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.

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