23: sunshine. calm. nostalgia. goodbye.

while i sit here
listening
to futile devices
i become the feeling.

that emanates.

on the crest of my room,
self
purge;
the year purge.

wednesday 13th march 2013

-- garden time
-- dad time
-- harvest moon

rising to my 23rd year
with saggy eyes
but excitement for the day.

the first of my 23rd year;
i had already set a full stop.

i was tired.
but excited.

the autumn sunshine
was sparkling the night's dew
shaking it into the melting reveries of the morning,
when human feet
trample the undergrowth of the night
and stir it into defense.

i often imagine it retaliating
against my chilly cold toes
and growing rapidly over my feet,
fixing my time;
stapling me to ground
and stillness.

but i still seek that.

while caressing the mallow leaves,
the furriness,
the largeness of a wild indian plant,
the silver grey of survival

a lady who watches
talked of the chilean
whose economics phd
turned into a permacultural strong hold
in this garden.

strengthened and nimbler in foot
i tore out the shadowy presences of the garden,
and out of myself.

then watched it wash away down the plug hole
as i scratched those unexplainable rashes of the present.
i was not ready.

not yet.

but neither was dad,
he spent half an hour at a wadestown bus stop
observing the surrounds
basking in morning birds and sunshine

before he was thrusted into the rush of a thriving bus stop
of youth with places to go to.
fast.

we headed waterfront wards
armed with lebanese kebabs and baklava
to stave off the hunger of our relationship.

that seriousness that always burbles threateningly
after all these years of me suppressing my child.

but then one question
changed the river;
the water, the curves;
the embankments were suddenly less oppressive
and the wave of emotion that is our family
washed out
flooded the afternoon
with names, dates; feelings.

loss. and reflection.

i lost him at the same bus stop
to my mother, cousin and then to india
where those mountains that i seek embrace him.

protect him.

mustn't let this wave get to me,
embankments need to be retained;
food must be cooked.

explosion.
of people.
blankets.
food.
evening light.

laughs.
restrain.
awkward love.

melted into
overwhelmed.

then loneliness.
but a warm greenish yellow glowing warmth.

asset sales

checked in.

-- old st paul's
---parliament grounds (part I and II)
--- long walk
--- liquor store
--- home
--- asset

tinged by the cold,
in a brutalist shadow
i play beasts
and dig my hands into
my nervous pockets of time.

and then there is salmon pink.
just a flash.
and it is he.
wandering as he always has.

avoiding the cold of course.
she ambles about behind him,
casual.
no sense of nervous time.

then it is the four woods.
the totara. rimu. kauri. matai.
the four colours, strengths
of this upturned boat they call spirituality.

but, the spirituality aside from woods,
my father pursues
is warmth; a shield from the wellington wind.

the parliament green is sunnier. sheltered.
just for a little while.
a three quarter trick provides the balance.

as does the impassioned voice of 370,000
whose souls are framed
in an orange window of three words.

is that the future
i ask
staring at the milestone in my life;
in this country's life.

i hear this country cough
with its must and phlegm.
and i know i must fight more for her.

lunch was not so easy to hear the answer for.
my house was invalidated.
new world's aisles of plastic and pseudo-food
temporarily voted
as a quick fix.

a quick fix for this country.
even for my parents.

back to the green.
artichokes. olives. sundried tomatos
(are they really sundried?)

then the 5 minutes on,
5 minutes off
lambton quay.

anticipating hard their arrival at my life;
but they never quite got there.

but they got up through the tunnel
to the door of number 10.

the chickens of old friends
whose greatest worth at this end of life
is their asset sales.

it was whiskey. laughs.
and competition.

but they are
after 40 years
still children.

still awkward.

the tale of 3 cities

so. i have made it.
a promise now in hand.
not a shame,
but, a challenge.

        ---------------

monday 11th march 2013

-work.
-film society agm
(now on the committee)
-parental hang out.


work -
winged with post-work non-comittance.

agm -
tiredness
tinged with the act of being busy,
having places to go.

    --------------------

explosion insert -
return from work to hurriedly shower
prior to meeting my mother at the railway station.

time existent: 45 minutes.
delay: 10 minutes
cause: a red explosion

thoughts of the purging of the soul,
the melting of the body
the beauty of no control;

the fear of red puddles forming on the floor,
the drip down the leg;
the punctuation of un-culled forest hairs.

its everywhere.

what do i do?

surely this can't be what that text,
informally sent,
so seriously considered,
has resulted to.

a melting body.

must ask my girlfriends about this.

i got to the railway station in time.
thoughts still delayed in cold, misty air
of that watery red dripping out of me.

never, witnessed. before.

   ---------------

chapter I

parental --
nervousness hung in the air,
she hasn't arrived,
and he was yet to arrive.

if only they had cellular machines.

she arrives.
the warm, soft bony kiss
and i melt.

i say harsh words against this woman,
but that warmth.
that softness.
even the peaked cheeks
are my net of comfort.

chapter II

standing at courtenay place.
cold. moist cold air.

no more nervousness.

but he got off at the wrong bus stop.

embassy. orange bus. $9

message received
somewhere between
embassy and reading.

then its the three people
who co-existed 18 years together
now fragmented by three cities.

this is the tale of it.

istanbul dried falafel
the tail.

Lonely

The grit. Between the toes, and on that scaly, peeling heel of mine.

The moist earth breathes, and my feet feel summer.

On the first day of autumn.

Watched an abundance of romcoms lately,

To placate my yearning side.

500 days of summer.

Then autumn.

No end.

But the garden is breathing a little more easily now,

Freed from the wandering willy, and convolvulus

That power hungrily creeps across the sanity of upright plants.

The hot terracotta pots absorbed the water

Removing 10 years of my life,

In one split second of sensuality.

I am on the verandah of my grandfather’s house,

Eyeing the decreasing amount of pot plants;

Succulents, verigated somethings and somethingelse

My memory will not lend me.

The mosquitoes bite me,

The flying ants fly en masse

Dying too soon

In puddles of pot plant overflow,

Or in wicked reflexive smacks.

I am as day dreamy then

As I was at 5 when drawing the abstract pillar;

As I am now

With low concentration

Low self esteem

And the dread of my grandfather being almost,

Maybe

Dead.

That was downstairs.

The dark, damp downstairs.

Upstairs three juvenile males

Make a meal of an evening

Throwing around musical jargon,

Entertainment elitism

And good looks in general.

The female, of my name,

Has left

With her art historical,

Anthropological sister

And her mother of a mother.

Tonight I shared with them,

Spontaneously

Food and thought.

And, dissent on the education system.

And, they may have just empathised?

Whatever it may be,

It may be just delusional heart break?

I am alone.

And I feel it.