not the time to die. Maybe that's enough.
I sit up slowly, bum shuffle over to a sunny patch of carpet and resume the position.
Yeah, that's how it is.
Brilliant.
Sucking them clean I prise open my eyelids to drop them back in – ouch – and tugging a couch cushion out from under a still comatose Trace, I lie back down.
Everything hurts: my head has been run over by beer, fat spots, sculled spirits and a room thick with smoke; a stomach that’s seen only a few spoonfuls of a rotten chicken curry and white bread. Now it’s eating me. Roadkill.
I stink; I can taste the stink. It’s four days till dole day and the twenty bucks I spent at the supermarket is pretty much gone. I have no plans: not for today, this week or month. But I am thinking of going straight sometime. The blank patches scare me.
Fuck; this is pretty scary as well:
Last night three of us arrive on Nath’s dirt bike well after the party had started. It had been a tight squeeze and a bit hair-raising cos there was only one helmet and Nath was pissed-as after drinking all afternoon. We took the back roads through suburbia until we were free of town, then cut back round the stock car track to dart across the main highway and into the block of flats where the party was. Sweet, no one died.
Two kegs are in the middle of the kitchen, one of them is cracked and frothing like homebrew all over the floor. Bags of melting ice are clustered round them – the bath is too far away to bother traipsing back and forth and in the clammy heat they just add to the beer and mud slop that is already making walking hazardous. There's a tight knot of guys around the kegs clutching their jam jars and stolen pint glasses all going hard. Already there's one casualty curled up on the end of a couch, a clutch of toi toi flowers stick out of the poor bastards pants. Beside him and deep in animated conversation are the only two women at the party; multiple layers of black and purple lace, jewellery and Docs. Yep. Alice Cooper is cranking on the stereo just like the last piss-up held here, but he doesn't dampen our joy. We like these guys, they're cool.
A chopping board beside the glowing stove is covered with tightly rolled spots for anyone in need and this is our first port of call. Pre-drink nibbles. Sucking on a cut up coke bottle my brain seizures, dies, and I slam backwards against the fridge before sliding to the floor.
“Welcome to my nightmare” growls Alice in his scary voice. But that’s it; then I wake up on the other side. I'm pretty sure I had a great time.
And now?
Well to be honest I wish I had some food to cook; hell I wish I could cook. Maybe I should wish that food was important to me; be a start eh? I could wake with the energy and motivation to do, to be. To not feel so fucking insignificant, pathetic, useless, depressed, sick, mad. And yeah, sometimes I wonder why bother waking at all. Not for long though; I get over it, get on with it.
“Why do you want this job?” my case manager had asked.
“I’m really keen on vegetables. In fact I’m practically a vegetarian.”
“Well good for you, but I’m afraid that you’re too old to qualify for the youth rate that they are going to pay.”
“That’s ok; um, can we pretend?”
“Hmmm. Now, last week you applied for a position as a financial controller and the week before that you left with an application to join the Navy.”
Oh.
So I’m a little lost. I’m not sure which way is forward, why I was born. Why. Fuck lets just not go there ok?
She's smiling patiently while I contemplate my career options. I shrug my shoulders - she sighs, fidgets, briefly reveals her disdain for me and my inability to forge ahead. I must be a drag on her monthly job placement stats eh. Maybe we should talk suicide after all? How sometimes I lie on my bed when the afternoons get just too long, hold my knife and wonder about pain, about slicing and dicing. But I can’t be bothered. Doing; talking.
I’m eighteen and I don’t want to work at Watties or learn to fix cars. My excuses always seem to bemuse my case manager. Oil wars? Free trade? Made in China? Well go pick apples then and buy nice New Zealand made things, she tells me.
It’s all insane; must be it, cos deep down I know, I hope, that all that is me… is real. That's all I want. To know. Right now though I'm happy enough knowing that it's not the time to die. Maybe that's enough.
I sit up slowly, bum shuffle over to a sunny patch of carpet and resume the position.
Yeah, that's how it is.
Fuck yr gangs
Ok then this is like a challenge alright? So you Google some country: Palestine, Chile, Turkey, Rwanda, Ireland, Afghanistan, East Timor, Aotearoa…whateva; just close your eyes and stab. Sweet? Now dive in deep girlfriend. Go on, fucking jump...
The young woman is frantic, driven, clutching tight a blanket wrapped bundle that is her sick child, zig-zagging towards the hospital. She knows there is a curfew in force and keeps herself low, but no, - BANG - the boy-soldier carefully shoots her through the head. He doesn't bother to check the crumpled figure. The woman’s husband finds her body the next day amongst the rubble of their world, the blood soaked child still thankfully alive beneath her. Exactly one year later he lays tender kisses on the face of this same beautiful daughter as she sleeps peacefully in her bed. But the sweeter kiss of martyrdom beckons; he becomes a suicide bomber. Most of his victims are civilians, only a few are real soldiers.
There will have to be revenge.
Our Peacekeepers are good; they teach the local police how to carefully place electrodes in mouths, on genitals, soles of feet. Hot, cold, hanging from rafters never allowed to sleep. They pull nails, drill holes, slice off fingers, tongues, breasts, hands and feet. They rape everyone. They strangle a six-month-old baby in front of its mother, toss the still-warm body into the hole with her, bury them both till the earth stops her screams.
They were on the wrong side.
They, them, us.
Jeremy was only seventeen but tough shit, he was on the wrong fucking side; west of the river was not his turf. I can remember him from school, he wasn't in any of my classes, but I'd see him about – he was okay, didn't give me any shit. Down at the beach when the fireworks were going mad this other kid leaned in through the open car window to stab him twice in the chest. His last words were “eastside forever.”
Seventeen years; forever.
Our school counsellor is pretty solid, I'll give her that. Funky clothes, the jewellery, happy chaos just looking presentable. Bouncy as. From the posters and leaflets around her office I figure that to change this miserablefuckingworld I'll have to join Greenpeace, SAFE, or Amnesty International; Youthline are always looking for sympathetic ears if you've rich in time and not money. Yeah.
I don't see any crystals thank Christ.
It was a slow start, pretty awkward, but she's moved her chair from out behind her desk so we're mates now, connecting. I giggle at the thought of us sharing a joint, talking about how fucked up this world is getting. Oh yeah, I bet she'd be a hoot stoned eh.
There's a faded certificate up on the wall, almost lost amongst the riot of youth-target imagery and the writing is too small to see what she qualified in - dog obedience? Open questions hang in front of me for what seems like eternity before bobbing gently up up and away over another kid just not fucking listening. She's keen; keeps em coming. Always the good cop. I relax.
Channelling. Don't think I've ever used that word before but it just flows off her lips. Like, if we can just channel this anger into more legitimate outlets... Quite popular. Might have yawned at that last one.
Nodding blankly in the appropriate pauses, I'm half watching the sludge-like progress of the river way out behind her, making the most of being on the second floor high above rugby fields with its scattering of bored mooching kids hustling for a life, a ciggie. The Whanganui River ain't listening either, totally illegitimate the way it throws its weight around, always busting out and fucking with the humans. I like it. The eastside, westside kids staring across at each other, hating each other for this slight geographical difference. Dicks. A good flood will sort them out. I'm busy wondering if the water will make it this far when she mentions my shocking crime. Now I'm listening.
I don't tag, I protest. Have you seen my name anywhere? Dumb bitch, she ain't that good. Does she think my name is 'fuck yr gangs' or something? She tries it on eventually: pen down, quick bum shuffle and a I've-solved-it rub of the hands: So Ruby have you thought about joining... before I loose it proper.
The answer is not Greenpeace you fucking hippy! I yell into her maddening calmness. They're pissing on us, they're laughing! More shouting, arms thrown about. Her face is flushed, eyes angry and she asks me to leave; please.
Ok, sweet, I'm fucking out of here.
Leaving is easy. Always is. Apologising next week ain't going to be. Oh well, getting plenty of practice in. Sorry Miss; very sorry Miss. Yes it's my problem eh.
When I was little I was good; you know, their idea of good. Went to church every week, prayed so hard my knees hurt. I used to get real upset at the sight of Christ dying up there on the cross for me; so much pain. Wanted to pull those horrible nails out and put plasters on to make him all better, make him smile again. No such luck eh? Plastic Jesus. Made in China. I used up two felt pens covering the 'I Love Jesus' on my school bag; my first big relationship bust up - lucky there were no tattoo's eh? It was easy really, pulling those fucking nails out of my head and jumping the fence.
Man, the other side, I tell ya it's a long way down. In this zine I read, it says 'a mind once opened is never closed'. Like it's a good thing or something.
I kill an hour in the toilets listening to the tinkles and the grunts and the gossip before the last bell goes to signal freedom. On the field I bludge half a rollie off a familiar face. There's quite a crowd here today. Funny how that despite our loathing of school a lot of us stick about after. It's safer than home for some, someone to talk to and it beats drifting about town eh.
Fucken hate shopping.
The young woman is frantic, driven, clutching tight a blanket wrapped bundle that is her sick child, zig-zagging towards the hospital. She knows there is a curfew in force and keeps herself low, but no, - BANG - the boy-soldier carefully shoots her through the head. He doesn't bother to check the crumpled figure. The woman’s husband finds her body the next day amongst the rubble of their world, the blood soaked child still thankfully alive beneath her. Exactly one year later he lays tender kisses on the face of this same beautiful daughter as she sleeps peacefully in her bed. But the sweeter kiss of martyrdom beckons; he becomes a suicide bomber. Most of his victims are civilians, only a few are real soldiers.
There will have to be revenge.
Our Peacekeepers are good; they teach the local police how to carefully place electrodes in mouths, on genitals, soles of feet. Hot, cold, hanging from rafters never allowed to sleep. They pull nails, drill holes, slice off fingers, tongues, breasts, hands and feet. They rape everyone. They strangle a six-month-old baby in front of its mother, toss the still-warm body into the hole with her, bury them both till the earth stops her screams.
They were on the wrong side.
They, them, us.
Jeremy was only seventeen but tough shit, he was on the wrong fucking side; west of the river was not his turf. I can remember him from school, he wasn't in any of my classes, but I'd see him about – he was okay, didn't give me any shit. Down at the beach when the fireworks were going mad this other kid leaned in through the open car window to stab him twice in the chest. His last words were “eastside forever.”
Seventeen years; forever.
Our school counsellor is pretty solid, I'll give her that. Funky clothes, the jewellery, happy chaos just looking presentable. Bouncy as. From the posters and leaflets around her office I figure that to change this miserablefuckingworld I'll have to join Greenpeace, SAFE, or Amnesty International; Youthline are always looking for sympathetic ears if you've rich in time and not money. Yeah.
I don't see any crystals thank Christ.
It was a slow start, pretty awkward, but she's moved her chair from out behind her desk so we're mates now, connecting. I giggle at the thought of us sharing a joint, talking about how fucked up this world is getting. Oh yeah, I bet she'd be a hoot stoned eh.
There's a faded certificate up on the wall, almost lost amongst the riot of youth-target imagery and the writing is too small to see what she qualified in - dog obedience? Open questions hang in front of me for what seems like eternity before bobbing gently up up and away over another kid just not fucking listening. She's keen; keeps em coming. Always the good cop. I relax.
Channelling. Don't think I've ever used that word before but it just flows off her lips. Like, if we can just channel this anger into more legitimate outlets... Quite popular. Might have yawned at that last one.
Nodding blankly in the appropriate pauses, I'm half watching the sludge-like progress of the river way out behind her, making the most of being on the second floor high above rugby fields with its scattering of bored mooching kids hustling for a life, a ciggie. The Whanganui River ain't listening either, totally illegitimate the way it throws its weight around, always busting out and fucking with the humans. I like it. The eastside, westside kids staring across at each other, hating each other for this slight geographical difference. Dicks. A good flood will sort them out. I'm busy wondering if the water will make it this far when she mentions my shocking crime. Now I'm listening.
I don't tag, I protest. Have you seen my name anywhere? Dumb bitch, she ain't that good. Does she think my name is 'fuck yr gangs' or something? She tries it on eventually: pen down, quick bum shuffle and a I've-solved-it rub of the hands: So Ruby have you thought about joining... before I loose it proper.
The answer is not Greenpeace you fucking hippy! I yell into her maddening calmness. They're pissing on us, they're laughing! More shouting, arms thrown about. Her face is flushed, eyes angry and she asks me to leave; please.
Ok, sweet, I'm fucking out of here.
Leaving is easy. Always is. Apologising next week ain't going to be. Oh well, getting plenty of practice in. Sorry Miss; very sorry Miss. Yes it's my problem eh.
When I was little I was good; you know, their idea of good. Went to church every week, prayed so hard my knees hurt. I used to get real upset at the sight of Christ dying up there on the cross for me; so much pain. Wanted to pull those horrible nails out and put plasters on to make him all better, make him smile again. No such luck eh? Plastic Jesus. Made in China. I used up two felt pens covering the 'I Love Jesus' on my school bag; my first big relationship bust up - lucky there were no tattoo's eh? It was easy really, pulling those fucking nails out of my head and jumping the fence.
Man, the other side, I tell ya it's a long way down. In this zine I read, it says 'a mind once opened is never closed'. Like it's a good thing or something.
I kill an hour in the toilets listening to the tinkles and the grunts and the gossip before the last bell goes to signal freedom. On the field I bludge half a rollie off a familiar face. There's quite a crowd here today. Funny how that despite our loathing of school a lot of us stick about after. It's safer than home for some, someone to talk to and it beats drifting about town eh.
Fucken hate shopping.
This is just a test
Each time she reached under her mattress panic welled inside her.
And each time, safe.
They were still there.
Her fingers danced quickly across CD cases, working through the alphabet until they found the one.
Swapping the disk with her Japanese language study, she pressed play.
She sat at her desk facing the bedroom door; not really focusing, just quick poems, doodling. In case of a surprise visit her school bag lay in front of the door like a sleeping policeman; she hoped it would give her the precious seconds needed to dump the headphones, hit the power button and look studious.
Fingers crossed.
Her mother expected her back upstairs at exactly eight-thirty with her completed homework, but that wasn't a problem tonight as she had finished the last of it off on the bus ride home. She would make a hot chocolate while it was checked and then return to her bedroom. Reading was allowed until nine after which her light must be out.
The alarm was set for six; mum and dad expected their coffee at six-thirty exactly.
And so another day would begin, pretty much as they all did – so far.
Today though, phew. she smiled, her head shaking at the craziness of it.
The other girls had all pooled their lunch money and bought a cap of oil from the guys living opposite the school. At lunch break, armed with tinfoil and a little cardboard funnel, they'd chased the wisps of smoke about, all giggly and high.
She hadn’t dared. The fear of being caught was too great. The punishment at home; the beating.
'No way!' she'd said laughing at the invitation. 'I gotta read my speech in English today and there’s no way I could do it stoned!'
No, she definitely couldn't afford to get caught.
Stealing from the church collection box was another story though; it was easy, safe even. And the impact it had on her life was so immediate, so big in this teenage world of popularity that the slight risk was worth it.
But lipstick, jewellery, CD's and junk food really only scratched the surface. It was things like shaving your legs or under your arms – which she was forbidden to do – that really mattered here in this world, their world.
The game drove her insane, controlled every waking moment. It sucked; each day the question would hang over the school gates: would they talk to her or would they leave her to wander the backfield alone? So many days spent waiting for the bell to ring; waiting for it all to be over. Mufti-days were the worst though. Having to wear weird out-of-fashion clothes passed down from her sisters would induce panic weeks before the 'fun' day. Yuck. Illness often struck that day. What could you call it? Umm, what about 'having no control of your life'?
What can you do when the only place you went to other than school was church? No town, no movies, no TV and no holidays. Forget competing, in fact you could forget engaging in any sort of meaningful conversation at all. Damn them.
There were a lot of lies. Little lies that grew like mushrooms, fat on bullshit and needing ever more to hide them.
(damn them)
A web of lies that at times left her speechless with confusion and only served to further condemn her.
(damn them)
Geek.
Geek.
Geek.
(damn them, just you wait.)
The last song faded in her ears and she carefully removed the disc and returned it to its place under the mattress.
Skating on thin ice for so long... the fear had pretty much now just made her numb inside.
There had been arguments lately; left her shaking and fearful. There would be more, she was certain of that.
Everything was changing as she raced towards the light; not much longer, not much longer. This was her new survival prayer.
Soon she would be outta here; free of all this.
Later that night she lay in her bed singing softly to herself.
She checked the alarm was set and turned to face the wall; to sleep.
To dream.
And each time, safe.
They were still there.
Her fingers danced quickly across CD cases, working through the alphabet until they found the one.
Swapping the disk with her Japanese language study, she pressed play.
She sat at her desk facing the bedroom door; not really focusing, just quick poems, doodling. In case of a surprise visit her school bag lay in front of the door like a sleeping policeman; she hoped it would give her the precious seconds needed to dump the headphones, hit the power button and look studious.
Fingers crossed.
Her mother expected her back upstairs at exactly eight-thirty with her completed homework, but that wasn't a problem tonight as she had finished the last of it off on the bus ride home. She would make a hot chocolate while it was checked and then return to her bedroom. Reading was allowed until nine after which her light must be out.
The alarm was set for six; mum and dad expected their coffee at six-thirty exactly.
And so another day would begin, pretty much as they all did – so far.
Today though, phew. she smiled, her head shaking at the craziness of it.
The other girls had all pooled their lunch money and bought a cap of oil from the guys living opposite the school. At lunch break, armed with tinfoil and a little cardboard funnel, they'd chased the wisps of smoke about, all giggly and high.
She hadn’t dared. The fear of being caught was too great. The punishment at home; the beating.
'No way!' she'd said laughing at the invitation. 'I gotta read my speech in English today and there’s no way I could do it stoned!'
No, she definitely couldn't afford to get caught.
Stealing from the church collection box was another story though; it was easy, safe even. And the impact it had on her life was so immediate, so big in this teenage world of popularity that the slight risk was worth it.
But lipstick, jewellery, CD's and junk food really only scratched the surface. It was things like shaving your legs or under your arms – which she was forbidden to do – that really mattered here in this world, their world.
The game drove her insane, controlled every waking moment. It sucked; each day the question would hang over the school gates: would they talk to her or would they leave her to wander the backfield alone? So many days spent waiting for the bell to ring; waiting for it all to be over. Mufti-days were the worst though. Having to wear weird out-of-fashion clothes passed down from her sisters would induce panic weeks before the 'fun' day. Yuck. Illness often struck that day. What could you call it? Umm, what about 'having no control of your life'?
What can you do when the only place you went to other than school was church? No town, no movies, no TV and no holidays. Forget competing, in fact you could forget engaging in any sort of meaningful conversation at all. Damn them.
There were a lot of lies. Little lies that grew like mushrooms, fat on bullshit and needing ever more to hide them.
(damn them)
A web of lies that at times left her speechless with confusion and only served to further condemn her.
(damn them)
Geek.
Geek.
Geek.
(damn them, just you wait.)
The last song faded in her ears and she carefully removed the disc and returned it to its place under the mattress.
Skating on thin ice for so long... the fear had pretty much now just made her numb inside.
There had been arguments lately; left her shaking and fearful. There would be more, she was certain of that.
Everything was changing as she raced towards the light; not much longer, not much longer. This was her new survival prayer.
Soon she would be outta here; free of all this.
Later that night she lay in her bed singing softly to herself.
She checked the alarm was set and turned to face the wall; to sleep.
To dream.
Everything Went Black
When he finally manages to roll over, the night sky is a welcome focus for his brain which is spinning tight and fast only seconds away from the plug hole. Sucking huge lungfuls of cold sobering air; shit, were the stars real or his own? No matter, the light show didn’t last long before everything went black again.
Perfect; there's a rock-n-roll cliche for every occasion. Rock stars and small-town teenagers passed out drunk, fucking vomit everywhere, their survival now in the hands of fate, the stars.
Tried For Treason is the greatest band alive. Wedged like sardines into the flat's lounge they had all screamed and hollered themselves hoarse, the crowd surging and falling on a tide of joyous release. The band, poor buggers, were forced further back against the speakers to escape the beer showers and defend precious equipment.
Awesome.
With a groan he dragged a dead arm from beneath his body and dropped it over his eyes where it tingled and danced to the beat of his heart, the ringing in his ears. Despite the fact that he was now lying in a ditch, the decision to leg it home was the smartest move considering the shit he would have being in if he’d crashed the car or something. Tomorrows inconvenience was better than a fatality in any ones book so he was sure Mum would be okay with her car staying put.
He just hoped none of his mates gave it a kicking or anything like they did with Bruce’s old Mitsi. Drunken bastards. He sent a gob of spit sailing upwards to try and lose the acid taste in his mouth. His nostrils were burning hot and full of puke, but he felt a shit load better after the heave. God knows why he’d decided to try and bury it all – and in the rose garden of all places – but he hoped that daylight wouldn’t reveal too much damage. Fuck, whose garden was it? He sifted slowly back through the night’s events, the trail of beer cans and bullshitting at various houses, the skate park, and then back into the suburbs for the gig. It was at Rebecca’s sister's flat, sweet; she’d see the humour in it all and would be giving him plenty of shit at school on Monday.
Awesome.
He could remember Todd giving him a few shotties and then stumbling around the bathroom for a bit – fuck knows why – no wait, the tooth brush sword fight, fuck yeah that’s right; and then plunging blind out the front door and the welcoming cool night air.
The ditch was dry thankfully so his clothes shouldn't be too messed up, nothing a good wash wouldn't sort. The only hassle was if he ran into the olds; they weren’t prone to sympathy in situations like this. No, it would tut tutting disappointment from a severely frowning Mum backed up with the quietly smouldering anger from the old man for being so ‘bloody stupid’. Permanent state really; getting out of bed was the first stupid act of each day. Nah it must be well after midnight so they should all be asleep.
He tried to raise his head to look in the general direction of home. Probably only 600, maybe 800 metres and he’d be there. He remembered to breath, exhaled deeply from the effort of it all and settled himself back down into the ditch. Give it a bit more time eh.
Two weekends back at Richard's party he'd carked it on the front lawn between the letterbox and the gate to his sleepout. Star-fished unconscious only metres from the olds bedroom window the milk boy had given him a gentle jab and he made the final stage on his hands and knees. Real close that one.
Yeah it was worth waiting to avoid a repeat and anyway, he wasn’t sure his body could actually physically get him home at the mo’, so he might as well relax and straighten up.
The noise had come from behind him, past his head somewhere and was definitely in the ditch with him. For a while he’d ignored it, blaming it on an imaginary wind, but no it was real all right. With this realisation he froze, breathing in short silent puffs. There it was again, a rustle of leaves, movement towards him. He tried to sit up but nothing happened. Christ shit fuck it; he was too pissed to defend himself should something dodgy go off. Tilting his head back he attempted to look behind him but only managed to send his eyeballs tumbling back over into his skull. Fighting nausea his fingers dug into the soft earth and he put everything into getting his shit together.
It took a supreme effort, but by tensing all his muscles and throwing his arms to one side he managed to roll himself over. The hedgehog froze. Oh shit; that spark of clarity quickly drained once more from him – part relief, part swirling nausea - and letting his face rest on the earth closed his eyes once more.
The soft thud of distant windmills woke him. The frost must be settling over the orchards if they’d started up, so it was probably getting on for three or four. Damn, only a matter of hours until Mum would be yelling for him to get up for church. He shivered, time to roll on home and snuggle down in his stinky bed. He rose like the dead and sat blinking up at the murky streetlights, the road beckoning homeward, all shiny and wet. A clammy stickiness between his legs came as no surprise; damn, he’d pissed his pants again; ah well. Making use of the wide road he let his stagger carry him from one side to the other. The Scully’s fence was fast approaching and that afforded him with some urgently needed support for the last crucial section. His shoulder bumped slowly along the corrugated iron before he grasped the number five letterbox. Home sweet home.
It was probably his younger sister who had put out the milk bottles the evening before, only because they hadn’t quite made it to the box, which was her style through and through. The clatter as he kicked them in the dark was like a bomb in the quiet cul-de-sac; the Smith’s dog down the end immediately began to yap away and it was only a few seconds later that the window of his parents bedroom was shoved open.
Dishevelled hair, white singlet, and eyes squinting tight without their glasses.
“Ahh, hi Dad,” he slurred softly. His father drifted gently in and out of focus. “Sorry to wake you, umm just getting in.”
“So where the hell is the car then eh? Christ boy, get into the kitchen before your mother wakes up.”
He looked down at himself, the dirt, puke and the gummed on leaves. The sharp stink of urine almost masking the alcohol and vomit. With a deep breath he stood at the back door as his Dad unlocked it.
You sad motherfucker; awesome night eh.
Perfect; there's a rock-n-roll cliche for every occasion. Rock stars and small-town teenagers passed out drunk, fucking vomit everywhere, their survival now in the hands of fate, the stars.
Tried For Treason is the greatest band alive. Wedged like sardines into the flat's lounge they had all screamed and hollered themselves hoarse, the crowd surging and falling on a tide of joyous release. The band, poor buggers, were forced further back against the speakers to escape the beer showers and defend precious equipment.
Awesome.
With a groan he dragged a dead arm from beneath his body and dropped it over his eyes where it tingled and danced to the beat of his heart, the ringing in his ears. Despite the fact that he was now lying in a ditch, the decision to leg it home was the smartest move considering the shit he would have being in if he’d crashed the car or something. Tomorrows inconvenience was better than a fatality in any ones book so he was sure Mum would be okay with her car staying put.
He just hoped none of his mates gave it a kicking or anything like they did with Bruce’s old Mitsi. Drunken bastards. He sent a gob of spit sailing upwards to try and lose the acid taste in his mouth. His nostrils were burning hot and full of puke, but he felt a shit load better after the heave. God knows why he’d decided to try and bury it all – and in the rose garden of all places – but he hoped that daylight wouldn’t reveal too much damage. Fuck, whose garden was it? He sifted slowly back through the night’s events, the trail of beer cans and bullshitting at various houses, the skate park, and then back into the suburbs for the gig. It was at Rebecca’s sister's flat, sweet; she’d see the humour in it all and would be giving him plenty of shit at school on Monday.
Awesome.
He could remember Todd giving him a few shotties and then stumbling around the bathroom for a bit – fuck knows why – no wait, the tooth brush sword fight, fuck yeah that’s right; and then plunging blind out the front door and the welcoming cool night air.
The ditch was dry thankfully so his clothes shouldn't be too messed up, nothing a good wash wouldn't sort. The only hassle was if he ran into the olds; they weren’t prone to sympathy in situations like this. No, it would tut tutting disappointment from a severely frowning Mum backed up with the quietly smouldering anger from the old man for being so ‘bloody stupid’. Permanent state really; getting out of bed was the first stupid act of each day. Nah it must be well after midnight so they should all be asleep.
He tried to raise his head to look in the general direction of home. Probably only 600, maybe 800 metres and he’d be there. He remembered to breath, exhaled deeply from the effort of it all and settled himself back down into the ditch. Give it a bit more time eh.
Two weekends back at Richard's party he'd carked it on the front lawn between the letterbox and the gate to his sleepout. Star-fished unconscious only metres from the olds bedroom window the milk boy had given him a gentle jab and he made the final stage on his hands and knees. Real close that one.
Yeah it was worth waiting to avoid a repeat and anyway, he wasn’t sure his body could actually physically get him home at the mo’, so he might as well relax and straighten up.
The noise had come from behind him, past his head somewhere and was definitely in the ditch with him. For a while he’d ignored it, blaming it on an imaginary wind, but no it was real all right. With this realisation he froze, breathing in short silent puffs. There it was again, a rustle of leaves, movement towards him. He tried to sit up but nothing happened. Christ shit fuck it; he was too pissed to defend himself should something dodgy go off. Tilting his head back he attempted to look behind him but only managed to send his eyeballs tumbling back over into his skull. Fighting nausea his fingers dug into the soft earth and he put everything into getting his shit together.
It took a supreme effort, but by tensing all his muscles and throwing his arms to one side he managed to roll himself over. The hedgehog froze. Oh shit; that spark of clarity quickly drained once more from him – part relief, part swirling nausea - and letting his face rest on the earth closed his eyes once more.
The soft thud of distant windmills woke him. The frost must be settling over the orchards if they’d started up, so it was probably getting on for three or four. Damn, only a matter of hours until Mum would be yelling for him to get up for church. He shivered, time to roll on home and snuggle down in his stinky bed. He rose like the dead and sat blinking up at the murky streetlights, the road beckoning homeward, all shiny and wet. A clammy stickiness between his legs came as no surprise; damn, he’d pissed his pants again; ah well. Making use of the wide road he let his stagger carry him from one side to the other. The Scully’s fence was fast approaching and that afforded him with some urgently needed support for the last crucial section. His shoulder bumped slowly along the corrugated iron before he grasped the number five letterbox. Home sweet home.
It was probably his younger sister who had put out the milk bottles the evening before, only because they hadn’t quite made it to the box, which was her style through and through. The clatter as he kicked them in the dark was like a bomb in the quiet cul-de-sac; the Smith’s dog down the end immediately began to yap away and it was only a few seconds later that the window of his parents bedroom was shoved open.
Dishevelled hair, white singlet, and eyes squinting tight without their glasses.
“Ahh, hi Dad,” he slurred softly. His father drifted gently in and out of focus. “Sorry to wake you, umm just getting in.”
“So where the hell is the car then eh? Christ boy, get into the kitchen before your mother wakes up.”
He looked down at himself, the dirt, puke and the gummed on leaves. The sharp stink of urine almost masking the alcohol and vomit. With a deep breath he stood at the back door as his Dad unlocked it.
You sad motherfucker; awesome night eh.
Lets wreck their precious, their perfect town...
It took him almost two hours to walk the road home. It was three am and only one car had passed, the occupants spewing abuse at his raised thumb. Their trailing "fucking stupid cuuuunt!" left him uneasy the way it hung in the frosty air like a b-grade warning and only added to his apprehension: he was getting closer.
A nondescript concrete bridge signals the town's boundary and moonlight dances over the waters sloth-like progress beneath it. No need to see the sculptured banks with grass cut just so, the pretty flowers and carefully staked specimen trees; he knows. Cutting through freshly-tilled rose beds he crosses the roundabout to follow the white line up towards ground-zero. Shop lights are tastefully dimmed with the more valuable items removed from temptation. Security cameras watch, waiting. They wink slowly at his passing like beating hearts, the life blood flows. Dropping his bag at the foot of the old Post Office he pauses, confused. It's been relocated to make space for the mall extension and this geographical shift of familiar perspectives is unsettling, weird.
The place was dead. Just concrete, glass and this seasons crap to tempt the good folk. Thankfully at three am the total absence of people makes it slightly more bearable: it was just space, ripe and ready for the picking. Hunting out a mandarin he sat down on cold concrete steps and slowly, methodically, chucked peel at the roses. It had been a long day. Suddenly: “Hey! It's me!” His challenge goes unanswered, sucked quickly up into a disapproving mist.
No echo. Nothing; well...
Memories, the changes, evolution; coming home was always like this. The familiarity of belonging mixed with the realisation that his absence had not been noticed. The village had marched left-right left-right onwards, shops rising and falling alongside the consumer index, the wrecking ball quickly erasing any mistakes to ensure the veneer was perpetually here and now.
It's a forward thinking kinda town and while no disrespect is intended, history is something to be neatly catalogued, respectably presented over at the new library in a 'permanent exhibition'.
He spat several seeds onto polished bricks. Back to the fucking future.
This place was my incubator. It made me. Ghosts swirl about. Me, everywhere. I can spin in front of that old Post Office and I'm fucking everywhere. Look, at age five holding my Mum's hand out doing the shopping; then at ten or maybe fifteen, walking biking and skating up and down, this way and that. Every single spot.
This was my home. Was.
Amongst this stampede of time there is one constant, one thing I can always rely upon not to have been upgraded: purpose. My hometown is a dormitory suburb for the middle-class who loath to rub shoulders with the hoi polloi of Hastings. Many would happily admit just that. Right from its colonial conception the moneyed have always drifted towards these hills to stamp their privilege into more physical hierarchies. They planted their English trees in neat rows and from the dry dirt raised their churches, private schools, and vineyards. Hastings; you say it with a sigh. It's for the Māori, the white trash, and it's a broken-arse of a town that just keeps on crawling back for more. There's no need for us to go there.
My hometown had of course been a fantastic place to grow up in. Cliché after cliché. Small enough to know a shit-load of people, but big enough to go somewhere different every weekend. There were heaps of kids in quiet cul-de-sac's to scream around with on skateboards and bikes; we had streams and parks, huts to build and wars to fight. The bookcase was all Enid Blyton and with our pocket money we bought Pink Panther ice blocks and half-cent fizzy lollies from the dairy. It was The Waltons, Happy Days, fish’n’chips every Friday night, Sunday night baths before Spot On and The Walt Disney Show followed by a tea of what ever Mum could be bothered with; something like scrambled eggs on toast, or maybe spaghetti. We had the safe carefree freedom of that era: it didn’t matter what we got up to as long as we were home before dark and washed our feet before hopping into bed. Life was good.
The family home was built for around eight grand. Dad poured the concrete paths himself and planted a collection of hardy trees around the perimeter. All around us were the beginnings of similar family stories, all working hard for their piece of paradise. And it was. We were on the suburban frontier and with over a dozen kids in our street we were an instant gang whooping an hollering through those endless summers.
Yep, life was good; did I mention we had a swimming pool too? Essential.
“Oh Jesus I really really need to piss now!” squirmed Brent as he struggled to his feet. Pounding hard on the front wall of the house truck he hollered against the engines shriek. “Steve! Fucking pull over man!” The truck hit a pothole and they all toppled about shrieking with laughter, hands raised high to keep bottles upright. Brent gave the wall a final smack before swaying back towards the party.
“Be a good half-hour before we get to Picton,” says his mate Casper with a sly grin. With a final draining swig he offers Brent his empty bottle. “So here ya go mate, hope you can still shoot straight!”
To a drum-roll of “concentrate, concentrate!” Brent stretches on tiptoe at the tiny kitchen bench, jeans around his knees and the bottle in the sink. The truck makes another rattling lurch and a dribble runs down the cupboard door to cries of disgust from those gathered about.
“Steve knows what you're doing in his sink man!'' laughs Bones. “Better not pass out tonight mate or you'll cop it...”
Brent turns, his grin wide and happy, a steaming bottle raised in triumph. A boisterous bottles raised chant of “drink! drink!” degenerates once more into hysterics as he turns back to the sink and empties the bottle into it.
“Jeez why'd you even bother eh?” said Casper wiping tears from his eyes. “Compulsory scull for the weakest bladder,” he challenged.
Brent drinks deep, points an unsteady finger at Casper, “you'll be next matey, you fucking wait.”
It was a cool farewell party, five good friends and shitloads of beer; way better than a 'see ya' at the bus station by miles.
"Shit you'd better hope it's a smooth sailing on that ferry Casp' or you'll be hanging over the rail puking your ring out most of the way,” said Bones.
“I'm sweet,” replied Casper...
***
“Nah man I'm totally sweet, trust me,” he protested to the two crew members who had stopped his careful sway up the ferry ramp. 'I just want a couch and the North Island,” he continued hurriedly. “Not the bar, no trouble, I'm sweet as.”
“I'm sorry sir but it's an issue of safety and on a night crossing the risk is even higher of accidentally falling over board so we just...”
“That's right buddy, you're a fucking hazard ok?” interrupted a harsh voice directly behind him. Two cops. Fucken' A.
“Being looking for you,” continues the uglier one of the pair. “Picked up some of your friends in town so figured we may as well get all of you Nelson scum in one go eh? Your bag?” He picks up Casper's pack without waiting for a reply and rummages through it, pulling out a bottle of wine. “We'd better take this eh?”
“It's unopened and I'm over eighteen...” he protests.
“Fucking shut up.”
It wasn't quite the reunion he imagined, not quite so soon at least, but there they were in the back of a truck lurching along with no where to take a piss. Except for Ruby; you can't mix gender in a paddy wagon so she had the privilege of riding up front with the boys in blue. She was upside down, wedged onto the floor with a shiny black boot resting on her head.
The return journey is always faster, but this time it just couldn’t be quick enough.
Memories are usually always kind; it’s a coping strategy. Like all those crap photos that you gradually biff out over the years to leave a blurred periphery that omits the boring shit, the endless repeats and the friends who are no longer friends. And so the question must be asked: what was home really like?
It was white. That lily 'we-don't-work-the-fields' privileged white. We were racist, middle-class snobs and it was perfectly acceptable of course; we knew no better. When you're a kid the world just is; and upbringing is upbringing. We would see Māori down at the bus stop (we didn’t catch the bus though, just drove blissfully past), but that was about as close as it got. None of 'them' lived in our neighbourhood. For our crass generalisations we relied upon the court page in the paper to supply the evidence: booze-fueled violence, drugs, burglaries and other assorted crap. As we progressed through the school system the brown faces in the class photos dropped away like flies. Systematic. I can’t remember a single name. By the seventh form the cleansing was complete. We were preparing for university, a world before us to conquer; ‘they’ were staying put with the processing factories and orchards providing the only ladders they would be climbing.
How they could stomach living here – alongside us - I've no idea.
No regrets though. I mean how can there be? Sure it's easy to walk into this town today and judge; I mean, shit it's a blight, an anachronism, a fucking colonial time warp still throwing the whitewash about lest any inferior genes try wiggling beyond their proper place in life, but hell it probably wasn’t that different form a lot of small New Zealand towns in the 70’s. And 80's; probably the fucking 90's as well. It's how it was.
So when did the bubble go pop? Maybe it was when cousin Wayne gave me a battered old Sex Pistols tape at thirteen. It could have been discovering the NME at the local bookshop with its uncensored rock'n'roll opinions. The earnest young couple who knocked on our door one evening and left a pile of animal rights literature to read changed me irrevocably. It could have been when after much nagging Mum bought me the Clash album for my fifteenth birthday. Sitting in the lounge with headphones clamped tight: "White people go to school where they teach you how to be thick; and everybody's doing just what they're told to, cos nobody wants to go to jail! White riot I wanna riot; white riot..."
Yeah, perhaps that was it.
“I'm sure if you haven't been charged with anything you don't have to give fingerprints or a photo,”Casper wondered aloud as another blackened finger was roughly squashed onto a form.
"Shut up or I will.”
“Do you think you can you let me out early so I can get back up for the morning ferry?” he continued hopefully. The cop said nothing, kept writing, ticking boxes. “Please?”
“Take him down to six!” His finger pointed down the hall.
“Can I take out my contact lens before...”
The cells in Blenheim are like any other; cold, uncomfortable, and painted in a putrid but psychologically sobering colour. From cell four directly opposite a tired raspy voice hollers abuse at the walls like a stuck record. Threats and insults bounce between cells, some call for help, others insisting that everybody shut the fuck up cos they really do needed to talk to the pigs right now. Oh it’s a fun night out in Blenheim he thought to himself as he lay under a single blanket trying to sleep. Five fucking stars.
“Oi! wake up; you still wanna catch that ferry eh?”
“Fuck!” Uncurling quickly from a foetal huddle, he sat up, yawned. “Yeah I do, can I go now?” Belt, laces, wallet, bag and the door. It's still dark.
“Oh man it's raining,” he cries out in dismay.
“Ferry leaves in seven hours so you'd better get walking.” The door slams heavy behind him.
“Wankers”.
Peter Pan said that to die would be an awfully big adventure, but I'd like to think that my bridge-burning departure was as good as. It’s quite a luxurious privilege to be able to reject your family, to loath everything they stand for and just drift, sniffing out sweet forbidden hedonism and take it too far. To say I was chasing dreams is stretching it a bit really; I was escaping, sulking, avoiding, disappointing - it depends on who's telling the story. Personally I think it was more opportunity than reason, a "lets just go" with no forwarding address and only a phone call once a blue moon to let the folks know I was still alive. And while I’d blame it partly on teenage selfishness, I’d also call to task our me-me culture that thinks nothing of leaving parents with an empty nest and no support. It's what we do. On one hand it's almost a sign of success if your kids bugger off, but when they don't come back, what does that mean? That Pakeha culture is the antithesis of community?
This is an important point.
I remember going to a mates twenty-first up in Cannons Creek where not only was I the only whitey in the garage (she was from Tokelau), but also the only one not related to her – and get this, they all lived within walking distance. Shit (I still laugh today at the impossibility of what I'm about to propose), imagine having the old lady live round the corner; just popping over…like every bleeden' day. God, Coronation Street horror or what.
They aren’t bad people, my family; just um, not like me. Racist in their cultural isolation for sure, and horribly snobbish at times, but not nasty like some. Sure Mum had voted ACT, but (I hope) it was more out of naivety than a genuine loathing of the poor. She was on the dole herself at the time - not that she'd tell anybody.
So there you have it then, all my excuses. Home was just a stage and it was over, done. I’d had enough of the flowers always being in bloom: pass the molotov and get ready to run.
It took him all morning to hitch back to Picton and it was total shit. After a few hours attempting to sleep under Blenheim's main bridge he had dragged his sorry arse across to the motor camp and dunked his head into a basin of hot water. There was nothing in the kitchen to flog, not even a cold sausage.
“Hey there,” called the driver through the open window. “I've passed you a few times already and was starting to feel sorry for you.” Casper tried to smile. “Catching the ferry right? Hop in then.”
Back at the terminal it was the same woman at the check-in counter as yesterday: and her cherry “oh you’re back for another try,” seriously strained his smile. Sorry, no refund on yesterday’s missed passage cos one of his no-good mates could have used it, eh? What a cunt.
It was years before I realised that my mother and grandmother both threw a heap of salt into the porridge to get it tasting so fine. It took an accident; that's how I learnt to cook. The preparation of food is a vital skill that some how I missed out on and I like to think rather symbolic of a generation that just didn't pay any attention to what Mum and Dad were prattling on about. Life in the kitchen, listening to the old stories, making the old food: nah. I eat sushi, nasi goreng and drink better coffee than the Italians. My sweet old Nana had never touched a computer (nor tried sushi), she wrote with a beautiful flowing script on small lined sheets of scented blue paper. She went to church every day and ate shit loads of porridge and mince. She was a darling and I totally adored her, but she sure made me shake my head at times as well.
It’s not a golden rule or anything, but if you take a look around the world I’d say that most revolutions are born out of families and communities strong with blood and history. The chapatti, falafel, beans, taro and fish are each prepared just as their grandparent’s grandparents had done before them. Revolutions are born on streets from a Gabriel Garcia Marquez tale; after one hundred years in the same house, sleeping in the room your Grandmother was born in, heritage and destiny becomes one. This is home.
I'm jealous, I'm sad and I wish things had being different. Nana didn't do email.
These aren’t communities where power can just rape, maim and destroy with impunity. This is Viet Cong territory; Zapatista, Sioux, Irish, Aboriginal, Māori, and they remember everything.
Coronation Street would fight the power, but how about Shortland Street? Your street? My street?
After the old man spat at him while he dragged his kit bag through the Wellington railway station Casper stopped at a shop window to check out why. His jeans hadn’t been washed in over a year, partly cos he was scared they’d fall apart; they being the combined remains of several older trou held together by patches and random stitching. They were stiff and shiny, their filthy blackness contrasting quite nicely with his bare feet which, despite the hot Nelson summers, spent most of their time ensconced in heavy army boots. He could smell himself without trying too hard.
Across his chest charged a riot cop with his tear gas gun raised to fire. ‘Conflict’ was stamped across the top. Nice. The t-shirt was white; well it used to be.
His face? Thankfully he couldn’t really make it out; take a guess eh? Desperately in need of sleep, pale, spotty and unshaven, his mohawk looked like road kill. Yum yum, who’s a pretty boy then eh? He winked at himself. “Welcome to fashion central,” he whispered across to his reflection. All around teemed worker drones with power suits, spit shine shoes and a hypnotic glaze. Success had never looked so attractive.
“Whoops, sorry; excuse me, excuse me...”
Another lip is curled, more awkward side shuffles as the beautiful people hastened to navigate around his meandering search for the bus stop and a way out of this shit hole they called home.
Three generations ago my ancestors cut and ran from their respective motherlands: blame poverty, hunger and the fucking British. The colonialist's had perfected the art of crushing a people: land seizure, work slavery, ban the indigenous language and encourage 'voluntary' migration. Bye bye Ireland.
It's equally tragic that so many refugees adopt the same tactics when themselves in a position of power. Fucking humans eh? Forgetting history, repeating history. Anyway, there's to be no more bouncing bonny wee babes on Grandma's knee imbibing the old ways, it's bye bye whakapapa.
Southland's gold fields were the first stop, then Hokitika, Takaka, Titahi Bay, Wellington, and Hawkes Bay. Creeping along; Sam, James, Elizabeth, Tim and the gang tend not to stick around for long, chasing the new, the work, escaping the old, the failed, and – luckily for me - dropping sprogs as they went. It must get into the blood this transiency. I mean I barely paused, let alone looked back. Community, is there such a thing nowadays? Strangers pause and huddle close for the sake of commerce, but are ultimately alone, adrift and never looking back. We can make excuses; call it 'individualism', 'keeping to ourselves', 'getting ahead' or the more honest 'getting rich', but the deconstruction of the family and local communities into isolated carbon-copy consumer units is very clever and very deliberate. Now we follow/submit/reinforce such values almost instinctively. It's called divide and rule - and they've won.
Remember that party out in Cannons Creek where everybody shared a common forefather as well as a common future? That’s where revolutions are born. And they’d only been here for ten years. Christ, we are so fucked. It sounds pathetic when you say "revolution" on your own, a whisper in the dark, like you know that it's just not going to happen.
Casper sat with his back resting against the granite soldier, could feel the etched names of the town's glorious dead as he shifted to get comfortable.
“Hey you lot, I’m back from the front line. It’s home sweet home for this lost son,” he spoke uneasily to the ghosts swirling around him, could feel their pull, beckoning him back. Always back. How he longs to scream, rattle all that unused fine china but no, no martyrdom tonight. He hums an old song instead, “I’ve had seventeen years of hell and I just can’t take any more.” Sweeter memories. He smiles. A mate’s band used to do a version of it and they’d all leap drunkenly about exorcising their youth.
In front of him the six main roads fan out like spokes into distant mist. Every road held memories: school, the chip shop, church, the Tuki Tuki River and the beautiful beaches beyond. Paper runs, missions to the tip with Dad, or over to Napier. The Scout hall which is next door to his old kindy, all the long bike rides to nowhere. And the road home.
He will have to walk past the old family stomping grounds on his way to the current homestead. It was always hard passing by and knowing that it was gone; that Dad was gone. Good that it was night, he could stick to the shadows, burrow into his hoody as he plodded the last of this journey out into the hills beyond.
He had only just swung his bag onto his shoulder when the cops arrived, so eager for action that they were half out of the car before it had even stopped.
Fucken hell.
So I just don’t know. Our love of shopping and rugby seems to be all that hold Pākehā together. That's not enough; not enough for me, certainly not enough for revolution. Any notion of collective resistance only really exists inside the meetings of 'activists'; in a cold room with the curtains drawn tight, the young and over educated call for agenda items and try to be finished by nine. For the briefest of moments we all dance to the same song and through our bourgeois haze we glimpse possibilities, potentials and what just could be. But then it all goes; or rather we all go. To a warmer town, to do our masters at uni, Europe, the death grip of suburbia or just to something less serious than the daily grind of token resistance. On and on we go. Further and further away from home.
So, revolution, I just don’t know any more. And that’s it basically.
“Hey motherfucker what’s happening?” Puffed up, circling, checking him out. “What’s up eh? Pretty late to be out eh? Gotcha good gears on eh? What’s in the bag? Where you heading at this hour eh?”
“Um, home; just having a rest.” Passive resignation; play it safe out here all alone; wait for it to be over. One of the cops up ends his bag and shakes it until the contents have all spilled out onto the road. The other one uses his boot to spread it about. The wrapping paper around his Mum's present is torn.
“So you're from Nelson eh? Should have known with bare feet eh?” they both laugh heartily. “So where are ya ounces then?” They quick fire more questions, not wanting or expecting answers: “any ID then mate? Is this ya wallet? Thanks, I’ll have that.” They count his money and look at everything inside; his old drivers licence says that he lives only five minutes away, which he desperately hopes is his trump card. That slows them up.
“Where did you get this eh? Being visiting a few of the local houses have ya? Gotta stash somewhere eh? Pack ya shit away buddy and we’ll go for a drive eh?”
“No...”
Casper's bag gets chucked into the boot of the cop car; he's shown the rear door.
“We’ll just do a check to see if everything’s square ok? Whip into town to the station and get it all sorted right.” They suddenly lose the aggression, play nice cop as they drive at high speed back down the road he’d just spent two hours walking along. “So ya heading home to see the folks eh?” says the driver without turning. “Right once we get this all sorted we’ll let you get back on your way ok?”
Yeah-well guys, I just don’t know about it anymore. Maybe I’ll just keep right on going, back down that road. Away from this; just away, anywhere. Again; Christ.
See I’d just about convinced myself that it wasn’t about how they’d paved the streets or built these cutesy historic buildings, that no matter how many chain stores spring up, the true local spirit always lives on. But maybe that's the problem, the truth. Am I kidding myself to expect anything more from this town than to freak out and call the cops when a scruffy kid arrives at a funny hour? It's still New Zealand here, the historic clock at the roundabout stopped long ago and I really struggle to image this place becoming part of Aotearoa. Embracing Aotearoa. There's no wharemoi with a spare mattress for the weary visitor, the community 'kitchen' is locked up tight and the sign on the door says '24 Hour Security' as in fuck off; but no matter, I hate microwaved food.
I live in fear of once again becoming a New Zealander, of no longer being angry, just content to be on the couch eating lollies. Watching Shortland Street; being Shortland Street. Going back in more ways than a trip up the country. Fuck that.
Histories, herstories; the love and laughter of my family are only bound together with emergency phone calls, the occasional shared Christmas, sweet love letters, and sure that's something, but it doesn't make a home, not for me anyway. And a revolution needs a home.
I can now understand the tangata whenua who stick it out in my hometown; how the word 'my' is meaningless, insulting. How they patiently wait, wait. I applaud them, respect them. But I can't wait any longer. Despite this willingness to once again walk away it's not what I want. It's not easy. It's not easy knowing that I come from nowhere; that I have no homeland. But I do know that I was born of love and carry this, this thinnest of strands, in my heart, in my dreams.
Whenua, whakapapa, whanau. Home.
I ache to plant my feet, my soul. To feed and to nourish so I/you/we root deep and strong. The question remains though, can Pākehā commit? For revolutions sake, can we commit?
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