serious time

let it buuuuurn

I have been working a lot lately – more than usual. My blog has certainly suffered for it too, although there’s lots of reasons for that other than work.

Generally, even  though I make art and write through many different platforms and in a range of media, at the moment all of my energy is going into my thesis…and then paid work, in that order.

At the moment I am listening to 90s house music. Holy shit, it is for the most part quite trashy – which more than anything reminds me of just where my head was at when I was a kiddlywink.

Serious-time, grind to the stoner no more, flaws out the door and domestic bliss is getting out of bed in the morning at the crack of day to jog it all out in my head – before putting fingers to keys to free the thoughts that have accumulated in the midnight mindset. I have a way to work that is specific to me. Weaving is life and I practice it in every essential reference to this and that; I hold on to all my thoughts and then just do what I do. Somehow it all comes together through my body and I surprise myself by the time I go to bed at the things I manage to achieve.

There are politics at the moment, as there always are … and as always they are pissing me off.

We live in an age where more and more people are realising how trapped we are in the makings of madness manipulated by mindless men and women, hell-bent on hierarchies of hypocrazy. We pay our taxes to these fuckers because we don’t have an alternative choice, and with our hard earned hours these monsters monetise our reality as collateral to secure debts, which ultimately they make money from. Our entire being is actively liquefied and traded through banks, they wank on and on about the greater good whilst ejaculating a sticky mess all over our lives, suffocating our pores and infecting us with dependency.

We can’t breathe and that’s what enables the primesinister of New Zealand to be a shady rich cunt, because to clear our lungs of his disease, we must submit to the big pharma he has in his back pocket along with numerous other ‘friends’ in ‘high’ places – we live in stress and anxiety and hunger, and all of these things contribute to our ongoing illness that will never be healed as long as we live these structures of democraycray.

We cannot afford food, because that too has been liquified through trade agreements. Even though the majority of our food is grown in the soil of our dead, its forced trajectories through stupidmarkets add the flavosr of toxic wealth, engineered by corporations, and in that exchange we simply keep losing our minds as well as our physical health.

Stealth, there is a web of deceit that we are in constant receipt of whilst never really receiving back even half of what we put in – in years, loss of time with our families, loss of happiness and addictions to superficiality.

The minister of Māori development has just delivered a bill to parliament that allows those entrenched in corruption at the upper-levels of our Iwi untrustworthy boards, to siphon away what little we have left so that he and his friends can line their pockets with dreams of being better than everybody else. The Māori party are colluding with those who seek to silence, subdue and alienate. Individualism at its worst. There is no sense in sitting at the big white table of fat politicians just to remove the things that make most sense to Māori people. Māori party, you continue to hurt us, your own relations. Thanks for your work on the reo bill, but WHAT GOOD IS LANGUAGE WHEN THERE IS NO LAND TO SPEAK FOR?

Those with power are turning back the clock to a time when exclusion was the norm, where people overtly hated each other, where progressive debate is not allowed, where god and the church are the same as the government (because really there is little difference between these concepts as they play out) and were anything that is not part of the trend is a problem.I read daily about police in other countries shooting people because they are society’s problems rather than people, they ask questions later and then get a pardon because ultimately, the problem gets fixed. In the center – the empire, those with power kill all those who stand in the way of progress towards accumulated wealth, liberty and the merkin dream, because these days there is no more hair down thurrr … everybody needs to look pubescent to maintain the facade of beauty. Merka, where as long as you look young and innocent, you can get away with living stupidity.

The landmasses are going to the dogs and the ocean is awash with our dead relations, they are being poisoned and bombed to extinction. It’s stink alright … that’s the smell of being surrounded by rotting.

So yah, busy writing my thesis and thinking about finding a husband as per usual.

Simple life me :).



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.



I have been a bit haunted these past few weeks.

Last night I went to bed thinking about kehua, or ghosts, and of course had some pretty freaky dreams filled with zombies and hot sweats. As I was falling asleep, I kept thinking that I must have brought some kehua back with me from overseas, and I struggled to give them names and forms. Since getting back to Aotearoa, I have been smoking a lot of other people’s ciggies, and for me at least, I know that smoking cigarettes is about trying to fill a void.

I have not enjoyed thinking about what this void might be, or what over the past few months has enabled this void to appear. I perceive kehua as abstract places in the human psyche that begin to translate into the concrete realm. I know that over the past few months I have most definitely dealt with a type of emotional loss; I lost something I really really value, but at the same time, I have dealt with that loss in a very constructive way. In my dealing with that loss, I regained the aspect of self that had represented the loss of a particular value, and because I did so by surrounding myself with things I value most, rather than the many addictions I have battled with in the past, I regained a more beautiful and authentic version of what I had initially lost.
So when I woke up this morning I started to ponder again about the kehua I have brought back from overseas with me. Did I really bring kehua back, or is it more likely that I had left them behind before I left?

I suppose, if I am at home, and this is where I am experiencing the effects of kehua, then it makes sense that at home is where they are, have been, and continue to be.
So now I have identified that this, or these kehua have been part of the spatial and psychic reality of my home life, and home past, my task now is to begin to exorcise them.
The most pressing problem, or perceived problem that I have always dealt with in Aotearoa New Zealand is material poverty. I would say that I am quite rich of spirit, but that money has never really seemed important to me, mostly because I have not really ever had any. In the past two years I did manage to get my first full-time job as an artist in residence and tutor at an art school. It was really strange to have a lot of money all of a sudden, and even stranger to be offered a job doing what I enjoy the most. However, when things seem too good to be true, well, they are! The trade-off for having a good income, was having to deal with a huge amount of institutional violence in the form of bureaucracy, hierarchies of management and right-wing governance structures that constantly change. The symbolic violence was fairly easy to navigate. I simply ignored it and refused to fill in forms when they did not make sense to me. Whenever I felt bombarded with emails to do a particular thing by a given deadline, I wrote lengthy emails about why I was not prepared to do so. Even though I enjoyed the money, I resented having little time to make the kind of art that I enjoy. More than anything, I resented the feeling of having to hide the empowering pedagogy I had developed and taught. I realised that the violence was not really coming from people, but rather the institutional structure. Still, I did spend a lot of time angry at people.

In the end, I quit my job to pursue research. After all, how can one write theory about empowerment when enmeshed within oppressive structures.

It was not difficult at all to quit my job and then travel through the US and Canada with very little money. I have found that people are very welcoming when they encounter people who sidestep symbols of value like money, and exchange in things of actual value. It is very valuable to a person when they struggle with academic writing, to have someone stay with them who is able to ghostwrite and edit their research. It is very valuable to a person when they have someone stay with them who is able to help them recover from serious illness with relaxed conversation and good energy. People value those who are able to give time and aroha to their children. People value those who will listen to them when they feel unheard. Most of all, when people have more money and possessions than what most would consider normal, value can be found in honesty and the ability to peel back and describe the many layers of illusion that money and objects create; the simple truth of unconditional aroha through friendship can often be a highly sought after prize.

And so after a few weeks of dealing with an ancient addiction, I have come to know again the kehua of no money. It is hard to ignore material poverty when everyone around me struggles to buy kai, or food for their families, fix their homes, or dodge letters from collection agencies. I have most definitely been feeling poor again, even though to look at me, most people who do not know me would think me abundant with material wealth.

To exorcise this kehua; this age old foe of ‘not having enough’, I am going to drive out to Lake Tarawera to spend time with my ancestors. Whilst there I will internalise the many things of value of project into the lives of those around me, and the intrinsic value of knowing myself to be a good person.

In the history of my tribe, Tarawera was a series of four volcanic peaks which erupted in a cataclysmic fury in 1886, killing a huge number of my ancestors. The few who survived, including my great-great-grandmother Rimupae, great-great-grandfather Tene Waitere, and my great grandmother Tuhipo, did so in a meeting house named Hinemihi. Hinemihi now lives in Clandon Park in the UK. The tohunga, or spiritual worker of the time named Tuhoto Ariki, also a relative who survived, had warned of a terrible catastrophe before the eruption. He kept telling my ancestors at the onset of colonisation in New Zealand, that in our pursuit of money and wealth that the new tourism market of the time had begun to generate, things of real value were being lost. The fiction of money has indeed left a terrible scar upon my tribal landscape, and within my mind.
Time for me to finally fill that void of kehua, and beautify that scar.