Beyond Pure Timeless Beauty

 

As I noted last time, I have matters of concern from "...gifted thoughts, mediations, psychological warfare, technological insertions, environmental cages -- families, groups, organisations, and institutions -- that all want some part of my body for good or ill".  

• Gifted Thoughts

Though I reside in New Zealand, a part of me still lives in America, the part that I have always felt toward the Declaration of Independence whose expressions I adored from a young age.  In Congress, July 4, 1776

The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness...( https://www.archives.gov/founding-docs/declaration-transcript ). 

• Mediations 

Over time I have had to learn and unlearn, wash and recycle, cleave to and cut off many different thoughts. But, never have I questioned the self-evident truths of every man, woman, and child's "unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness...". Never, not once have I doubted these expressions that are a part of my body as Truth.

• Psychological Warfare 

From 1956 to current date, I can attest to the continuum of psychological warfare upon 

We the People of the United States... (https://www.archives.gov/founding-docs/constitution-transcript).

that can NOW be SEEN by ALL. 

• Technological Insertions

Who among us can live without technological entanglements that threatens to control and monitor our every movement? 

• Environmental Cages

Climate Change, 5G Rollout, Covid-19, The Great Reset, the New Normal, 

New World Government

• Families, Groups, Organisations, and Institutions

It is now time to recreate, reorganise, regroup and rebuild every thing we ever thought we knew and took for granted. 

Poranui Beach (part of something bigger)

 With this view of Poranui Beach I ponder, what on earth is going on? Outside this New Zealand bach's window is 'pure timeless beauty.' 

Beyond 'pure timeless beauty' comes gifted thoughts, mediations, psychological warfare, technological insertions, environmental cages -- families, groups, organisations, and institutions -- that all want some part of my body for good or ill, creating matters of concern.  

Herein, I will share my concerns and how I choose to negotiate their impact upon my body's landscape. This will be over time, it is a process of pace that I adhere to.

However, we are so much more than just a body. Our subjective spirit with the invisible and miraculous that seems like magic but is always natural and awe-inspiring is nothing short of god-like. Some call us 'Supernatural,' I do, and equate us with the beach in the photo above whose Maori name means 'part of something bigger.' 

That 'part of something bigger' is easier for me to grasp when I look outside into nature. But if I say we are 'pure timeless beauty,' just like 'the nature,' most people would object. And, they would feel right in doing so. But does that make me wrong? 

Or, perhaps I am simply being poetic with my terminologies wherein 'pure' is a measure of any entity that is itself, 'timeless' a state of beyond mind which inhabits prebirth and after death, and 'beauty' is to the process of being human as elegant is to the discovery of pure mathematics. 

Meanwhile, my matters of concern can wait and bake for now. I am staring out the window and nothing concerning comes to mind.     

 

 

 

     

The Southern Bays of Banks Peninsula

 Birdlings Flat, New Zealand

This fine day. I write from my lair inside Miss Daisy May, a 1969 American travel trailer now known as a caravan in New Zealand. We both are expatriates of the USA and placed with the view from above. It is a healing place from physical and metaphysical earthquakes, mass shootings and relatives that feel unrelated. Miss Daisy May was my first metallic womb, a place with some bounce and warm wood so that I can stretch out my arms and legs and ride around inside her end over end without fear of coming undone in the process of birthing my next self.  

  

Our faithful dog Tuppy is usually somewhere close. He is the perfect writer's companion until he starts snoring. We think Tuppy is thirteen years old but our calculators went haywire after the earthquakes. Time became distorted when numbers were gobbled up for guesstimating how far east that one was, how deep, and what number on the rector scale. "How old am I?" was replaced with "My god, I am still here!" My god became my dog and I retreating from the epicentre of hateful happenings. 

Happenings is such a polite word for earthquakes, death threats to the psyche and blood in the streets where you use to walk around but now don't.

No, now I live as shown above because "place" is pivotal for traumatised souls to regain subjective wellbeing during their happening. For me, living on the water's edge viewing an ever changing landscape while nestled inside a small self-contained space is exactly what my psyche ordered. I can feel the surf and the wind modulating my heartbeat and breath, if I keel over from ecstasy or fright, I will be propped back up by a wall, pillow, or puppy dog. 

Twelve Days Sober

The further I remove myself from virtual reality, the more real my world becomes. Achingly real, pointedly connected to the pupil in Ivy's eyes, my young granddaughter, a force I reckon with each time I part her presence from mine, I wonder: what world does she make in her mind?

What legacies am I imprinting her with, what stories do I tell her over time?

I wonder about these things when contemplating the unrecognisable aspects of myself/ourselves. We seem embedded inside the variable depths of turquoise upon the horizon line.  Here, we are living upon extended land within the South Pacific Ocean surrounding Banks Peninsula, an island called "South" of Aotearoa, New Zealand.  Here, encompassed by two lakes and immense ocean whose next landmass is Antarctica, hemmed in by water with no border patrol, I contemplate physical and metaphysical natures, body and soul. Our bodies are here but:

My soul cries out for my granddaughter, Ivy.

Ivy, how will you write/right your world in your mind when I am dead and gone? What legacy will I leave you to live alongside? An ocean of variable depths of turquoise is the story I shall try to describe about how you came to be 'here' with me.

This will take some time but we are time. You are time in your world no matter how time may seem to be supplied, applied and described as an 'other' that is in control of your life... YOU are in control of time because you and TIME are the same thing. How you perceive time will be your story when you understand the importance of time, yourself. On the production of subjective wellbeing (a thesis for my progeny), the first chapter is TIME. My time WITH you was important enough for me to leave a trail (for all time) with you.

Movement. I moved our family: your mother, aunties and myself to New Zealand from America in 2002 for important reasons. Prevailing American culture did not bode well for the indigenous aspects of my nature. I had NO IDEA we would wind up in New Zealand, I only knew within my body and mind that we had to leave America. I was forty-six years old then, sixty-two years now and a sixteen year immigrant who has had to learn how to language her 'dis-ease' for living in her homeland. It was very uncomfortable not being able to say what was wrong with me living and being in America but I can describe it now to some degree but not completely as I am still understanding my own story and will be until my time is over for this body. In that way, allow me to grow and change, too.

[I will continue to write this here for my grandchildren, though Ivy is my subject, she represents ALL my grandchildren and their children and so on....]





     

WOW (Ways of Wellbeing)

A few days ago I shut down my social media on this technological tool called the internet. Some people and things will find me through other means of transportation such as this forgotten blog. Do I delete this blog, too? I consider her ways and decide to keep her. I do not mind being transparent, I mind having my attention under surveillance and thereby altered. You should mind, too. There I've said it, my first 'thou should' comment. Thou should mind your own mind. Mind your own mind, I mean it. Mind all our minds, delete Facebook.

Something is bothering the sheep, across Lake Forsyth.

The magpies herald the artist's presence as she sets up to paint.

The remarkable power of nature.

Grandmother flies overhead posed as a heron in the artist's heart.
She feels her here.
Over the distance of death, removing 'the far gaze,' she sits and does what she loves without disagreements.
Down to the ground, out toward the sea, she sees with awe, mankind's silence.
There is no melancholy in submitting to the sacred parts that do not need her.
She craves them in her body of mostly water; her, the lake, the blue ocean.
Look, what's there?
Where?
What was that?
I don't know, let's look some more--and,
LISTEN,
HEAR that RHYTHM--that
hum the earth does where it meets
the waters like two lovers copulating without a single reservation in sight.
She hears drums!
Yes, they are the drums and she their tones, the past is gone.
Mixed with dusty stuff from crawling, walking, swimming, running, genuflecting, agitating, she hides in the wood without a muse because Dante owns her, too.
She's not sure where she came from, or,
what her worth might be in a system that measures her buttocks with their hands, or worse--in their minds and on the tip of their tongues: she is a witch.
Switching her consciousness to remain a pacifier, a bridge, a strong wind comes, and then, total calm--she remains.
Painting her sacred places.

Our New Home

The moving process (over two months now) for my family has been very different from anything I have ever known or previously experienced. This time we moved after being stuck in place for six years post earthquakes in Christchurch, New Zealand. While the stress of a move is rated as similar to a death in the family, the joys of coming unstuck from a place with so much internal and external mayhem, has been an adventure with bouts of euphoria. Below is the reality of the mayhem that was our garage after the earthquakes that remained in this state for the past six years until we could begin our move two months ago.

The grim past realities

Those are the pictures I rarely showed to my distant friends and family. I am happy (no, euphoric) to say, this mayhem is now only a recorded lapse in time and why I can share them with you now. Our new garage looks more like this below which has lowered the blood pressure considerably.

The new reality

Thanks be to good friends who came and plodded through our wreckage and stimulated our desire to do something/anything to move from one state of affairs to the other. Here is one such friend performing her smooth dance through our nightmare with a steady stride...

Keep Moving Gracefully

We rewarded Carol Kincaid with the first wood fire bath (because she deserved it!) upon arriving at the new homestead...

The first bath

The gentleman hosing her down, as the wood fire tub gets very hot, is another family friend who has helped our move enormously. Tony Westwood has pulled trailers full of stuff the 35 minute drive, unloaded and brought dessert at the most opportune time. Tony had our caravan "Miss Daisy May" moved from the section we began with here at Birdlings Flat to our home down the road without a hiccup. Honestly, I couldn't watch the move...it was a major accomplishment to which I am ever so grateful. "Miss Daisy May" looks like this now at our new abode.

Miss Daisy May's new position

Because our new home is a tiny one, the caravan is now primarily my daughter's', Kasey May, to whom "Miss Daisy May" was named after and vice versa. Kasey May might have been a Daisy May but I changed her name at the last minute to Kasey May and have since reclaimed the Daisy May for the caravan that has ironically become her home on wheels. Kasey has been a bedrock of strength and support to both Clark and I throughout this past six years of rocking and rolling of other types. Without her strengths this move would not have been possible. Here she is keeping the fire which is a physical act whose symbolic meaning for us is the same. She is a keeper!

Fire Keeper

Jennifer Williamson and Chris Emery have both been completely supportive through this journey of locating and moving homes. I would not like to know what this move would have looked like without their continuous support for all those things that popped up prior and during the move. Jennifer is my 'go to' for sanity making and Chris always gives me a 20 second hug. Jennifer Markman got in on the act very early and brought her trailer to Christchurch (via Ashburton) and filled it up and delivered it to Birdlings Flat which is currently a place that she is physically allergic to. Thank you, Jennifer Markman for being a very amazing adopted daughter and friend. 

Jennifer Williamson at her beloved Bruce River

Chris with a smile to match his hugs

My daughter/friend and all around cowgirl, Jennifer Markman

There are more amazing friends who have come to bless this place with their presence and encouragement. Kathy, Bruce, Judith, Aaron, Jeremiah, Lucy and Jan, thank you all for coming! There are locals who have all been most helpful such as Patrick, Rosco, Wuzza, Donna, Fiona, Tony, Ron, Lorna, Barb and Andre ... and then, there is Tuppy, always keeping watch.

Tuppy

Here are the initial stages of moving into this place that has taken our lives from one cycle to another. There are only four rooms: living/kitchen combined, small office, one bedroom and a bathroom. However, our plans are to build an outdoor kitchen and make the garage and carport more liveable spaces along with an external studio that will be useful for guests.

living room, attached to...

dining and kitchen

small office

only bedroom for now

Meanwhile, Kasey found time to build our first hen house that has "Grace and Frankie" two young chickens who will bless this place with their eggs under Tuppy's careful watch.

Kasey's first hand built hen house

Grace

Keeping Watch

However the real venue is the GREAT OUTDOORS wherein our section borders Lake Forsyth and the Pacific Ocean is within sight and the ever changing landscape is better than any movie or television set...don't need to adjust the colour, it adjusts itself...

We are home now and the past six years of traumatic rocking and rolling and living inundated with stuff is about to come to an end  with two garage sales on the horizon...there is still much to do as the stuff under my car port suggests...

But there is a lot more breathing room...

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, yes! 

And, little children to watch being entertained by nature...

Onyx and Ivy, Spring Break 2016

A life to die for

Anticipating how to create a life to die for. What must I believe and do to enact a good enough life? What does a good life look and feel like, arrive like after feeding on the technologies of the media, educational systems and external cultures? These considerations go some way toward reflecting the embodied questions one must ask in order to know how to create a life to die for.  

An Everyday Event

The kitchen sink is full as always. I am alone with it, it calls my name. I respond not but take note. It is a sink full of mismatched human technologies trying to clean themselves up (NOT) but who call out my name to what? To clean them. Someone has to do it, why not this maid? I wash a few spoons (take a photograph) and then I write in order to build an ethnography of what is going on around me.

While washing the spoons I contemplate the collection of 'things' upon the kitchen shelf. There are all kinds of things for different reasons whose material reality clog up the shelf, prohibiting the cleaning of the ledge upon where they precariously sit. Being severe earthquake country, these objects should be classified as hazardous objects, let's not classify them, however, let's finish cleaning our spoons and write to the heart of the matter. Which is? I am sick of some objects! There are too many of them and they are all different and usually dirtier than the pallet will allow.Someone has to clean them, move them about, make way for them, be their keepers and lie down with them. What objects are worth that amount of energy and intimacy, well let's see which objects are? The answer depends on who or whom you ask. To who am I addressing? The new sociologist in me that is moving house, the person who studies people for the benefit of people but foremost for understanding herself alongside so many different objects including people, some dirtier than others, some made of metal, some plastic and some for specialised uses....things and people are legion! How to make sense of so much? And, how to move it all efficiently without breaking the objects and/or other hearts attached to them. Do we get to decide who and what we interact with the most? Are all the objects on the shelf a matter of personal concern? You bet they are, they need cleaning, sorting and moving and somehow they all landed inside my house. This entire household is on the move now because we are changing address, place and lifestyle in a matter of weeks. Every thing here is demanding consideration to stay for the next occupant, go with us or purchase a one way ticket to somewhere else to be recycled and become someone else's matter of concern. I washed a few more spoons.

Clark came back from the market and brought more objects, but he was forgiven because they looked like proteas.

Then, I went out into the garage and got two boxes, one for things to go to our new home and one for things to be donated to the Salvation Army. What a name, Salvation Army, something desirable coupled with an act of war. The war on objects has started here, I intend to be ruthless, unsentimental, practical and efficient.This will be my first box packed. While I was in the act of the doing of it I scrubbed walls, washed and squeegeed windows and emptied out another cupboard besides what was on the kitchen shelf. Things that needed doing grew and the kitchen sink was cleaned, too. Sparking from my motivation, Clark got his own two boxes and sorted his gardening and cooking books in-between reading sessions.

All in all, three boxes were taped shut, demarcated as to what was inside of them and deposited under the living room table for now.One box full of castaway objects sits in the utility room floor awaiting a speedy exit. There are less objects on the kitchen ledge now and the kitchen sink is empty. I am sure this will be an everyday event for some weeks, no months to come.

O Kaitiaki

My linguist friend that is educated in the Māori language has advised me that a better name than Kaitiakitanga for our special place is O Kaitiaki. Already the input from others that I embrace has created a more appropriate name. I told her that being originally from Oklahoma, whose abbreviation is OK, makes this new name feel intermingled appropriate with my past life and present life that feels bestowed rather than obtained. So, O Kaitiaki it will be. The Māori dictionary states that the 'O' without the macron means:

1. (particle) of, belongs to, from, attached to - used with this meaning when the possessor has, or had, no control of the relationship or is subordinant, passive or inferior to what is possessed. This includes actions that are regarded as part of the nature of people or animals

The Māori dictionary states that 'Kaitiaki' means:

1. (noun) trustee, minder, guard, custodian, guardian, caregiver, keeper, steward.

The Māori dictionary states that 'Kaitiakitanga' means:

1. (noun) guardianship, stewardship, trusteeship, trustee.

I feel O Kaitiaki is a better reflection of the type of relationship I intend to hold with this place that will serve as a home for my immediate family but with the understanding that we possess it passively and inferior to the rights of the land and its historical significance for others before us and those yet to come. There are already others called to come and celebrate the joy that is found when we achieve something together rather than individually. O Kaitiaki is not MY place, O Kaitiaki is OUR place through an environmental stance of kaitiakitanga. And, in saying that I will try to remain open and aware to the needs others might have to enjoy this plot of land bordering Lake Forsyth (known to Māori as Te Roto o Wairewa) that currently needs all of us to be better stewards of the environment for the many generations that continue to come. Haere Mai! (Come Here!)

Kaitiaki Kathy

Clark and I found our next home (and a venue to share with many) on June 21, 2016, the longest night and our thirteenth wedding anniversary. The photo above is one of the views from the back of the section of our new home. A friend who saw the picture called me Kaitiaki Kathy Kise, Kaitiaki meaning a guardian or trustee of the earth. I am very pleased to be the guardian of this property which is a heritage site for indigenous Maori. The entire history I do not know yet, but feel deeply. I will learn about the history as I go through my life at Kaitiakitanga, the name of this old but new place for us to share with others who feel the need to come and be with nature. Those needs will be met here we are fairly certain of it.

The above picture taken from the back of the section is Lake Forsyth, or traditional for the Maori, Wairewa.

Wairewa means water lifted up. Te Roto o Wairewa was the last lake to be dug out by the legendary Rākaihautū. On completion, he thrust his famous kō (digging stick) into Horomaka (Banks Peninsula) forming Tuhiraki (Mt Bossu), this act constituted the lifting up. Traditionally, Māori have sole eel fishing rights on this lake. Up until whaling times the lake had a permanent outlet to the sea and waka could travel right into the forested inlet, which was then known as Māori Harbour.

Christchurch City Libraries http://my.christchurchcitylibraries.com/ti-kouka-whenua/wairewa/ There are no trees now, but the remnants of past hunting and gathering procedures of the Maori still mark the landscape. It is a very sacred place where food has been gathered for centuries, battles fought and Maori dead laid to rest. There are bones (though which tribe I am not apprised of yet) buried on our property we intend to turn into a Whānau Trust. It is a peaceful resting place and one that called to me a few weeks ago as I walked by and suddenly noticed a sign advertising it For Sale. I had never noticed the property before. It was as if, it suddenly just appeared.It is a very private place and perhaps it is invisible unless one needs to see it. I had walked past it many times over the past year, not a glimpse of it in my memory. There is so much to see in this place of Birdlings Flat, it is no wonder that I might miss a large part of it for some time. I am grateful that nature often puts on a display that feels designed just for me and lifting my spirit. One day I went down to the beach, fell on my knees and then suddenly this rainbow appeared.

Nature is playful that way if we engage with making meaning for ourselves in relationship to it. I can tell you I felt held on that beach as if I was not only allowed to play upon the rocks (many of which are agates) but entertained by the most amazing colours. Who amongst us can look at the colours in this ocean and sky and not be transformed by the awe of it? I sat in awe that day. Little did I know that less than two weeks later I would be coming out of a real estate office in Lincoln after signing a contract to purchase the property and without yet knowing whether we would be the winning purchaser (as it was a multiple offer), I noticed this vague full rainbow in the sky and snapped its picture right before it disappeared.

I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz repeating silently, 'there's no place like home' as this land claimed Clark and me with all its mythical presence and quirky habits laid down by its past lovers. I feel I have found a good enough place to die and THAT is the beginning of wanting to live again after five and a half years too long stuck in a city I had become allergic to. I love the people of Christchurch but I no longer have any love for a landscape haunted by traffic noise, rebuilding pounding, thumping, ringed by limitless road cones that spring up each morning in new places like a virus. I have vowed to leave this tortured city to the younger at heart and help them heal from the outskirts. There is no one who feels the way this city has made me feel that I would turn away from the gate (or portal) of Kaitiakitanga. This is a place to heal through nature.

Perhaps this Granddaddy San Pedro holds the keys to heaven on earth for the Kaitiaki Kathy and Kaitiaki Clark currently entrusted to help them (and us) remain standing. Peace to you if you are reading this and if you feel the need to come to a place for increased wellbeing, Kaitiakitanga will be available for the public to come and overnight by December of 2016. Come one, come all, just not at the same time. Bookings necessary, deeply appreciated and may be reciprocated by work in lieu on the property or a modest donation.

WOW (ways of wellness)

I found this old space again, had virtually forgotten about this blog. Ironically, I was just an hour ago reading Can't Remember Shit by Shelley Klein and laughing out loud at its apt description of me. Then, like a magic act, this blog reappeared on my Facebook page providing me with a link so that I could find it. The technology knows, I know nothing!

I literally wander around looking out into the deep blue and wonder what happened to us all? But then, that would take more time than I have left to fully consider. What's happening now? Well, that too, is a mighty deep topic that I currently study when looking for how people and things produce subjective wellbeing. My way is to go directly toward nature, not the highway, but the rocky coastline along Birdlings Flat that does something for me that no other place on this planet ever has. It allows me to heal. Movement + South Pacific Blue by my feet = I don't give a shit what I can't remember, this is okay and when I reflect on the deep blue something inside me remembers to take more time to simply be a part of the tide...

Good Friday For You, Too...

This is Good Friday.

I awoke and remembered I needed to get in touch with a woman whose son died a year ago this past February in a one car accident.  This young man’s death was listed in the paper and my husband and I read about it and decided we needed to go to his funeral. 

We did not know him or his family, but there were things said about him in the article that made us feel this was the passing of a great soul; and so, we did something we have never done before, we went to a funeral uninvited.

The funeral was held outdoors in a park to accommodate the hundreds that showed up.  Prayer flags were waving through the trees and the memorial program was handed to us with a recent photo of him grinning and resting on top of Mt. Maud after a tramp up this mountain.  It was a picture of him in the environment he loved—the great outdoors. 

But, to counter-balance this picture, on the back of the program was a picture of him with his logo for a muffin making business he had developed.  The memorial program had the Muff Man sitting on Mt. Maud, and inside this tribute was printed for him:

There are some men

who should have mountains

to bear their name to time.

 

I had a friend:

he lived and died in mighty silence

and with dignity,

left no book, son, or lover to mourn.

 

Nor is this a mourning song

but only a naming of this mountain

on which I walk,

fragrant, dark and softly white

under the pale of mist.

I name this mountain after him.

Leonard Cohen

My husband and I sat in awe as people came up before the crowd to reveal what this young man had done for their lives.  It was an incredible display of a life lived at a normal pace with hyper-drive results.  This twenty-four year old had affected as many, if not more, than any eighty year-old statesman.  He was already a legend and we never knew him, but had intuited him to be someone of Great Spirit by what was said in his death notice.

Ironically, this young man and I share the same birthday.  And so, my husband called this young man’s mother on our birthdays and put her on the phone with me so that I could tell her this:

For the first six months after Mark’s death, his funeral program sat on top of our refrigerator where he had the pride of position in our kitchen.  (He loved to feed people so much that one day he dug up his parents’ yard to plant vegetables for the neighbours.  And, his muffin making business was born out of his desire to share good food with friends). 

A few months ago I moved his program to my ‘family alter’ next to a picture of me with my father.  There are candles, a bell, a heart painting my daughter made, little sculptures the grandchildren made and three sweet treats lying at the bottom of Mark’s feet for the memory of the three things he shared with me after he died…

Faith, love and hope….the faith that there are mighty souls everywhere in our everyday lives that for the most part go unnoticed; the love of doing simple things that strengthen others for a life time and the hope that comes when you are pulled to a funeral unawares by a powerful spirit that lives forever…

This is what a Good Friday means for me…

Looking at Chaos in the Rear-view Mirror (a tribute to 2012)…

 

Looking back over 2012…there were many shifts, both seismic and metaphysical. Emerging from our traumatized environment after living as if the entire world might fall down around us at any moment day after day, from September 2010 until now, finally, we are beginning to feel like we might live again…

How long we shall live is open to debate and wagered

against and/or for us because of vices and/or virtues

perceived by those of us with little else to do and/or

too little consciousness—and so we criticize and/or

judge.

How often  I am aware of it in myself  is not easily weighed.  I am told that becoming more aware is part of self-realization. One can only hope, until they decide to do something.

Christchurch has no time for worrying about what it cannot reshape. It’s time to throw a new pot and it’s time to shut up and carry on— It doesn’t do any good to yell during the noise of crisis—it’s  best to conserve energy for the trekking, dodging and running because:

Freaky natural events happen all over the place…

it’s only different, unique, unseemly, unfair, horrible and unacceptable when it happens to you. If it’s not happening to you, it really isn’t happening to the degree that reality dictates to a real body, otherwise, it is all pictures in your head, awesome photos, someone else’s stories.

Surely, this experiential necessity to evoke reality is recognized by everyone over whatever historical and/or untimely events necessitates an invisible meridian line from childhood to maturity. The course of this planet navigating the same ship with so much technology advanced beyond a cannon, well, the network for interconnected mayhem and hems mended is palpable.

Elton John can be heard singing ‘Rocket Man’ in some places in the world at no particular time and date, like a twinkling, now you hear it, now you don’t. Magic or mayhem, are two sides of the same coin.

I am, I said, not even the chair heard me anyway, and a diamond can be a girl’s best friend in verse to break the curse of being alone. The earth has settled down now, our imaginations restructured and the ‘real bad guys and gals’ have revealed themselves from our mis-conceptualized guise of believing that because we are paying them to protect us, they will in return protect us. hahahahahahahahahahahaha!

I won’t discuss insurance companies and the bureaucratic nightmare they create to withhold payment to tens of thousands of befuddled Kiwi residents in Canterbury—it is a can of worms for better fishers of ‘bad men and women’ than I can be.  My style is more of going around the objects blocking the road rather than through and/or over them. I have watched wildlife in their natural surroundings curve away from, rather than confront impending disaster.  It feels like an appropriate time to do that.

So in rear-view of that, it is summer in Christchurch and earthquakes are old news and there is a much needed reprieve for the folks of Canterbury…I’m curving away from the cracks in the road…

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