Some of my mahi in The Kiwi Diary 2014
1. St Gabriel's - overlooking the urupa and Taiao Marae, with the Te Aupouri pā monument in the distance.
2. Peanut butter plants.
3. Taiao Marae.
4. Raindrops hanging on in the midday sun.
5. The preferred mode of transport in Pawarenga.
6. Flame tree flower.
7. Awaroa river with the family farm on the other side.
8. Free rangin'.
9. Wild urupa putiputi.
10. Te Aupouri pā monument.
St Gabriel's and Pawarenga also feature in David Dallas' latest music video for his single "Runnin'" - you can view it here, and read a sweet run down of the production here on the Lani Says blog.
You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.
Ernest Hemingway A Moveable Feast
Piopiotahi (Milford Sound)
Just a quick post to say the piece I recently wrote for Presence Zine is now up on the website: an interview with author, Simon Gennard. Simon will be at Auckland Zinefest this weekend with his series things we aren't going to talk about, and his latest zine, this place. You can read the piece here and find out more about Simon's work here.
Port Chalmers
“Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person's face as you pass on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people.
Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing.”
Miranda July - No One Belongs Here More Than You
Southern Route - Te Anau to Wanaka
Gie him strong drink until he wink, // That's sinking in despair;
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, // That's prest wi' grief and care:
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, // Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts, // An' minds his griefs no more.
(Robert Burns, 1785)
Whenever I see a whiskey bottle I remember my Papa; my mother's father, a staunch Scotsman who enjoyed a wee dram on the odd occasion (particularly at Christmas) and who, if the timing was right, enough of the amber elixir had been consumed, the sun had gone down and the stars had aligned, would treat us to a few verses of an old Scottish folk song, in a clear and haunting tenor voice that I so much wish I could hear again. Out of disdain for the winter weather, and a need to have a break from my studies, I made a whiskey cake today and thought of him. Cheers, Papa.
(Recipe here).
Mine and my grandmother's shoes. Hers is the cooler pair on the left.
Yeah.
We be ballin'.
Love you, Gran.
I didn't grow up in this place; that is, in the childhood memories, primary and high school days, playing hide-and-seek with the next door neighbours sense of the word. I have never lived here long term, can't call myself a local or tell people that I'm "from here" when they ask. Here is where I visited my parents during university holidays, seeking solace in anonymity; here is where we spent lakeside summers sharing picnics under the blue gums and lying in the sun, where we had countless back yard barbecues and late night movie marathons; here, despite my never having lived here, is where I have for some time now, called home. And yet this year, for the first time, I believe it to be true.
It's a strange kind of comfort, being here; I'm surrounded by my parents' belongings - family photographs, inherited books, Mum's collection of magazines, and story-telling trinkets; the desk that I work at was once our dining room table, complete with fades and scratch marks, indents made by pens and pencils, remnants from my early attempts at writing. I am inhabiting this kind of in-between space - a place where I am conscious of my family around me and find comfort in their residual presence, whilst at the same time I'm reminded that they're on their own adventure; I've set up house and added my own effects, only to remember that this place is both mine and not mine; everything is here, but something is missing; they are here and they are not here. I am a quasi-lighthouse keeper, stoking the fire, keeping the weeds down, trying to keep here, a home.
And so I find myself growing up in a whole new sense of the word; that twenty-something "grown-up" growing, the kind where you suddenly start reveling in home grown produce, don't mind spending hours in the kitchen poring over recipe books, chase off the various neighbourhood cats encroaching on your garden, curse the rain when it begins to get your sheets wet, and smile when you stand back at freshly picked flowers arranged in a vase. Yes. I am turning into that person. And yes. I think I'm okay with that.
By some slow and quiet osmotic process, I have taken up the fragments they have left here and sewn them into the fabric of my daily routine. They might be gone for now, but I feel like I'm growing towards them. And if that means perfecting my pillow plumping and bed-spread smoothing skills, marvelling at a well-stocked pantry and re arranging furniture then so be it; if that means researching gardening methods and swatting white butterflies away from my silverbeet with a well-worn squash racquet "because it's organic" then bring it on. These are the things that make me feel at home.
Perhaps, in time, I will be able to say "I grew up here" after all.
We packed at the end of a stress-laden Friday and started to drive as the sun went down. We drove in the dark with the road to ourselves, and the cold night shut out by our makeshift shield - a collage constructed from a protesting heater, a flask of tea, improvised song solos, and comedic interludes inspired by our many road trips passed. We fell asleep to the sound of the sea, and woke to its breathe in our lungs. It was just what we needed.
Kia ora, Kaikoura.