summershine

Far out! I have totally had the most relaxed, and yet full on summer.

Maybe because I am unemployed, maybe cos I am good at being superchill.

Where to start… I feel like I haven’t blogged in a million years. I dunno. It’s weird being in Aotearoa, sitting back, watching the cogs turn. Burn me like a joint, there’s often no point to reading the news, same old hues, black and white, constant fight. I live another day and yet die in other ways. The media is killing me. I watch Justin Beiber and I think to myself, “poor kid, super-rich and yet empty on the inside”.

His life is as fucked up as everyone else’s.

How do we die in this world? We’re all feigning fantasies.

My little bro has been going through a rough patch. It’s lasted his whole life long. He’s a special person with a big heart, but like most, he doesn’t fit the daily roast. Over the festive season I had to staunch him out while he threatened to smash me over in the middle of the street in my village. I didn’t like being so scary to him that he backed off.

Illlage, spillage left-overs. That’s who we all are, even Justin Beiber, when pharmaceutical companies milk us of our hives; we’re all the same mind these days, terrorism ingested when we’re basted like fries, eating the havoc that has been poisoning our dirt. No shirt on my back, just the sunburn that the ozoneless sky could not protect me from.

I still can’t believe that it is normal that we have no ozone layer over this country. Skin cancer-county, come and live in New Zealand if you like skincancerscars, and cheese filled with superfertilizer.

My little bro has been on the fries for years now. Meth. P. Sometimes, more often than not, he has been a scary someone else. He had been terrorising the kids, and bullying our mother.

It’s hard to deal out the tough love, in the middle of the street, in front of all your relations, when you’re scared shitless that the person who has transformed from your brother, is going to kill you with his drug induced fists.

A few days later he drove around town with my thirteen and fifteen year old nephews in the back, BB gun in hand. I am glad we have good gun laws in this country… even if as Indigenous savages we have little else. He decided it would be fun to shoot tourists.

I love it when the armed offenders’ squad turns up at our house.

A day later he nearly bashed one of our cousins to death. I haven’t gone to see my Aunty yet because I feel ashamed that I wasn’t a good enough, or tough enough earlier in my brother’s life.

I feel sick… sick to death of the drama.

But everyone is sick these days.

I had to move outta my whare in Piha. It sucked. I loved that place, peaceful platitudes to the dude who got kicked out by his crazy landlady. Poor betch, I really like her, but the government denies all responsibility when a person stops taking their pills and goes on a six month long psychotic epic. I’d write psychotic episode, but I feel sad for her that the short and sweet episodes are the tiny amounts of time when she is medicated, sedated and ‘normal’. My friends and I got kicked out because her illness made her start to think we were bad people. I suppose she had nothing else concrete in her life except the home we were renting, and so as a victim of something, we became the source of her fixated pain.

I should go to bed.

I have been staying up late till the early hours of the morning a lot over the past week. I have been working on a job application for over a month. I sent it off today. I still can’t believe that I am able to apply for good jobs. I never in my life really believed that I would be anything but dead by the time I was thirty. Now I am thinking I am going to be a Professsor.

WTF?

As part of this job app I put together a power point of about a twentieth of the artworks I have made in the last seven years. I also wrote down the kinds of research I have been doing. Then I reworked my CV.

I shocked myself.

How does a person who got kicked out of school, somehow manage to get into university? Then, how does that person scrape through with just passing grades for ten years until they find something interesting, and ways that finally make sense? After that, it’s another five years of study to get over the drug addiction, the alcoholism, and the dying from the inside out that HIV brings.

That’s twenty years of just getting by, bar jobs, building jobs, juice bar jobs, jobs in clothes shops, lugging pallets of coke through a supermarket at 5am every morning before uni starts, and a one hundred thousand dollar student loan.

Servile death.

If I get this job and save for two years, I will no longer have a student debt.

I think that’s fucked, to live and die for twenty years, just to pay for the pleasure of the abuse.

I can’t believe I live in this world. When I read about it in atlases, it seems so much better.

Yay, awesome.

I get a reward and I can perhaps be happy about having something I worked tremendously hard for. But what about my brother, what about my landlady, what about Justin Beiber? I’m being dead serious.

How can I ever be happy when so many people around me are so sad? But yah, at least my CV looks great, it’s fate, to deny that everyone is simply a slave to abandonment, heaven sent, meant for someone else, but deliverance for all, fall, slip, bruise, bleed, feed, weed. I need it to numb my thriving strife, this can’t be life, rife with misfortune, missed again, wane, weep, sleep, snore, bore a hole into my head and fill me with sawdust. I rust, but I must keep turning and going through the motions. Emotions, dead. Dread, driving me to drink. Don’t think, sink…

No more.

I am beyond feeling fear, ne’er again will I pretend that I can’t do a goddamned thing. I am going to sing, swing my poi, this little boy/man/lady/tranny/makeup wearing dude is past the point of feeling grim.

I am going to swim, cos that’s the way the old people used to get rid of feelings of weight, hate, hope waits in the wake of the wave, the ebb of the tide, the rush of the river.

I have a plan, cos I am THE TRAN…

I am going to Australia in a week, for two months. I haven’t been back there since I left ten years ago. My thinking has changed a lot since then, but really, I must still be the same person. Perhaps?

I plan to keep on relaxing, cos it’s good for the soul.

“In my house there’s a picture on the wall…”

I can never figure out the lyrics that come after that, but I really love the song… it’s definitely something about being a Rastafari cos later on the singer starts to sing, “Rasta leaf, Rasta leaf, Rasta leaf forever more”, ye’ah!

So what has that picture been telling me over the past few days, a maze of meander; bewilderment of neither here nor where the fuck am I? I think I have been slightly funk, in the sense that I almost feel drunk on the fumes of frames that flicker in my mind, the ones that tell story and story and story and story and story and story and stop.

I need to operate differently, but in many ways I do not know where or how to begin. Sometimes I grin because I feel really good, but at the same time I am frowning, drown out the voices of my misty self, becoming demystified as the mysteries start to unfurl, follow me into the digital rabbit hold on my heart that goes all the way to China. Tryna chime a tune, chew the fat, bat my eyelids, bid farewell and go to hell.

But heaven’s here, right in front of me beside myself with weary jetlagged bags under eye. I I I I I I I st st st st stutter, I really do. Yesterday I was stuttering myself crazy and I know that my lazy leafing through life these ways, they sway me here and there and shit niggah, I feel that deep deep down I have been filled with fear. Filter the feelings and follow the path of the digital rabbit hole in my heart that goes all the way to find the light and live the love. I feel like my life has been a glove that I have taken off for the first time. My living hand has grand plans of its own, groan in the morning because the sweaty skin that has lain sweltering in the sing a song of sixpence wants to heal more than a simple pocket full of rye.

When I was a kid I had a terrible stutter and a lispering to myself:

“      slow      down     betch     ,     breathe     ,     think     each     word      you      want      to      say      before      you       move      your      mouth      ,      think      the      word       and       then       think       about       where      your     tongue       needs       to       go      to       enable       you       to       say       the       words        you       just      heard       in        your       head       .       “

It’s hella dread when the trials of tributaries explored and conquered come back to beat you to a pulp. I gulp in a deep breath again and slowly I speak a languid kind of language that makes people around me believe I am normal again.

Men, many. If any man could see me now in comparison to the me I was when I was a child they would wonder how I managed to wander to where I am now. I really did have a tricky beginning. My birth parents had families of their own…

I am pretty sure they were cousins, kissing out on the start to life that most children in civilised colonies might have.

When my real parents came to find me they discovered me covered in eczema sores and dirt, in a laundry basket-case, that’s who I always have been. Today I played Frisbee and flew the damn thing right into the sea. I wanted to die of embarrassment and wet my pants like I did when I was a boy. I bid those tears goodbye. Instead I had to laugh at how absurd it is to be an adult and still dote on the inner child, wild from the lake, a Damn Native… that’s that kid again, the one with no shoes, chipped nail polish and an open heart.
I start again, from today and tomorrow and all the sorrows afterward are just my imagination running away with see the difference? Yes, I see the difference, I defer to my new self and look into the mirror that this time talks back for real. I conversed with that reflected version of self this morning.

We talked good story to each other. I really enjoy the good story I hear him walk me back to the start, stare the issue in the eye and resolve it through easy conversation. Back and forth, forward and reverse, versions of the same song but with varied pitch and roll, hold on tight, this ride is real, and it is something I know I will embrace for impact with the hard reality that really isn’t so hard anymore when I interrogate the terror-feeling that has been reeling me to near tears the pages from the book in the new flights of fancy a dance like you never danced before and ever after school me a new religion is a curse upon you are worth more than that never happened in the past is the past, focus on the future is bright ideas are there, you just have to grasp them and dreams can come true blue baby I love you never know what lies around the corner store the energy, whisper and blow…

…and there, you have something incredible in the making.

Yesterday I heard story about an elder who told a man to remember being a boy, and to embrace the things that his boyish-self loved. When he talked that story I thought to myself, “when I was a boy, what are the things that I loved?” When I was a boy I loved to imagine. When I was a boy I loved to play. When I was boy I loved to draw. When I was a boy I loved my nan. When I was a boy I loved to pretend I was a Michael Jackson. Maybe I still love those things.

And so this is who I am today.

I need to urinate, and then I am moving to another floor.

This library has great mezzanines.

the ball and the shoe

Sweet disposition, transition me to the flying fury of fevered future fictions. I forget to tell myself all the good things in amongst the bad. Sad days remembering to render a simple blend of bashing and belligerence. I bested those demons as they feasted upon my addled addictions. Shame. All die and devour yourselves, you never needed me, as I never needed you.

I am on a bus today, going home to see my family for the first time in months. I love to travel and see the world, but home is where the art is.

I have this ancient memory of my life in a small village in the middle of a large body of water. I waited there for centuries to find my ways into the frays of feeling. All mind and no body, buoyant without breath. All those long summer days, I would gaze into a distanced horizon that went round in circles as my innermost senses circumnavigated their circumferences. Round and round and round, a ringed planet multiplying in mass, as my masters minced words and murmured mouthless mandates; follow the story as it has been told, and don’t describe the place between the future and the old.

I feel quite odd, odes to never are empty enunciations, eulogies to an everlasting kind of unthinking bliss. My blistered heart, although always under the heat of the lunar sun, sinks still like the chilled peripheries of my polar presence.

Round and round, a game of playing pretence.

Last night I dreamed I went to a ball. It was incredible, and even though I didn’t really have a great gown, I managed to safety pin my tracksuit into something that made me feel like a sexy beast. It was a funny kind of night, because in many ways I felt like a chaperone, rather than a debutante. Lots of young gorgeous gurls and boys with their fafswag-grinding, twerked and death-dropped, hands merging the imaginary Native into the mix of Polynesia within the amnesia of Aotearoa. Not a person was pacified and no-one pretended, instead all the glitter and glamour clamoured for the kinds of attention that perhaps we might not have encountered before in our endurance. Dance, and dance again, let the music play to our restless abandon, don tiaras and big-ol tran shoes, choose to be someone rather than something.

Even though in my dream I truly did feel much older than those around me, I was surprised at how pretty and at ease I still felt. I think when I was so much younger, my hairy post-puberty body and awkwardness, prevented me from feeling anything but ugly. It’s such a pity to remember how unhappy I always was. I wish someone had the sense of selflessness to hold a ball for me when I was just a kidding myself all the time.

Even though part of me still inhabits those past places, pacing myself through those ways does nothing but cause regrets, and so instead, I focus on how I now feel.

I hope in my last night’s dreamy efforts, I helped all those kids around me feel like I yearned to feel in my years-ago. Part way through my sleep, a beautiful young whakawahine, enticed me 2 prance with her in front of the crowd. I felt shy, and I tried my hardest to imagine it was just me and her, dippin’ low and letting go of reality long enough to werk it out betch. Sooo much fun, until my monster 8 inch platform stilettos gave way beneath me, and I fell from exaggerated heights; I limped a shortened leg back to my chair, where I could hide an aspect of my embarrassment behind makeup and earrings. Even though I was a bit of hot mess, I still appreciated a tempered type of balance, ballast that countered emotions of shame with a name, my name, the fame of the person who was just glad to finally be comfortable in their own skin.
And so perhaps last night’s dream was like beginning again. Lately, I have been having lots of beginnings, but really no endings.

What if life from now on, is simply a series of endless starting points, places to perceive a fresh fantasy of formulating pathways beyond fear? I wonder what a fearless type of life is like, but deep down within the intake of breath that penetrates my pores, I already know. And so each day I grow a little more, a type of pleasant boredom where patiently I watch the minute seconds flicker by, goodbye cruel world, alas poor Maori boy, I knew him well.

My heart begins to swell as this bus snakes its way past a river of my ancestors; Waikato awa. I think of the long journey made by silted sand, Earth ground to glimmers of glass by glacial weight, melting into undercurrents that flow like buried bones to the waiting seas. See me ancestors, as I make my way into a world I once knew, but didn’t ever really know at all. I have fallen from the sky again, like minty rain, refreshing the pages of drought that has stricken my mouth of words.

Southern Puget Sound

Southern Puget Sound

It’s lunchtime and I need to eat something…

I have been eating a lot lately, which is good. I often forget to eat if I am working outside of what I consider my normal routine. I had a routine for about a week, but then life got quite full on and the routine simmered to nothing.

Yesterday I collected berries. Over the past few days I have enjoyed walking down the road and stopping every now and then to gorge on blackberries and huckleberries. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a huckleberry until the other day. I thought huckleberry was just a name for a strange kid from The South.

Berries are my new favorite thing. When I went for a walk yesterday I took a plastic bag with me. Now I am looking forward to eating berries I collected with brunch.

I went to a conference the other week. I am not sure if I had a good time. There were a lot of politics going on, and somehow, I managed to get stuck in the middle. I think because of my personality, people tend to tell me when they are unhappy about things. I am a good listener, and generally speaking, I can always see the logic in someone’s argument. The problem is that I can often see the logic in opposing arguments too. I tend to hear people out, nod and agree with their points made, and help them to get clarity around their thinking. These are good skills to have. There were a few times at the conference when people did things that were not only culturally inappropriate, but also abusive.

It sucks though, when there are a lot of people who are annoyed and they need someone to tell, and I happen to be there. I am a problem-solving magnet, to the extent that I can become overwhelmed and left feeling battered.
I suppose, by the end of that conference, I felt very battered.

It has nice to be in a quiet space to reflect.

I am definitely on a haerenga, or journey at the moment. Being in the middle of lots of differing agendas is part of that haerenga. Listening to people as they try to resolve things that upset them is part of that haerenga too. I need to focus on strategies that will enable me to stay sane, or at least feel safe.

Personal safety has always been an issue for me. I tend to sacrifice my personal safety in order to help other people feel safe, but this is unsustainable practice. I will get all of my energy sucked out of me if I do not find ways to stay safe whilst on this haerenga. Lately, in order to feel safe I have resorted to hiding out somewhere, like a library, or I go for a walk. But these strategies do not really work long-term. I think I need to find security within, and feel safe enough to tell people when they are making me feel unsafe and insecure.

That is a strategy I need to super-glue to my brain.

Last night there was a full moon in Aquarius. It is the second full moon in Aquarius this month, so is referred to as a blue moon. At the last full moon, I was just leaving Aotearoa to embark on this haerenga. This full moon I reflected on how I got on this journey, and where I tend to go from here. It was good to have these reflections, and now, I am beginning to develop a sense of how to proceed. It is quite strange, this PhD thing. I feel like I spent perhaps two years trying to find a program, supervisors and at the same time clarify my intent. Then, after being enrolled it took six months to clarify my project even further. The entire time there has been an incredible amount of bureaucracy to battle against.

Yesterday, I encountered more bureaucracy where my project that was approved by a committee, now has to be re-approved by the same committee, before it can be approved by another committee. Until then, my project is on hold. I feel like my project will be on hold until I submit my thesis in three and a half years.

I decided to ignore the bureaucracy for a while…maybe for the next three and a half years.

Last week I got confirmation that my ethics application was approved, so I intend to just start researching. Eventually the system that I am immersed in will catch up, but if I do not activate my process, or at least find a pathway to doing what I have committed to, then I give my power to a machine.
My project is about how to take back power from machines. I am sometimes surprised that the machines have let me get this far.

Not long after the moon rose last night, I went out to kayak on the water with a friend. Before we got in the kayaks, we had ceremony; we burnt sage and offered tobacco. I said good prayers. Once we were out on the water I had an incredible feeling of oneness. For a very long time, my body has been out of alignment. I suspect that this is due to an internal gender conflict, where my body wants to be one way, but I have been trained to be the opposite. I have become quite good over the past few years at identifying where my body is out of alignment, and gaining enough focus to relax the primary tension enough to reshape my body. Last night I got very close to my goal of completely straightening out. As I floated in a kayak on the water, with the full moon beaming over my existence, I felt myself slipping into te whare tangata.

Whare tangata from a Maori perspective, is the womb. It is also the liminal space artists enter into when they create with thought but also no thought at all. Whare tangata is also a meeting space between people. When we create ancestral meeting houses, they are symbolic of whare tangata.

For this project, my intent is to communicate reality from within whare tangata.

I have arrived.

I went shopping

I went shopping

I went shopping.

I felt guilty to be buying things. I no longer have a paying job, so am a bit frightened I will run out of money.

It’s normal to worry about running out of money. I have run out of money whilst living in the US and Canada in the past. It was scary. I felt homeless, and I thought I was going to die here.

I made art about that experience and I generally keep it with me. Although, this time I did not bring it to Vancouver. I decided that it would be apt to leave it in Piha, Aotearoa New Zealand, and I can use it to tell story when I am there in a reflective space. Over the past six years I have continued to paint the feelings I endured at that time, but also the differences as I have grown and incorporated the learning which most certainly must have been meant to be.

It was my journey to suffer and experience how hard life is. I feel like I was supposed to experience the full spectrum of life to enable me with ways to relate to a very wide range of people.

I am on a new haerenga now. This haerenga is about empowerment; for both myself, and those I encounter.

On this journey I am not allowed to feel guilt for buying things, especially when I need them. I actually had to tell myselfishmess off when I was at London Shoppers Drugmart. I wanted to buy…actually, I need razors, but I nearly decided not to get them because they were twenty two dollars. I wanted the four pack of razors which cost thirteen dollars, but the store had run out. In the end I told myself to get over it and to buy the things I need.

I am not allowed to worry about running out of things anymore, especially not money. My whole life I have had a fear of money. It is because of this fear that I limit myself and the things I think I can do. Experience tells me that if I really want to do something I will, regardless of the cost. I am an excellent problem-solver and am very resourceful. I live within my means and am beginning to realise that even when I felt deficient in the past, I actually have always been blessed with abundance.

Lately I have been thinking a lot about binary relationships and polarity. Often when I experience something, by default I look for negatives, and of course always see them. However, now I am trying hard to internalise the feeling of immediate positivity. Physical feelings sometimes have opposite emotions that can be attached to them. Anxiety feels the same as excitement. Love can feel like hate. Femininity can feel like masculinity. Deficiency can feel like abundance.

Dance, because I love to.

I forgot to buy materials to remake my poi, and I also didn’t get a SIM card. These are now things that I potentially will do tomorrow.

This is my new haerenga and it is one of lightness, kindness and abundance. I promise to smile.

territories unknown

territories unknown

Sitting here tryna figure something…this life is all the shakes, makes me wanna milky my way back to the center of the trannyverse… but then I realise I’m already here.
I have been feeling like I’m on startrek. The crew of the Enterprise is tryna hold the ship together as the stars fly by.

Buy me another life and return the one I always had to the store.

What for? Do you have the receipt?

Before and before and before again, it has always been the same. I am going to BE, for a change. I looked back on the past so much that now when I am finally going forward I don’t actually know who I am, was, am going to be… will I be pretty, will I be Rich, here’s what I said to me…

“Be UR self… no more ish-mess. U missed the kiss goodbye but don’t worry.”

I don’t want to be that way anymore. I’m not bothered that I will never see me again because I no longer fit into that skin. I grew up. Now instead, I can only see me. Four days and suddenly I realise that this anxiety I have been feeling is what you feel when you step through the threshold of the old, the past is no longer there with all its fear. I hear me telling myself to worry, but I know to my core that there is nothing to worry about. Now I am somewhere else and it is reallly really good. Really good.

This life is perfect, and now so unfamiliar, this feeling of falling down the stairs collapsed is in my bones, but I eat the marrow and feed the new alive.

I pace back and forth and understand that there is no fight, no more flight from the beast of beating drums, strum the chord that harmonises for the first time. I sang this song the other day, and I heard my voice cracking the shattered shards of misfortunate upbringings, singing my heart out of its clenched fenced in facade. It’s sometimes hard to believe in no worries. Sorry, I apologise. The disguise is gone.

I walk forward and smile.

slowing

Mowing down the verge of the horizon lines to be crossed and marked with an X, treks to another rising but not falling.
I want to drown out some misery and rebirth, rehearsals are over forever.

I walk along the path.

I travel.

I sleep.

In my dreams I saw dinner at some foreign table, in the middle of a cramped huddle. I forgot to tip the waiter. In the water, the colors of yesterday faded to a gloss. Mostly, I wasted away to the brink of my bones, a trading type of insanity at last. The glass was broken, but filled with sand.
My hands are sore from holding on too tight, so now it is time to let go.

I drank acorn mush yesterday. It tasted like the wind, and I imagined the years blowing softly as I looked out onto the trees and hills beyond the table. It was a hot day, and the people around me talked happily about life and death and all the things that make the days go by. A young man asked me as he passed, “were you playing with a poi ball?” I nodded. I saw him a few years ago the last time I went to the Patwin village. Next to the table was the pit where the tribal meeting house used to stand, long since burned and dismantled. The dust made me think of those dazed existence memories, settled into the dying odor of new growth. People talked story and I listened. It was one of those ways when I couldn’t really find the words in my mouth. My shark’s teeth and bare feet spoke for me.

Why do I fly? Why do I always wake in the shared stories of a thousand years? I sometimes wonder if my feet will ever feel the sea again. For now I swim in my imagination as it sets alight to the glowing embers which were just about to die. I cry, but I never feel the tears dripping from my chin. The story is sad but always the same.

I ate fry-bread, and then some rabbit. I had never eaten rabbit before. I saw a rabbit today at the park. Some Mexican children had brought it with them. It was strange to see them slip it down the slide, and cuddle it as they ran about chasing each other.

As I shift and change my body grows into a large mass of water, and I immerse myself into the cooling; I need to because the heat has torched my skin and I no longer recognize myself.

Rising from the ashes I glow with new feathers, and begin to remember how to sing love songs again.

Serenade me. I need to hear my heart beat in the chasm of my consciousness.

anger be gone

The morning voices linger linger linger long, and I pray for them to dissipate, anticipating final words that crack in the shadows.

Where is the light at the end of the tunnel?

Instead of my meander on a pathway of laughter and song, there is this other throng, yelps of accusations that threaten to implode upon each other as they create distance.
Aching resistance.

In this instance I need silence. And so I remember the scent of burning sage that bathes my weary ears and eyes.

No more rage.

monster

monster

Kanye West says “I’m a muthafucking monster”, but I can’t relate.

I know there are monsters but I’m not one of them because monsters hide in the dark.. the dark is where I feel like I shine. Once in the 80s or 70s or something I started reading “twilight” and I thought to myselfishmess… “fucking vampires don’t glow in the sunlight.” Vampires and monsters prey on me; the me that always used to pray to god and god’s illegitimate son who god fed to the vampires, zombies and monsters so they could live and breed forever in a mess of bombs and mines not yours. For a long time I didn’t believe in anything anymore…

I walked into a club in San Transisco and stepped up to the bar. There was a really kinda cute guy, he started to chat me up and I thought to myselfishmess, “shit betch, I like the guys in this city”. Covered in puke I hear the nurses saying, “well whoever he is, he has great shoes”.

Yah, it’s always the cute ones…

I had a beer, and then a tequila shot; Patron, I love tequila cos it makes me crazy and I forget to keep an eye out for the monsters who morph into morphine, soaking out the sun making shadows where the highlights the edge of my jaw, clenching as I try to remember what’s going on again.

Opalesque opiates that obscure the hazy memories trapped in my cramped muscles. Covered in someone else’s vomit I hear the nurses say, ”well whoever he is, he’s got a Masters in Globalisation or something”.

The other night I went out to the lake. Tarawera, it’s my favourite place in the world, pacing back and forth to the fishtrap tapping my happy tune, swooning to the swoop of the Tui as they flick flick flick their pitter-patter in the air that does not kick the bucket. I can breathe there, and I stretch out in the water, my body dissolves and I imagine I fill the lake. Lately I need to go there as often as I can because I’m trying to wash it all away and find that grain of sand they’re holding at the end of The Never Ending Story. Horis lived there in the olden days and that’s why I love it, cos they were my Horis. I dive over the edge into the pit that the eruption filled with my ancestors…Horis all of them, and then some not, because everybody has to experience loss to experience finding… beautiful Horis with stories that floated to the beginning of time. They are my beautiful stories that whisper “lake boy, come play your poi beatz to us then listen to our voices in the water as you etherize the blows caution to the wind, winding into the depths of bluegreen blackness.

Throw away the junk, sunk like some alien spaceship covered in weeds and bones and dust that sifts like silt from the clubs where the monsters thrive.”

I dive in. I don’t stay there too long, just long enough to infuse my tequila drenched pores with new memories of things less toxic.

And then I find myselfishmess stumbling a wending pathway from the toilets, asphyxiating from the blurred lights and the djs spinning to infinity and beyond reckoning, I beckon to myself…”is this really where you’re at these days?” Unfazed but totally dazed and nights merge and I stumble into the guy from the bar. Thank the dead god he’s there to take me out of the clubs, walks me up and down the street where I can breathe to be clubbed on the back of the head by his waiting friend. I think this time I’m really dead.

Why are there so many monsters when the water sparkles on the other side of the world, waiting for me to come home and wash it all away?

My Navajo Aunty took me outside and we mourned silently together as she lit the bundle of sage and let the eagle feathers bathe me in a numb serenity. I can’t wait to get on the plane and go homo never again. I ain’t no faggot, betch…not anymore. I’m nobody’s betch. I’ve switched onto a new channel, channeling something I didn’t ever imagine I had in me.

Covered in the sickness of somebody else’s craziness; the world goes mad, I try to remember how to find my way back to my friends. It’s early in the morning now, on a Sunday. That’s god’s day. I can feel the repulsion of everybody I pass on the street, but I’m used to being the trashy betch that got too fucked up and ended up having to spend my church hours blurring the edges between the real and not so real; passed out on the tram as I try to fumble my keys into the locked door. This is the church of the chasing demon drug dealers. I used to really love all the drugs and the liquor. “You bought her, you lick her” is what my friend Dennis used to say…but nobody wants to lick me cos I smell like the gutter where the homeless people vie for pole position as I lie there trying to make my limbs carry me back to the lake but it’s too late because I can already hear the nurses say, “well whoever he is, he’s all fucked and waking up in the beep beep beep… do you have a phone, do you have anyone you can call to come and get you on the other side of the world?”

“No, I don’t really know where I am…I only had a beer and a shot of tequila.” This time anyway…

There are lots of feathers falling to the sky these days, and I keep finding them. My Peyute, Navajo and Unanagan sisters told me that feathers are prayers from our ancestors.

I have been lucky… I think in the past week I have found three Tui feathers.