Horse riding in Korea
I arrived in Korea in February 2006 and started my new life as an English teacher.
Yes, that’s right me, a guy who used to get up at 4am every morning to pull tits on the farm.
I had just finished a Bachelor of Arts at Massey in Palmy, where I had stayed with friends out near Linton. My friends had during my time there 1 horse, 2 ponies, a Shetland pony and a yearling. So every weekend I would saddle up Chocolate a big 17 hand dark brown Arab. And, when he was sold I moved onto Blue a smallish white pony, or Tuckey who was on the larger side of being a pony. Both ponies were champions in their time, but now living their retirement, with my friends kids using them for pony club during the season.
I used to love going out for a gallop down the wide open paddocks, in the weekends. I had been with them for 2 years, and it was here that I learnt or remembered how to ride. Mum and dad had horses when we were kids, but they were all sold when we sold the farm during the stock market crash back around 86. However my family still retained an interest in horses with the local Polo club, pony clubs and the local A & P show. My grandfather was very well known within Hawkes Bay and beyond for his long service and commitment to both the local pony club and A & P association.
So, in February 2006 I was 27 and fresh out of Massey. I came to Korea to begin my new career in English teaching. After years on the farm I had decided it was time for a change and I left little old Waipukuruau with a population of around 7,000 and went to a small city named Uijeonbu on the outskirts of Seoul (Uijeonbu has a population of about 1 million!) And you know what the old saying runs true, you can take the farm boy away from the farm, but you can’t take the farm away from the boy! And it wasn’t long before I was hankering for those days under the long white cloud, galloping along on one of my horses while hanging on for dear life.
So I made some enquiries about where to ride horses, and I found the Seoul racecourse. But, at the time they only offered riding for kids. Yet, they were able to tell me about other places in the countryside where I could ride. Unfortunately due to the distance and my lack of Korean language ability, it just proved too hard to get out to these places. So, I had to give up the idea of doing any serious riding again.
Two years went past, and I moved two more times, finally on the last move in March 2008, I moved to a suburb named Hoegi, which is pretty much in the centre of Seoul, and the very last place you would expect to find anything farm like, especially horses, right?
Wrong! I had been living in Hoegi for 2 weeks, and my good kiwi mate Craig had come up for a beer at the local bars. The results were depressing and he left that night with instructions for me to find a good bar the next day.
So that day I got up out of bed, it was a Saturday, and thought at least the walk will do me good. I began identifying good places for us to drink at, although when they are closed it’s pretty hard to know what they will be like. So after a while I decided to head back home. I think it was just after lunch and I was exploring the side streets of what was to be my new home for the next two years.
I was enjoying a smoke, playing with it as I kicked the stones with my jandals walking past an elementary school. When I noticed them, in the middle of Seoul on a playground at an elementary school, there were bloody horses!
Now I know there are forces that makes metal attract each other, and one of which to be called a magnet. Well that is exactly what happened to me that day (like any good horse person I suppose). The smoke crashed to the ground and the last stone rolled away from my toes. And I was drawn into its spell, the red and white truck, with five thoroughbreds, ex racehorses, trotting around a small ring, no longer than 50 metres in length and 15 metres wide, likewise.
I met the members, and Mr Kim, none of whom spoke perfect English and most spoke none!
Mr Kim informed me of the price, at the time it was about 50nzd for 30 minutes or about 250nzd for one months riding, which would include riding on Saturdays and Sundays. After which I promised to him I would be there at 8.30 the next morning.
And I went away with a moon crescent as a smile. I still remember ringing Craig, stuttering away in excitement. He said to me “did you find a good bar?” and I replied “No, but I found a horse club!” Something that Craig couldn’t quite comprehend, but I know I found the better option! Months later, Craig, having never rode a horse before joined me and Mr Kim for his first horse riding experience in the centre of Seoul.
The next day I turned up to the horse club, I was late, five minutes late. Mr Kim told me never be late again, and sent me on a five lap run around the soccer field, as is customary for his adult members.
Mr Kim, who has a background in Electrical Engineering, worked in the industry for over 14 yeas until the IMF crisis of 1997 after which he began to turn his attention to horses having recognised that the horse riding industry was relatively undeveloped in Korea. Although there were and are opportunities to learn how to ride horses at specialised ranches in Korea, these ranches are in the countryside, which requires a lot of time in travel, as well as expense.
At that time South Koreas horse population was about 5,000-20,000 horses. And the horse riding was worth about an 80 billion won ($96,124,566.00NZ) market, so it was extremely expensive. In fact, the equine industry equates to about 1% of South Korea’s GDP, considering its total market is about 4 trillion won ($4,812,786,825.00NZ). Obviously when looking at these figures the equine market in Korea is far too small. So Mr Kim decided to introduce his horse riding school to the market. A wise idea, considering that Koreans are very active, perhaps the most active in the world, when it comes to education.
So, in November 2007 Mr Kim decided on an unusual approach to teaching horse riding, something not seen in Korea before, which was to take the horses in a truck to schools in Seoul and it’s neighbouring province, Gyeongi-do and educate people not only about horse riding but about horses in general.
At that time he had no formal staff, and only 5 part time workers. He started with five horses; these initial horses were Ajosi (old man) a black stallion and the boss of all the horses, he would nip at you if you weren’t looking, so you always had to be careful with him. Daejeonni, (captain) a chestnut gelding. Backtoban, a black gelding who coincidently was from New Zealand. Sarrangni (love) a brown gelding with a heart on his forehead. And Yong bu in, (pregnant women) his only mare. And while his herd has increased, these five horses are still there at the head of the pack.
Mr Kim was directly involved with every class. He had 110 students in all, 80 were elementary school kids and 30 were adults.
When we first met, Mr Kim lived in Daegu, a small city 300 kilometres south of Seoul. Every Friday morning Mr Kim would load up the horses and travel the five hour journey to Seoul. And he would teach horse riding at 2 different schools over a 3 day period.
On Saturday mornings his special members ride, these members tend to be university students and once or twice a year he has a camp for these students. He has taken them to the mountains and ridden over a few days in the bush. I was fortunate enough to be a part of one of the first of these camps, however at the time there were 11 students, so I took the last ride of the day. It was just me and Mr Kim, I looked at him, and I just knew we were both thinking the same thing, so off we galloped through the windy bush roads to the local dairy and drank a couple of beers as good lads would do. But, alas those days are gone now as the business has expanded so has the need for constant professionalism.
Mr Kim and I also used to go out for a canter along the busy city streets, just the two of us. And believe me, there is nothing more cool then cantering along a road in the middle of Seoul. People are amazed, people are surprised, and there you go just thinking yeah I’m the man! Although these occasions do still happen it is becoming less. However we do still take students out on the road on lead ropes, and only the well trained instructors will ride without any assistance on the roads.
Then on Saturday afternoons and late Sunday mornings/afternoons he teaches the elementary/middle school students how to ride. Thus, the weekends are perhaps the longest the horses will work. They have a start time of about 9am and finish time of between 3-5pm (it is only on the weekends when the schedule is such as this). And preparation/clean up, including the setup of 2 distinct rings, takes about 30 minutes
Hence, Mr Kim would spend 4 days and 3 nights away from home every week. The horses, having no stables to go to in Seoul would have to sleep standing up in the truck over that time, even in the winter. Yes that’s right he teaches horse riding in the winter! And I have been there many times when we have had to shovel the snow into big heaps to make the area required for riding! Horse riding has only been cancelled once for snow and that was because the snow was so thick it was too dangerous to take the trucks out onto the small narrow road that leads to his stables.
On a Monday morning he would move the horses to another school just south of Seoul and teach one more time. And finally, he would arrive back in Daegu about 2 in the morning on Tuesday.
Each lesson lasts for about 30 minutes and in this time the students are instructed on all the basics of horse riding, and as they get more advanced and confident they go onto more technical things such as trotting, cantering etc. Each student gets to spend at least ten minutes inside the ring for one on one tutoring with an instructor.
Students are required to not only use helmets but special protective vests. In the old days o 2006 they used an inflatable jacket that was attached to the saddle by a bungee cord. So that if a student did fall off, the cord would pull the trigger on a gas can, inflating the jacket before the student hit the ground. Now days, however they use something a little more modern. And of course they are always reminded of the basics, heels down, shoulders straight, and eyes forward. Safety is the first and most important message enforced at this horse riding school.
By starting this horse riding school he helped foster peoples interest in animals and the outdoors. Something that is lost amongst today’s generation growing up in Korea, because in a city of over 12 million, where most people grow up in tiny apartments where all they know of animals and the outdoors and the outdoors is what they see in the zoos and the occasional hiking in the mountains, this opportunity to participate in a horse riding school is a unique opportunity for those students.
When I first joined the school, my job was to assist in teaching the students how to ride, which involved a lot of leading the horses on ropes, especially for the novices. As well as keeping an eye on everything else, at all times the team members or staff have to be fully alert, as safety is the most important message here. However Soo Yeob, Mr Kim’s right hand man at that time, and I had another important job, which was to feed and water the horses at night. The watering especially was very interesting as it involved standing outside the truck on a ladder and holding a bucket up to the horse’s faces. And sometimes, depending if it was raining or not you would have 2 or 3 or 7 showers in one night!
Mr Kim decided to teach his students the European style of horse riding, because the western style of riding is not accepted in Korea. And many students do get to enjoy a canter, or jump a few hurdles.
When Mr Kim began horse riding 11 years ago he was involved with volunteer rehabilitation riding, and 3 years ago he was approached by the Korean disabled peoples association to teach riding for the disabled. So he began doing this with some state funding, which is renewed on a yearly basis. He is constantly looking to improve this part of the school, and because of his good heart, the school now teaches about 36 students through his riding for the disabled programme.
Mr Kim now has a team of approximately 40 people and 26 horses, with 4 trucks that are capable of carrying between 5-7 horses each. And he teaches horse riding (as an after school programme) at 21 elementary schools, to the disabled (as mentioned above) and to an international school. The total number of students he now teaches is approximately 1,000 students.
From Monday- Saturday 4 trucks go out and on Sunday’s two trucks go out, hence this is a seven day a week business.
Mr Kim’s management structure for the horse school is as such:
Mr Kim’s wife, is the schools CEO, she consults with the students and staff, makes the class schedules and organises the contracts with the individual school’s principals. While Mr Kim focuses on the development of the horse riding classroom. He makes and produces the books that the students learn from, as well as developing the skills and education of the trainers. Mr Kim’s position is more like the secretary of the horse riding school, overseeing everything, including its development and education, as well as reporting back to the schools directors and investors.
Within his management structure Mr Kim has 4 teams consisting of 6 people each, a truck driver who is assigned to a truck, and a team leader whose job is to supervise and manage each team and the workers whose primary jobs are to teach the students.
About fifteen staff members have nationally recognised qualifications in horse riding instruction. In 2009 eight employees gained this qualification, and this year a further ten people are expected to complete this qualification.
Prior to joining the horse riding school most of the instructors were strangers to horse riding with no experience around or with horses. A strong curiosity about horses enticed them to the school and Mr Kim had to provide his new instructors with the necessary tools to teach horse riding. Also, in Korea job competition is tough, with most jobs averaging at least 1000 applicants per position, so finding a good job with a fair salary can be quite difficult in today’s times. This horse riding school is progressing and expanding at a very fast rate and opportunities are increasing for employees to work their way up the management ladder. Mr Kim’s employees know that horse riding as a sport and an occupation is a very attractive opportunity, and they are very excited in working for this school, considering that this horse riding school will continue to progress and flourish in the years to come. Thus, it is with this expectation that being a horse riding instructor will soon become a desirable and viable occupation for people.
The students appear to take great pride in riding the horses; they quite often turn up early and hang around after the lesson just to be with the horses. They quite often bring treats such as sugar and carrots for the horses to eat. Also, since the majority of the students live in the concrete jungle of Seoul, many children are blocked from having contact with any animals. It’s something that in New Zealand we can’t really appreciate since most households tend to have pets. Hence, mostly what Korean kids know of horses and animals is what they see in the media or at Zoo’s. And this is another purpose of the horse riding school, which is to give these children an opportunity to interact with animals on a personal basis, and to foster their love of the outdoors with this meaningful interaction.
The students who attend this horse riding school tend to originate from a variety of backgrounds, thus horse riding is not just for the rich and elite who can afford it. However there is a different price structure for students who have obvious advantages.
Recently Mr Kim started taking his horse riding school to Apujeong in Seoul, which is like the Beverly Hills area of Korea. He hopes by providing his horse riding school in this area it will cause a significant sensation, thus promoting the school on a grander scale throughout Korea.
Mr Kim charges the following prices at his horse riding school:
For a standard lesson in what is called the class 4 circuit it costs 132,000 ($159.00NZ) per month with each lesson lasting 30 minutes.The students will ride at least 4 times within that month.
The next tier in the class 4 circuit, is a 50 minute lesson. And they ride 4 times per month. He charges them 220,000 won per month ($265.00NZ) per month
Then in Apujeong he has a 50 minute class. He charges them 400,000 won ($481.00NZ) for 4 lessons per month.
The prices remain the same for everyone, no matter their age, however it does depend on their location. At the moment the international school students are currently being charged the same as the class 4 circuits, however next year that price is likely to increase.
It may sound expensive, but when you consider how much time energy and effort goes into ensuring the students are able to ride each week, and how unique this is, it’s a small price to pay.
The schools curriculum is structured to last for 48 weeks. The school produces and provides its own textbooks. Safety is essential in this school and staff and students are constantly being reminded about this. Everything is documented and recorded on a daily basis.
Every year Mr Kim during the summer holidays Mr Kim runs a short summer camp. These camps are intensive and tend to last for between 5-10 days. And over that time they ride a distance of 250-450 kilometres.
Presently, there are approximately 18,000 horses here in South Korea. And 10,000 of that population are the native Korean horses, who are a close relation to the Mongolian breed of horses. They are sturdy strong, reliable horses, but for the purposes of learning how to ride horses, especially to the students and parents demands are too small at an average size of 120cm, to use. Thus, a horse of over 160cms with an approximate weight of 450-550kgs is required. Hence the main supplier of horses tends to be the American market, however New Zealand horses are also used here.
There are approximately 190 stables in Korea, however these tables tend to be between 2-5 hours travel away from Seoul. There are also three specialised equine universities and high school. However Mr Kim tends to get all of his horses from the Korean Racing association. So his horses are ex-racehorses, which as we all know can be a bit fiery at times.
The horses are fed a mixture pyurina feed and alpha hay twice a day, while also having access to mineral blocks.
To accommodate this expanding school, and to ease the demands being made on the horses Mr Kim made the decision in late 2008 to move his horses closer to Seoul to his present location in a small city called Pyeontaek (which is approximately 80 kilometres from Seoul).
An average working day consists of a start time between 5am-11am from when the horses are loaded onto the trucks and depart the stables. Generally a 1-1 and a half journey ensues after that, following which the horses are fed and have a one hour rest. Meaning a total of about 3 hours per day is travelled.
Usually preparation for the class takes about 30-40 minutes. This not only includes the saddling, grooming and healing of any wounds that the horse may have. It also involves the setting up of the riding area. This has two rings and is temporarily fenced off from the general public. And the setup of all the necessary horse riding equipment. A typical teaching day will last between 5-6 hours, with the horses working 4-5 out of those hours.
The horses work 5 or 6 days a week and have 1 or 2 days rest, and there is no work for them on a public holiday or a school holiday. However they do work during the winter and summer holidays! And the horses are adequately managed with the help of the horse riding schools website.
In Seoul there are over 600 elementary schools and over 8,000 elementary schools nationwide. In regards to middle and high schools there are over 18,000 nationwide, potentially opening up an endless market.
Mr Kim has plans to extend the horse riding school from 4 teams and 23 schools at the present, to an additional 7 teams this year. This means, he will need an additional minimum of 35 horses 42 employees and 7 new trucks. In 2011 over 20 teams will be starting new horse riding classes. So he will have a total of 160 horses and 120 instructors. And he is always in contact with new and potential investors in the horse riding school. The educational market is perhaps the most solid and stable industry in Korea and the potential to make money through riding horses is endless.
Mr Kim through his riding school not only gives students to further their education in a general way (for example many universities in Korea require their students to be a part of a club of some sort, which in turns helps their employment situation) but he also gives students an opportunity to get back to nature and rediscover their rural roots.
Previously people learning how to ride horses had been in a decline in Korea. However, with the advent of this horse riding school there has been a jump in interest about it. And investors see and realise the potential of this school, so investing in this school is likely to give them significant returns.
This school is also the only licensed horse riding school permitted to transport horses to the actual elementary schools and such like. This effectively gives them a monopoly in this field.
Hence, it’s a combination of these reasons why investors are flocking to invest in this horse riding school.
In a city where not only horses are a strange site, so is the other unsightly problem. What to do with the dung? During the first year of the school, the staff used to run around with a bucket and a brush and shovel to catch it. However this became quite tiresome and messy, so, Mr Kim started using nappies for the horses. He attaches a bag (with straps) from the girth on the sides, and attached at the saddle from the top. As for the number ones, well they have been toilet trained in that department and most do well to hold on until they are safely back in the truck.
Over the past three years I have been privileged enough to be a part of this horse riding school. It has rapidly expanded, sometimes so fast it’s hard for me to keep up. And although these days my commitment is not as strong as it used to be, I still participate at least once a week on the Saturday at Cheongnyang Elementary school, where it all started for me. I also try to lend a hand whenever time permits.
And every time I go to wherever the horses maybe, the first thing I do is give them a great big hug, and talk to them like their my best friend, although with so many horses, remembering their names is sometimes a little hard! Many of the other members think I’m crazy doing this, including Mr Kim, but they’re horses after all!
And, admittedly my friends and people I meet wonder how I can give up so much time to these beautiful animals. Especially a Saturday, when I have just taught at school all week, to go to another school for fun and love!
Well I say to them just meet them, meet the horses and you’ll see why. But that’s not the only reason. Meet Mr Kim, and all your questions will be answered.
You’ll get the feeling that this horse riding school isn’t just a business to make money off. He genuinely loves the horses, being outside with them all day long. And he loves teaching the students, young and old how to do something that used to be a very common occupation in Korea. Mr Kim is a people person, he is great with the young and old and he can relate to all.
Yet, he is a man who demands respect, and with him there is a time for joking and laughing, but when he means business, it’s his way or the highway!
Over the years Mr Kim has become a great friend and a mentor of mine. He is a very good and kind man with a lot of wisdom. But ultimately, to me, he will always be known as Uncle Big Mouth as rest assured he can never keep a secret!
Friday, August 27, 2010
society
You see it all the time, whether you know its happening or not is a completely different story. Society dictates to us that this is the way it has to be, even though we might not agree with it.The rules have been set in concrete for such a long time ago, making it hard to form a crack and undo the myth.
I woke up this morning, it was like most other mornings. I lay there blissfully unaware of any concept of time. I was thinking whether or not I should get out of bed. The warmth of my duvei, after a hard fought nights rest, compelled me to stay there long after the alarm had gone off. I raised my hands high above my head and brought them down in a wide circle, bringing them back up to my eyes in the hope of getting rid of any sleep that might be left in their surroundings. A voice out of the dark spoke to me, it was as loud and as clear as any on a public announcement system at a rugby stadium. It was the same one I hear every morning, repeating those familiar words “Get your fat arse out of bed, you lazy prick!” And just to prove it wasnt kidding, my leg that was no longer mine, kicked my duvei off the bed onto the floor, leaving me nowhere to hide except for my birth day suit.
The crisp fresh air son arose me, the coolness of an icy morning I did not like. There upon came my next daily ritual as I painfully stood up and stepped out, into the confines of my mind. I stand there searching for something to wear, who am I going to see today? What are they going to think of my appearance? where am I going?
I open up my top draw and see my undies. Theres the orange ones, my memories of a child. Of being free, playing in the ditch back home with my tonka trucks and tractors, “hey Jim can you load you hurry up and load me, that roads got to be built today or old man Joe will have a hurnia!” “Give me a second Bob, I got a blown gasket, the mechanic will be here soon.” Just sitting there away from mum and dad, playing by myself with not a care in the world, the sparrows are singing in the trees above and I am lost in a world of my own. Carving out roads, and floating huge ships up the stream to off load my precious cargo of lego, I’ld build my little settlements and have many farms. But as always, there would be a fight and bombers would come flying over head, while a battalion approached from the south, ruining my perfect sanctuary. Sick of this game I stand up and run out onto the farm looking for another adventure, too many trees to climb, too many animals to play with, too much mud to get messy in( well there can never be enough mud). I know I’ll go tadpoling, I race up and grab my big brother, nearly tearing his arm out of its socket. “Can we go for a ride on the motor bike? Please!!!” I scream, “go tadpoling”. And before he can reply I’m sitting on the petrol tank wwaiting for him to take me.
I look over to my right, the green undies, and see between its threads, a boy in a room, hes staring out the window, yet there is a row of desks with other kids, he must be in a classroom, he must be at school. Huh was it that boring? At a closer look I see a textbook in front of him, with the words maths 101 inscribed, no wonder!! Brrrrrrinngggg, a bell rings and the kids all pile out of the class, each into their groups, the teachers pets all huddle around their books, the sporty kids race onto the fields, and the dreamers stroll arrogantly to the mirrors.Yet this boy, he slowly walks outside, looks around with glaring, “uh so what, I don’t give a shit,” he curses(he’s up to no good I can tell by his face)before disappearing behind a building, where theres a few boys waiting, he pulls out a cigarette from his pocket, and its not long before he is coughing and ch/joking with his peers. One of the guys pulls out something green, tainting that young innocent face I had just seen. Being not sure if I wasn’t to see any more I scour this draw for a cleaner pair.
And being desperate for something to cover my nuts, I dig deeper, discovering black undies, with a small white spot in the middle. These undies are not just a black, they speak words , whispering quietly to me, so soft I can only just hear them. I listen carefully and dream old nightmares that make me shudder, my heart beats strongly, sweat warms my pitts. And damn!! These undies stink!! Things have gotten worse. I see myself. I relive old fears, a small boy into a grown man, with a question mark above his head. He’s trapped, like a monkey in a zoo, his eyes staring unabaitedly at the ground, no reason to look up, when theres dirt on the floor. I want to rescue this poor guy, yet I know any attempt will fail, especially with that storm of secrets brewing right above his head. A thin white light darts all around him, leaving a silk trail, much like the thread of a spiders web, and I wonder will he see this gift that is being offered, Or will he sit there, with his secrets holding him captive. I close the draw, deciding there has to be a better solution to my nakedness. But just to be certain no one comes a peeping when I’m out, I pull out a meaty padlock, with digital encoding, keeping those precious memories locked away in isolation.
I’m ready now for something to wear on top. Wearily I open my middle draw, an old woollen jersey, that mum knitted for me, strikes my eye. It looks comfortable and soft to the touch. I pick it up and look deep within I see the boy again, he has a huge grin, family, friends surround him, a cat smooches his legs, and a dog drops a ball at his feet. Hes at home just chilling. He looks content. I’m taken on a quick journey, the observer from the sky, watching his past antics. Laughing, feeling the good that has come from so little effort, this shirt does not say as much as the others rather it creates and lets the imagination do its talking. I put it down, with a smile growing, I am reminded of all the good that is free and ready in the world.
On I go, the road is far from complete, theres still plenty more moods of jeans and attitudes of jerseys to pick from before I head out. They say clothes maketh the man, or is it the man maketh the clothes. I dress myself, from the inside out. First on goes the undies, protecting my jewels, my inner self. Then as the shirts go on, and the jeans come up, I begin to paint a picture. Who is it I want people to see today? My old torn shirt and faded jeans, the casual cabbage look, giving me a defence and a wall behind me to fall back upon. Or is it the business shirt and tie, dressed up to look smart and impress some body I’ll never see again. These layers of clothes appear so simple, but the more I put on, the greater the reflection I see in my mobile phone. I stare at it, seeing my body around different people in different places. The phone flashes images across its screen, a different me for a different person, for a different situation. Am I the same me to you as I am with my brother? Yet these clothes, these barriers I must wear as the comfort I know too well.
I heave open the final draw, my last and final mission. I’ve seen myself in a haze realising that deceit is more than just a phase. I look down, I’m squinting so much I can hardly see inside, yet somethings down there its so small I almost missed it. Its just sitting there all alone peacefully minding its own business, yet it speaks to me and I am drawn to it, like a mouse to the trap. I find myself running towards it. Clothes fly off their hooks, such is the pace and desire at which I want, need it. And when I get there, through my exhaustion I see it is not one, but many. I drop to my knees with tears racing down my cheeks to form a shallow pool on the floor before me. I realise I don’t want to wear it yet the thought of being without it is to hard to comprehend. Its like my cigarettes, a horrible unhealthy addiction that will kill me in the end, yet its something I enjoy and quite frankly I know no other way, I do not choose the one, the mask I wish to wear, rather it chooses me. It rises from its seat, slowly spinning, its glare catches my thoughts turning them into grey and there it hovers for a few agonising seconds before setting upon my face, sealing itself there with a tube of liquid nails and inch screws.
I slip out of my mind and walk down the hallway of my subconsious
I woke up this morning, it was like most other mornings. I lay there blissfully unaware of any concept of time. I was thinking whether or not I should get out of bed. The warmth of my duvei, after a hard fought nights rest, compelled me to stay there long after the alarm had gone off. I raised my hands high above my head and brought them down in a wide circle, bringing them back up to my eyes in the hope of getting rid of any sleep that might be left in their surroundings. A voice out of the dark spoke to me, it was as loud and as clear as any on a public announcement system at a rugby stadium. It was the same one I hear every morning, repeating those familiar words “Get your fat arse out of bed, you lazy prick!” And just to prove it wasnt kidding, my leg that was no longer mine, kicked my duvei off the bed onto the floor, leaving me nowhere to hide except for my birth day suit.
The crisp fresh air son arose me, the coolness of an icy morning I did not like. There upon came my next daily ritual as I painfully stood up and stepped out, into the confines of my mind. I stand there searching for something to wear, who am I going to see today? What are they going to think of my appearance? where am I going?
I open up my top draw and see my undies. Theres the orange ones, my memories of a child. Of being free, playing in the ditch back home with my tonka trucks and tractors, “hey Jim can you load you hurry up and load me, that roads got to be built today or old man Joe will have a hurnia!” “Give me a second Bob, I got a blown gasket, the mechanic will be here soon.” Just sitting there away from mum and dad, playing by myself with not a care in the world, the sparrows are singing in the trees above and I am lost in a world of my own. Carving out roads, and floating huge ships up the stream to off load my precious cargo of lego, I’ld build my little settlements and have many farms. But as always, there would be a fight and bombers would come flying over head, while a battalion approached from the south, ruining my perfect sanctuary. Sick of this game I stand up and run out onto the farm looking for another adventure, too many trees to climb, too many animals to play with, too much mud to get messy in( well there can never be enough mud). I know I’ll go tadpoling, I race up and grab my big brother, nearly tearing his arm out of its socket. “Can we go for a ride on the motor bike? Please!!!” I scream, “go tadpoling”. And before he can reply I’m sitting on the petrol tank wwaiting for him to take me.
I look over to my right, the green undies, and see between its threads, a boy in a room, hes staring out the window, yet there is a row of desks with other kids, he must be in a classroom, he must be at school. Huh was it that boring? At a closer look I see a textbook in front of him, with the words maths 101 inscribed, no wonder!! Brrrrrrinngggg, a bell rings and the kids all pile out of the class, each into their groups, the teachers pets all huddle around their books, the sporty kids race onto the fields, and the dreamers stroll arrogantly to the mirrors.Yet this boy, he slowly walks outside, looks around with glaring, “uh so what, I don’t give a shit,” he curses(he’s up to no good I can tell by his face)before disappearing behind a building, where theres a few boys waiting, he pulls out a cigarette from his pocket, and its not long before he is coughing and ch/joking with his peers. One of the guys pulls out something green, tainting that young innocent face I had just seen. Being not sure if I wasn’t to see any more I scour this draw for a cleaner pair.
And being desperate for something to cover my nuts, I dig deeper, discovering black undies, with a small white spot in the middle. These undies are not just a black, they speak words , whispering quietly to me, so soft I can only just hear them. I listen carefully and dream old nightmares that make me shudder, my heart beats strongly, sweat warms my pitts. And damn!! These undies stink!! Things have gotten worse. I see myself. I relive old fears, a small boy into a grown man, with a question mark above his head. He’s trapped, like a monkey in a zoo, his eyes staring unabaitedly at the ground, no reason to look up, when theres dirt on the floor. I want to rescue this poor guy, yet I know any attempt will fail, especially with that storm of secrets brewing right above his head. A thin white light darts all around him, leaving a silk trail, much like the thread of a spiders web, and I wonder will he see this gift that is being offered, Or will he sit there, with his secrets holding him captive. I close the draw, deciding there has to be a better solution to my nakedness. But just to be certain no one comes a peeping when I’m out, I pull out a meaty padlock, with digital encoding, keeping those precious memories locked away in isolation.
I’m ready now for something to wear on top. Wearily I open my middle draw, an old woollen jersey, that mum knitted for me, strikes my eye. It looks comfortable and soft to the touch. I pick it up and look deep within I see the boy again, he has a huge grin, family, friends surround him, a cat smooches his legs, and a dog drops a ball at his feet. Hes at home just chilling. He looks content. I’m taken on a quick journey, the observer from the sky, watching his past antics. Laughing, feeling the good that has come from so little effort, this shirt does not say as much as the others rather it creates and lets the imagination do its talking. I put it down, with a smile growing, I am reminded of all the good that is free and ready in the world.
On I go, the road is far from complete, theres still plenty more moods of jeans and attitudes of jerseys to pick from before I head out. They say clothes maketh the man, or is it the man maketh the clothes. I dress myself, from the inside out. First on goes the undies, protecting my jewels, my inner self. Then as the shirts go on, and the jeans come up, I begin to paint a picture. Who is it I want people to see today? My old torn shirt and faded jeans, the casual cabbage look, giving me a defence and a wall behind me to fall back upon. Or is it the business shirt and tie, dressed up to look smart and impress some body I’ll never see again. These layers of clothes appear so simple, but the more I put on, the greater the reflection I see in my mobile phone. I stare at it, seeing my body around different people in different places. The phone flashes images across its screen, a different me for a different person, for a different situation. Am I the same me to you as I am with my brother? Yet these clothes, these barriers I must wear as the comfort I know too well.
I heave open the final draw, my last and final mission. I’ve seen myself in a haze realising that deceit is more than just a phase. I look down, I’m squinting so much I can hardly see inside, yet somethings down there its so small I almost missed it. Its just sitting there all alone peacefully minding its own business, yet it speaks to me and I am drawn to it, like a mouse to the trap. I find myself running towards it. Clothes fly off their hooks, such is the pace and desire at which I want, need it. And when I get there, through my exhaustion I see it is not one, but many. I drop to my knees with tears racing down my cheeks to form a shallow pool on the floor before me. I realise I don’t want to wear it yet the thought of being without it is to hard to comprehend. Its like my cigarettes, a horrible unhealthy addiction that will kill me in the end, yet its something I enjoy and quite frankly I know no other way, I do not choose the one, the mask I wish to wear, rather it chooses me. It rises from its seat, slowly spinning, its glare catches my thoughts turning them into grey and there it hovers for a few agonising seconds before setting upon my face, sealing itself there with a tube of liquid nails and inch screws.
I slip out of my mind and walk down the hallway of my subconsious
fog
My emotions after a trip back home are like a heavy fog,
Surrounding me so deep I cannot find an escape,
The more I run, the faster I get lost.
Blinded by those thoughts I do not want.
Drawing me closer to a place
I have been before
And am scared to go again.
I hear those whispers, creeping in through the dark grey mists,
Are they near or are they far,
I walk towards one, only to hear another calling me from behind,
Not knowing where they start,
I collapse onto the bare ground,
Confused.
Dew rests upon my brow,
Chilling quickly,
Forming an icy crest,
My head bowed,
My hair white as snow,
I am afraid,
I cry.
Letting go is the solution,
Holding on is my niche,
Fear is all I have ever known.
I sit there in my misery,
The mist not clearing,
I have lost that battle,
With no fight left
I am but a shadow,
Cold and grey,
Tormented by myself
Surrounding me so deep I cannot find an escape,
The more I run, the faster I get lost.
Blinded by those thoughts I do not want.
Drawing me closer to a place
I have been before
And am scared to go again.
I hear those whispers, creeping in through the dark grey mists,
Are they near or are they far,
I walk towards one, only to hear another calling me from behind,
Not knowing where they start,
I collapse onto the bare ground,
Confused.
Dew rests upon my brow,
Chilling quickly,
Forming an icy crest,
My head bowed,
My hair white as snow,
I am afraid,
I cry.
Letting go is the solution,
Holding on is my niche,
Fear is all I have ever known.
I sit there in my misery,
The mist not clearing,
I have lost that battle,
With no fight left
I am but a shadow,
Cold and grey,
Tormented by myself
the frog
A frog jumps from lilly pad to lilly pad,
Why is he jumping so high?
Into the sky
Why he must be mad!
He is never going to reach the stars!
A trickle of water drops from the roof,
Landing right in the middle of my face,
I look at it wondering why,
Why did it make me wet and cold,
Now u have to go change my clothes.
The tree, tall and strong,
Arms as wide as an elephant,
Anchored to the ground,
Nowhere to go, except for here,
Looking down upon all the people,
And giving the Tui’s a place to rest their head.
Why is he jumping so high?
Into the sky
Why he must be mad!
He is never going to reach the stars!
A trickle of water drops from the roof,
Landing right in the middle of my face,
I look at it wondering why,
Why did it make me wet and cold,
Now u have to go change my clothes.
The tree, tall and strong,
Arms as wide as an elephant,
Anchored to the ground,
Nowhere to go, except for here,
Looking down upon all the people,
And giving the Tui’s a place to rest their head.
hay
The hay dry as dust, groaned
The barn creaked and moaned,
The sun shining brightly
The workers not doing so lightly,
Parched from its heat, were de throaned.
Hours spent hunting
Days disappearing into nothing,
Where is that pen?
It’s not in the yard with the hen,
My face in frustration, it’s all too demanding!
There once was a young boy from Hawkes Bay,
All he ever did was make.
Trapped within its boarders,
Left alone with all the hoarders,
He dreamt of making it outside, one day.
Along time ago there was a Ute named Ford,
He was a four wheel beauty, the lord,
All admired his power,
He was a great devour,
His subjects mercifully paid his board.
They say it is the home of the Ring
Yet only one can be King
A city far away, named Wellington,
Some would say Hellington,
As that’s where they start to feel the ping.
The barn creaked and moaned,
The sun shining brightly
The workers not doing so lightly,
Parched from its heat, were de throaned.
Hours spent hunting
Days disappearing into nothing,
Where is that pen?
It’s not in the yard with the hen,
My face in frustration, it’s all too demanding!
There once was a young boy from Hawkes Bay,
All he ever did was make.
Trapped within its boarders,
Left alone with all the hoarders,
He dreamt of making it outside, one day.
Along time ago there was a Ute named Ford,
He was a four wheel beauty, the lord,
All admired his power,
He was a great devour,
His subjects mercifully paid his board.
They say it is the home of the Ring
Yet only one can be King
A city far away, named Wellington,
Some would say Hellington,
As that’s where they start to feel the ping.
Jewel
Jewel- Small
Her fires smouldering away,
Burnt my heart to a tender crisp,
She had been as fast as a bush fire,
Rushing through my life at an incredible pace,
Leaving only the ashes that were my love for her,
Time was small and she was big on moving,
Her whole journey was only to find more fuel,
More scrub to burn amongst the tender dry outback,
And I was all but a young thin shoot sprouting from the dirt,
With barely a few green leaves to my name,
My roots firmly entrenched deep into the soil,
Creeping inch by inch, day by day on the desperate hunt for a drop of moisture,
To satisfy my thirst,
Then on a clear mid summer night
She came racing towards me,
My saviour, yet I could hear all the screams of the wood in the distance,
Giving up their fights, to hiss and crackle away under her appetite,
She had stood before me briefly,
The wind blowing her flame back,
Small packets of yellow and orange escaping into the distance,
I had pleaded with her to go around me and spare my fragile life,
She had looked down upon me from the great wall that was body,
And laughed with all her might,
I was only another piece of deadwood for her to consume.
With one great stride she fought against that wind,
And ate right through my heart,
Burning it to the crisp,
Leaving a jewel amongst my ashes where once my light green leaves flew,
In the free airs of the bush,
While her flame raged onwards,
Flying over the ground to where ever the food took her,
She, being determined not to be extinguished.
Her fires smouldering away,
Burnt my heart to a tender crisp,
She had been as fast as a bush fire,
Rushing through my life at an incredible pace,
Leaving only the ashes that were my love for her,
Time was small and she was big on moving,
Her whole journey was only to find more fuel,
More scrub to burn amongst the tender dry outback,
And I was all but a young thin shoot sprouting from the dirt,
With barely a few green leaves to my name,
My roots firmly entrenched deep into the soil,
Creeping inch by inch, day by day on the desperate hunt for a drop of moisture,
To satisfy my thirst,
Then on a clear mid summer night
She came racing towards me,
My saviour, yet I could hear all the screams of the wood in the distance,
Giving up their fights, to hiss and crackle away under her appetite,
She had stood before me briefly,
The wind blowing her flame back,
Small packets of yellow and orange escaping into the distance,
I had pleaded with her to go around me and spare my fragile life,
She had looked down upon me from the great wall that was body,
And laughed with all her might,
I was only another piece of deadwood for her to consume.
With one great stride she fought against that wind,
And ate right through my heart,
Burning it to the crisp,
Leaving a jewel amongst my ashes where once my light green leaves flew,
In the free airs of the bush,
While her flame raged onwards,
Flying over the ground to where ever the food took her,
She, being determined not to be extinguished.
He waits
Standing there alone,
In the middle of the road,
In the middle of the day,
In the middle of nowhere,
He waits,
Everywhere to go
But here,
Yet no way of getting there,
He waits
The smell of death and decay all about,
Buildings finally giving up the worthless fight,
Collapsing into rubble,
Leaving shells of their former selves,
With weeds creeping through every crevice,
He waits,
The Holden parked up in the garage,
Left on blocks to rot,
Having been raped of her innocence,
A spider’s nest now full's her shell,
Her serene beauty vanished,
And still he waits.
The sun beats furiously upon his tarnished body,
His head drooping low in misery,
He does not care anymore,
He waits.
The white line in front of his nose,
Stretching to the right,
Beckoning, begging him to follow,
To leave this place that offers little if anything,
Yet he does not move,
He waits.
He’s too afraid to move,
Even a foot,
Too afraid to find that courage,
And leave this desolate land,
That has defined him for so long,
He waits.
A lifetime of memories,
A flotilla of people,
Caressing his soul,
Leaving sketches of a past he cannot retrieve,
Casting a shadow far beyond the horizon,
Still he waits.
His stubbornness holding firm,
Blinding him from the truth,
All is not how it appears,
And so he waits,
In the heat of the day,
In the middle of the road,
In the middle of nowhere,
For that car or truck that will never pass,
To end his torture,
And guide him through to his creator.
In the middle of the road,
In the middle of the day,
In the middle of nowhere,
He waits,
Everywhere to go
But here,
Yet no way of getting there,
He waits
The smell of death and decay all about,
Buildings finally giving up the worthless fight,
Collapsing into rubble,
Leaving shells of their former selves,
With weeds creeping through every crevice,
He waits,
The Holden parked up in the garage,
Left on blocks to rot,
Having been raped of her innocence,
A spider’s nest now full's her shell,
Her serene beauty vanished,
And still he waits.
The sun beats furiously upon his tarnished body,
His head drooping low in misery,
He does not care anymore,
He waits.
The white line in front of his nose,
Stretching to the right,
Beckoning, begging him to follow,
To leave this place that offers little if anything,
Yet he does not move,
He waits.
He’s too afraid to move,
Even a foot,
Too afraid to find that courage,
And leave this desolate land,
That has defined him for so long,
He waits.
A lifetime of memories,
A flotilla of people,
Caressing his soul,
Leaving sketches of a past he cannot retrieve,
Casting a shadow far beyond the horizon,
Still he waits.
His stubbornness holding firm,
Blinding him from the truth,
All is not how it appears,
And so he waits,
In the heat of the day,
In the middle of the road,
In the middle of nowhere,
For that car or truck that will never pass,
To end his torture,
And guide him through to his creator.
the book
The Book
His knees bend and with his hands hanging loose to the side they become aware of two long slippery narrow wooden objects to their rear. They clasp and form a tight fist like grip around these mysterious things. With his back straight he lowers his buttocks and they rest upon a soft texture of unknown description. He gulps in fright as he sinks and his back gently hits the soft yet hard mellow puff behind him, his relief is expressed when he realises he hasn’t sunken very far at all..
He stretches out his left leg and then raises his right, and places it across his left ankle, his two thighs side by side forming a pair of blue lips in the middle, from the Levi jeans he is wearing. His arms are elevated and his hands placed behind his head; the fingers weaved into one, the elbows pointing decisively forward, forming two complete triangles.
Chatter; all about, all at once. Carefully listening, these people are not talking to each other. Two men on his left, talking about beer, the rugby and of course women. Beyond the guys, in front of him now, a sweet aroma of lavender and red roses, the sort of smell that can only be of the female origin. Their soft yet loud voices, one two three, at least four or five are talking all at once. Each trying as hard as they can to compete and get their message across. Rugby again features on their lips, but they appear to know more than what those boys do. Yet something’s different here, the thirst for knowledge has not yet disappeared and they ramble into the goings on of New Zealand social culture, and history, English too. What are these girls up to?
To his right the rustle of paper is heard, as if someone is turning the pages over in a newspaper, that thread of final resistance, as the pages try to cling to each other before giving in when they are forcefully ripped apart. From beside this scene a deep croaky voice whispers “that silly George Bush, to think my friends died for men like him”. And a squeal of sigh, that could only be a Nana reply, “Now, now Bill, don’t get too over excited you have your heart condition to remember”. After that it’s a bit vague as to what they say, but an argument erupts and a kettle is boiled red hot.
He’s enclosed in some sort of surrounding, maybe a circle or a square of chairs, all these people appear to be stationary their voices neither seem to fade or stop, they certainly seem near to him.
A breeze too light to move a leave, but heavy enough to caress his cheek, picks up and carries this scent, its very unusual and being unclear as to what it is. The breeze happily obliges and teases the hairs with in his nose, adding to the excitement of his senses, what could this smell on earth possibly be. One by one the scent is dissected, liver, kinas or sea eggs to the untrained fisherman, roast pumpkin and eggs!!! No this smell is not nice at all.
He reaches down and with his right hand picks up a stick, with his two hands on the slippery narrow wooden things he hoists himself up, and moves slowly through a gap, that looks wide enough to run through. It’s as if he’s trying to escape that most undesirable of smells.
He’s moved about 6 feet by now and is standing still apart from his left hand. His fingers are doing the walking, they hover not quite touching, but not too far away to be resistant to the cold emigrating from what is before him. His fingers are clearly shaking. Looking bewildered, his hands travel high and then low, to the left and to the right are wide open spaces of this huge solid mass that just does not want to move. So he moves, searching for an answer. A metal stand suspended at shoulder height protruding what must be two of his hand widths out into the open, obstructs his path.
His fingers have done their job well, they race over this stand and when they come to a sudden halt, they are on top of a hard 50ml thick object with many bumps on it. Promptly he pulls it out, and turns in a 180 degree angle.
He pauses; a door squeaks against its metal base, it needs some CRC. There’s a constant crackle of dry autumn leaves and a stream of water, slurping its way down the bath drain but he’s inside, how can this be? Mutterings, many, too many voices full the air, and they encase him. A draft is formed, yet patiently he stands there and waits, until the silence is once again back .The odd chatter is heard, but it’s at a distance, then with his stick he strides out into the wide open spaces, moving at a confident rate, with his stick swinging to his left and right. He approaches a smaller obstacle, knock, knock, as the stick hits something wooden.
“Can I help you Sir?” he hears the young gentle voice of a girl say. He raises his right hand and feels a flat smooth surface about tummy height and explores it checking that it is safe and clear of obstructions to place his 50ml object upon.
Beep, click, click, a scatter of movement by the girl is made. “Have a good day Sir”, she says.
He raises his left hand and reaches for his book, slowly turning a half circle. a warmth coming from outside beckons him, begging for him to spend the few remaining hours of the day basking in the glory of fresh air. He pauses again for a few seconds, hears little but the birds singing beyond. With his stick freely moving from left to right in front of him, he walks to forwards following the heat. Stopping only for a moment to raise his right arm and move his hand in a small wave like motion, as if to say good bye. His journey to the library is complete.
His knees bend and with his hands hanging loose to the side they become aware of two long slippery narrow wooden objects to their rear. They clasp and form a tight fist like grip around these mysterious things. With his back straight he lowers his buttocks and they rest upon a soft texture of unknown description. He gulps in fright as he sinks and his back gently hits the soft yet hard mellow puff behind him, his relief is expressed when he realises he hasn’t sunken very far at all..
He stretches out his left leg and then raises his right, and places it across his left ankle, his two thighs side by side forming a pair of blue lips in the middle, from the Levi jeans he is wearing. His arms are elevated and his hands placed behind his head; the fingers weaved into one, the elbows pointing decisively forward, forming two complete triangles.
Chatter; all about, all at once. Carefully listening, these people are not talking to each other. Two men on his left, talking about beer, the rugby and of course women. Beyond the guys, in front of him now, a sweet aroma of lavender and red roses, the sort of smell that can only be of the female origin. Their soft yet loud voices, one two three, at least four or five are talking all at once. Each trying as hard as they can to compete and get their message across. Rugby again features on their lips, but they appear to know more than what those boys do. Yet something’s different here, the thirst for knowledge has not yet disappeared and they ramble into the goings on of New Zealand social culture, and history, English too. What are these girls up to?
To his right the rustle of paper is heard, as if someone is turning the pages over in a newspaper, that thread of final resistance, as the pages try to cling to each other before giving in when they are forcefully ripped apart. From beside this scene a deep croaky voice whispers “that silly George Bush, to think my friends died for men like him”. And a squeal of sigh, that could only be a Nana reply, “Now, now Bill, don’t get too over excited you have your heart condition to remember”. After that it’s a bit vague as to what they say, but an argument erupts and a kettle is boiled red hot.
He’s enclosed in some sort of surrounding, maybe a circle or a square of chairs, all these people appear to be stationary their voices neither seem to fade or stop, they certainly seem near to him.
A breeze too light to move a leave, but heavy enough to caress his cheek, picks up and carries this scent, its very unusual and being unclear as to what it is. The breeze happily obliges and teases the hairs with in his nose, adding to the excitement of his senses, what could this smell on earth possibly be. One by one the scent is dissected, liver, kinas or sea eggs to the untrained fisherman, roast pumpkin and eggs!!! No this smell is not nice at all.
He reaches down and with his right hand picks up a stick, with his two hands on the slippery narrow wooden things he hoists himself up, and moves slowly through a gap, that looks wide enough to run through. It’s as if he’s trying to escape that most undesirable of smells.
He’s moved about 6 feet by now and is standing still apart from his left hand. His fingers are doing the walking, they hover not quite touching, but not too far away to be resistant to the cold emigrating from what is before him. His fingers are clearly shaking. Looking bewildered, his hands travel high and then low, to the left and to the right are wide open spaces of this huge solid mass that just does not want to move. So he moves, searching for an answer. A metal stand suspended at shoulder height protruding what must be two of his hand widths out into the open, obstructs his path.
His fingers have done their job well, they race over this stand and when they come to a sudden halt, they are on top of a hard 50ml thick object with many bumps on it. Promptly he pulls it out, and turns in a 180 degree angle.
He pauses; a door squeaks against its metal base, it needs some CRC. There’s a constant crackle of dry autumn leaves and a stream of water, slurping its way down the bath drain but he’s inside, how can this be? Mutterings, many, too many voices full the air, and they encase him. A draft is formed, yet patiently he stands there and waits, until the silence is once again back .The odd chatter is heard, but it’s at a distance, then with his stick he strides out into the wide open spaces, moving at a confident rate, with his stick swinging to his left and right. He approaches a smaller obstacle, knock, knock, as the stick hits something wooden.
“Can I help you Sir?” he hears the young gentle voice of a girl say. He raises his right hand and feels a flat smooth surface about tummy height and explores it checking that it is safe and clear of obstructions to place his 50ml object upon.
Beep, click, click, a scatter of movement by the girl is made. “Have a good day Sir”, she says.
He raises his left hand and reaches for his book, slowly turning a half circle. a warmth coming from outside beckons him, begging for him to spend the few remaining hours of the day basking in the glory of fresh air. He pauses again for a few seconds, hears little but the birds singing beyond. With his stick freely moving from left to right in front of him, he walks to forwards following the heat. Stopping only for a moment to raise his right arm and move his hand in a small wave like motion, as if to say good bye. His journey to the library is complete.
scared
dunno why I'm sharing this one, but its fairly old, a bit before i came to Korea.
He sits there waiting, staring out the window. Questions full his mind, when is it going to begin? How it will it end? What will it take?
The journey is all but near, he knows this road he takes might not give him the answers he so desire, but that is something he will find when he has travelled it. He is taking a huge risk, he knows it but without risk all hope is dead and the faith is gone.
Its raining, its pissing down outside. Nothing to do except for sit by that window, travelling down the long goat tracks of memories. In a few days he will leave all that he knows and loves. His friends his family, all that he trusts, in the hope of achieving something new in a far off land. His dreams will be of the days back home, walking down the beach on a hot Sunday afternoon, relaxing, with his dog by his side.
None of that will happen in the middle of the north island. Going somewhere completely new, knowing no-one, but himself. The pressures of having to meet new people and make new friends, when he has heaps back here. Hell it might not even work out. Will he run or will he stay? Does he have the balls to continue with such an arduous task?
He’s scared shitless, but deep down in his heart he knows this is the right thing to do. He knows that complacency has become his middle name, and to stay any longer in this place will not help him achieve any further, and his past ideas and experiences will be relived, if action does not become his middle name.
He sits there waiting, staring out the window. Questions full his mind, when is it going to begin? How it will it end? What will it take?
The journey is all but near, he knows this road he takes might not give him the answers he so desire, but that is something he will find when he has travelled it. He is taking a huge risk, he knows it but without risk all hope is dead and the faith is gone.
Its raining, its pissing down outside. Nothing to do except for sit by that window, travelling down the long goat tracks of memories. In a few days he will leave all that he knows and loves. His friends his family, all that he trusts, in the hope of achieving something new in a far off land. His dreams will be of the days back home, walking down the beach on a hot Sunday afternoon, relaxing, with his dog by his side.
None of that will happen in the middle of the north island. Going somewhere completely new, knowing no-one, but himself. The pressures of having to meet new people and make new friends, when he has heaps back here. Hell it might not even work out. Will he run or will he stay? Does he have the balls to continue with such an arduous task?
He’s scared shitless, but deep down in his heart he knows this is the right thing to do. He knows that complacency has become his middle name, and to stay any longer in this place will not help him achieve any further, and his past ideas and experiences will be relived, if action does not become his middle name.
The thistle meets its destiny
To those who know me, or think they do, this is the one thing that got me to Korea, the rest of the actions since this thing occurring, have been mere consequences, I recognise this story as the biggest turning point in my life, and I'm so grateful for it.
The Thistle meets his destiny
I lay there basking in the hot sun, on the big red Honda four wheeler motorbike. It was covered in dried mud dripping from its frame stopping only inches from the ground. It was as if the mud was frozen in time. With my grubber lying behind me I stared mindlessly out into the lime green pasture. Three hours sleep only moments before just wasn’t enough, especially after a hard night out on the grog and smoking the herbal medicine. I had missed the mornings milking completely and I was glad I had. The thought of seeing the boss sent shivers down my spine …. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing him either.
It took a while but my arms and legs eventually got the message as I staggered across the uneven paddock to a lone thistle, each bump seemed like a mountain to climb and every drop made me gulp in fright. The poor thistle had no idea of what was coming. As I raised the grubber like a golf club and sliced it out of the ground, roots and all, I chuckled to myself, “Huh, this was kinda like what I had done to the boss earlier that morning”, “Oh no, what had I done!!!!” My cheeks lost their redness and a tear of regret sat in the corner of my left eye.
The sound of his bike purring down the farm track encased my ears and all I could picture was the look of disappointment in his face. My arms started moving faster, eating away at those ghastly thistles and a cool sweat formed beneath my pits. I heard the engine cut out and dared to glance up. Momentarily I was captured in his slow movements striding across the paddock. As he got closer a second tear found a resting place in the corner of my right eye. This day, there was none of the normal banter, no talk of the days plan, nor of yesterday’s cricket game. The marks had shone out on his face where the stream of grief and disbelief had laid tracks on his face, and I knew why.
“Did you come and get some gas last night?? He had demanded in agony.
“No” I had replied, although my face, as white as fresh cow’s milk, told him otherwise.
I followed him back to the shed on my big red, leaving the grubber beside the thistle - I wished I now was. The evidence was clear, a full twenty litre can on petrol left carelessly below the tanks, where much, much more had been stolen from not long before. The police were there waiting to take me away. I was guided to the patrol car where I sat behind the bars wondering, “Is this really real?”
Deep inside my head I travelled back to the previous afternoon. It had been quiet; I had been resting at home, a small white batch no bigger than the area of an average sized sitting room, situated on a large section with a lawn that was long enough to make hay off, in the centre of a tiny village on the outskirts of Central Hawkes Bay, named Takapau. I was drinking a well earned beer after a hard day’s work, when two mates had turned up. They entered my castle and found the skeletal remains of their cannabis plants scattered throughout. Fury swept across their brow, this was something they weren’t ameant to know about. In my haste and over the smoking of a few peace pipes an offering was made and free petrol would be their token. We raised our glasses and drunk many, many bottles of courage in agreement.
Finally the time came and I cast my misgivings and doubts aside. Adrenalin took over and under a blanket of darkness we crept, as quietly as drunken people could, up to the petrol tank on the bosses’ farm. I with my key let the angel juice flow. The deal was complete and so were my days at a job I loved so much and with a boss who treated me so well. He had believed in me when no one else would, and had seen hope where I saw failure and I repaid his faith by doing this!
I arrived at the Police Station and, like a criminal, was taken in the back to the cells. My face was quivering and my hands were shaking. All the soap in the world couldn’t of cleaned the dirtiness off my body that I felt. The ride had supposedly been for a breath test and it worked well. I passed the test, but failed to keep my strength. I bawled like a baby and confessed my sins to the officer. The thought of looking into a mirror and seeing a stranger terrified me. But it was too late; or was it?
The police let me off with a warning. In confusion, the boss said “farewell”. No golden handshake to be had. And as I stood by my car listening to the wind, her words telling me what I had ignored the night before. Something was going to change, I didn’t know when nor how, but dreams would come true and this would be the blessing I had been hunting for all my life.
Less than six months later help was at hand, and by golly I wasn’t going to play the folly for too much longer. That night of regret when I saw myself for not being this cool calm and collected person, but rather a soul who walked over too many toes, wistfully drifting over the dry dusty plains of Takapau in mid summer. It was the night that left a scar deep within my heart, but set in motion a band aid, to heal all my pains?
The Thistle meets his destiny
I lay there basking in the hot sun, on the big red Honda four wheeler motorbike. It was covered in dried mud dripping from its frame stopping only inches from the ground. It was as if the mud was frozen in time. With my grubber lying behind me I stared mindlessly out into the lime green pasture. Three hours sleep only moments before just wasn’t enough, especially after a hard night out on the grog and smoking the herbal medicine. I had missed the mornings milking completely and I was glad I had. The thought of seeing the boss sent shivers down my spine …. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing him either.
It took a while but my arms and legs eventually got the message as I staggered across the uneven paddock to a lone thistle, each bump seemed like a mountain to climb and every drop made me gulp in fright. The poor thistle had no idea of what was coming. As I raised the grubber like a golf club and sliced it out of the ground, roots and all, I chuckled to myself, “Huh, this was kinda like what I had done to the boss earlier that morning”, “Oh no, what had I done!!!!” My cheeks lost their redness and a tear of regret sat in the corner of my left eye.
The sound of his bike purring down the farm track encased my ears and all I could picture was the look of disappointment in his face. My arms started moving faster, eating away at those ghastly thistles and a cool sweat formed beneath my pits. I heard the engine cut out and dared to glance up. Momentarily I was captured in his slow movements striding across the paddock. As he got closer a second tear found a resting place in the corner of my right eye. This day, there was none of the normal banter, no talk of the days plan, nor of yesterday’s cricket game. The marks had shone out on his face where the stream of grief and disbelief had laid tracks on his face, and I knew why.
“Did you come and get some gas last night?? He had demanded in agony.
“No” I had replied, although my face, as white as fresh cow’s milk, told him otherwise.
I followed him back to the shed on my big red, leaving the grubber beside the thistle - I wished I now was. The evidence was clear, a full twenty litre can on petrol left carelessly below the tanks, where much, much more had been stolen from not long before. The police were there waiting to take me away. I was guided to the patrol car where I sat behind the bars wondering, “Is this really real?”
Deep inside my head I travelled back to the previous afternoon. It had been quiet; I had been resting at home, a small white batch no bigger than the area of an average sized sitting room, situated on a large section with a lawn that was long enough to make hay off, in the centre of a tiny village on the outskirts of Central Hawkes Bay, named Takapau. I was drinking a well earned beer after a hard day’s work, when two mates had turned up. They entered my castle and found the skeletal remains of their cannabis plants scattered throughout. Fury swept across their brow, this was something they weren’t ameant to know about. In my haste and over the smoking of a few peace pipes an offering was made and free petrol would be their token. We raised our glasses and drunk many, many bottles of courage in agreement.
Finally the time came and I cast my misgivings and doubts aside. Adrenalin took over and under a blanket of darkness we crept, as quietly as drunken people could, up to the petrol tank on the bosses’ farm. I with my key let the angel juice flow. The deal was complete and so were my days at a job I loved so much and with a boss who treated me so well. He had believed in me when no one else would, and had seen hope where I saw failure and I repaid his faith by doing this!
I arrived at the Police Station and, like a criminal, was taken in the back to the cells. My face was quivering and my hands were shaking. All the soap in the world couldn’t of cleaned the dirtiness off my body that I felt. The ride had supposedly been for a breath test and it worked well. I passed the test, but failed to keep my strength. I bawled like a baby and confessed my sins to the officer. The thought of looking into a mirror and seeing a stranger terrified me. But it was too late; or was it?
The police let me off with a warning. In confusion, the boss said “farewell”. No golden handshake to be had. And as I stood by my car listening to the wind, her words telling me what I had ignored the night before. Something was going to change, I didn’t know when nor how, but dreams would come true and this would be the blessing I had been hunting for all my life.
Less than six months later help was at hand, and by golly I wasn’t going to play the folly for too much longer. That night of regret when I saw myself for not being this cool calm and collected person, but rather a soul who walked over too many toes, wistfully drifting over the dry dusty plains of Takapau in mid summer. It was the night that left a scar deep within my heart, but set in motion a band aid, to heal all my pains?
the box
Alone, it sits there. The heat of the sun hiding it in a haze of imagination. It smiles, never stopping. Its pink eyes scare me, they are laughing but in an evil kind of way.
I cautiously approach it, why is it laughing, I wonder. I see a small wooden box, yet before I reach it, an almighty bang kills my ears and I am thrown aback onto the ground. The sky fades into black and all I can see is a big ugly clowns head hovering above me. I claw the ground around me, yet I am caught. My mouth as dry like a sour apple. My left hand knocks something cold, reaching for my monocle I discover it’s a bottle of grapefruit juice, I swallow it whole. From beneath the old magnolia tree in full bloom, steps my elderly uncle, who says “don’t worry my boy; it’s only a pink jack-in-a-box.”
I cautiously approach it, why is it laughing, I wonder. I see a small wooden box, yet before I reach it, an almighty bang kills my ears and I am thrown aback onto the ground. The sky fades into black and all I can see is a big ugly clowns head hovering above me. I claw the ground around me, yet I am caught. My mouth as dry like a sour apple. My left hand knocks something cold, reaching for my monocle I discover it’s a bottle of grapefruit juice, I swallow it whole. From beneath the old magnolia tree in full bloom, steps my elderly uncle, who says “don’t worry my boy; it’s only a pink jack-in-a-box.”
Dressed
Dressed
You see it all the time; whether you know its happening or not is a completely different story. Society dictates to us that this is the way it has to be, even though we might not agree with it. The rules have been set in concrete for such a long time, that it is hard to form a crack and undo the myth.
I woke up this morning; it was like most other mornings. I lay there blissfully unaware of any concept of time. I was thinking whether or not I should get out of bed. The warmth of my duvet, after a hard fought nights rest, compelled me to stay there long after the alarm had gone off. I raised my hands high above my head and brought them down in a wide circle, bringing them back up to my eyes in the hope of getting rid of any sleep that might be left in their surroundings. A voice out of the dark spoke to me, it was as loud and as clear as any on a public announcement system at a rugby stadium. It was the same one I hear every morning, repeating those familiar words “Get your fat arse out of bed, you lazy prick!” And just to prove it wasn’t kidding, my leg that was no longer mine, kicked my duvet off the bed onto the floor, leaving me nowhere to hide except for my birth day suit.
The crisp fresh air son arose me, the coolness of an icy morning I did not like. There upon came my next daily ritual as I painfully stood up and stepped out, into the confines of my mind. I stand there, searching for something to wear, who am I going to see today? What are they going to think of my appearance? Where am I going?
I open up my top draw and put on my undies. The orange ones, my memories of a child. Of being free, playing in the ditch back home with my Tonka trucks and tractors, “Hey Jim can you hurry up and load me, that roads got to be built today or old man Joe will have a hernia!” “Give me a second Bob, I got a blown gasket, the mechanic will be here soon.” Just sitting there away from mum and dad, playing by myself with not a care in the world, the sparrows are singing in the trees above and I am lost in a world of my own. Carving out roads, and floating huge ships up the stream to off load my precious cargo of Lego. I’d build my little settlements and have many farms. But as always, there would be a fight and bombers would come flying over head, while a battalion approached from the south, ruining my perfect sanctuary. Being sick of this game I stand up and run out onto the farm looking for another adventure. Too many trees to climb, too many animals to play with, too much mud to get messy in (well there can never be enough mud). I know I’ll go tad poling, I race up and grab my big brother, nearly tearing his arm out of its socket. “Can we go for a ride on the motor bike? Please!!!” I scream, “Go tad poling”. And before he can reply I’m sitting on the petrol tank waiting for him to take me.
Next I put on my socks, first the right. I look at it, being still half asleep, and see between its threads, a boy in a room, he’s staring out the window, yet there is a row of desks with other kids, he must be in a classroom, he must be at school. Huh was it that boring? At a closer look I see a textbook in front of him, with the words maths 101 inscribed no wonder!! Brrrrrrinngggg, a bell rings and the kids all pile out of the class, each into their groups, the teachers pets all huddle around their books, the sporty kids race onto the fields, and the dreamers stroll arrogantly to the mirrors. Yet this boy, he slowly walks outside, looks around with glaring, “uh so what, I don’t give a shit.” He curses (he’s up to no good, I can tell by the look on his face), before disappearing behind a building, where there’s a few boys waiting. He pulls out a cigarette from his pocket, and it’s not long before he is coughing and ch/joking with his peers. One of the guys pulls out something green, tainting that young innocent face I had just seen. Being not sure if I wasn’t to see any more I scour this draw for another sock.
Then I put on the left sock. I can’t find a matching pair, so a black one will do. But it’s not just a black sock, it speaks words, whispering quietly to me, so soft I can only just hear them (Damn I must have had some good shit last night!!). I listen carefully and dream old nightmares that make me shudder, my heart beats strongly, sweat warms my pits. And damn!! This sock stinks!! Things have gotten worse. I see myself. I relive old fears, a small boy into a grown man, with a question mark above his head. He’s trapped, like a monkey in a zoo, his eyes staring unabatedly at the ground; no reason to look up, when there’s dirt on the floor. I want to rescue this poor guy, yet I know any attempt will fail, especially with that storm of secrets brewing right above his head. A thin white light darts all around him, leaving a silk trail, much like the thread of a spiders web, and I wonder will he see this gift that is being offered, Or will he sit there, with his secrets holding him captive. I close the draw, with this sock stuck to my foot. Thinking, there has to be a better solution to my nakedness. I close the draw, still searching for some warmth.
I’m ready now for something to wear on top. Wearily I open my middle draw.
Shirts and jerseys leap to my attention. There’s my nice going out clothes, the ones I wear when I really want to impress certain people and depict a certain image. Or there are the ones with the typical farm boy look, the familiar and sane, they are the ones that spell out who I am, without a letter being touched. Yet this old woollen jersey, that mum knitted for me, strikes my eye. It looks comfortable and soft to the touch. I pick it up and look deep within. I see the boy again, he has a huge grin, family and friends surround him, a cat smooches his legs, and a dog drops a ball at his feet. He’s at home just chilling. He looks content. I’m taken on a quick journey, the observer from the sky, watching his past antics. Laughing, feeling the good that has come from so little effort, this jersey does not say as much as the others, rather it creates and lets the imagination do its talking. I put it down, with a smile growing, I am reminded of all the good that is free and ready in the world. I’ve got to wear this one, if not before any thing else. I raise it to my nose and smell it, instantly an invisible barrier flows into my lungs and I am secure.
I slip on my singlet, my honesty. My thoughts and reality, my feelings towards others and my conditioning as to how I’ve been brought up to be. My truth in every sense of the word I keep very close to my chest. Tight and under plenty of layers. It’s protected against the harsh conditions of the external; very few people would ever get to see this item. It is one of my four most essential pieces of clothing. To show this singlet to anyone would be like being naked and my vulnerabilities would be exposed. How would people react of they knew the real me? Surely I need some form of defence.
So on I go, the road is far from complete. There’s still plenty more moods of jeans and attitudes of jackets to pick from before I head out. They say the clothes maketh the man, or is it the man maketh the clothes. I dress myself, from the inside out. First on goes the undies, protecting my jewels, my inner self. Then as the shirts go on, and the jeans come up, I begin to paint a picture. Who is it I want people to see today? My old torn shirt and faded jeans, the casual cabbage look, giving me a defence and a wall behind me to fall back upon. Or is it the business shirt and tie, dressed up to look smart and impress some body I’ll never see again, or a person not from the old town, who doesn’t know me too well. These layers of clothes appear so simple, but the more I put on, the greater the reflection I see in my mobile phone. I stare at it, seeing my body around different people in different places. The phone flashes pxt messages images across its screen, a different me for a different person, for a different situation. Am I the same me to you, as I am with my brother? What have you got that I want and how can I get it? What appearance or form do I have to take on to survive in this world?
With nothing short of a huge effort I heave open the bottom draw, my last and final mission. I’ve seen myself in a haze realising that deceit is more than just a phase. I look down, I’m squinting so much I can hardly see inside, yet something’s down there it’s so small I almost missed it. It’s just sitting there all alone peacefully minding its own business, yet it speaks to me (I don’t remember what I had last night but it must have been good!) and I am drawn to it, like a mouse to the trap. I find myself in a closet, running towards it. Clothes fly off their hooks, such is the pace and desire at which I want, need it. And when I get there, through my exhaustion I see it is not one, but many. I drop to my knees with tears racing down my cheeks to form a shallow pool on the floor before me. I realise I don’t want to wear it yet the thought of being without it is too hard to comprehend. It’s like my cigarettes, a horrible unhealthy addiction that will kill me in the end, yet it’s something I enjoy and quite frankly I know no other way, I do not choose the one, the mask I wish to wear, rather it chooses me. It rises from its seat, slowly spinning, its glare catches my thoughts turning them into grey and there it hovers for a few agonising seconds before setting upon my face, sealing itself there with a tube of liquid nails and a box of inch long multiscrews.
I fall out of my mind, landing back in the present. Only to find myself staring at the floor, shrinkage has set in. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there for, but I’m sure I’ve missed the bus. I get dressed, undeniably questioning why I am wearing certain clothes. Hey why don’t I go naked? Na too cold. Besides if a man, a person, were to walk starkers down Fitzherbert Avenue on their way to Massey, or any where in fact, surely society would frown. And they’d get arrested. That myth of freedom, so strong, yet so fake would have some rapid set cement poured over it and that tiny crack would be sealed for yet another day.
You see it all the time; whether you know its happening or not is a completely different story. Society dictates to us that this is the way it has to be, even though we might not agree with it. The rules have been set in concrete for such a long time, that it is hard to form a crack and undo the myth.
I woke up this morning; it was like most other mornings. I lay there blissfully unaware of any concept of time. I was thinking whether or not I should get out of bed. The warmth of my duvet, after a hard fought nights rest, compelled me to stay there long after the alarm had gone off. I raised my hands high above my head and brought them down in a wide circle, bringing them back up to my eyes in the hope of getting rid of any sleep that might be left in their surroundings. A voice out of the dark spoke to me, it was as loud and as clear as any on a public announcement system at a rugby stadium. It was the same one I hear every morning, repeating those familiar words “Get your fat arse out of bed, you lazy prick!” And just to prove it wasn’t kidding, my leg that was no longer mine, kicked my duvet off the bed onto the floor, leaving me nowhere to hide except for my birth day suit.
The crisp fresh air son arose me, the coolness of an icy morning I did not like. There upon came my next daily ritual as I painfully stood up and stepped out, into the confines of my mind. I stand there, searching for something to wear, who am I going to see today? What are they going to think of my appearance? Where am I going?
I open up my top draw and put on my undies. The orange ones, my memories of a child. Of being free, playing in the ditch back home with my Tonka trucks and tractors, “Hey Jim can you hurry up and load me, that roads got to be built today or old man Joe will have a hernia!” “Give me a second Bob, I got a blown gasket, the mechanic will be here soon.” Just sitting there away from mum and dad, playing by myself with not a care in the world, the sparrows are singing in the trees above and I am lost in a world of my own. Carving out roads, and floating huge ships up the stream to off load my precious cargo of Lego. I’d build my little settlements and have many farms. But as always, there would be a fight and bombers would come flying over head, while a battalion approached from the south, ruining my perfect sanctuary. Being sick of this game I stand up and run out onto the farm looking for another adventure. Too many trees to climb, too many animals to play with, too much mud to get messy in (well there can never be enough mud). I know I’ll go tad poling, I race up and grab my big brother, nearly tearing his arm out of its socket. “Can we go for a ride on the motor bike? Please!!!” I scream, “Go tad poling”. And before he can reply I’m sitting on the petrol tank waiting for him to take me.
Next I put on my socks, first the right. I look at it, being still half asleep, and see between its threads, a boy in a room, he’s staring out the window, yet there is a row of desks with other kids, he must be in a classroom, he must be at school. Huh was it that boring? At a closer look I see a textbook in front of him, with the words maths 101 inscribed no wonder!! Brrrrrrinngggg, a bell rings and the kids all pile out of the class, each into their groups, the teachers pets all huddle around their books, the sporty kids race onto the fields, and the dreamers stroll arrogantly to the mirrors. Yet this boy, he slowly walks outside, looks around with glaring, “uh so what, I don’t give a shit.” He curses (he’s up to no good, I can tell by the look on his face), before disappearing behind a building, where there’s a few boys waiting. He pulls out a cigarette from his pocket, and it’s not long before he is coughing and ch/joking with his peers. One of the guys pulls out something green, tainting that young innocent face I had just seen. Being not sure if I wasn’t to see any more I scour this draw for another sock.
Then I put on the left sock. I can’t find a matching pair, so a black one will do. But it’s not just a black sock, it speaks words, whispering quietly to me, so soft I can only just hear them (Damn I must have had some good shit last night!!). I listen carefully and dream old nightmares that make me shudder, my heart beats strongly, sweat warms my pits. And damn!! This sock stinks!! Things have gotten worse. I see myself. I relive old fears, a small boy into a grown man, with a question mark above his head. He’s trapped, like a monkey in a zoo, his eyes staring unabatedly at the ground; no reason to look up, when there’s dirt on the floor. I want to rescue this poor guy, yet I know any attempt will fail, especially with that storm of secrets brewing right above his head. A thin white light darts all around him, leaving a silk trail, much like the thread of a spiders web, and I wonder will he see this gift that is being offered, Or will he sit there, with his secrets holding him captive. I close the draw, with this sock stuck to my foot. Thinking, there has to be a better solution to my nakedness. I close the draw, still searching for some warmth.
I’m ready now for something to wear on top. Wearily I open my middle draw.
Shirts and jerseys leap to my attention. There’s my nice going out clothes, the ones I wear when I really want to impress certain people and depict a certain image. Or there are the ones with the typical farm boy look, the familiar and sane, they are the ones that spell out who I am, without a letter being touched. Yet this old woollen jersey, that mum knitted for me, strikes my eye. It looks comfortable and soft to the touch. I pick it up and look deep within. I see the boy again, he has a huge grin, family and friends surround him, a cat smooches his legs, and a dog drops a ball at his feet. He’s at home just chilling. He looks content. I’m taken on a quick journey, the observer from the sky, watching his past antics. Laughing, feeling the good that has come from so little effort, this jersey does not say as much as the others, rather it creates and lets the imagination do its talking. I put it down, with a smile growing, I am reminded of all the good that is free and ready in the world. I’ve got to wear this one, if not before any thing else. I raise it to my nose and smell it, instantly an invisible barrier flows into my lungs and I am secure.
I slip on my singlet, my honesty. My thoughts and reality, my feelings towards others and my conditioning as to how I’ve been brought up to be. My truth in every sense of the word I keep very close to my chest. Tight and under plenty of layers. It’s protected against the harsh conditions of the external; very few people would ever get to see this item. It is one of my four most essential pieces of clothing. To show this singlet to anyone would be like being naked and my vulnerabilities would be exposed. How would people react of they knew the real me? Surely I need some form of defence.
So on I go, the road is far from complete. There’s still plenty more moods of jeans and attitudes of jackets to pick from before I head out. They say the clothes maketh the man, or is it the man maketh the clothes. I dress myself, from the inside out. First on goes the undies, protecting my jewels, my inner self. Then as the shirts go on, and the jeans come up, I begin to paint a picture. Who is it I want people to see today? My old torn shirt and faded jeans, the casual cabbage look, giving me a defence and a wall behind me to fall back upon. Or is it the business shirt and tie, dressed up to look smart and impress some body I’ll never see again, or a person not from the old town, who doesn’t know me too well. These layers of clothes appear so simple, but the more I put on, the greater the reflection I see in my mobile phone. I stare at it, seeing my body around different people in different places. The phone flashes pxt messages images across its screen, a different me for a different person, for a different situation. Am I the same me to you, as I am with my brother? What have you got that I want and how can I get it? What appearance or form do I have to take on to survive in this world?
With nothing short of a huge effort I heave open the bottom draw, my last and final mission. I’ve seen myself in a haze realising that deceit is more than just a phase. I look down, I’m squinting so much I can hardly see inside, yet something’s down there it’s so small I almost missed it. It’s just sitting there all alone peacefully minding its own business, yet it speaks to me (I don’t remember what I had last night but it must have been good!) and I am drawn to it, like a mouse to the trap. I find myself in a closet, running towards it. Clothes fly off their hooks, such is the pace and desire at which I want, need it. And when I get there, through my exhaustion I see it is not one, but many. I drop to my knees with tears racing down my cheeks to form a shallow pool on the floor before me. I realise I don’t want to wear it yet the thought of being without it is too hard to comprehend. It’s like my cigarettes, a horrible unhealthy addiction that will kill me in the end, yet it’s something I enjoy and quite frankly I know no other way, I do not choose the one, the mask I wish to wear, rather it chooses me. It rises from its seat, slowly spinning, its glare catches my thoughts turning them into grey and there it hovers for a few agonising seconds before setting upon my face, sealing itself there with a tube of liquid nails and a box of inch long multiscrews.
I fall out of my mind, landing back in the present. Only to find myself staring at the floor, shrinkage has set in. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there for, but I’m sure I’ve missed the bus. I get dressed, undeniably questioning why I am wearing certain clothes. Hey why don’t I go naked? Na too cold. Besides if a man, a person, were to walk starkers down Fitzherbert Avenue on their way to Massey, or any where in fact, surely society would frown. And they’d get arrested. That myth of freedom, so strong, yet so fake would have some rapid set cement poured over it and that tiny crack would be sealed for yet another day.
chairs
This is ameant to be an observation where I describe the sounds and smells of where I am.
Scratching the floor the chairs move in and out from under the table, an electronic keyboard pulsing slowly fading to an end. The songs changed now, faster beat. The words “we got some money” flows out through the wide open spaces with a soft voice getting more rushed as the drum beats faster, a guitar strung harmoniously with the vocalist. An advertisement for classic hits comes over the airwaves. A female singing now, higher pitched than before. Piano keys glazed over, the base maybe guitar or drum I can’t quite tell. The timing seemingly perfect as she picks up the words at exactly the right moment.
A clatter of dishes, a door bouncing shut. Voices tales of chatter surrounding my ears. A girl, a lady speaking loudly, she says” I’ve got like”, then her voice dampens off again. Cupboard doors clapping shut, glasses knocking each other. The coffee machine churning, knives and forks being dropped into the sink, the sound of metal clanging against metal.
Laughter, a hur hur. Plates cling clang, shuffle, shuffle, a chair screeching against the floor. The words hits of the 70’s 80’s and 90’s beams across the radio. Rickey Martin is singing to the tune “She makes you take your clothes off and go dancing in the rain, Living de vidiloca”. Plastic bags rustling, a piercing screeching noise, short and swift.
Chatter, mostly men’s voices, chairs screeching against the floor, repeating the same pattern over and over again. Phil Collins is singing now, the action of the kitchen is loud and clear, I can hear the coffee machine making a frothing bubbly noise followed by a piercing noise, suggesting that the coffee is ready. The soft patter of feet floating over the floor with customers rushing to and fro.
The strong dry musty wood like aroma of fresh roasted coffee beans wavers through the air and I am engrossed in its fragrance feeling compelled to go buy another. The sweet sticky scent of oven cooked chocolate chip biscuits plays with my senses and I know this is a dangerous place to be, especially when I haven’t got much money. A lady walks past and I smell her perfume, it’s as if she just stepped out of the shower, Fresh and full of desire, a most heavenly creature. I am overcome with excitement so I place my hands on the table and pull myself up then gracefully stroll out of this place of temptation.
Scratching the floor the chairs move in and out from under the table, an electronic keyboard pulsing slowly fading to an end. The songs changed now, faster beat. The words “we got some money” flows out through the wide open spaces with a soft voice getting more rushed as the drum beats faster, a guitar strung harmoniously with the vocalist. An advertisement for classic hits comes over the airwaves. A female singing now, higher pitched than before. Piano keys glazed over, the base maybe guitar or drum I can’t quite tell. The timing seemingly perfect as she picks up the words at exactly the right moment.
A clatter of dishes, a door bouncing shut. Voices tales of chatter surrounding my ears. A girl, a lady speaking loudly, she says” I’ve got like”, then her voice dampens off again. Cupboard doors clapping shut, glasses knocking each other. The coffee machine churning, knives and forks being dropped into the sink, the sound of metal clanging against metal.
Laughter, a hur hur. Plates cling clang, shuffle, shuffle, a chair screeching against the floor. The words hits of the 70’s 80’s and 90’s beams across the radio. Rickey Martin is singing to the tune “She makes you take your clothes off and go dancing in the rain, Living de vidiloca”. Plastic bags rustling, a piercing screeching noise, short and swift.
Chatter, mostly men’s voices, chairs screeching against the floor, repeating the same pattern over and over again. Phil Collins is singing now, the action of the kitchen is loud and clear, I can hear the coffee machine making a frothing bubbly noise followed by a piercing noise, suggesting that the coffee is ready. The soft patter of feet floating over the floor with customers rushing to and fro.
The strong dry musty wood like aroma of fresh roasted coffee beans wavers through the air and I am engrossed in its fragrance feeling compelled to go buy another. The sweet sticky scent of oven cooked chocolate chip biscuits plays with my senses and I know this is a dangerous place to be, especially when I haven’t got much money. A lady walks past and I smell her perfume, it’s as if she just stepped out of the shower, Fresh and full of desire, a most heavenly creature. I am overcome with excitement so I place my hands on the table and pull myself up then gracefully stroll out of this place of temptation.
honey
The honey drops,
Which way does it flow?
Only the queen knows,
Its dew climaxes,
Forming a sweet white crust,
Life explodes from within,
Before a shattering silence,
Only tremors are felt.
The honey has settled and the hive is once again free
The sky has fallen,
My heart has stopped,
And you are but my light without a star
The honey crawls out from within its comb,
Dropping slilently onto the floors of the hive below,
Bees frantically swarm all over it,
Sucking up every last drop,
Then carefully depositing it into an empty hollow.
The larvae ravage all of the honey’s sweetness,
Relentlessly chasing that goal of maturing into a bee.
Which way does it flow?
Only the queen knows,
Its dew climaxes,
Forming a sweet white crust,
Life explodes from within,
Before a shattering silence,
Only tremors are felt.
The honey has settled and the hive is once again free
The sky has fallen,
My heart has stopped,
And you are but my light without a star
The honey crawls out from within its comb,
Dropping slilently onto the floors of the hive below,
Bees frantically swarm all over it,
Sucking up every last drop,
Then carefully depositing it into an empty hollow.
The larvae ravage all of the honey’s sweetness,
Relentlessly chasing that goal of maturing into a bee.
the gannet
The Gannet
A gannet chick, sits there alone,
Boulders surround him,
Behind him a tree clings onto the cliff edge,
The sea echoes his name, summoning him to take that leap of faith,
Does he stay or does he go?
Fallen from the safety of his nest,
With no way back up,
He is faced with the only choice left,
Death or life,
What one will it be?
A cloth, a physical remembrance of a task once done,
Of a deed of a memory, of a time enjoyed by all,
To celebrate a life in passing,
On a journey to neither here nor there,
Just not to yesteryear,
Yet, only to tomorrow.
A photo, to bring air to that, that was once,
Magically capturing those images that do not and can not appear more,
A gift, not wrapped in silk paper,
Nor left lying below lights and green leaves, capped in snow,
But surrounded in that essence, of greatness,
Words, stumble in the dark, bumping into each other, whilst riding the zorb,
Mother earth spits out her fiery breath,
Heating the waters beneath her, turning her soil into angry lahars,
Yet still the cows, will be late to the shed,
And the calves will still cry, when left alone at night,
Life, will try with all its might, to make sense of this fuss,
Yet, still those words will not complete that sentence,
Which are washed away by the heavy rains of Linton,
Then so perhaps the greatest gift of all is not what is given,
Yet is what is received,
That white gannet, no longer a chick,
Circles high above,
Admiring the beauty beneath him,
A lump floats down his throat, a miracle has occurred,
Yet life has not stopped, thus he has fed his appetite,
And with a quick flick of his giant white wing,
He disappears from the cape, over the horizon,
Carrying that gift deep inside, forever.
A gannet chick, sits there alone,
Boulders surround him,
Behind him a tree clings onto the cliff edge,
The sea echoes his name, summoning him to take that leap of faith,
Does he stay or does he go?
Fallen from the safety of his nest,
With no way back up,
He is faced with the only choice left,
Death or life,
What one will it be?
A cloth, a physical remembrance of a task once done,
Of a deed of a memory, of a time enjoyed by all,
To celebrate a life in passing,
On a journey to neither here nor there,
Just not to yesteryear,
Yet, only to tomorrow.
A photo, to bring air to that, that was once,
Magically capturing those images that do not and can not appear more,
A gift, not wrapped in silk paper,
Nor left lying below lights and green leaves, capped in snow,
But surrounded in that essence, of greatness,
Words, stumble in the dark, bumping into each other, whilst riding the zorb,
Mother earth spits out her fiery breath,
Heating the waters beneath her, turning her soil into angry lahars,
Yet still the cows, will be late to the shed,
And the calves will still cry, when left alone at night,
Life, will try with all its might, to make sense of this fuss,
Yet, still those words will not complete that sentence,
Which are washed away by the heavy rains of Linton,
Then so perhaps the greatest gift of all is not what is given,
Yet is what is received,
That white gannet, no longer a chick,
Circles high above,
Admiring the beauty beneath him,
A lump floats down his throat, a miracle has occurred,
Yet life has not stopped, thus he has fed his appetite,
And with a quick flick of his giant white wing,
He disappears from the cape, over the horizon,
Carrying that gift deep inside, forever.
the last slice of chocolate cake
THE LAST SLICE OF CHOCOLATE CAKE
I hear those words repeating themselves over and over again. “You’re a failure Son, Boy get outta here before you shame our family any more”
It was with hearing those words I had packed my bags and relunctly walked down our drive, out the gate, stuck out my thumb and shuffled my feet towards an unknown destination.
My head watching nothing but the stones I stepped on, step by step, daring not to look up in case I stared into the eyes of another and they saw my tormented soul.
Cars racing past, splish splash were the sounds of the puddles engrossing me from every sound made. A gale was rushing past me, trying to hold me back. The rain, thrashing my body. It was as if someone or something was trying to prevent me from continuing on my journey.
I could not go back, I would not go back. Not ever, not to see the glee of satisfaction in the old mans face, to hear him smut once again “I told you so boy, a nothing, a nobody, and will always be, ha ha ha”. Yeah well this time mate, I’m going to prove to you and the whole God damn world who I am, a man of integrity, not the idiot you portray me to be. And so on I had trekked.
Five hours and two rides later I was there, or was I? Sitting outside a pub in some far-off town I was desperate, I was lost. Pondering what had become of me.
I had had it all, a great job where I was appreciated and respected. It was a job where I had free will and could get up to my own devices without the fear of a boss laying down the law. We had been more like friends, we’ld sit down at night after milking watching the rugga and quietly sipping down a few beers. Discussing the days events and how tomorrow would eventuate. Meanwhile his wife would be putting on a roast or a stew, enough to full a hay gangs bellies twice over. Yes life was good back then.
And once a week, every Sunday, straight after morning milking, off to church it would be and a good talk with all the local farmers never went a miss.
But life was not as it seemed, behind the scenes in that mysterious under world I was doing things the boss would have never dreamt about, let alone heard of.
My life had become so full of lies and deceit I knew not what the truth was. For every question I had an answer and every answer was questionable.
Finally it all came to a head, I stood there looking deep into the mirror watching blood trickle from my cheek, a hand shaking my body trembling. I watched in horror, time seemed to stand still. The razor had slid from my reaches and bounced along the floor. I hated that man looking back at me, I despised him. Why had I been cursed with his disgusting looks and terrible fortune? I wanted to die, but didn’t know how, too gutless too weak. But somewhere, somehow there was a voice a tiny one at that, whispering to me “come on man, there has to be something better than this, there just has to be. Give it one more chance, go on, don’t end it like this when there’s so much more to live for.”
At that I knew I was ready, but for what? I came through that invisible wall that had held contained me for so long and laid it all on the floor before his face. “It was I, my father, who had committed that most heavenly sin and had eaten that last slice of Chocolate cake. The temptation was too much to bear and I devoured every last crumb like the pig I am.”
And at that he said those famous last words, “You’re a failure Son, boy get outta here before you shame our family anymore.”
And do you know what? It was worth it, because that cake was delicious!!!
I hear those words repeating themselves over and over again. “You’re a failure Son, Boy get outta here before you shame our family any more”
It was with hearing those words I had packed my bags and relunctly walked down our drive, out the gate, stuck out my thumb and shuffled my feet towards an unknown destination.
My head watching nothing but the stones I stepped on, step by step, daring not to look up in case I stared into the eyes of another and they saw my tormented soul.
Cars racing past, splish splash were the sounds of the puddles engrossing me from every sound made. A gale was rushing past me, trying to hold me back. The rain, thrashing my body. It was as if someone or something was trying to prevent me from continuing on my journey.
I could not go back, I would not go back. Not ever, not to see the glee of satisfaction in the old mans face, to hear him smut once again “I told you so boy, a nothing, a nobody, and will always be, ha ha ha”. Yeah well this time mate, I’m going to prove to you and the whole God damn world who I am, a man of integrity, not the idiot you portray me to be. And so on I had trekked.
Five hours and two rides later I was there, or was I? Sitting outside a pub in some far-off town I was desperate, I was lost. Pondering what had become of me.
I had had it all, a great job where I was appreciated and respected. It was a job where I had free will and could get up to my own devices without the fear of a boss laying down the law. We had been more like friends, we’ld sit down at night after milking watching the rugga and quietly sipping down a few beers. Discussing the days events and how tomorrow would eventuate. Meanwhile his wife would be putting on a roast or a stew, enough to full a hay gangs bellies twice over. Yes life was good back then.
And once a week, every Sunday, straight after morning milking, off to church it would be and a good talk with all the local farmers never went a miss.
But life was not as it seemed, behind the scenes in that mysterious under world I was doing things the boss would have never dreamt about, let alone heard of.
My life had become so full of lies and deceit I knew not what the truth was. For every question I had an answer and every answer was questionable.
Finally it all came to a head, I stood there looking deep into the mirror watching blood trickle from my cheek, a hand shaking my body trembling. I watched in horror, time seemed to stand still. The razor had slid from my reaches and bounced along the floor. I hated that man looking back at me, I despised him. Why had I been cursed with his disgusting looks and terrible fortune? I wanted to die, but didn’t know how, too gutless too weak. But somewhere, somehow there was a voice a tiny one at that, whispering to me “come on man, there has to be something better than this, there just has to be. Give it one more chance, go on, don’t end it like this when there’s so much more to live for.”
At that I knew I was ready, but for what? I came through that invisible wall that had held contained me for so long and laid it all on the floor before his face. “It was I, my father, who had committed that most heavenly sin and had eaten that last slice of Chocolate cake. The temptation was too much to bear and I devoured every last crumb like the pig I am.”
And at that he said those famous last words, “You’re a failure Son, boy get outta here before you shame our family anymore.”
And do you know what? It was worth it, because that cake was delicious!!!
milking
Its amazing isn’t it. How fast we grow, why it seems just like yesterday, when I was out side milking the cows. Cruizing down the farm track to the paddock. Then racing around the cows trying to get them to hurry up, all the meanwhile rarcking it up, lettingthe back wheels slide out.
And then just sitting there moving at a cows pace behind them, enjoying the hot afternoons sun.
But the simple fact was it wasn’t yesterday, and they weren’t my cows, hell I was only the visitor, nothing more but an imposter, dreaming of days gone by, yet wishing they were a part of today.
Pulling up beside the farm dairy I had told the girls here’s your surprise. Sreams of delight and fright fulled my ears. With them daring tobelieve what was to happen.
Standing tall and proud I had gallantly lead them into the shed, wheres the farmer I declared, I’m in the house, so you had better watch out!!! Simple things they were puttingthe cups on a cow, reaching between her back legs then easing each cup onto her teat. A chore performed all around the country about the same time every day, millions of time a year. I had always thought any fool could do this job.
Yet there they were, not a Kiwi, not a farmer even. And it was then that I realized that not many Kiwis get this opportunity. And there I was privelleged and honoured by their grace to be shareing this unique experience.
So it was through the sea of shit and piss we waded to get to the pit where the cows are milked
And then just sitting there moving at a cows pace behind them, enjoying the hot afternoons sun.
But the simple fact was it wasn’t yesterday, and they weren’t my cows, hell I was only the visitor, nothing more but an imposter, dreaming of days gone by, yet wishing they were a part of today.
Pulling up beside the farm dairy I had told the girls here’s your surprise. Sreams of delight and fright fulled my ears. With them daring tobelieve what was to happen.
Standing tall and proud I had gallantly lead them into the shed, wheres the farmer I declared, I’m in the house, so you had better watch out!!! Simple things they were puttingthe cups on a cow, reaching between her back legs then easing each cup onto her teat. A chore performed all around the country about the same time every day, millions of time a year. I had always thought any fool could do this job.
Yet there they were, not a Kiwi, not a farmer even. And it was then that I realized that not many Kiwis get this opportunity. And there I was privelleged and honoured by their grace to be shareing this unique experience.
So it was through the sea of shit and piss we waded to get to the pit where the cows are milked
Middle Road
Travelling down the long winding Middle road gave me time to reflect; with my boy by my side I had everything I had ever desired, though many a time I would have not thought so.
With the window wide open, a bug flew in and planted itself right on my windscreen. Causing me a momentarily loss of concentration as the car swerved all over the road, while I tried to squash this hapless creature. Eventually I gave up and let it sit there, minding its own business there were now three of us on the journey now, and dare I say it back home to Palmerston North.
Life had come to an abrupt standstill; it always seems to when I go north. I only ever visit for a few days now, never longer. God, I can’t even remember the last time I spent a whole week there. But every now and then this strange and fanatical sensation comes over me and I return like a flood and everybody knows when I’m in town, because if I haven’t rung them, I go around and see them. Just to let them know I’m still alive.
I sit in the rooms, at the bro’s. It’s that old house on the corner of McCarthy Terrace, the one where, with each gust of wind a storm of dried paint appears on the horizon. We rant away just as if nothing’s changed, talking the same old shit and I listen to the same old stuff that I left behind( huh the gossips still there). I feel those insecure, yet warm and timely feelings that remind me of my origins. Reminiscing past antics is getting fewer these days and talking of the new is getting harder to describe. Times have changed. I have changed, and I begin to wonder what exactly is it that draws me back here, to people who the only thing I have in common with is the past. Hence it’s not long before I get bored and cruise off to the next house.
I come from this great town, set half way between the ranges and the sea, with everything I ever wanted right at my finger tips. A fish and chip shop, a movie theatre (that showed year old movies), and of course my friends and family. Bar a few shops and the biggest event of the year for us country lads, the local A & P show, she was my heaven with a slice of hell. Born and bred on the farm, my life had pretty much been defined for me right from a baby, grow up and follow the family tradition. Be a farmer, retire then die, it all sounded so simple. Yet I never even got half that far. Those days of lying on the back of the hay truck, watching the moon floating quietly by, had spelt the end of my days in this paradise, and I wanted to know where exactly did that moon go.
With my visiting over, after having been everywhere I can, I return to the security of my mums’, a place where as a youngster mischief was refined. I sit down in the peace and quiet and read my newspaper. The sun streams through the clear glass windows, I am engrossed in warmth. I am free here from all the troubles of the world. Always a bed to sleep in, a heart to hug. A mum, a family who struggles to understand yet no matter what I say nor do always leaves a door open to forgiveness. And more than often that door should have been locked with the key thrown away, yet it never has and never will be. Yes I do consider myself lucky.
She’s put on a good feed for us tonight, a crock-pot, full of corn beef. A meal these days I can only dream of, well being a student it sure beats the peanut butter on toast for tea with budget coffee for desert, which I normally have. Just for good measure the older brother and sister and husband turn up. Wow, isn’t this an awesome surprise. Just the five of us, plus mums’ new husband. I sit by my brother and look around me. All old and grown up now, we are. Each travelling our own paths, yet united in the one factor that draws us together, yes, we are family. The bickering we’ve had, the screaming and yelling, the fighting. With me always being on the losing end, well being the youngest has its downfalls, all of which seems to fade away now, maybe we’ve matured or maybe its that we are all as stubborn as each other and realise there’s no point in arguing anymore.Yep, age is definitely like a good cheese, the older you get the better you get, but by the time your great, your all crusty and stale, and probably stink a bit too, only time will tell. Or maybe, it’s that we have a deeper appreciation for each other, Yeah Right.
I’m back in the present now, back travelling Middle road. I’ve never driven this road, why? With 24 years to my credit and with my head always telling me to get away and experience the world, see the sights and explore like most other ambitious kiwis. When everyday I find a reason to stay and see something I’ve missed. This road, this Middle Road, only five minutes away from a farm that I grew up on, and me, only just now laying my eyes upon her serene sights. The fences that stretch up the hillsides, across crevices and down narrow gullies that seem near impossible to reach. Yet someone, along time ago now I bet, stood there and with sweat pouring of his fore head, planted a post and banged a few wires onto the battens. Man it must have been hard work back then, having to climb hills with a couple of 4 by 2 and a few rolls of wire hanging over the shoulder. And yet having the tenacity to do that day after day.
Men/People were born hard back then, men like my Grandfather. Breaking in ponies, clearing scrub. Back in his day, he would have thought nothing of it. My grandparents are still on the farm they bought over 50 years ago, fresh from fighting in World War Two. And now at 80 plus, my grand father still helps out on the farm and in the yards, tossing sheep over gates while whistling furiously at his dogs. Although, this time is not as frequent these days since the rewards of a retirement well earnt, have become his new priority. Ask them when they’ll move into town and the belt gets brought out faster than the sound of a possum hitting the ground, having been shot with the 22 gage rifle from the bedroom window.
“Who’d want to live in that dirty filthy place!!” I can hear my Nan exclaiming, “ too noisy, and what about my fowls and the pig!”
One thing about my Nan, she always cooks a good feed, every time I go out for lunch, everything is immaculately prepared. And there is always choc chip bikkies on the bench, in which I always steal.
And upon this visit she’s given me a Banana Cake. It sits there on the front seat; I look lovingly at it and am transfixed. A drop, no a blob of saliva drips onto my pants, and before long a puddle has formed. I begin to imagine what that first slice would taste like. Taking the knife and piercing the outer layers, with the smell steaming out where my nose eagerly awaits it sensuous aroma. It races deep down inside of me to hit that…. that spot and I am overwhelmed in excitement, it’s like I’m having an orgasm. My hands start to tremble, the car slows down. Desire is right in my face and my strength is weakening. I want to eat that cake and I want to eat it NOW!!!!
BEEEEEPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!! A car flying past, narrowly missing my right hand mirror awakes me. Where am I? How far have I travelled? I look back at my baby; he’s lying there quietly shaking in fear. “Come here my boy”. I say. He crawls up to me, I give him a rub and he gives me a big wet affectionate lick in the face. Whoa that must have been a close call.
“Okay now son, stay focused”, I say to myself. I pick up the Banana Cake and place it in my glove box, outta sight, outta mind, until I get home at least.
The farm, home provides far too much of a distraction for me, and contrary to the saying, you can have too much of a good thing.
I’m out of the gully, now and can almost smell the city approaching, the thousands of cars, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Smog pollutes the air we breathe, people as far as the eye can see. I look around in shame, is this we have become, rows upon houses. Where once Giant Totara’s and Kauri’s stood and Kiwis roamed free of fear with the earth still fertile and untouched by any additives, sadly now replaced by bitumen and shrubs. Having been dug over and had so many poisons encroach her precious dunes, that no longer does she resemble the pristine beauty she once escribed.
Now I am in my new home, where fresh air simply does not exist. And my new life of studying to be a professional Bugger All. The joys of sitting outside the café at varsity, drinking coffee, smoking a tonne of cigarettes, and talking to like minded people on a similar path, not to mention the three am closing instead of the 12 or 1am closing back home, have become my new reality. Yet, I long for the days back on the farm riding free on the horse’s back. The wind in my face and not a human nor nor human sound for miles around. Hearing only the sheep baaaing away, and the cows mooing. I sit down and weep. I wish I were free. To be at one with the world again, working in the pouring down rain then returning after a hard days work to lie back in the warmth of my lazy boy, having earned a nice cold beer.
Instead of today and I hate to admit it, where I rush in and out of the shelter, with my umbrella in tow. Damn it, I’ve become a Jaffa. And the beer, huh, don’t even go there. I am in the city, back at large with the rat race, computers, these strange things called traffic lights, and the neighbours, they live over the back fence, not a couple of minutes down the road! It’s a place where the only certain future is that no matter how long I live I will always be me. And I know that no matter where I go, the farm and family will always be right beside me, on the inside.
I pull in the drive at my flat, climb out of the car and stretch my legs. Instantly my boy leaps from my car and drops a ball at my feet. It’s been a long journey, my boy, too long. A good retreat back home. Always great to get away….what way shall we take next time?
With the window wide open, a bug flew in and planted itself right on my windscreen. Causing me a momentarily loss of concentration as the car swerved all over the road, while I tried to squash this hapless creature. Eventually I gave up and let it sit there, minding its own business there were now three of us on the journey now, and dare I say it back home to Palmerston North.
Life had come to an abrupt standstill; it always seems to when I go north. I only ever visit for a few days now, never longer. God, I can’t even remember the last time I spent a whole week there. But every now and then this strange and fanatical sensation comes over me and I return like a flood and everybody knows when I’m in town, because if I haven’t rung them, I go around and see them. Just to let them know I’m still alive.
I sit in the rooms, at the bro’s. It’s that old house on the corner of McCarthy Terrace, the one where, with each gust of wind a storm of dried paint appears on the horizon. We rant away just as if nothing’s changed, talking the same old shit and I listen to the same old stuff that I left behind( huh the gossips still there). I feel those insecure, yet warm and timely feelings that remind me of my origins. Reminiscing past antics is getting fewer these days and talking of the new is getting harder to describe. Times have changed. I have changed, and I begin to wonder what exactly is it that draws me back here, to people who the only thing I have in common with is the past. Hence it’s not long before I get bored and cruise off to the next house.
I come from this great town, set half way between the ranges and the sea, with everything I ever wanted right at my finger tips. A fish and chip shop, a movie theatre (that showed year old movies), and of course my friends and family. Bar a few shops and the biggest event of the year for us country lads, the local A & P show, she was my heaven with a slice of hell. Born and bred on the farm, my life had pretty much been defined for me right from a baby, grow up and follow the family tradition. Be a farmer, retire then die, it all sounded so simple. Yet I never even got half that far. Those days of lying on the back of the hay truck, watching the moon floating quietly by, had spelt the end of my days in this paradise, and I wanted to know where exactly did that moon go.
With my visiting over, after having been everywhere I can, I return to the security of my mums’, a place where as a youngster mischief was refined. I sit down in the peace and quiet and read my newspaper. The sun streams through the clear glass windows, I am engrossed in warmth. I am free here from all the troubles of the world. Always a bed to sleep in, a heart to hug. A mum, a family who struggles to understand yet no matter what I say nor do always leaves a door open to forgiveness. And more than often that door should have been locked with the key thrown away, yet it never has and never will be. Yes I do consider myself lucky.
She’s put on a good feed for us tonight, a crock-pot, full of corn beef. A meal these days I can only dream of, well being a student it sure beats the peanut butter on toast for tea with budget coffee for desert, which I normally have. Just for good measure the older brother and sister and husband turn up. Wow, isn’t this an awesome surprise. Just the five of us, plus mums’ new husband. I sit by my brother and look around me. All old and grown up now, we are. Each travelling our own paths, yet united in the one factor that draws us together, yes, we are family. The bickering we’ve had, the screaming and yelling, the fighting. With me always being on the losing end, well being the youngest has its downfalls, all of which seems to fade away now, maybe we’ve matured or maybe its that we are all as stubborn as each other and realise there’s no point in arguing anymore.Yep, age is definitely like a good cheese, the older you get the better you get, but by the time your great, your all crusty and stale, and probably stink a bit too, only time will tell. Or maybe, it’s that we have a deeper appreciation for each other, Yeah Right.
I’m back in the present now, back travelling Middle road. I’ve never driven this road, why? With 24 years to my credit and with my head always telling me to get away and experience the world, see the sights and explore like most other ambitious kiwis. When everyday I find a reason to stay and see something I’ve missed. This road, this Middle Road, only five minutes away from a farm that I grew up on, and me, only just now laying my eyes upon her serene sights. The fences that stretch up the hillsides, across crevices and down narrow gullies that seem near impossible to reach. Yet someone, along time ago now I bet, stood there and with sweat pouring of his fore head, planted a post and banged a few wires onto the battens. Man it must have been hard work back then, having to climb hills with a couple of 4 by 2 and a few rolls of wire hanging over the shoulder. And yet having the tenacity to do that day after day.
Men/People were born hard back then, men like my Grandfather. Breaking in ponies, clearing scrub. Back in his day, he would have thought nothing of it. My grandparents are still on the farm they bought over 50 years ago, fresh from fighting in World War Two. And now at 80 plus, my grand father still helps out on the farm and in the yards, tossing sheep over gates while whistling furiously at his dogs. Although, this time is not as frequent these days since the rewards of a retirement well earnt, have become his new priority. Ask them when they’ll move into town and the belt gets brought out faster than the sound of a possum hitting the ground, having been shot with the 22 gage rifle from the bedroom window.
“Who’d want to live in that dirty filthy place!!” I can hear my Nan exclaiming, “ too noisy, and what about my fowls and the pig!”
One thing about my Nan, she always cooks a good feed, every time I go out for lunch, everything is immaculately prepared. And there is always choc chip bikkies on the bench, in which I always steal.
And upon this visit she’s given me a Banana Cake. It sits there on the front seat; I look lovingly at it and am transfixed. A drop, no a blob of saliva drips onto my pants, and before long a puddle has formed. I begin to imagine what that first slice would taste like. Taking the knife and piercing the outer layers, with the smell steaming out where my nose eagerly awaits it sensuous aroma. It races deep down inside of me to hit that…. that spot and I am overwhelmed in excitement, it’s like I’m having an orgasm. My hands start to tremble, the car slows down. Desire is right in my face and my strength is weakening. I want to eat that cake and I want to eat it NOW!!!!
BEEEEEPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!! A car flying past, narrowly missing my right hand mirror awakes me. Where am I? How far have I travelled? I look back at my baby; he’s lying there quietly shaking in fear. “Come here my boy”. I say. He crawls up to me, I give him a rub and he gives me a big wet affectionate lick in the face. Whoa that must have been a close call.
“Okay now son, stay focused”, I say to myself. I pick up the Banana Cake and place it in my glove box, outta sight, outta mind, until I get home at least.
The farm, home provides far too much of a distraction for me, and contrary to the saying, you can have too much of a good thing.
I’m out of the gully, now and can almost smell the city approaching, the thousands of cars, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Smog pollutes the air we breathe, people as far as the eye can see. I look around in shame, is this we have become, rows upon houses. Where once Giant Totara’s and Kauri’s stood and Kiwis roamed free of fear with the earth still fertile and untouched by any additives, sadly now replaced by bitumen and shrubs. Having been dug over and had so many poisons encroach her precious dunes, that no longer does she resemble the pristine beauty she once escribed.
Now I am in my new home, where fresh air simply does not exist. And my new life of studying to be a professional Bugger All. The joys of sitting outside the café at varsity, drinking coffee, smoking a tonne of cigarettes, and talking to like minded people on a similar path, not to mention the three am closing instead of the 12 or 1am closing back home, have become my new reality. Yet, I long for the days back on the farm riding free on the horse’s back. The wind in my face and not a human nor nor human sound for miles around. Hearing only the sheep baaaing away, and the cows mooing. I sit down and weep. I wish I were free. To be at one with the world again, working in the pouring down rain then returning after a hard days work to lie back in the warmth of my lazy boy, having earned a nice cold beer.
Instead of today and I hate to admit it, where I rush in and out of the shelter, with my umbrella in tow. Damn it, I’ve become a Jaffa. And the beer, huh, don’t even go there. I am in the city, back at large with the rat race, computers, these strange things called traffic lights, and the neighbours, they live over the back fence, not a couple of minutes down the road! It’s a place where the only certain future is that no matter how long I live I will always be me. And I know that no matter where I go, the farm and family will always be right beside me, on the inside.
I pull in the drive at my flat, climb out of the car and stretch my legs. Instantly my boy leaps from my car and drops a ball at my feet. It’s been a long journey, my boy, too long. A good retreat back home. Always great to get away….what way shall we take next time?
An Angel wrote
AN ANGEL WROTE
Many people will walk in and out of your life,
But only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.
To handle yourself, use your head,
To handle others use your heart.
Anger is only one letter away from danger.
If someone betrays you once its his fault,
If he betrays you twice its your fault.
Great minds discuss ideas,
Average minds discuss events,
Small minds discuss people.
God gives every bird its food,
But he does not throw it into the nest.
Beautiful young people are works of nature,
Beautiful old people are works of art.
Learn from the mistakes of others,
You can’t live long enough to make them all yourself.
The tongue weighs practically nothing,
But so few can hold it.
He who loses money, loses much,
He who loses friends loses more,
He who loses faith, loses all.
An angel has been sent to look over you.
In order for her to work-
You must pass this on to people you want watched over.
(Written by: An Angel in Waiting)
Many people will walk in and out of your life,
But only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.
To handle yourself, use your head,
To handle others use your heart.
Anger is only one letter away from danger.
If someone betrays you once its his fault,
If he betrays you twice its your fault.
Great minds discuss ideas,
Average minds discuss events,
Small minds discuss people.
God gives every bird its food,
But he does not throw it into the nest.
Beautiful young people are works of nature,
Beautiful old people are works of art.
Learn from the mistakes of others,
You can’t live long enough to make them all yourself.
The tongue weighs practically nothing,
But so few can hold it.
He who loses money, loses much,
He who loses friends loses more,
He who loses faith, loses all.
An angel has been sent to look over you.
In order for her to work-
You must pass this on to people you want watched over.
(Written by: An Angel in Waiting)
Believe in yourself
Believe in your self
…..and in your dream
though impossible things may seem,
someday, somehow you’ll get through
to the goal you have in view
Mountains fall and seas divide
Before the one who in his stride
takes a hard road day,
sweeping obstacles away.
Believe in youself and in your plan,
Say not – I cannot – but , I can
The prizes of life we fail to win
Because we doubt the power within
…..and in your dream
though impossible things may seem,
someday, somehow you’ll get through
to the goal you have in view
Mountains fall and seas divide
Before the one who in his stride
takes a hard road day,
sweeping obstacles away.
Believe in youself and in your plan,
Say not – I cannot – but , I can
The prizes of life we fail to win
Because we doubt the power within
coming home
Coming Home
Tears dripping off my jaw bone, they start by lingering around the top of my eyes before sliding down to the lip that is my lid. Dark red veins pop out the whites of my eyes are now immersed in roots of red. My face quivers, like a rolling .9 earthquake. My throat is so dry that each breath taken is forced straight back out, it’s as if it’s repelling it, screaming “no I don’t want this poison”. Yet it has to be taken for it is my medicine. My head droops and my facials say it all, I am in complete denial about this feeling. But I cant no more. I push and I shove, I run around taking the dog for a walk. I race mums car, doing over the 110 km/h limit she has set me. I want to destroy everything, I want oblivion, yet I can’t have it. My sledge hammer has smashed my brain, my heart to juice. I try, I really do, I try really hard to convince myself otherwise, yet I can’t and it’s killing me, my soul is at thy mercy.
Pulling up outside the garage, I know this aint right, but the temptation is too strong. Two years it’s been, and I’m going to give it all up on the whim of this!!! I can’t afford it, but that doesn’t stop me. I don’t drag myself in, more I slide in, not noticing the people about. As I ask the petrol man for a packet of Marlborough 25’s I say to myself “is it really worth it, is thy really worth it?” “Are you alright pal?’ the petrol man says. With my mask magically glued to my face I reply ‘sweet as mate”. The cigarette is lit before I leave the shop.
If there’s anywhere I want to be right now, it’s within those four walls I feel most secure. My heart beats faster and my nerves show their true colours, and it’s not because of the smoke. For the first time in my time being there, a no-mans land has been found. With new rooms open for exploration, the choice is mine to be taken. But I’m shit scared of what I’ll find within. It feels like it’s more than just a fight this time, it could be just tanty, yet they haven’t been this long before. And I know the time will ny be thin when I ask myself is it really worth coming home to her. And performing these actions that are so hard to break, yet have made me who I am today
Tears dripping off my jaw bone, they start by lingering around the top of my eyes before sliding down to the lip that is my lid. Dark red veins pop out the whites of my eyes are now immersed in roots of red. My face quivers, like a rolling .9 earthquake. My throat is so dry that each breath taken is forced straight back out, it’s as if it’s repelling it, screaming “no I don’t want this poison”. Yet it has to be taken for it is my medicine. My head droops and my facials say it all, I am in complete denial about this feeling. But I cant no more. I push and I shove, I run around taking the dog for a walk. I race mums car, doing over the 110 km/h limit she has set me. I want to destroy everything, I want oblivion, yet I can’t have it. My sledge hammer has smashed my brain, my heart to juice. I try, I really do, I try really hard to convince myself otherwise, yet I can’t and it’s killing me, my soul is at thy mercy.
Pulling up outside the garage, I know this aint right, but the temptation is too strong. Two years it’s been, and I’m going to give it all up on the whim of this!!! I can’t afford it, but that doesn’t stop me. I don’t drag myself in, more I slide in, not noticing the people about. As I ask the petrol man for a packet of Marlborough 25’s I say to myself “is it really worth it, is thy really worth it?” “Are you alright pal?’ the petrol man says. With my mask magically glued to my face I reply ‘sweet as mate”. The cigarette is lit before I leave the shop.
If there’s anywhere I want to be right now, it’s within those four walls I feel most secure. My heart beats faster and my nerves show their true colours, and it’s not because of the smoke. For the first time in my time being there, a no-mans land has been found. With new rooms open for exploration, the choice is mine to be taken. But I’m shit scared of what I’ll find within. It feels like it’s more than just a fight this time, it could be just tanty, yet they haven’t been this long before. And I know the time will ny be thin when I ask myself is it really worth coming home to her. And performing these actions that are so hard to break, yet have made me who I am today
the ball
The Ball
Throw; throw that ball far away,
So that I may run and chase it
Throw it all day,
And I will return it to your feet with pace.
Never, will I tire,
But if you so much as turn your back,
And loose your desire,
As you often do;
I will stop you in your track.
With my body blocking the door,
My eyes, drawing you in, like a chin to the razor,
Questions will be made, that cannot be answered,
Only excuses given and I have heard them all.
When will you wake up, it is not the ball,
It is you I want,
Yet it is me, who haunts,
Your inner most thoughts.
You know our time ought to be more than next to naught.
So throw, throw that ball far away,
Before, you disappear for another day.
Throw; throw that ball far away,
So that I may run and chase it
Throw it all day,
And I will return it to your feet with pace.
Never, will I tire,
But if you so much as turn your back,
And loose your desire,
As you often do;
I will stop you in your track.
With my body blocking the door,
My eyes, drawing you in, like a chin to the razor,
Questions will be made, that cannot be answered,
Only excuses given and I have heard them all.
When will you wake up, it is not the ball,
It is you I want,
Yet it is me, who haunts,
Your inner most thoughts.
You know our time ought to be more than next to naught.
So throw, throw that ball far away,
Before, you disappear for another day.
the angel
The Angel
This is a poem to my buddy,
Sought after and desired.
An angel in the making,
Glistening blonde hair,
A heart to tell a thousand tales,
Of whom I took for granted,
Too blind was I, to see what was before me.
Like an electric fence with a short,
My defences were weakened,
Vulnerable I became.
When I looked into her eyes,
And heard her laughter,
I was transformed into the putty,
Her daughter dropped into the water,
And rubbed into the carpet
My life had been an open book,
But the more I read
The less I knew.
She was as close as the keypad is to my fingers,
And she became my spell check.
My mind in a rampage,
With she being the sergeant major,
Adding fire to my fuel.
I loved her like a fish lying on the beach,
Taking one last look at the sea,
Before the tide draws back in,
Leaving it stranded
In days that cannot be lived anymore.
The Joker was no longer a card I could use,
My face was an orchard full of bright red cherries,
My words were chosen out of a dictionary,
Only I believed the denial,
I cloaked myself in.
She used her tongue to write my laws,
Spitting them out into thin air,
While I caught them with my butterfly net.
Like a paper boy standing on the corner
She cried, for me to speak my headlines,
She knew my storyline well,
For every word was hers.
Yet Honesty was the class I missed in school,
My textbooks were left at the bottom of my bag
And denial became my greatest teacher.
An angel I once knew,
My heart, coated in gold, lay at her feet.
She was my lord,
Blessed, she made me,
But, I was stupefied,
She wanted the wind,
So off she flew,
Drifting afar,
Beyond the horizon.
This is a poem to my buddy,
Sought after and desired.
An angel in the making,
Glistening blonde hair,
A heart to tell a thousand tales,
Of whom I took for granted,
Too blind was I, to see what was before me.
Like an electric fence with a short,
My defences were weakened,
Vulnerable I became.
When I looked into her eyes,
And heard her laughter,
I was transformed into the putty,
Her daughter dropped into the water,
And rubbed into the carpet
My life had been an open book,
But the more I read
The less I knew.
She was as close as the keypad is to my fingers,
And she became my spell check.
My mind in a rampage,
With she being the sergeant major,
Adding fire to my fuel.
I loved her like a fish lying on the beach,
Taking one last look at the sea,
Before the tide draws back in,
Leaving it stranded
In days that cannot be lived anymore.
The Joker was no longer a card I could use,
My face was an orchard full of bright red cherries,
My words were chosen out of a dictionary,
Only I believed the denial,
I cloaked myself in.
She used her tongue to write my laws,
Spitting them out into thin air,
While I caught them with my butterfly net.
Like a paper boy standing on the corner
She cried, for me to speak my headlines,
She knew my storyline well,
For every word was hers.
Yet Honesty was the class I missed in school,
My textbooks were left at the bottom of my bag
And denial became my greatest teacher.
An angel I once knew,
My heart, coated in gold, lay at her feet.
She was my lord,
Blessed, she made me,
But, I was stupefied,
She wanted the wind,
So off she flew,
Drifting afar,
Beyond the horizon.
sunset
Sunset
I woke up one day,
Full of feelings of love and happiness,
Yet sadness,
As I knew this sunset would be my last.
The sun arose behind a cloud of mist and never-ending misery.
This detailed how my life as I knew it would conclude.
Furthermore that I would go onto a life of unanswered questions
With feelings of desertion,
Not knowing what lay ahead of me.
Would I become a bum,
Or learn from my past experiences
And go onto be a success at whatever I chose,.
Had I made the right decision……
How many times over my forthcoming life would I regret it.
Why, oh Why didn’t I seek help when I most needed it!
And why didn’t I accept it when it was offered?
I thought I was happy there,
I thought things were sweet,
I thought insignificant things didn’t matter
But now I know they are as important as the rain forests are to mother earth.
Now it is too late,
Sunset is about me.
It looks like the devils come up from hell,
To grab me by the throat,
And drag me to the depths below.
Perhaps I deserved this,
Maybe I didn’t make the right decision,
If only my heart had given me a clear signal on which path to follow,
Now I’ll never know what road I should have followed.
My life has now ended in Devil’s Fury,
A life of ….. Eternal Misery.
I woke up one day,
Full of feelings of love and happiness,
Yet sadness,
As I knew this sunset would be my last.
The sun arose behind a cloud of mist and never-ending misery.
This detailed how my life as I knew it would conclude.
Furthermore that I would go onto a life of unanswered questions
With feelings of desertion,
Not knowing what lay ahead of me.
Would I become a bum,
Or learn from my past experiences
And go onto be a success at whatever I chose,.
Had I made the right decision……
How many times over my forthcoming life would I regret it.
Why, oh Why didn’t I seek help when I most needed it!
And why didn’t I accept it when it was offered?
I thought I was happy there,
I thought things were sweet,
I thought insignificant things didn’t matter
But now I know they are as important as the rain forests are to mother earth.
Now it is too late,
Sunset is about me.
It looks like the devils come up from hell,
To grab me by the throat,
And drag me to the depths below.
Perhaps I deserved this,
Maybe I didn’t make the right decision,
If only my heart had given me a clear signal on which path to follow,
Now I’ll never know what road I should have followed.
My life has now ended in Devil’s Fury,
A life of ….. Eternal Misery.
alone
He sits there all alone. Despair, destitution and an unbearable confusion has descended swiftly like the mists of the Ruahines befalling the Takapau plains making the cars and trucks on old highway 52, anchor on the brakes and sneak along that road, taking eons to travel the few miles to Waipukurau. The block has struck him once again, words appear then fade, and he cannot find what he is searching for. Dwelling on what might have been, what should have been, he’s had enough and makes a coffee. Whilst looking at that blank screen the torment has become too much and being not yet ready to give in he screams, “my moment of inspiration will come!”
Wallingford
Wallingford School.
As I sat inside the small Anglican Church that had once served as the second site of Wallingford Primary School. The Reverend Warner Wilder, a former student and my father’s best mate, reminisced about his days at the School. “When I started at Wallingford, it was the last year that the church was being used as the school building, and the new school was being built on the present site.” Warner pointed behind him and carried on. “I remember George Hunter was a bit of a cheeky bugger back then, well he still is isn’t he? But anyway, on this particular occasion he was sitting at his desk over on the right over there and he had said something stupid. So old Mr Findlay told him to pull his socks up. And George being George leans down and pulls his socks up!” The whole congregation of about eighty people in the church erupted into laughter. I was at the Wallingford school reunion/closure; I had come back to this small rural community seventeen years after my family had left it. In the first term of 2005 the old school closed after 125 years. I had been the last of three generations of my family to attend this school and the memories were flooding back in waves of emotions. I was happy, I was sad, I was scared, I was overcome in joy. Wallingford School and its district was and still is my home and I here I was paying my final respects to it.
Wallingford School is named after the Wallingford station that back in the 1880’s encompassed 40,000 acres, but now is a much more manageable 3,000 acres. It is situated 20 minutes drive south from Waipukurau on the way to the coastal settlement of Porangahau. Originally the school was situated at the homestead of the station on the main road. It had a small class of around 20 children. In the early 1900s the school was shifted to Bird road, which is a two minute walk away from the homestead and the present site of the church today. This is where my grandfather first attended the school around the 1920s. Back in those days, everything was done by horse and I remember the tales he used to tell about the school. “I used to have to ride the five miles down Bush road and another two miles south to the school, everyday day. We would put our ponies on what is the sports field to graze for the day. Then we would have to ride home again and do all our chores!” In the early forties when my father and Warner Wilder had attended the school, it was moved a little up the hill to the present site. New classrooms were built to cope with the expanding role. This site remained relatively unchanged up until its closing. Sure the odd building may have been redesigned and new one put in. Like the pool that went up in the 1950s. It had leaves in it today; it just didn’t feel right, not for this time of year. The pool had always had water in it, whether it was green or a crystal clear blue. And the kids, we had had so much fun in it. I can remember climbing the fence and perching precariously on the top of the fence before leaping like a chick going for its first flight and doing a massive bomb in the deep end of the pool. Then resurfacing quickly to do another one before the teachers, my mum being one of them, caught us! The landscape had definitely improved over the years. But essentially the school remained the same.
I pulled up beside the gate to the school, the brown sign with the words in white indicating Wallingford, stood as still as it always had, with the old tree, I never knew what type of tree it was but its leaves were small and these brown little seed cones hung from it. To the left of the sign was the old metal gate that hung low to the ground after years of children swinging on it. I’m sure its “hinges were almost gone, but nobody bothered to replace them, and why would they now. A little further to the left stood the old bus shed that also housed the Wallingford fire unit. I walked past these and up the thin concrete path, that as kids we would ride our plastic skateboards down. And turned left between two white buildings into the big open court yard.
It seemed just like yesterday when I was a kid playing in this yard. It had massive squares in it. And there the whole school would play four square, except it was more like forty square. The youngest kids were always down the very end waiting for the older kids to hit the ball down to them, except inevitably when it was hit to them they would always go out. Thus the younger ones would hardly get past the twentieth square. It was here I bumped into Mr, sorry Yurech Wypich. My old teacher who had taught me from when I was in standard one to standard four.
“How are you Paul?” he had said.
“Sorry mate, who the fuck are you?” I had replied.
Yurech laughed at me. “That’s no way to talk to your old favourite teacher!” He replied.
I went bright red. "Oh shit I’m sorry, has it been that long?”
Mr, I mean Yurech Wypich and I parted after a short catch up, promising each other that we would have a good talk later that night at the school dance.
It sure felt strange calling my old teacher by his first name. I couldn’t help but feeling like that eleven year old when I last saw him. I hoped I looked well. What words could I say to impress him, to impress all these old faces here about what I was up to and what I had done with my life? I had rehearsed it so many times but would I remember the lines when the situation happened? The thought of returning home a man and not a boy captivated me so much. Would they like the real me or would I have to plastify myself and accentuate the positives and keep the trap shut about the negatives, the part of me that everybody in my real world knows true and well.
It was while I was kicking the stones on this huge court, a quiet tear resting in my eye when I bumped into Janine Mclean below the garden covered embankment which was one of the last major changes done to the school when I was there. Dad had been the chairman of the committee and they had put a big garden up on the hill overlooking the school. I think because they were sick of the mud scars the kids left on it when we raced down the hill when the bell rang to go in for class. Janine was on the reunion committee and it just so happened that her family had brought my old family farm. We had farmed it for four generations. With my dad being the last of our clan to farm it. Janine was having trouble raising the New Zealand flag. So I did my duty, paying my respect to the old school. I tied the flag, and eventually hoisted it up.
After the church service, I mingled with a few of my old mates, and the people who used to be Mr and Mrs, but were now just John and Jane. Everybody started to disappear down to the homestead for a late morning tea. I looked around and couldn’t help thinking, was it better to be this adult I am now, knowing what I know, or would it be better to be that kid, who used to eat his lunch while his mother kept a watchful eye from the staffroom. I had one final hug. Then got into my car. They had said one of the classrooms was going to Gisborne, but what of the rest? What of the school that was the glue of the community for so long? How would it survive now without the working bees, the dances and sports days that got everybody involved? So I left, returning to my real world far away in Palmerston North, yet knowing that in my heart the school and its district would live on.
As I sat inside the small Anglican Church that had once served as the second site of Wallingford Primary School. The Reverend Warner Wilder, a former student and my father’s best mate, reminisced about his days at the School. “When I started at Wallingford, it was the last year that the church was being used as the school building, and the new school was being built on the present site.” Warner pointed behind him and carried on. “I remember George Hunter was a bit of a cheeky bugger back then, well he still is isn’t he? But anyway, on this particular occasion he was sitting at his desk over on the right over there and he had said something stupid. So old Mr Findlay told him to pull his socks up. And George being George leans down and pulls his socks up!” The whole congregation of about eighty people in the church erupted into laughter. I was at the Wallingford school reunion/closure; I had come back to this small rural community seventeen years after my family had left it. In the first term of 2005 the old school closed after 125 years. I had been the last of three generations of my family to attend this school and the memories were flooding back in waves of emotions. I was happy, I was sad, I was scared, I was overcome in joy. Wallingford School and its district was and still is my home and I here I was paying my final respects to it.
Wallingford School is named after the Wallingford station that back in the 1880’s encompassed 40,000 acres, but now is a much more manageable 3,000 acres. It is situated 20 minutes drive south from Waipukurau on the way to the coastal settlement of Porangahau. Originally the school was situated at the homestead of the station on the main road. It had a small class of around 20 children. In the early 1900s the school was shifted to Bird road, which is a two minute walk away from the homestead and the present site of the church today. This is where my grandfather first attended the school around the 1920s. Back in those days, everything was done by horse and I remember the tales he used to tell about the school. “I used to have to ride the five miles down Bush road and another two miles south to the school, everyday day. We would put our ponies on what is the sports field to graze for the day. Then we would have to ride home again and do all our chores!” In the early forties when my father and Warner Wilder had attended the school, it was moved a little up the hill to the present site. New classrooms were built to cope with the expanding role. This site remained relatively unchanged up until its closing. Sure the odd building may have been redesigned and new one put in. Like the pool that went up in the 1950s. It had leaves in it today; it just didn’t feel right, not for this time of year. The pool had always had water in it, whether it was green or a crystal clear blue. And the kids, we had had so much fun in it. I can remember climbing the fence and perching precariously on the top of the fence before leaping like a chick going for its first flight and doing a massive bomb in the deep end of the pool. Then resurfacing quickly to do another one before the teachers, my mum being one of them, caught us! The landscape had definitely improved over the years. But essentially the school remained the same.
I pulled up beside the gate to the school, the brown sign with the words in white indicating Wallingford, stood as still as it always had, with the old tree, I never knew what type of tree it was but its leaves were small and these brown little seed cones hung from it. To the left of the sign was the old metal gate that hung low to the ground after years of children swinging on it. I’m sure its “hinges were almost gone, but nobody bothered to replace them, and why would they now. A little further to the left stood the old bus shed that also housed the Wallingford fire unit. I walked past these and up the thin concrete path, that as kids we would ride our plastic skateboards down. And turned left between two white buildings into the big open court yard.
It seemed just like yesterday when I was a kid playing in this yard. It had massive squares in it. And there the whole school would play four square, except it was more like forty square. The youngest kids were always down the very end waiting for the older kids to hit the ball down to them, except inevitably when it was hit to them they would always go out. Thus the younger ones would hardly get past the twentieth square. It was here I bumped into Mr, sorry Yurech Wypich. My old teacher who had taught me from when I was in standard one to standard four.
“How are you Paul?” he had said.
“Sorry mate, who the fuck are you?” I had replied.
Yurech laughed at me. “That’s no way to talk to your old favourite teacher!” He replied.
I went bright red. "Oh shit I’m sorry, has it been that long?”
Mr, I mean Yurech Wypich and I parted after a short catch up, promising each other that we would have a good talk later that night at the school dance.
It sure felt strange calling my old teacher by his first name. I couldn’t help but feeling like that eleven year old when I last saw him. I hoped I looked well. What words could I say to impress him, to impress all these old faces here about what I was up to and what I had done with my life? I had rehearsed it so many times but would I remember the lines when the situation happened? The thought of returning home a man and not a boy captivated me so much. Would they like the real me or would I have to plastify myself and accentuate the positives and keep the trap shut about the negatives, the part of me that everybody in my real world knows true and well.
It was while I was kicking the stones on this huge court, a quiet tear resting in my eye when I bumped into Janine Mclean below the garden covered embankment which was one of the last major changes done to the school when I was there. Dad had been the chairman of the committee and they had put a big garden up on the hill overlooking the school. I think because they were sick of the mud scars the kids left on it when we raced down the hill when the bell rang to go in for class. Janine was on the reunion committee and it just so happened that her family had brought my old family farm. We had farmed it for four generations. With my dad being the last of our clan to farm it. Janine was having trouble raising the New Zealand flag. So I did my duty, paying my respect to the old school. I tied the flag, and eventually hoisted it up.
After the church service, I mingled with a few of my old mates, and the people who used to be Mr and Mrs, but were now just John and Jane. Everybody started to disappear down to the homestead for a late morning tea. I looked around and couldn’t help thinking, was it better to be this adult I am now, knowing what I know, or would it be better to be that kid, who used to eat his lunch while his mother kept a watchful eye from the staffroom. I had one final hug. Then got into my car. They had said one of the classrooms was going to Gisborne, but what of the rest? What of the school that was the glue of the community for so long? How would it survive now without the working bees, the dances and sports days that got everybody involved? So I left, returning to my real world far away in Palmerston North, yet knowing that in my heart the school and its district would live on.
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