My first real café experience was a café called Te Kano Café in Wanaka, Central Otago. It was the mid 1980’s, during my teenage years, I went to the café off and on until I was 18 and left Wanaka forever. The café had the most beautiful atmosphere and food. I went there with my first love an 18-year-old boy called Dylan, his family where house truckers and had moved in next door. Dylan’s father was an artist and they were all hippies. Once when we were sitting on the cushions, on the floor at a low table in the café Dylan gave me a friendship ring, I thought I would die with excitement and the fact that the magic mushrooms were kicking in and lift off was imminent. Continue reading My Life in Cafes from 1985-2005.
The wonders of the world are the morning stars singing together The waves of the ocean rolling over me The treasures of the snow and the treasures of the hail The waterfalls Lightning, thunder, and the rain The herbs springing … Continue reading The Wonders of the World
I just wrote a poem for New Zealands National Poetry Week. Continue reading Drafted
I write that tile and have a tidal wave of emotions overwhelm me. I am only still here because nearly three weeks ago I was put back into the mental health system after being discharged over 9 years ago. I am on a new anti-depressant, sleeping pills, and Valium for anxiety. A couple of weeks ago a police sergeant sat in my living room, when he walked in he said “wow, your house is beautiful”, I said thank you, whilst I held my phone, which was on speaker phone, so the crisis worker who had called me via the direction … Continue reading I Am Still Here
It has been two weeks since I was interviewed since then I have slipped into a suspended space that feels like floating. Nothing really feels quite real, it is as if I am looking at everything through a glass paperweight. It is neither bad nor good in here, it feels a little fluffy and dreamlike. I quite enjoy the quietness of this space, I just stared at a rose for over 10 minutes, the petals fascinated me as I saw them cradle there core. In one of those moments, a Bellbird sang and I knew then I also need to take care of my core.
Parts of me remember how to cut the black spotted leaves off the roses as Oscar my kitten watches on top of the fence with a sense of curiosity that will one-day cause trouble. Another part knows how to find the green glass vase to put the roses that I cut into. They now sit on the table in front of me, floating in the water. The roses are a shade of pink that is so delicate that it makes my heart sing to look at them. The perfume from them has me inhaling as I used to inhale cocaine.
Other parts of me think about housework, several hours pass whilst thinking about housework. The sheets have been taken off the bed and put in the laundry basket, sometime between now and bedtime I need to remake the bed. The dishes are getting a really good soak in the sink as I had walked off and forgot to do what one does with dishes when they don’ t have a dishwasher anymore. I just remembered how my flat in London had clothes washing machine, the one that loads in the front, in the kitchen; I had put all the dishes into it and asked Carlton “how do I turn it on?”
I have moved a chair from in front of one bookcase to be in front of another bookcase, I also moved some paintings around.
Watching a screen, either television or Netflix means hitting the pause button as I realize that the programme had no continuity, as I had lost the thread as it had slipped by. Yesterday three episodes slipped past before I noticed that I had no idea what I was watching, today is the same. Experience has taught me that music is best in these times.
It is as if all the parts of me can experience creativity but practicality is lost for now. I am attracted to music that moves me as anything else just floats off like everything else.
My logical mind knows I am not grounded at all; it is as if I am tethered to reality by a piece of cotton so delicate that a strong wind could snap it and I would float off forever.
Songs about viewing life through rose-tinted glasses are in some ways what this feels like. The edges being abandoned and all sense of geometric shapes have changed into circles and spheres. Which in themselves feel stronger than all other geometric shapes. In some ways, this is how I feel. The landscape has changed with full knowledge that it needed to. Climate change has changed the land and sea and somehow this is changing me.
The Christchurch massacre also changed everything, nothing can stay the same after that, and it should not.
The journalist wanted to know how on earth did I survive all that is happened to me. Well apart from the obvious of how I dissociate I spoke about kindness, of how I let beauty in. Darkness bounces off me. People always say how beautiful my homes always look, that is a big part of it for me, only allowing myself to be surrounded by beauty. I have experienced the so-called dark side, I have lived through the horror, I have bled from every pore of my being because of it. I have been in an intensive care unit so badly broken they did know if I would live. Years later as winter sets in my fractured hip and pelvis will remind me that I lived.
An ant just climbed out of one of the roses and walked over to me and up the wall to one of the pictures, as it did I said: “Hello, I hope you have a lovely day”. I hope the ant is not lonely without his friends, hopefully, he will find his way back outside to where they all are and just perhaps I may do that as well.
Continue reading Aftermath Part Two.
I just walked into the bathroom and out the corner of my eye I saw the box for my Cire Trudon candle. I had brought my candle over ten years ago from the World shop on Victoria Street, in Wellington, New Zealand. There is no other candle in the world that smells like this, with smells come memories. I often wonder what happens to other people when they look at an object? Do they just see what is in front of them or do they experience the tidal wave of memories as well? Do they let it just wash over them, or do they wash up to when it happened? In my experience it appears that it takes about twenty years for memories to just be memories without attachments. Continue reading Cire Trudon
Dear Alison, I just walked into my studio and saw these crew passes that is a photo to Drive, only some of them as the rest were lost a long time ago. I was once again haunted by it all. I … Continue reading Dear Alison,