winning pies

winning pies

Pies pies who ate all the pies?

My crossed eyes and dotted tees are all over the place right now. Shit betch, I coulda died and gone to never never landing on my trippy toes. Why all the funk?

These days I’m seldom drunk, just selling out of days to laze around, rolling in the sun and surf.

I love to smurf, all dummy dayze long a bottled frenzy feeding the sharks…the coast is swimming in them. I repeat, I love to smurfberries all the love long wayward wending. I went to sleep and woke up in a dangerfield flare, camping my way to a shuffled slip on the talcum-powdered floor. I loved that Melbourne truffle herb, as it lined the back of my throat, back to school it’s not so cool, back to the pencil-traced taste, testing my limits and bending my budget slip on shoes… I never!

Never never again, that’s the way I love to sway these favorite little morsels of handsome men, they’re all the same sometimes, sometimes not. Shut up says Anna as she sits next to me changing treks, backward and forward landmasses and masses of mileage.

Not this time tho. Funny, instead of driving we’re diving into tap tap tipppity slap me on the knee and laugh my head off.

I’m laughing a lot these days, and I really do love it.

Yup, that’s the way we love to smurf.

Activity

Activity

For the past three months I have been a monster-nerd, making making writing writing making theorising reading travelling making sense etc. Now, I suddenly feel like I know exactly what I am doing.

I left the Aotearoa a few weeks ago, and since, have spent life between the public library and my sister’s whare, in Australia. I feel good that my days are spent working on myself, rather than for the tax department. Even though I am somewhere different again, it is good to spend time going slow so that I catch my breath and re-coordinate my senses. I wish I could spend more time walking, listening to music and swinging my poi, but it’s just way too hot. I don’t love the heat here, it’s sticky and I stress out that my makeup is gunna melt off. I have only been learning the poi for just over year, but in that time I feel like I have become pretty amazing. As a weaver I have very strong wrists and forearms, and I think that, along with my sometimes obsessive focus, has enabled me to teach myself some pretty freaky dexterity. I must admit, over the past few weeks, my poi beats have been absent from life. Maybe that’s something I will address when I get home today.

At the end of the weeks here I have been having drinks with my sis and relations. I don’t really like to drink too much anymore. It seems like a waste of time.

Today I had a bit of a conversation with a past student. I was telling her about how I have been feeling stink about not having heard back about a job that I applied for. It was awesome to have her put some positive thoughts into my brain, as I suppose I have done for her in the past. Empowering others isn’t just a one way street, it comes back to you all the time.

Yesterday, I had a conversation about my 8 inch platform stilettos. For a few years, those shoes empowered me for sure. I ended up on the national news on a couple of occasions wearing those shoes… I even did stand up paddle board in them and the news presenters lost it, in hysterics over me toppling into the ocean and nearly drowning in them. Now those shoes are dead… broken. I threw them away with the rest of my life when I left my homeland a few weeks ago.

Right now, I don’t feel like I want to live there permanently again. There is an undercurrent of racist policy, and often people have no qualms about publicly denouncing Maori people, nor Maori culture. It sucks the life right out of you when people take over your country, and then take everything from you, including your identity. We have an incredibly conservative right wing government that is intent on selling our souls to corporations… but that’s reality everywhere in the world at the moment.

So yah, for the moment I don’t want to be in Aotearoa because it will give me cancer.

Not everybody is racist in Aotearoa, most people are amazing and uplifting, but the fact that socially acceptable racism exists at all makes for an oppressive atmosphere, especially when you’re sensitive, outspoken, and therefore a target.

Anyway, enough about shoes. I miss my village in Rotorua, Ohinemutu, it is a beautiful and spiritual place where my ancestors settled on our arrival to Aotearoa.

It is strangely quiet place at times, with the sound of hissing steam, and bubbling water from thermal vents in the ground washing over existence. Often, my family home is ridiculously loud with all the kids in the village coming and going, and my brother, sisters and mother, aunts and cousins all engaging in our own peculiar village way.

Being there is good, as it never seems to change. With the life I live being a constant process of transformation, through multiple spaces, it is grounding to always return to a space that is grounding and somewhat intense in its REALNESS!
Our village is nestled beside a beautiful lake, which of course, is now polluted through colonial productivity. Even though it’s dirty, I miss my lake. I am a lake creature for sure.

We get a lot of tourists sauntering across our backyard, and for most of my life it really annoyed me. These days though, knowing how disjointed, hijacked, and fast the rest the world can be, I am glad to keep the home fires burning in a place where so many can continue to visit and find space to breathe.

Even though I am not in my village, being with my family in a foreign land makes me feel like home. Finally, my project is starting to gain some traction, and I just got funding to present at two conferences in the US in April… I still need to find funding to get me to Peru to present at the end of April, but shit betch, ima get there. I just have to keep on doing what I am doing. Deep down, I know that this project sustains itself. All I really have to do is stay committed to the knowledge I seek.

This coming month, I have to write two academic papers titled: “Bills pills bills: Destiny’s children and the sedation of image seduction”, and “”Under Heartbeat City’s golden sun: Maoritanga and the margins of performing the ultimate urban”. I also have to write an abstract to submit titled: “Welcome to the jingle Jung-le: The psychological war of terror through puns and posers”.

Urgh, that’s a lot of writing to get done, as well as make art, but I am up for the challenge.

If there is one thing I can feel good about, it is my ability to get things done regardless of barriers. I never really realised until recently, how fearless and determined a person I am. I suppose for much of my life I have been colonised into only seeing my mirrored self, my described self; the mad sad bad ballad of bored stoners and serial swiggers.

But no more, now I know exactly who I am, and the things I need to do in order to sustain the new life I am growing to love. The answer is simple.

Make art.

working… it out

heartbreak hotel small

I have spent today, yesterday, the day before, the day before and all other days before with the artists, curators researchers and everyday people who have arrived in my life, and in my mind to talk their stories. These days have been memories of a lifetime of conversations… passing remnants of realities, interwoven and seductively entrancing forms of evolution.

It feels good to be able to act in in some ways as the whenua; to be the land that listens as the seas coax my skin, to be the land that feels the sky surrender its tears of joy as they fall upon my eternal soul.

I suppose I have been pretty independent lately, which is good. I really want to make the most of the opportunity I have been given to explore creative practice, and to commit to inhabiting my skin.

As the days merge, and emerge anew, I write pages and pages of alphabetised lingua, I let them languish and laugh communicades of consciousness; writing to the versions of others that really, must be the aspects of myself that inhabit the forms of those within my sometimes lonely sphere. I am always here.

I am starting to realise how much I love to write. My fingers talk so much these days, and in some ways I do not miss the sound of my voice because my body has started to harmonise my ethereal self, and so instead, I feel more myself than I ever have before.

I tend to write stream of consciousness, my words just ebb and flow forth from the frayed ends of my armature. I had no formal education in creative writing apart from what I really didn’t learn at high school. Even at University, nobody ever really taught me how to write. It’s just something I imbibed from books; osmosis of oratory posed and proclaimed on parchment. I suppose when I write, I simply commit to whatever words are in my head.

When I was young I had a speech impediment. I learnt to sound things out in my head before I spoke so that I wouldn’t stutter. I tend to think that this has helped me a lot. I find that I am able to communicate better in writing than through verbal means. Lately, I have been teaching my niece, a beautiful and inquisitive water-spirit, the things she needs to do; the ways she needs to shape her mouth and think through her words, so that her speech peculiarities don’t impede her the ways they did me until I learned to overcome them.

Sometimes when I am tired, my impediments come back to taunt me, and those are the times I am mean to myself as I echo lashings of laughter from the past.

I really have been working it out lately, and I have definitely learnt some new tricks. I have been making budgets, applying for funding, and making cool art… which I love, because although creativity pours in abundance from my pores, sometimes it feels completely mundane. Those are the times when I am feeling uncertain about the material life, one that seems to me abnormal, but is truly popular to many others. Over the past few days as I have risen again from my own ashes of ashen faced doubt, I have begun again to feel affirmed in what I already do; the things that I normally do; the things that are perhaps extraordinary and not at all normal to most others…

Over the coming months I will do research on the ways that Maori people have been finding place through traditional Maori creative strategies, I am really loving making theory, and living it as art.

I have been having awesome conversations with friends.

Even though they are all over the world, creating their own unique forms of magic, I love them as they love me. Today I am writing and making all kinds of memories.

Life is pretty awesome!

getbusychild

getbusychild

I dunno, I hate the cold, it sets into the core of my marrow, makes me wish for the morrowmorrowland of borrowing time, burrowing under the blankets cos the house is so fucking gold… even though I am living the sunshine.

No money here today, we’re all fucking poor again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

I was waiting at the shop yesterday, thinking that I really do live in the hood. I have waited outside that shop since I was billy the kid, hiding my cigarette packets under a bush across the road, but not smoking, nah, those empty packets were my toys. Forget about it, no real toys in the village just cigarette packets and empty cans of fizzy, playing like dolls…
…rolls outta the car and up to the counter, grabbing a handful of lollies while the Indian owner looks at the other hori, some cuzzy, walking in through the infrared buzzer.

I didn’t steal lollies much when I was a get busy child, cos I was a reckless snotty nosed black as tar nerd, heard me like a freshly shaven sheep, I blurred it all before a thousand lives before this one. This haven’s no heaven.

I remember telling my mum that I didn’t want to be brainy “cos people don’t like brainy people” (especially when they’re brown). And so that has been my modus, looking outta the window waiting to spin straw into ice-cold mornings and I feel like I just want to die right now cos it’s so fucking old, this feeling of funk, hunkered down for the splintered fragments, meant for someone else’s winter. That fairy-tale got all iced over anyway.

And that’s it right there, tis the season to reason myself out of strife, live a jolly old rifling through the filing cabinets for a moment in meandering, wandering through the steam that seeps like ghosts from the cracks in the mirrored memories of smashed dreams.

And so today I am actually working, it’s out of time those days of festering in forgotten piles of rotting eyelashes that fall from graceful wisps of blistered blinkings, the sinking feelings can go to hell.

I am over them anyway.

And so tomorrow and forever after I will remember new things that I’ll imagine into a new past. I dunno, this body memory of deficit dying is lying me to tears out the pages of that crusting old book, until cover to cover it is empty unwritten space again…I pace and pace and piece it all together until it’s all just peace, full stomach and brains that are going into overload, generating a spiral, dial 12 and talk to the operator…

…there’s no one home today, we’re all at werkin’ it out.

The ghosting waves goodbye

Te Puawaitanga: The ghosting waves goodbye

Just stay there, never hear me out, nor shout, but shiver me into the hell-giver’s river of denial. I kiss my moment’s goodbye and meekly marauder my madness back. To never lands of heaving hearts, bleeding with green envy, a soilent type of sadness thrives.

When I eat upon myself I gorge, a wildebeest’s breakfast of milk and honey, hidden from the hinterlands by a wash of blue-green see. I saw myself in the seventh wave, weak and weary from a moment’s sadness. I simper simplistic rhythms, sobs of scarcity and sagaciousness that asphyxiate; suffocate me and prey on my fever. Five days out of seven, I found heaven in the hidden lives of television: game of thrones you are my phone away from ET, you call out the lives of livery and licentiousness and beckon them to my abandonment. I have lost my life, it sifts through my fingers like the sand, insanity really, because if I only stop to look it’s right there, here and everywhere. If I can hear the waves break upon the shore, enact the breeze upon my skin, brown from the warmth of the sun, contrast the colours of the day as they sway me into song…

Then why can’t I feel like I am alive?

My body has died, it kills itself daily.

There is this grind that I have today shied away from. I have made it my new mission to continue to shy away from the world of madness, until I am able to convince myself of how good life really is, and always was. I feel like I have been living life in a bubble-wrapped bible, berating myself for this, beating myself upon the head for doing that. It’s almost like wanking myself to death.

I feel like my brain has reached its limit, its point of no return me to the desk, to sit for hours while nuns imbue my heart with alien arithmetic. Answers from the dire dearth of devilish daydreams. Imagine my life as happy Is the tune I want to listen to today, and so I have started to sing to myself.

It is the strangest thing to feel really poor… really, that’s how I have always felt…insanely poor, as if I had nothing of worth to offer. And yet here I sit, on a couch in the dunes on a beach, each and every moment blowing in the breeze as the bees make lonely love to the lupins. I can see ten people, three in the water, they’re brave… not that it’s cold, just too cold for me. Hmmm, two hot guys. Ten people, that’s five times as many as I would normally see. I am surrounded by beautiful hues; blues, greens, browns, greys and yellows that that pop like neon bulbs on rainy satin city streets.

And so now I suddenly don’t feel so poor.

Live me back into my own lavender days, sway me on the dancefloor, make me forget the unfortunate stares I give myself in the mirrors of my imagination, merge them with the shadows where they belong. This throng of fidgety fearfulness fades, slowly but surely, if I simply let it. “Songs of desperation, I’ll play them for you”, The Temper Trap tricks me into the taste of things long gone, never to return.

Bring me the new sunshine.

retreat

retreat

I have been going bush. Kind of.

I am going cross-eyed, having done so much writing over the past few days.

Even though my research ticks over on its own, there’s always so much other related stuff to do. Networking networking networking; writing a million emails, planning, organising budgets, thinking, analysing, writing, conceptualising, dreaming…

Still, deep down, I am loving this business of working toward being a doctor. Over the past few days I have been having awesome korero with like-minded people; we share ideas, watch them grow and let them manifest our amazing dreams. Once this month is over, I will dedicate the whole of March to writing and only writing… actually, in order to write academentia, I need to do a hella lot of reading too.

Even though I have been getting a lot done and I am excited about the next few months to come, I am nervous, because to be honest, lately I have been feeling stink. I don’t know why even? But then perhaps, deep down, I totally do.

It’s my body memory of impoverishment.

The past few months, the past year, everything I have been doing… life has been full-on, but especially of late. I feel like I am on spin-cycle, no prewash setting suns lately are prettier than anything I can remember. Thinking thinking thinking, planning planning planning, and now time to start writing writing writing writing.

The first draft of my thesis is writing itself, I have between 30,000 and 40,000 words so far, which is good because I think I have to write 40,000 words in total. My strategy is to write a creative text, in first person, and then over the next three years slowly morph it into a hybrid academic text.

But that’s just my thesis, because as well as writing my thesis I am writing a lot of academic papers too. With my research I am exploring responsive, subjective and emotive forms of text as data collection methods. It’s all very pie in the sky, but I pretty much write abstracts for academic conferences and then when they get accepted, present my research to academic audiences in performance art mode.

I am trying to disrupt and reformulate knowledge hierarchies. So far, I am having a lot of fun doing it too. I think academics get so used to the drone of data, that they are inspired by having information presented in new ways. Especially when it is all praxis. Art is the shit! So yah, today I have been working it out, organising a budget for three conferences I am presenting at in April, in California, Florida and Peru.

Shit niggah!!!

I cannot believe I am going to Peru. I am going to try and go to Maccu Picchu while I am there, to spend time with ancestors.

I have been thinking a lot lately about addictions. Since being back in Aotearoa, and now being here in Australia I have been smoking cigarettes. I hate them but I have not been able to just say no my god. I had most definitely been a stoner when I was back in Piha, but since I don’t know anyone who smokes pot here in the GC, I’m drug free, which is all cool cos stoned or not stoned I am always a complete tripper. Actually, even though I have been feeling stink and then not so stink; it’s like being on a dodgem lately, I feel like being embodied in a depressive kind of way, has provided me with good days to manage the behaviours that feeling stink has manifested. I don’t mind my addictions at the moment, they’re not really that bad and I feel like I need them to keep me in my body cos lately I am all brains.

I suppose in many ways I have been stressed about the future. I can see it right there, right there in the beautiful distance, shiny and golden, a million orbs of blue and green light, but I am not quite there yet. I still have a lot of work to do.

Urgh, I feel like I have been working, walking, running, leaping and flying into the place I am nearly at forever. I just want to be there finally. But yah, I have to keep reminding myself that it’s not the destination that is important… but the journey.

I love to journey.

I miss living right by the sea. It’s too hot in the GC at this time of year. I don’t think I could live here permanently, although my big sis keeps trying to convince me to stay.

I feel like I am supposed to be somewhere else, and so I keep working my way to that ephemeral space. At night as the sticky molten heat of the darkness tints my body with sweat, I pretend I am listening to the caress of waves, they wave me goodbye every night to sleep, to a slumber filled with dreams of faraway places, filled with men in short shorts with muscular biceps. Colours music and chilling, that’s what I have to keep telling myself, every day, because I don’t want to be devoured by a corporate burger sponsor form of governance. My mantra today and tomorrow is “dream alive”, so that I can unplug from the world of deficit days and nights.

Lately I have reconnecting my body to my mind, my body-mind, inside and out.

Even though life has been feeling impoverished and self-depreciating, I have been using my art-life to reprogram negative messages that might have actually been there for the whole of my life; internalised forms of history, waiting to pounce upon me when I feel in desperate need.

Yes, I am training my body to feel happy, so that I can unplug and tune in.

Grin as I end these habitual fears.

The pa… it’s all harakeke

I was talking with my aunty, the one who lives across the road.

Me and my aunty have had our ups and downs over the years… but always, there has been a lot of aroha between us.

I remember when I was a kid and my parents would send me to the pa to stay with my nan, aunty would come and get me and take me on some random hikoi or protest… at least I always thought they were just random, when really they were us fighting for our right to exist. Me, my cousins, siblings and aunty would always go to protests, and she’d be the person everyone would come and korero to.

I really love my aunty, and she really loves me.

We have been having really good korero about healing and light, and letting go of things that we’ve been holding on to as a way to heal ourselves from the inside out.

For my aunty, its a strategy to deal with the cancer in her breast she is trying to heal.

For me, my korero is a strategy for committing to the journey that has been playing out in my head for as long as I can remember…

The thing that really makes me fret though, is the fear that my own journey will keep me too far away from the people who are important in my life.

When I was back in Aotearoa over summer, I made a real effort to see all the people I care about most. I managed to see nearly all of them. Even when I didn’t exactly plan to see people I wanted to see, often, I would end up seeing them on the street, or I would bump into them at hui. The whole of summer was a sea of affirmation, faces and places to stir the sediment of my sedentary memory. There’s aroha everywhere to draw from, if we simply let it find and embrace us.

It’s a tough balance, but that’s living aye, when you’re out in the fray, fretting like the gaps between chords, strings of strife, play for me and I’ll sing-song my life, and live to love the polyphonic sonic boom boom boom.

I sit in my room in the mornings and I put on my makeup, make my day in the shimmer of shadow and liner, the finer things in life, the knife’s edge, my mirror on the ledge as I peer into the pa below. It’s a friendly old foe, the tension between running out to play, and running out of things to say, the silence of listening to the woes of the world.

But the simple things are always there, as I peer from way up here, onto the street below. Down there where I took my first steps in the newly laid seal, and got a slap from my uncle for having painted on taringa. I can hear the kids play, they’re always having fun, and so did I when I was funning around out there barefoot and snotty nosed.

And now as I sit somewhere else in the world again, playing uncle and aunt to another generation of genetic courage, pages flicker like lit candles in the easy breeze. They cast shadows that emerge as forms of fables, fictions for the play of pendulums, dodgems and didgeridoos…a better way of life, sing me to surrender.

As I put the final bits of glam on my eyes for the play; that’s my new day, I think about the view into my aunty’s room where my nan used to live, and I remember how much love lives on the street of my childhood ways.

I throw down my magic carpet and fly, because it’s blue sky, scrape the scraps into a bowl and bellow “it’s dinner time”.
Feast not famine, feats not forgotten family, beats not banishment…

It’s simply meant to be.

bite sized

bite sized

My big sis and I went to our other village today, and as luck would have it we ended up being with our little sis. My dad used to call us his “liquorice allsorts” because we were such a varied array of brown…and then we got my little bro when I was ten… yah, we were really all kinds of brown then.

We’re all whangai, all four of us.

The only thing is that today our other village is now on the other side of the Tasman sea, see me sea men and sea women, we wash upon the new shores of our chosen destinations as our desires take detours, tourists risking our pasts for new futures and fruitful beginnings.

My eldest nephew turned sixteen today… sweet grumpy angsty sixteen year old giant. He is as big as a polar bear, and I have loved watching him grow up to become the person he is today. He’s such a cheeky little giant shit, and sometimes, I have to put my betch on and staunch him out a little bit so that he doesn’t get too big for his boots, but not often because he is an awesome kid. At the moment he’s finding everything in life “dumb”. I just asked him five minutes ago how school was…”dumb”, and training “dumb” and his birthday so far of course has been predictably “dumb”, but that’s cos we can’t afford for him to go to Dreamworld today.

Of course forget the fact that when he was in Aotearoa last month he was allowed to get an amazing ta moko for his birthday, designed and delivered by one of the apparent best, and also forget that he’s now going to the school with the best Rugby League academy in Australia, which my sis just paid for him to be able to attend. 6am mornings for him at the gym from now on, training to be as brilliant as his grandfather was on the Rugby League field of dreams.

Kids are funny replicas of people.

I am glad I am not a teenager anymore, because I totally remember what it was like to feel like everything was dumb and the whole world was fucked up and you couldn’t ever do anything you wanted to because nobody would let you and you just wanted to get out in the world and discover it and live your life to the fullest like there’s no tomorrow tomorrow land me on the ground again, and let me find my way to the shore…

Bore me to death, stroke the waves with paddles of fever pitch and rolls, tolls will never get paid as I pass beneath them on the highways of life, because I cannot afford them. Fees and fines, mines waiting to explode, load my bullets into the sun and let the ammunition of intuition glide me to the sky, where my waxy wings will never melt and fall me to the below decks, spinning, grinning, grinding jaws, the flaws of too many drugs in dug in trenchcoats, the dangers of daggers waiting in the dark.

It’s a schooling life, rife with obstacles and I will always work as much of my magic as this misery life can muster to make sure that my nephews and nieces have an easier road than I did.

It feels good to have turned 38 on the weekend. I remember a time when I felt I had nothing to live for and was convinced that I would be dead by the time I was thirty. My sisters’ kids really gave me a reason to live and I am blessed to be their tranny uncle.

heartbeat city’s golden sun

whakapapa

When the vestiges of vacant anthills empty our mouths of mother-tongues, and the porous paupers of potbellied princesses parade facades of fevered ferocity on TV screens, how do our broken hearts continue to beat?

Bash and crash our lives onto concrete, metal tensions tire as our home-hearth fires dwindle like deadened sunsets.

And yet, a golden-skinned hue of hope hearkens. If our genealogies are our bodies, they bare themselves to witness the warmth of bitumen and tar, far removed from the wharetangata of our browned and ancient wisdoms.

I am trekking the mass urbanisation of Maori people from traditional village nations, into warring global cities of cultural cataclysm; I seek the visage of neo post-colony brethren, even if the postcolony is only a temporal myth of murderous machines.

It stir the coals of the cityscape; the escape from Absalom’s promised promenades, to describe potential futures for people pushed to the margins of mediocrity.

My whakapapa saves me from the social reality dream, foreseen fortunes and fictions fabricated to forever decay.

This is the day.

As the sun forgets to rise again, I am displaced and disadvantaged within the democracy of an urban sprawl.

Today is one of those days where I find myself in the foulest mood ever. You know you’re being a cunt when you can’t shake the make of misery that multiplies as quickly as you tell yourself that you are just being a dick.

It’s nearly the full moon, tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and the day after is my birthday.

I am totally not really feeling a whole lotta love, in the immortal words of Robert Page, and yet I know that I am totally being a self-fulfilling prophecy, decency’s lament hell-bent on backwards bending. Broken again, my spirit, the sprints I do in the morning most certainly not enough to crush the crashing tides of tediousness. Ridiculousness, it radiates from my core as I try to reformulate its redundancy, petty platitudes to the person I know I am no longer any more.

A bore, this chore of trying to change a tune, chewing the same old gums as they fester, best to try and cry myself to laugher.

Today I remembered the story of my Aunty and Uncle’s dog Pako.

Pako Pako Pako.

Both my Aunt and Uncle had no teeth, they had rotted away, all 64 of them… one day I discovered that they had never actually named their dog, they were just always telling it to “fuck off”.

Today Pako helped me laugh off my bad mood.

routine

routine

I am starting to feel human. Over the past few days I have been getting acclimatised. I heat here has been making me tired. I have been doing heaps of thinking about the past few months in Aotearoa, and I have been working on a new video; my swan song to my homoland. I suppose this has been taking a heap of energy… a feeding frenzy for my brainfluid. I haven’t been training which makes a difference too. The weather here on the Gold Coast is hot, and for the past few days it has been humid… I am grateful for the swimming pool in my sister’s gated community. Even though is strange to be in a place outside of Aotearoa filled with Maori, I feel like I will enjoy myself and regardless of my thinking overload abundance trance, I feel blessed to be here. At the same time, I’m still on NZ time so have been waking up waaaaay early when the birds sing their tunes to today’s business. The sun rises EARLY, but not as early as it would were I in Vancouver or Anchorage…it is the middle of summer. That’s normal aye.

I like the birds here…they’re interesting.

I came here from Aotearoa. I have had such a busy summer, although in many ways I have been hibernating. I think I needed to be on the downlow in my brain as this has been my third summer in a row. I knew I was coming here not long after I got back to NZ in November, so I decided to let myself out of having a training routine before I left. I’m lucky, I have one of those bodies that doesn’t need a lot of work to stay looking great.

Now that I am here I am over my slight adjustment issues.

Today, I am full of beans. I committed to my new routine once I got out of bed today. It is a simple routine that involves me getting out of bed early, eating breakfast, then going to the library to read and analyse for a significant period of time. I am doing pretty well today, in that I am at the library. I’m not researching though, instead I am looking for jobs. On the one hand I am looking for academic positions, on the other I am also looking for café jobs or anything routine where I am able to have my research rolling in the background.

I suppose I am kinda pretty and exotic looking, which in the past has always helped me get work. I’m quite socially fluid on the surface too (even though inside I am a nervous and self-conscious mess), so I get on really well with everybody.

It is great to make headway with a new routine in this new place. Even though I didn’t manage to get up and go for a run, I am beginning to feel a sense of normalcy. I am staying with my big sis, her three kids and my sister’s partner. They have only been in Australia since July, and have been in the GC since November. It’s awesome to be in another country with family. I have lived in lots of places around the world, but this is the first time I have lived somewhere outside of Aotearoa with family. I love it!

I have only been here a couple of days, and I am loving that I do not feel strange for walking around barefoot with swinging poi in hand.

In some cities, I feel self-conscious for performing my culture. People regard me with curiosity, but also I feel a degree of disdain. I am who I am, and I am proud of my journey. I try very hard to let go of judgement of others. I feel that if people judge me negatively, it is more a reflection of their inability to negotiate their own realities in balanced ways. I wear makeup too, so I guess I do look peculiar.

Blah blah, I always look fantastic. I own my space.

I know when I feel comfortable and relaxed because there are no interruptions in my poi beats as I walk along the street, and the concentration required to maintain a rhythm becomes effortless. I find music an effective distraction from the perceptions of others. I love living with a soundtrack.

Often, I sing aloud in the street when I walk.

I am a performance artist. Habitual repetition of specific actions enable me to internalise and perform the artwork I have committed to enact over the duration of my project. My poi and song are emancipatory. My sisters and I loved musical films when we were kids, so in lots of ways my current body of artwork uses the idea of a musical fantasy montage to explore the ways that life is dreamlike… we are trained to live life in sleep-mode, without questioning normalised assumptions, so perhaps life is only but a dream?

My daily life is becoming like a performance. While I am in Auzzie, I have to get out thurrr and make some street art… but it’s kinda hot outside and I am still feeling shy. I need to get over myself!

Anyway… with the anxiety I am feeling, I am also feeling on top of my game.

Now is the time to make things happen.