Today I am in the library. The library is my life at the moment.
Yesterday I was in Vancouver, but yesterday in the strictest sense, I was also in Piha. Yesterday I was in San Francisco. Yesterday I was in Seattle. Yesterday I was in Egegik. Yesterday I was in Rotorua. Yesterday I was also in the sky. I wonder, does the sky have placenames?
One of my supervisors encouraged me to find ways to document my process, which for me has always been problematic. I have this anxiety about “live” footage. My foot is sore. So is the other one. I don’t like to document. I meant to not document, u mean that doctor?
I am on a mission to figure out the source of my anxiety surrounding the documentation process. As I lay in bed this morning, thoughts churned in my brain about the nature of the real, and the nature of the symbolic. I cried for a few hours, and blew my nose on my underwear which were next to my bed. Cum, snot and lube all crusting together on my Diesel undies… die sellout. I will never sell out, nor die.
In terms of position, this is where I am according to the internet: 153°25’11″E, 27°58’11″S 153.4200000,-27.9700000.
I don’t really know what this means, and to be honest, I don’t really care, cos according to me I am just at the library again, and my position is fiercely academic, because if I don’t commit to the research I am doing, my relations will keep on dying while other academics argue about their theories; trying to get one up on each other, while real people starve to death, and corrode from the cancerous pollution that endless academic debates do not stop. I hate seeing people I love die, it has been happening my whole life long, too many memories of people who used to be able to give me a hug.
Very soon, I will get back to writing my current piece of research, a paper that I am presenting in Florida in about a month. I have started it with a line from a Whitney Houston song, which really isn’t very academic, but I could give a fuck cos it says more in 22 words than I could write in 220 words of academic style. Layers of emotion, that’s where real meaning is.
I had cereal for breakfast. One of these days I will be able to afford berries and yogurt to flavour my breakfast again, but not today.
My shoes are falling apart. I want to go shopping for a pair of very nice sneakers, but I don’t have the money for them. It doesn’t really matter too much, because I roll barefoot most of the time anyway. I only wear shoes to make the world around me feel comfortable, because in civilised society, for some reason, it makes people uncomfortable to see a person in a public space without shoes… even though they fuck our feet and our bodies up. I want to buy cool kicks, but I also need running shoes.
My sex life had been quite dead for a long time. In part this was due to trauma. I had been colonised to think that sex was dirty, especially sex between men, not that I have ever really seen myself as a man, more a hot chick in a hot guy’s body. In the past that trauma led to even more trauma, including rape, but those days are over because I won’t let anyone ever rape me again. If my drink hadn’t been spiked I would have killed those two guys, so perhaps I was in some ways quite lucky to have my drink spiked by them, because otherwise I would have ended up in the clink, chic-synch. “Showtime Synergy”. Some people are so sick.
I have been decolonising on all levels, from the outside in, and from the inside out. I feel quite powerful to have been able to fix my broken self-perception, and to have repaired the damage caused by the insecurity of others. I wonder how my new journey in life will affect my sex life? I am hoping to be a full human-being from now on.
I have always felt somewhat like an alien.
About a year ago, at thirty seven years of age, I finally found out who my biological father was. His name was Henry, but he is dead now. I think the discovery of my biological father has helped me to feel less like an alien. I also found out about my biological grandmother. Her name was Powhiri. She could make anything she saw and liked, as is with me too. I found out my great-grandparents’ names were Te Rangihiroa Te Moana Papaku and Horina Te Rauparaha, which makes me a descendant one of the most famous Maori strategists of the nineteenth century, Te Rauparaha. He was an incredibly infamous warrior, and although he was not born of chiefly status, he rose to become the most famous chief of his generation. Today, he is legendary. I am also descended from one of the most powerful and reputed Maori spiritual-knowledge keepers of the last millennium. My adopted family lineage is filled with very prominent names too; master artists, academics, athletes, performers, musicians, singers, warriors, chiefs and chieftainesses, composers and orators. My ancestors were famous, intelligent, creative, worldly, and even royal…and yet they were so normal because they were just like Maori people today. My ancestors were incredible!
And so must I be, on some level, as it is their blood that runs through my veins, their knowledge and identities that frames my today-skin. I mustn’t be an alien at all. My ancestors were real people. I must be too. Although in our very old stories, some of my ancestors came down from the sky with no placenames and no sky-highrises, rising high on the mist and steam, seemless shiftings between realities. So I must actually be part alien too. Whakapapa is so important, and yet for most of my life I have lived without it.
I am doing a PhD, and I cannot believe it.
I cannot believe it takes a PhD these days, to figure out who I am.
These are the things that I write research about; the ways to search out the idealised and glowing self. Maybe I am not really that poor.
In the afternoon, my middle nephew will come and meet me at the library, where my sister will pick us up. He’s one smart cookie, very handsome and very happy. I worked with him on a history assignment last night; about the industrial revolution, one of the beginnings of our Maori woes. It was awesome to realise he has an intellectual critical consciousness. I don’t ever want him to have to deny all the brilliant things he has to offer the world, the way I was not was, way back as an offering to the world of brilliant denial.
Yesterday commemorated 17 years since my adopted, or real father passed away. I miss him all the time, he was the awesomest. My little sis sent me a MMS of my dad doing kapa haka when he was about 17. Jesus he was handsome.
It is now 11.08am Pacific time (-8 hours). I reject the term Pacific.
I am no longer pacified.