I'm a pretty smart person. But sometimes (oftentimes) dating makes me feel dumb.
Most things that you're bad at, you can resolve to get better at by practising. And most things you can whittle away at in private until you're happy to share them with the world, like when kids cover their work with their hand until they're ready to show you. Dating you can't practise privately. Or casually with friends, for that matter.
How frustrating.
Or maybe he's an idiot. Who knows.
* * *
I just learnt Fulsom Prison Blues on the uke. Nice.
* * *
There is something nice about going to leaving drinks. We had some at work for a guy retiring. I think as the accountant you're never going to be the most popular guy on staff, having to be the 'no-man' to all the crazy teachers. But it was nice how many people were there and he spoke a little about his philosophy about how he did the job and it was nice. He said his bottom line was 'Does it benefit the students?' and if it did, he'd fund it.
On the flip-side, I guess the staff to sometimes feel that things generally aren't done just for their benefit. Which could be short-sighted. Hmm.
Anyway, it's a nice thing. It makes me link to more ancient times when ceremonies were more overt in what they were doing and why. I think the leaving do is a valuable ceremony for closure and a community tightening around a person and then letting them go, but gently. Like pushing them off from the shore in a little boat. Then standing back and waving. Go well!
* * *
I watched Season 3 of Game of Thrones. Golly. It's still good. It has bad baddies and good goodies. Flawed goodies, but good ones. The flaws are good. I knew there was an 'oh-my-gosh' episode. And I felt it coming. But I couldn't stop it .... and I didn't quite anticipate what it would be. It as just that ominous feeling that nothing ever quite goes this smoothly for the goodies....something must be awry.....
* * *
I went for another walk/jog today. I think I'm up to doing a 6km path and jogging about half of it. I am sure it is a very inelegant, red-faced, on-the-verge-of-collapse, looking jog..... but my will power is good! My body is just not designed for such things - not terribly stream-lined.
And I played basketball this week for the first time since December. That was fun. Really fun. My team is great - all the oldies and goodies from past teams with nobody new that rocks the boat or holds us back. We're one of those teams that are all a bit old and injured and we laugh at our mistakes, but deep down we're all competitive and have some skills. So we can pull wins out against a lot of teams better than us on paper.
My tendon felt a little sore and gave the old jolt, but on the whole held up well and didn't make me not do anything. That's the main thing. I think I've pushed it a bit hard this week and it has been fairly constantly achey, but doesn't feel like re-injuring. And I feel as mobile as before I hurt it.
* * *
Going to my first Film Fest outing soon. Fun! Thanks, Rich.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Sunday, July 21, 2013
And I shall blog today too
I blogged this weekend for the first time in ages.
Written Sunday - pre-quake
My blog-roll is like a grave-yard. Artifacts now of a pre-facebook world. Most not updated for a year or more.
Today I went to brunch. And listened to jazz on the way. We glared in the winter sun and window-shopped afterwards.
And that was Sunday. Halfway point of the holidays.
* * *
Written Wednesday - post-quake
Then there was The Earthquake. I jumped up often that night, never quite opening the door but standing near it, concentrating to hear the shaking stop. Then refreshing Geonet.
I slept with a torch beside my bed.
At 3am he texted. It woke me up but I didn't mind. Then at 3.15am I was awake for the big aftershock.
* * *
The next day I walked around the southern coast, as planned. I felt defiant.
Lines from 'Break, Break, Break' and 'Do Not go Gentle into that Good Night' rattled around my brain. Helped me believe we'd all get back to normal after the Monday ghost-town feel.
* * *
Now it all feels a long time ago. They say his name in air-quotes for now.
* * *
We had flaming cocktails. In a sad bar where we were the only customers and the barman, with painfully good side-swept hair and a jumper with the arms pulled up just-so, talked to us about old fashioneds and business men drinking out of teapots.
Sometimes people are too articulate and interesting for me. I struggle to join in. Sometimes it's the opposite, and I still struggle to join in. For different reasons.
I had a nice night though. It's good talking to people who like words so much. Writers. People who see the irony and humour in things and turn words over in their mouths and minds. Words are not just transactional.
I was early, so I bought books at Whitcoulls. The Little Prince. 1984 and Gone Girl. I have visions of going through them with a highlighter and reading alone in cafes.
* * *
Today I went to the laundromat. Read some of The Little Prince. I think I'll have to re-read it and pick out the quotes I was struck by. I like books with a Peter Pan syndrome.
Afterwards, with washing folded (and still holding its warmth, now, hours later) I had a date scone and coffee at the local place. I accidentally dropped my change in the tip-jar and had to fish it out again. That felt bad.
* * *
Netball tonight. I feel like I can move again without worry. That's something. Didn't do much of anything effective though. Still, it's something.
* * *
A parent gave me flowers at interview night. They hadn't bloomed then, rather unexciting. But during the holidays, they have opened up into beautiful white fluffy flowers with the promise of spring.
Written Sunday - pre-quake
My blog-roll is like a grave-yard. Artifacts now of a pre-facebook world. Most not updated for a year or more.
Today I went to brunch. And listened to jazz on the way. We glared in the winter sun and window-shopped afterwards.
And that was Sunday. Halfway point of the holidays.
* * *
Written Wednesday - post-quake
Then there was The Earthquake. I jumped up often that night, never quite opening the door but standing near it, concentrating to hear the shaking stop. Then refreshing Geonet.
I slept with a torch beside my bed.
At 3am he texted. It woke me up but I didn't mind. Then at 3.15am I was awake for the big aftershock.
* * *
The next day I walked around the southern coast, as planned. I felt defiant.
Lines from 'Break, Break, Break' and 'Do Not go Gentle into that Good Night' rattled around my brain. Helped me believe we'd all get back to normal after the Monday ghost-town feel.
* * *
Now it all feels a long time ago. They say his name in air-quotes for now.
* * *
We had flaming cocktails. In a sad bar where we were the only customers and the barman, with painfully good side-swept hair and a jumper with the arms pulled up just-so, talked to us about old fashioneds and business men drinking out of teapots.
Sometimes people are too articulate and interesting for me. I struggle to join in. Sometimes it's the opposite, and I still struggle to join in. For different reasons.
I had a nice night though. It's good talking to people who like words so much. Writers. People who see the irony and humour in things and turn words over in their mouths and minds. Words are not just transactional.
I was early, so I bought books at Whitcoulls. The Little Prince. 1984 and Gone Girl. I have visions of going through them with a highlighter and reading alone in cafes.
* * *
Today I went to the laundromat. Read some of The Little Prince. I think I'll have to re-read it and pick out the quotes I was struck by. I like books with a Peter Pan syndrome.
Afterwards, with washing folded (and still holding its warmth, now, hours later) I had a date scone and coffee at the local place. I accidentally dropped my change in the tip-jar and had to fish it out again. That felt bad.
* * *
Netball tonight. I feel like I can move again without worry. That's something. Didn't do much of anything effective though. Still, it's something.
* * *
A parent gave me flowers at interview night. They hadn't bloomed then, rather unexciting. But during the holidays, they have opened up into beautiful white fluffy flowers with the promise of spring.
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Because I haven't in a While
From ages ago.
This is how I kept my dairy for a while when I was miserable post-breaking-up. In snippets and fragments. Quite nice to read back over.
It's ok to wallow and angst every now and then.
Weta Cave (Percy's Reserve)
Decades later
the same footfalls echo
her grandson's eyes
adjust to the dark
she once feared too
hands feeling along
the same black wall
or
Walking into the blackness
I watch them disappear
and worry
knowing they will in several steps
touch the end and turn and run back
I feel their heavy breathing
and unsure steps
as they can no longer see me
Waiting for the end to come
Why don't we look back?
Slipping Over in Mud
A cold damp stickiness
clinging to her thigh
scarred
by the slippery slope
grit clings to her hands
Defeated
She stands in embarrassment
of falling?
or of the mud?
It creeps up my shoes and onto
the scraggles of my jeans
sucking in my feet and
the buggy wheels
leaving tracks behind us
Ruby wheels her buggy back
arms reaching up
she marches
in pink sneakers
by myself
she exudes proudly.
I shield her from the road
half a hand on her shoulder
shepherding the buggy
gravel underfeet
Older ones climb up roots and footholds
blue and green patches of tshirts
flash between the foliage
and giggles follow me
____
Outside I picture Hataitai. The #14 bus rolling up the hill with three passengers staring blankly out of the back seat. Jackets on. Cars sit in lines, snaking up the bend. Windows are sparkling with mist and lights are muffled by curtains.
Above, airplanes silently bypass us. Shut-up shops and empty parks in the village down below. I would walk in the frosty quiet of blackness, noticing things, not people, and hearing distant cars and shiftings in the breeze. My reflection flashing back at me in shop windows, hands deep in pockets.
My carpet is subconsciously familiar. Rubbed and scarred with hair dye and foot scuffs and toenail clippings and sunflower seeds and sequins from a poem.
My guitar sits unplayed. Mocking me. My heater rattles and hums.
Good night.
___
Parade
I am self-conscious. I only remember looking at my hands, at my knees and cuffs, the paintings opposite. I remember the plate and the corn fritters with a moat of sweet chili sauce, sticky and red. The froth of my latte. The white table marker.
My hair falling across my face. A shield.
___
Engagement Party
I picture walking in alone, holding down my skirt in the wind of the car park. Present held awkwardly in hand. Over dressed.
It's a party-dress he skirt billows out in soft folds. I smooth it down with my hand and it clings to my stockings.
Arms brush against me
The familiar touch of family passing
in the small of my back
___
Work Drinks
Sitting too far away from the nibbles. And I am anxious. Small talk is handed around to and fro, questions recycled and bounced back. Whispered gossip is shared in back rows as the murmur gathers and heightens. A leaning in.
___
The paper is a satisfying thickness and it soaks up my ink. It feels significant as my fingers turn the pages revealing familiar thoughts like a photo album of words.
___
Decluttering
I hide yesteryear's mess
in drawers and cupboards
cheap beads and mix tapes
missing clasps, labels fading
Pruning and thinning my shelves
yesterday's purchases shining
white and sleek
against the clunky wood
of yesteryear me
____
I fear it.
The catching of breath in surprise
as I walk past the cafe
and finally see him sitting in the seat
I have glanced at for months now
He will smile and nod towards me
eyebrows raised
I will look away and blush. Hurried suddenly.
Us seems distant.
___
Red hair, green jacket
warning me away like a flag
___
Leapfrogging Lightening
And you ask my name
I say it with ownership
it is me
Kate
Stroppy and slightly sharp
but strong underneath
and capable of great thoughts.
___
And the kettle boils
and they turn up the volume
as I warm the pan
and snap the ends
of my asparagus spears.
___
Limp radishes
___
She hands me an already crying baby
Her feet dig gently into my belly
as I bounce her into submission
___
BBQ in Kelson
People become silhouetted
as the sky reddens into darkness
Frisbee catches involve faith
in timing and a shifting in the shadows
I remember playing in the backyard
until we were called in
or admitted defeat
our eyes groping for the ball
while lit windows with TV screens
dotted the horizon
A gathering of possessions
from the side-line
still passing and catching as we walk
Climbing the fence
which borders home and school
me in one long stride
wire catching on clothes
a sag in the fence
signalling our path
Then navigating the tall grass
back down the hilly yard
towards light and mosquitoes
suddenly aware of the damp cold
and the time.
or
I am the one who plays in twilight
As balls blend into shadows
and others admit defeat
I enjoy the losing battle
___
Indoor
A familiar convergence
In the entrance then scan and look
Hair pulled back
Sneakers
Mesh
The frustration of being slow
by half a step
We run familiar lines
My generation
Mortgages
Recovering from injuries
Love triangles from the past
In our voluntary cage.
___
A date on a Calendar
23rd of November
Handwritten
in the box
'Kate's birthday'
In his wife's hand
Transferred from last year
I wish it wasn't needed
That he'd remember it himself
The reminders underneath
'Doctor 2.30'
and 'Work Do'.
____
My nonchallance
is well practised
to the point of
fooling nobody
A forced smile
while my hands
form tight balls in
my pocket.
Fingernails digging into palms
Teeth biting the inside of my cheek.
___
Brunch
Arriving early
Scanning the tables
Shivering outside
Laminated menus
Watching her spoon out mocha froth
Saturday night dissected
places and drinks
as if it matters
Orders forgotten
by the waitress with stains on her shirt
flapjacks and beans
A boy and his mum argue behind us
I notice someone's stockings
Pouring over syrup
Conversations
Slightly stilted by
The politeness of distance
Porridge sits uneasily in my stomach.
___
CD Launch
(possibly written when slightly drunk)
Downstairs
Windowless booths
Empty dance floor
Red
Pinball eyes darting and
bouncing off unfamiliar faces
A waving of friends
beckoning
Empty chair becomes mine
Hand on shoulder
'Back soon'
promises Jon, my guardian
Conversations out of focus
Snippets
as I observe
How everyone looks like Sam
Dark and red
and ambient.
Andrew to my right
hands expressive and storytelling
proud
in a jean jacket
Content smiles
smug trivia
music
I smile. But my blank eyes convey little.
Hands in lap.
Ears fuzzy.
Full. Glass still full.
Candles melt and Jon digs out the sides
soft wax pushed in
flickers
Womb room.
Cold air. Arms crossed. Too full.
Eyes slow.
Pulled across the road
top button done up.
Past Matt's old flat
expectant glance
He's not there.
Home.
Key in door.
Red key.
Shoes off.
Bag down.
Bed.
Only some patches of lonely.
___
Is That New? he asks. No, I reply.
I pull on an old skin of
memories that don't include him
an itchy jumper
the red of unripened strawberries
it scratches at my chin
memories of an old boyfriend
and the shop across from his apartment
leaving him in bed for Saturday morning
shopping and coffee with friends
teeth unbrushed
retreating into my past wardrobe
of 20-somethings and 5kg less
my post break-up diet turns the clock back
to hotter boyfriends
and me with that glint in my eye
more fitting.
eyes more open.
___
Vin di kate ed.
___
So.
2 dates.
Beers and fries.
Corn fritters.
It's ok.
___
Shifting of groups
I see friends begin to waver
and fall gently away
like petals
___
Rejected undramatically by an unanswered text
I was optimistic
Re-reading texts
for clues between the words
that weren't there
Only an increasing silence
As texts went unanswered
Foolish. Me.
___
Written Long Before I Knew
I see them.
Across the road.
Together.
Not hand-in-handing
But smiling.
Walking back from brunch.
I, on the other side of the road
alone.
Unable to melt away.
I can't time it right
There is an inevitable moment
of recognition at the crossing
An awkward hello.
It lasts too long.
We stand in a triangle
with him at the apex
Body language turning against each other
I have one foot leading me away
pointing towards home
I have to say goodbye first
Then let them talk about me
As we separate at the crossing.
This is how I kept my dairy for a while when I was miserable post-breaking-up. In snippets and fragments. Quite nice to read back over.
It's ok to wallow and angst every now and then.
Weta Cave (Percy's Reserve)
Decades later
the same footfalls echo
her grandson's eyes
adjust to the dark
she once feared too
hands feeling along
the same black wall
or
Walking into the blackness
I watch them disappear
and worry
knowing they will in several steps
touch the end and turn and run back
I feel their heavy breathing
and unsure steps
as they can no longer see me
Waiting for the end to come
Why don't we look back?
Slipping Over in Mud
A cold damp stickiness
clinging to her thigh
scarred
by the slippery slope
grit clings to her hands
Defeated
She stands in embarrassment
of falling?
or of the mud?
It creeps up my shoes and onto
the scraggles of my jeans
sucking in my feet and
the buggy wheels
leaving tracks behind us
Ruby wheels her buggy back
arms reaching up
she marches
in pink sneakers
by myself
she exudes proudly.
I shield her from the road
half a hand on her shoulder
shepherding the buggy
gravel underfeet
Older ones climb up roots and footholds
blue and green patches of tshirts
flash between the foliage
and giggles follow me
____
Outside I picture Hataitai. The #14 bus rolling up the hill with three passengers staring blankly out of the back seat. Jackets on. Cars sit in lines, snaking up the bend. Windows are sparkling with mist and lights are muffled by curtains.
Above, airplanes silently bypass us. Shut-up shops and empty parks in the village down below. I would walk in the frosty quiet of blackness, noticing things, not people, and hearing distant cars and shiftings in the breeze. My reflection flashing back at me in shop windows, hands deep in pockets.
My carpet is subconsciously familiar. Rubbed and scarred with hair dye and foot scuffs and toenail clippings and sunflower seeds and sequins from a poem.
My guitar sits unplayed. Mocking me. My heater rattles and hums.
Good night.
___
Parade
I am self-conscious. I only remember looking at my hands, at my knees and cuffs, the paintings opposite. I remember the plate and the corn fritters with a moat of sweet chili sauce, sticky and red. The froth of my latte. The white table marker.
My hair falling across my face. A shield.
___
Engagement Party
I picture walking in alone, holding down my skirt in the wind of the car park. Present held awkwardly in hand. Over dressed.
It's a party-dress he skirt billows out in soft folds. I smooth it down with my hand and it clings to my stockings.
Arms brush against me
The familiar touch of family passing
in the small of my back
___
Work Drinks
Sitting too far away from the nibbles. And I am anxious. Small talk is handed around to and fro, questions recycled and bounced back. Whispered gossip is shared in back rows as the murmur gathers and heightens. A leaning in.
___
The paper is a satisfying thickness and it soaks up my ink. It feels significant as my fingers turn the pages revealing familiar thoughts like a photo album of words.
___
Decluttering
I hide yesteryear's mess
in drawers and cupboards
cheap beads and mix tapes
missing clasps, labels fading
Pruning and thinning my shelves
yesterday's purchases shining
white and sleek
against the clunky wood
of yesteryear me
____
I fear it.
The catching of breath in surprise
as I walk past the cafe
and finally see him sitting in the seat
I have glanced at for months now
He will smile and nod towards me
eyebrows raised
I will look away and blush. Hurried suddenly.
Us seems distant.
___
Red hair, green jacket
warning me away like a flag
___
Leapfrogging Lightening
And you ask my name
I say it with ownership
it is me
Kate
Stroppy and slightly sharp
but strong underneath
and capable of great thoughts.
___
And the kettle boils
and they turn up the volume
as I warm the pan
and snap the ends
of my asparagus spears.
___
Limp radishes
___
She hands me an already crying baby
Her feet dig gently into my belly
as I bounce her into submission
___
BBQ in Kelson
People become silhouetted
as the sky reddens into darkness
Frisbee catches involve faith
in timing and a shifting in the shadows
I remember playing in the backyard
until we were called in
or admitted defeat
our eyes groping for the ball
while lit windows with TV screens
dotted the horizon
A gathering of possessions
from the side-line
still passing and catching as we walk
Climbing the fence
which borders home and school
me in one long stride
wire catching on clothes
a sag in the fence
signalling our path
Then navigating the tall grass
back down the hilly yard
towards light and mosquitoes
suddenly aware of the damp cold
and the time.
or
I am the one who plays in twilight
As balls blend into shadows
and others admit defeat
I enjoy the losing battle
___
Indoor
A familiar convergence
In the entrance then scan and look
Hair pulled back
Sneakers
Mesh
The frustration of being slow
by half a step
We run familiar lines
My generation
Mortgages
Recovering from injuries
Love triangles from the past
In our voluntary cage.
___
A date on a Calendar
23rd of November
Handwritten
in the box
'Kate's birthday'
In his wife's hand
Transferred from last year
I wish it wasn't needed
That he'd remember it himself
The reminders underneath
'Doctor 2.30'
and 'Work Do'.
____
My nonchallance
is well practised
to the point of
fooling nobody
A forced smile
while my hands
form tight balls in
my pocket.
Fingernails digging into palms
Teeth biting the inside of my cheek.
___
Brunch
Arriving early
Scanning the tables
Shivering outside
Laminated menus
Watching her spoon out mocha froth
Saturday night dissected
places and drinks
as if it matters
Orders forgotten
by the waitress with stains on her shirt
flapjacks and beans
A boy and his mum argue behind us
I notice someone's stockings
Pouring over syrup
Conversations
Slightly stilted by
The politeness of distance
Porridge sits uneasily in my stomach.
___
CD Launch
(possibly written when slightly drunk)
Downstairs
Windowless booths
Empty dance floor
Red
Pinball eyes darting and
bouncing off unfamiliar faces
A waving of friends
beckoning
Empty chair becomes mine
Hand on shoulder
'Back soon'
promises Jon, my guardian
Conversations out of focus
Snippets
as I observe
How everyone looks like Sam
Dark and red
and ambient.
Andrew to my right
hands expressive and storytelling
proud
in a jean jacket
Content smiles
smug trivia
music
I smile. But my blank eyes convey little.
Hands in lap.
Ears fuzzy.
Full. Glass still full.
Candles melt and Jon digs out the sides
soft wax pushed in
flickers
Womb room.
Cold air. Arms crossed. Too full.
Eyes slow.
Pulled across the road
top button done up.
Past Matt's old flat
expectant glance
He's not there.
Home.
Key in door.
Red key.
Shoes off.
Bag down.
Bed.
Only some patches of lonely.
___
Is That New? he asks. No, I reply.
I pull on an old skin of
memories that don't include him
an itchy jumper
the red of unripened strawberries
it scratches at my chin
memories of an old boyfriend
and the shop across from his apartment
leaving him in bed for Saturday morning
shopping and coffee with friends
teeth unbrushed
retreating into my past wardrobe
of 20-somethings and 5kg less
my post break-up diet turns the clock back
to hotter boyfriends
and me with that glint in my eye
more fitting.
eyes more open.
___
Vin di kate ed.
___
So.
2 dates.
Beers and fries.
Corn fritters.
It's ok.
___
Shifting of groups
I see friends begin to waver
and fall gently away
like petals
___
Rejected undramatically by an unanswered text
I was optimistic
Re-reading texts
for clues between the words
that weren't there
Only an increasing silence
As texts went unanswered
Foolish. Me.
___
Written Long Before I Knew
I see them.
Across the road.
Together.
Not hand-in-handing
But smiling.
Walking back from brunch.
I, on the other side of the road
alone.
Unable to melt away.
I can't time it right
There is an inevitable moment
of recognition at the crossing
An awkward hello.
It lasts too long.
We stand in a triangle
with him at the apex
Body language turning against each other
I have one foot leading me away
pointing towards home
I have to say goodbye first
Then let them talk about me
As we separate at the crossing.
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