Thursday, May 18, 2017

Mangere Rd chapter five draft

Along a bit from Bob Andersons is the crossroads and many years it took to even know that Kings College was down the end of that road and I remember, God knows when, but I was coming back, as it were, from down the hill and swinging left into Salesyards, that big house on the corner still there with it's thick robust hedge all around and always bursting into the stream, on One of Dads little scooters, a little 50cc gutless plastic wonder without any weight and little feet when, damp one would think, it skidded away under me and no worries, as it slid away free I just picked it up, still chigging, and on again to amble, those things then being an embarrassment I couldn't handle, yet somehow that simple ease was a hint at a rethink.

So that bit, between the railway tracks and up the hill to the crossroads and Otahuhu proper, is one of those places which often isn't as it isn't one and it isn't another, a borderland though not a no man's land. A crossing over place even but even in that there were two almost insignificant landings though spread far apart.

Way back in the skateboard days and it must have been towards the end or maybe even after it I found or refound the guy Chris and he and his mother had a flat down a long drive halfway up that slope... I can't remember much of it, at all, but I know at some stage I got an Australian bush hat, from his Dad maybe and for some reason then easily given away, but it was too big for my head, I have a little one, and so I cut it in half, longways, thonged it back up and, possibly even decorated it somehow... maybe a pre-Crocodile Dundee thing but then, how was this? My sisters friend's father took a liking to it and bought it for a nice sum. I've no idea what might have transpired my sister's friend still too young, 13 - 14 maybe, so maybe that was it. That was the beginning of what ended up as the move to Cook St.

The favourite of that, quite long in and sharing with Gary who ended up being the manager of the City, that bar, of many we'd find empty then have to leave as our happy filled seats, and him I'd quite successfully car dealer'd, as in I'd taken his money and disappeared finding my promises too hard to keep yet still thrilled by my ability to play with others money, was when Bobby came back home from Opononi with bags and bags of good weed and we smoked a joint under the watchful gaze of central... the stall being on that corner and by the doors so easy to sun out and be the breeze. At 15 I'd gone all the way up there on my little 100cc scrambler, a Honda and yellow, and it took hours and hours and hours, through Whangarei hoping it was the right way still far too young and shy to ask any, and near nightfall, all the clothes I had on and the sleeping bag wrapped around me, coming over that brow, the big silver sands across the swells, and into that land of plenty.

His grandmother was way up on the hill and she brewed Ginger beer and we went for treks out in the bush with Bobby trying to scare me with Tapu caves and their bones and wild cows and bulls at any time amongst the trees. Then maybe one of my biggest mistakes and leaving without goodbyes or thank yous, the old Maori lady scarring me a bit, she was stern and I'd maybe felt I wasn't allowed, wasn't to be given, my own purse so scanty.

I'd already 15 to 17 made cash from skating, been able to buy things, and while that useless first job as a furniture apprentice didn't teach me anything except those big cold places were horrid as they dragged the chains of our needs across cold concrete floors, the sounds of a hundred staple guns firing a forever that chilled me, merely cutting a hat through and remembering Grandfathers art, his saddlers start in India and ships in bottles made on the back step while Grandma, the two having flown across the biggest sea, still told my father off as if our escape was a disgrace to be chased... it was to leather, and making bags, of all things, led me to Cook St.

From bags to clothes, heavied canvas and hand dyed, I jumped Cook's ship to other shops and ended up on Queen St. The manager, a she in her forties maybe. loved what I did and paid cash... suited me. Then still drinking hard and always stupid and dipped in risk my brother and I, sneaking off to smoke weed we backdoored that shop, seen though by the cleaners, and I nicked a waist up mannequin then back in the office bar, settled into the settee, she joined us for drinks.

And always for the shows, I'd been taught that early, Barry's cousins up from the country how to tempt the coppers then get off scot free, the gift of the gab to be learned willing alongside spanners and crescents... to fix it then bluff it were the medals to be gleaned.

But again though it was great having the police find us in the Pub and talking our way free, too much a nuisance then to even see, it was the aftermath, another older woman I'd not known that politeness was the real gin.

Always I've thrown myself at life and figured recently maybe that's why all my teeth are broken as in the big bites have cracked them all up when long ago I'd heard broken teeth were not being able to get life, not being able to chew it and understand nourishments... somehow though, maybe that was only half of that story.

Further down that road, and a few more decades worth of greated failures with the biggest one almost wasting me, that first real battle as the Rich threw money at me, and crashing into my subconscious and having no idea, I'd done my sulk and I'd got back up, time this one number three, there was a need to settle. Well into being a cowboy I needed a ranch, a stable, some place to sit into and wonder more freely who was me.

Mum then came to the rescue and I'd convinced her to sell up that dingy flat on the truck rd, though not so dingy really but I'd hoped my hope was a hope she might see, and get a house, with land and I'd look after the house and then have some outside for me. And further down this road and left, parallel to the railways tracks, down this street was a beautiful little oasis carefully tended and well loved but just beyond her means. It was tiny but every inch, every corner bright with a found use, and a garage and a shed and gardens all, though, compacted and somehow a little too severe.

But it totally served me as I knew Mum could see I could make that, all that well living, I could do... for her, so it set our bargain i think.

So that part of the road, that between, lived somehow in that and maybe still does and is just before, comes to, the bridge. 


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Mangere Rd chapter four draft

You'd think then as I'm upon this rd, having just started at the monument, that the next significant landmark might be Otahuhu college yet it isn't and I have no idea why though somehow, and I go forward a bit here, to the eighties when I hung out big time with my brothers and his mates and we had that notorious house in Onehunga, 16 Matiere Rd, where the landlord disappeared for a few years so we had it rent free... which isn't really a good idea for a bunch of twenty somethings who enjoy drinking lots of beer, smoking Marijuana just about all the time and riding big, fast motorcycles as quickly as possible all over the places then havin' fun coming up with excuses to get off with a warning when the traffic coppers finally caught you.

But we also had our quieter side too and that was about sunday afternoons playing cricket at various parks, usually one tree hill and often in the field where the archery was because we'd always have it almost to ourselves in those days.

One sunday though we were in Otahuhu at Gary's parents place for some reason and he came up with the idea of having our game in the grounds of Otahuhu college and I still kinda remember that day for it's bleakness... there was something about those grounds I didn't like, don't have any idea what it was and really, because the buildings are so old and made of stone, I should feel an affinity to it, I love old buildings so it's kinda weird I'm really not at all interested in Otahuhu college.

But across the road, oh yes, I loved that little shop there. That little corner shop with the workshops out back was absolutely wonderful. It was Bob Andersons place, and I ended up being in standard 4 with his daughter Sandra, though I didn't know her well, and they lived up the road from us in the only two story house I knew of... until you got to Manger Bridge of course, then theres was loads. Bob, Mr Anderson sold bicycles and repaired motorcycles which were tow of my favourite things. I can't remember but it must have been he sold the odd motorcycle too 'cause Dad ended up with little Hondas to go to work on and he must have gotten them from Bob. Those bicycles though... I loved them to bits. I'm not sure if I'd learned to ride in Canada, I'll have to ask Dad sometime, but it makes sense somehow as Mr Anderson, in his shop, had a selection of small American style bicycles, you know the ones, curved elegant frames, bright metal flake colours, high handlebars and banana seats... beautiful.

I'd had other bikes before that as theres a photo of me, with my brother and sister, out front of our house one sunny morning all kitted out to go to school and I had an English style bike it's very obvious I'm proud of.

All those thing together, and I must have been about ten when Dad decided me and my brother could have new American bikes, and he himself, my dad, had the little black Honda ninety with the flared guards and nice little touches of chrome, it all came from this little shop and behind the counter, where Bob's wife used to preside, was Bob with oil and tools and even machines and for me, that was my church, that was the hallowing of life, the true religion I yearned for.

It might have been quite simply about my fathers reverence for machines simply because, like my brother, he had absolutely no interest in understanding the arcane and esoteric knowledge that made them go and do things for us... but me, I couldn't wait to dive in. And Dad must have understood this because even whilst he treated all mechanical things like Gods to be protected in their innocence he stole tools from work, which really ramped up once he got into the storeroom, and filled the bottom drawer with them so I could get into trouble doing what I had to do. And i did get into trouble... quite often actually as even to this day I don't really understand the concept of ownership.

I mean I completely understand respect for things and the passing on of knowledge which flows on from the respect and care of things but ownership itself has always alluded me. That little shop, that glorious and sweet smelling oasis of man stuff was a shrine and therein I knew in my bones it was something that enthralled me... it was Bobs kingdom, as it were, and nothing was more obvious, of course it was.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Mangere Rd chapter3 draft

I finally looked at the map and poor ol' Mangere rd doesn't go anywhere as far as I'd hoped it would... It's starts in the right pace, well, not quite right in the sense that it's starts in Otahuhu but then it hardly even gets into Mangere proper at all, before it starts getting named after personages long gone.

But then again that's Mangere all over isn't it really? That's one of the fundamental things about Mangere, that it's there, almost wholly, to serve other places... that's what the working class are for isn't it, at least in terms of the consumer paradigm we've entered into, boots and all.

And that could very well be the reasoning, or betterly said, and I say betterly because in Mangere, and all over the world in places similar we come up, often, with our own words... the opposite of betterly being worser, which incidentally... is a word. Who would have known... not us, we're just not educated enough but we are... we are educated by ourselves. Our reasoning, our adaption to our environment gives us our way of being, and that way of being is less about rewards bestowed from without and about us defining, with the rewards we can make available to ourselves, what and who we are.

One of the most important, and yet almost totally mis-understood from without, in a sense sits in being tough but while it does reside within a physical toughness, as in being able to do work, it also very much sits in a toughness of spirit allied with what can often be described as native intelligence... which hasn't been described anywhere, though it might be as I'm not so well read, as well as it's understood from within.

But that is the nature of society. That ideas percolate upwards and are sieved through an academic system which in turn tends to colour the perceptions towards the nature of the system looking.

Even in those previous paragraphs, the last two, I'm stating my ignorance except what's important isn't that I'm ignorant, in the sense I'm not willing to research the ideas that make such obvious and possibly to be changed by going up the ladder, nope, what is important is that by stating ignorance, and be willing to stand beside it, that I am willing an intuitive interpretation of where and who I am. I'm not going to go running about seeking to quantify my lack so much as admit that it exists but then look for options within my grasp which could be beneficial.

Mangere Rd then is quite the good example because by not checking, not even caring to check but choosing to stand beside this apparent, now that I have checked, wrong there is a raft of ideas which have become of benefit to my tale as it unfolds. One is the sense that the road was named as a destination from what might be a commercial centre, Otahuhu on the Great South Rd, to a place of providing that centre, and two, that the road itself, as it goes through the place itself, Mangere, gets named, even though it's the same road, after the white men who owned vast portions of it, the claim stackers, which highlights for me, yet again, that our place, our Mangere, has always been at the beck and call of others, us mere flotsam, even dunnage, though I was thinking of the stuff thrown from ships to sink to the bottom that word, dunnage, came to me and is even more apt.

Dunnage is then the covers across cargo, in ships, to protect that cargo, so oh yes, dunnage is the right word for us given this place to call home yet to be picked up and moved at any time if we are required somewhere else, for a now deemed protection of whatever cargo the masters are moving about.

Being then this tool, this biding place of usefulness in labour and without being able to define direction, being collateral hasn't been a backing unless as unionised, then we've all had to just watch and do what we're told. Therein the watching is what really counts. Watching those with investments to create yeild and seeing how precocious they become, how inefficiencies are looked over from that vantage of owning, and aren't even seen as inefficiency... we watch and have developed against, yet with, the deeming, as above, of our worthiness totally unsuitable to how we might measure ourselves so older ways, it seems, have been our own given allowance.

In that regard then the owners are the predators and we must be wily, learn their ways, keep away from those jaws with the big teeth of law, and maybe this is why it's called native intelligence.

Is that telling enough? It'd have to be really as the whole point of native intelligence isn't about telling, it isn't about adding to a huge pile of already nailed down and trustable knowledge that bets, which aren't really bets at all, only on itself... which it what telling is. It's about knowing that asking the right questions is the real risk and that if those questions aren't right then at least make the suffering make you stronger in some way.

That, if any, would be the point of this book, and I'm loathe to explain why, because again, it's telling, and if theres anything the world needs these days it definitely ain't telling... unless it's a telling off, and let's hope the powers that be get that before it gets to that point.

So me, when this idea for this loomed and cajoled me towards itself, this already will be and I've just to put in the time here tappy, tapping, and hopefully learning the arcane art of grammar... but more likely I'll carry on as I always have just making up my own, having been given this story it is and yes it will be fraught with inconsistency and as cryptic as I can make it... simply because people understand telling, and being told, far, far too much.

We head to an abyss of denial of the human spirit not because we have identified what the abyss is and what it looks like, yes, we've ticked all the boxes to identify what it is etc, fuck me dazed, but have we explored it with our own eyes, our own possibilities of being in and amongst a sense of ourselves trusting what we actually see?

Saturday, May 6, 2017

Mangere Rd chapter two draft

Then even if you've defined a beginning, a place to start which might make sense for the narrative yet to be, you do have to go back a little ways previous... it just can't be a furrow cut and adhered to stringently. Well, maybe it could but already now it feels like loose ends, little frayed bits need tying off, macramed even so the knot, the beginning, is at least a decorative in it's shabbiness.

It is that even as I leave Ema's place - and I'd found her still adjusting to the new day but coffee had been brewed so we'd sat out back for a bit and discussed her recent forays into Modern Art, and of note particularly meetings with academics complaining that we, us urbanised poor, seemed to want to see our own mirrors, our own reflections, whilst the academics couldn't see the irony of us having to keep viewing their decided views for us - and come up to the Great South Rd at Dominion Breweries, where it meets Bairds road, there is an echoeing back to pasts and within a year or two of my family arriving here in '69, where dad's inclusion partly, as in outside of work connections, was through Alcoholics anonymous - him being, by then, and to this day, sober as old as I am for I, still hardly able to walk, one morning, picked up an empty beer bottle and, so the story goes, whacked him on the head, as he lay dozing off a hangover, and that was the gesture, that whack by his new son, which decided he would stop drinking - and there was a man, with his family, we used to visit from time to time - and even now I'm here in Otara myself I think I know the house! - and it was, this journey, marked with a leaving, of the outskirts we had, as the hard right was taken at the monument, which surely in my eight year old brain was the edges of something important, that big huge statue of a soldier on a rearing horse, and we, in that little Hillman Husky which was our first car in this new land, would almost completely encircle the statue as the turn was made on the edge of Otahuhu and into a journey through farmlands to the way off new town which was Otara.

Of course, except for the sculpture, none of this had any sense I might make of things for I was interested only in my fathers friends daughter. I was all of eight, as I've said, but had already had quite deep and mysterious meetings of something I knew nothing of with girls - even as all the other boys seemed to abhore these alien, in our midst, creatures I'd already found them utterly beguiling... not all of course, even then I knew the worth of comrades and so adhered to the doctrine as stated, but I'd enjoyed, dived deep, into what, so far as I can remember, were the mysteries of two of those other and grouped, and named, girls. And then there, in Otara, and at that house I can still somehow feel was that house, I'd come across a third one who seemed willing to explore this borderland between the known and explainable, or at least within sheilds trustable, and what was unknown, unfathomable and entirely explorable.

But start at some point we must and for me, the line in the sand, is the monument and I chose that, as an edge, because many years later I found out - and herein it seems I could do research as from what a fellow said even yesterday out at Ihumatao, Peter, that I might be wrong - that the old house, on that corner, was where David Lange was brought up and that man, not necessarily rising above others of us from Mangere, surely did because he became a Prime Minister, and of consequence to me, was that I met him a few times after he'd lost that top job.

On one hand then we have this magic orator, and he was because that's, I hope, how we all remember him. That magnificent voice taking on the world, with such a quick mind that was poetic but also sharp, and that's how we liked to be too and yet he'd taken that to the pinnacle of our land... he came from here, he was as us, and he was heard - I know I for one felt such as that, being heard, wasn't part of any bargain I'd ever heard of, yes, we dreamed of it, that what we all shared as poor folks, though we didn't see it as that and tended towards a bullish working class, fix your own car and concrete your own driveway kind of being - and in being able to speak how could he not be speaking of us?

When I met him then, when I'd passed muster with his electorate secretary Denise Parsons down at the humble offices he kept in Mangere Bridge, and a meeting with him was arranged, I was just a little into my own adventure away from home. I'd tried, I was maybe 32 at the time, making my way in the world and already had tow resounding failures I'd crawled broken out of, one with a landscaping business wiped from the blackboard of commerce overnight by the '87 crash and the second a music shop in Otahuhu, after pulling myself out of debt and deciding to make some guitars, electric, as I definitely still wasn't enough out of the last hole to buy new ones, so I could follow music and ended up - after borrowing a whole bunch of family money to buy an existing shop near the end of it's lease from a bored fellow wanting to do other things easier to make money at - with this shop but was still smoking far too much marijuana and got the lease sold out from under me 'cause I kept putting off going to sign papers... dickhead that I was, then should have grabbed a building across the carpark which was just a little more than I felt I could afford but already felt so out of my depth I couldn't help but shy away from.

See, always connections and pasts going off on tangents... but quickly, I took a house just on the edge of the business district but it had already been sold, that gave me a bargaining chip though, not a great one but at least stuff I could understand, so I did make some cash for the move but ended up badly placed too far away, but years and years later that house, and it's occupier, is known to me, me and this fellow I bargained cash out of, which was the agents fault but he payed, is a genius auto electrician and collector of oddities so we've ended up with a friendship of sorts between us.

So indeed I tried and failed at what I felt were the accepted ways and the only thing left was art, as I'd always drawn - since I was two - so I got into art school, just though not because I wasn't good enough but that they felt I was already too good so I'd had to argue that, yes, I might be able to compose pictures but I had absolutely no idea about how the artworld worked, that it was a foriegn land filled with customs I knew nothing of, and that I needed this year in town, at it's centre, to acclimatise... so that worked, they let me in.

There I was then in town a year or two already with adventures under my belt but had literal veered off, and that was her name, Veer, a woman six years older than me who was a restauranteer, from humble beginnings in Fiji, and I'd ended up in partnership with her, fell into it more honestly without even seeing where it was going and alongside this, well, the excuse basically, she'd had some immigration problems so this was the reasoning to go see Lange.

Theoretically I was a socialist, from my Dads wishing upon the world as musings of how and what could be, and with David being in the Labour Party yet somehow above it, but at the same time having been circumscribed by Douglas and by now, 1993 or so, being in opposition, in hindsight I can see that I'd instinctively seen myself in the same boat, albeit a much smaller boat - a canoe even - but something upon a sea, that required navigation so I'd sought out David to see how those instincts might mesh.

And also, by then, I'd done my mensa test, and passed, so I'm supposing too that I wondered somehow how my possible genius fitted against what I saw as real genius - especially with that almost divine utterance ' I can almost smell the Plutonium on your breath from here.' ( And I'm going to give it to you if you hold your breath just for a moment ... I can smell the uranium on it as you lean towards me!) actual Oxford debate words... memory huh?

If memory serves, which as illustrated above it 'sorta' does, David was, even then, tired. He'd come from us, that place where factories stood and farmlands because housing, and he'd gone out and battled and fought and had returned home tired and possibly even broken already. I didn't see that, I didn't know that, I just saw a hero of us who'd gone out and was able to flame. Yup, hindsights a great thing. It might even create foresight.

Friday, May 5, 2017

Mangere Rd chapter one draft.

Where do we start? The royal we, the cliché? Why not? I'm lucky in a sense I'm not that well read, and that much might become more than obvious as I stumble through this. Already it's nothing like the various speaking in my head stuff that rambling through my brain yesterday when I got to know this idea of actually writing a book. Shit, I've hardly even started and already I've most probably made every mistake imaginable which might comprise lesson one in how to write a book school.

So yeah, being not that well read means I can use loads of clichés and be none the wiser whereby it's the alarms goin' off in your head, that I'm outclassed by my own sense of possibility, and not in my own.

But, as this stuff did kinda form in this bone encircled idea thingy, my brain, it was somewhat difficult to know where to start, and it wasn't as I have, now I actually get down to tappy tappy, one particular point in time did make a kind of sense.

Facebook. It was a facebook post and one of my liked pages, NZ gardeners, felt like a quite reasonably, and potentially paradoxical, spade stuck in the earth to start this particular hole... I did say clichés were goin' to feature.

It was a photo of Comfrey and someone asking what it was. It's very similar to Borage, a favourite of mine already growing wild here where I am, and people did, in the post, suggest it was Borage, but then it got interesting when some clever Harriet mentioned that Foxglove was also involved... therein my ears perked as it them made a trinity and I love the trinity. Well, I'm jumping forward a bit as with the mentions of Foxglove I went googling and found it as a strong, yet potentially dangerous, heart stimulant... brilliant, and heres the trinity bit, that we have Borage which stimultates the kidneys, and to an extent the liver, and Comfrey which is great for our bones then, low and behold, here comes Foxglove to aid the heart... wow, I'm sold, I'm putting my name down, and her what enobled the faith, the clever Harriet, she mentioned a book - and twas even a NZ written one - called companion planting... and I've even some money so 'can I find it available for the day's adventure, can it appear as the flung spear to start this day?'

And yes it was as I then googled the book and one copy, it's now (as I did this) 8.45 in the morning, at timeout books in Mt Eden. They don't open 'til 9 but theres the phone number on the website but maybe someones there earlyand I'll be able, as in right now, get this nailed down, sorted, put to bed.

'Cause what enthused me, made a silly bugger Sean sense, was that I'd had dealings with timeout in the past, even the way backs when I was having fun in town and running about like a lunatic building stuff, when a designer had found me and wanted me to do some work so I pretended I was really busy and might not be able to do the work for them so they had to pay me a thousand bucks up front to enable me to fit them in... so they did, but then something happened whereby someone else ended up doing the work so they asked for their money back and I'm like fat chance (politely though) but how about this chair?

What then also made this really interesting, oh sorry, it worked and they took the chair in lieu, was that this particular piece had gone down, with some others, to Otahuhu Hard Chromers where there was this really neato chap in charge, who was a chemist, and he'd copper plated and chromed a few of my other bits but he'd said these ones were too jagged, too dangerous, to be put into the rubber lined tubs they drop shit into for the miracle of chrome plating... but he did have a retarder solution he'd made up and he could paint them in that to at least keep them rust free for a little while.

Now, decades later, this stuff which went under his wondrous solution is still essentially rust free, well not totally, but it, this coating of whatever he used, has completely defied what is the normal result of steel, not laden in oil, being served up to the elements whereby it just wants to start rusting straight away and go back into the ground.

Going back again a few years after this I'd gone back looking for this fellow but he was in Prison, for a hinted reason I can't actually say, and the new owner, a quite garrulous chap in a certain type of South Auckland doesn't need to be spoken 'take heed' speak relayed to me... stop looking!

Anyway, that's how it is for me. When with one little facebook post theres this almost avalanche of association comes in so I know, deep down in my yet to be Foxgloed heart, that this is where the fun for today will be. All the stuff is coming in and creating a big and shining pointer about where to start forgetting anything actually makes any sense.

This though, this meandering collection of odds and ends, got me into the car and into Mt Eden, and I think I'll come back and fill some of this out later, once other connections are made, but for now, I got to Mt Eden, got my book and then wandering back to the car I finally, as I passed them by on the way there, though I had gone into the shop but... again anyway, noticed the baskets out the front of the charity shop and there, being lit up this time round, past, was a tablecloth, blue and cheap it was, which had been made in 1998 for a Fijian Police convention and that's just got to be the sort of ironic stuff my old friend Ema, who is Fijian and an artist, is going to be able to use.

And that my friends is what started, allowed, the idea of this book. That piece of blue cloth screen printed for some gathering way back in the past and on an Island Ive never been to, yet has associations I can grab, got me, after I'd returned home and decided I was going to take my chainsaw to Ihumatao, which is a whole other story, to drop off this fabric to Ema, at her house within an Olympics athletes javelin throw of the Dominion Breweries headquarters on the corner of great South Rd and Bairds, and so almost force me, the route to unfold, to go the way to Ihumatao from The Monument, next to the old house where David Lange was brought up, and not incidentally his brother who've I've also ended up meeting and enjoying the company of, all the way across the backbone of Mangere, which, as I drove told me, in no uncertain terms, that this book, though here I am at the beginning of it, wants written... Mangere rd.

Monday, November 14, 2016

The normalising of weird, the weirding of normal.

I came across a video this morning of a bunch of women in an old barn all dressed up in raw homespun and they were singing and chanting and it was beautiful. It rose up through me and I felt that kinship that is within as all and that's all well and good, and it is, but at the same time I wanted it to be in a shopping mall where they all came together without ceremony, threw aside the christmas shopping, kicked off the high heels and just let the mascara run and the sweat drip as they found and fell into the communal praise that was in them all already.

And that's kinda like why I haven't ever really been interested in leaving the city. Oh yes, I've had many kind offers to go out and grab a bit of the big untrammeled nature and be my altogether weird self within her bosom of fecundity except that has never felt right... almost too simple. Not that I don't discourage anyone else that right but it's just not for me.

Maybe it is that I was born within spitting distance of a steelmill and that the sounds of life I hearken to will always have that beat going on. I really don't know and somehow it doesn't matter either... it just is what it is and I love machines and steel and oil as much as I love weeds and trees and rivers.

But I've always been weird, different drummer and all that, which was never really something I thought about except over the years the feedback from others has been such that okay, I'll accept I'm different but at the same time 'so what'.

To the point though, 'cause it's writing and supposedly it has to have one, and even before I started this I did kinda have one... but now I've started and out it pours I'm even wondering how to get to it.

'Cause, me, myself, as an illustrative quality, I'm all over the fucking place. Bit of this, bit of that, almost as if I've got the whole human experience to draw on and make use of yet at the same time, while I'm quite comfortable with that, it does tend to be a bit too piratey and cowboyish... as if I can't quite be trusted, yet that somehow too is the point.

So I suppose that the thing. That the video... and I better try and stick it in here, has the old barn and the homespun clothing and it has a beauty and it has goodwill but at the same time it almost discourages and sets such things aside because there is a specific uniform going on, that the culture isn't ours, the space and connection isn't ours... we weren't born to it so we can't have it, and all that is just a bit fucking bollocks. Except it's not wrong either.

Okay, I went back to Canada in '95. One month and sponsored by Grandma, bless her heart, and the land was sick. It was where I was born and it was hurting and I felt that. Maybe it was that I left at 7 and came with my family to New Zealand and whatever tendencies I did have felt at home in this land, that it was somehow wild enough still, and engendered a kind of wildness in me, that when I went back to the land that birthed me I felt a kinship trodden and hurting. I don't know. And it may have been too an uncle dying who kind of picked up, in that accepted reality, a sense that I had a sense going on and we sort of cajoled and coaxed each other towards whatever it might welcome within us. So he felt something and I felt something so we got the women to take us out to the reservation... to see the Indians.

And so we did that, a coupla times actually, but just went wandering without being able to somehow form the questions and also without being able to get answers... it became almost a vision quest, as it were, and eventually, through the mouths of babes, the acknowledgement came.

Typically too I wrote it all down but I've lost the paper I wrote it on. So what happened was I felt this need to explore why I felt what I did, 'cause it was as real as I am, and went off in search of what I felt might resonate with that and was merely perplexed and more confused. So I had to accept that and settle into it.

Anyway, I was given a paid job to do a mural at my cousins and paint up their room, these two young, very young, boys who had rudimentary speech, which interestingly there was a little worry around. So I did this painting and I kinda discussed in that painting what my questions might be about and then afterwards we had a big family barbecue and during this, with all in attendance, the youngest of these lads walked up to me, and loud and clear, spoke words way beyond his vocabulary and said " We acknowledge your presence, we hear your plea, and we feel your commitment." Or something very similar anyway, 'cause like i said, I've lost the proof... and don't need it anyway.

Back to New Zealand and again go back to lot's of fun and games just being almost tragically unsuccessful but at the same time always managing to make good and go off on all kinds of tangents and along the way the past lives kinda start accumulating and they all fit in quite neato, quite specifically there for quite specific reasons but suffice to say, 'cause that in and of itself is a whole other completely tangled up ( but only in how it might be explained cohesively as a linear thing... 'cause it just ain't) set of weird, but essentially it became part of my vocabulary, as it were, and I met a woman where basically there was stuff in the air that wanted grabbing and it tended towards native American so that's what I focused on.

Now specifics aren't required except I made a connection, and the Aborigines of Aussie call it the dreamtime... I don't call it anything, it's just what I do, but I had the audacity, that once I'd kinda gotten the info to see this woman in the light that wanted seen, to ask what my Indian name was. I don't why I asked that, it wasn't a concern, but it popped out and it was answered "Sleeping Wolf"

The thing is then that yes, I could go on building the pomp and ceremony and even badge myself up with this whatever it is except while it's kind of deep and meaningful to me it's also somewhat silly too.

Because I went in and read up on the founding documents of the Iroquois and low and behold, it's right there written down, the adoption agency, as it were, the invite to come sit under the witness tree and it makes total sense that this is what's been going on.

And what is silly, and the hard bit too, is that it's kinda got to be silly but almost really bloody serious too. The connectedness we find that connects us all, our ability to singularly, and en masse connect, cannot be lifted out of the connectedness for self importance... therein lies the fiasco.

So what if I'm havin' conversations on earth frequencies or picking up messages across stellar distances, so what? It's just my normal and it's gets fed back into the wider bigger normal which is all of us.

It's like the Saviour thing has gotten us to where we are now and it has been good, I've no doubts about that at all, but this tendency to put all our eggs in one basket, the looking for wisdom from on high as it were, these permissions and allowances granted with the pomp and ceremony of versions of corporate dignity emblazoned with the glories of "The answer"... it's reached a use by date.

Now we gotta look into ourselves and find our own permissions, our own willingness in the uniquely but perishable existence of our possibility, the tiny and precious similarities for a whole new mix'n'match, where we all get little bit's of whatever cloth strikes us and make our very own dreamcoats... or something like that.

And see... I can't just repost the video here. It's just beyond me so all I can do is link to their facebook page and you can find stuff which might be relevant... as in find your own and own it your way and share it your way 'cause that, I reckon, is the brand new, fresh off the shelves, shake, rattle and roll "All of Us!"

https://www.facebook.com/laboratoriumpiesni/

Thursday, October 27, 2016

What is Luck?

Typically I haven't thought about this at all but something happened yesterday that I feel needs some discussion. It may never be read, it may fall on deaf ears even if it is, but does that even matter beside me at least taking the time and effort to expand the idea?

It was a decision to, at almost four o'clock, hop in Mum's car and take the head of my cars engine across to Panmure to have a helicoil inserted into the spark plug hole I'd so deftly chewed the threads out of, which, in and of itself, was a rather ridiculous thing to do that late in the day, so close to rush hour, yet that is what I did.

And I did it, not because I can afford it now, but because I can afford it next week and that also gives the man about 4 working days to get it done. In the meantime I then had enough money left from my dole payment for my two required packets of tobacco. But then I arrive, at like four o'clock and he's immediately smiling and says 'You want just the helicoil done?', 'Yes' I reply, 'Okay, I'll do it now. Have you got cash?' and I haven't really but I tell him I haven't quite got 80 bucks, which was the quote he'd given me the day before, and I'd been somewhere else in the interim and been told it was a very good price. So he says 'Tell you what, you go down and get 70 bucks out and that'll leave you enough for dinner as well.'

Now I could go on and on about all these split second decisions that are made with absolutely no backup, well hardly any anyway, that keep throwing me into almost ever increasing faith that no matter what my resources are I just have to keep trusting that it'll work out as almost everyone one I meet seems totally inclined to help me out in some way... often even when lines are in evidence where people obviously are well backed up, and yet I keep getting to the heads of the lines... what's that all about?

And quite often people end up confiding in me and just as often they seem quite perplexed that they are. Me I'm just having fun at my own expense so maybe it's got something to do with that as if by that me just enjoying my life means I've obviously got time to hear others out and possibly offer clues as to what they might admit to can somehow be transformed simply by me hearing it.

But this fellow yesterday, he was good, he went a little further than most and was actually willing to listen. It was as if he actually sensed consciously that I had something about me he could learn from. That's actually quite rare as most just want me to listen and I don't even think they know that.

So yeah, this fellow confided in me that he'd had years of bad luck and somehow wanted me to let him know what good luck is and to a certain extent I know what it is but I'm not really allowed to say... well, I am but it's pointless.

The thing is that good luck is from the heart and just going with that and these people who are just in their heads, well, nothing to be done there, but those who are somewhat caught between the heart and the head... that's the interesting place but working from the head to encourage more heart, it just doesn't work.

Oh God, if it did we'd all be sweet as. We could let our heads build our worlds into what we need and at the end of that be able to jump into this heart led life with absolute trust that it would all work out fine... except that's exactly the bloody opposite of how it actually works, or as far as I can see that it works, and I don't particularly like this myself but it's how it is.

I mean I'd like a little more success, a wider pool of security, as, in a sense, people might trust this more and listen better somehow, but it ain't gonna happen, at least not in that way anyways. Because I almost have to be on the brink of failure all the time, at least in a conservative sense, because what people might trust, from the head, can't be there... it can't and it's as simple as that, so on the brink of failure it's like people have no choice but to look deeper at this luck I might have and feel it as a strong and willing thing away from a sense of security as we all like security to be.

The thing is I don't really ever make decisions of going this way or that way. Theres no time for that. Ways to go become so obvious there just isn't time to choose, you just do it. The other side of the coin though, and this might even be harder, is that if nothing is obviously in need of doing... then do nothing.

And, of course, this isn't the whole story at all but that's the point... you only ever get enough story to get started then even that gets thrown out, that is tossed as useful only in hearing the starter gun, after that you make your own story... 'cause in the end that's it too, no ones else's story will ever work, will ever be copied... well, they can be, but why be a facsimile?