Rongo

I sit across from you – we stride this magical space of creation where a mutha-load of potential and energy bursts forth.

You are like some ancient Goddess, beholden to only yourself, me with you similarly the same – unrelenting fires that make spaces glow with movement.

The momentum is a blessing that makes my body surge like an ocean sometimes, at other times it’s just messing with my head – but it’s definitely always my choice. Choice bro…

I can’t fathom the depths because you are so deep and provocative, evocative of the unfeeling I can communicate with words, but not often actions – and yet you are te ao mārama, the world of light that shows me some new ways beyond the robot witch I so often manifest as.

Has it been an eternity yet? Where are we going? Do we care or just bear the weight of baring our souls entwined.

Wairua – two waters that flow together to make a whole forever.

I’ve missed you until now.

Pākehā new yeah

This is a Pākehā new year apparently -we have to go by the new dates that some random megalomaniac in Italy devised for y’all a few thousand years ago. It’s a fad that won’t last cos it’s out of synch with the reality people are finally starting to wake up to.

There’s no such thing as time.

In writing that, I’m glad that one phase is coming to a natural conclusion. I’ve been focussing on finishing my thesis…I mean, for the past four years I have been saying that I am focussing on finishing my thesis, but now I’m nearly finished…26 more days and then I am sending it off to my supervisors for final feedback – print and then submit.

These past few months have been intense so I am enjoying wiping some slates clean and moving on with life, it’s time to let go and be free for a welcome change.

I have started doing some very low key performance artwork in Rotorua, where I live. An old man physically abused me even though I was only writing a story about our polluted lake with chalk on cobblestones…he even tried to push me in the lake before I turned into an angry Māori betch. Really, this series of performance works are the winding up of my PhD creative works. I’ve realised that my PhD project has been a process of stripping my artwork back the essentials, where my voice is no longer trapped and enslaved by the expected layers of thinking demanded by academentia in contemporary art. Screw ‘contemporary art’ and ‘art theory’. Fuck art, I’m into the creation of taonga. I enjoyed making taonga about taonga yesterday…it made me free again.

Anyway, back to the thesis at hand xxx

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.