Round Two.

E. E. Cummings

Only just discovered E.E. Cummings and he seems such an affecting writer. I like how he seems so unashamed to be consumed with writing about the feelings he thinks are important, which other’s might consider to be trivial. They mean the world to him and thus, they mean the world.

Arrived back in Dunedin today; the plane was full of students, I was fast asleep the whole time.

4 degrees Celsius, so not too bad! (heh). A friend of mine was picking up his sister on the same flight so I managed to get a ride with him. We stepped outside the terminal and it started hailing on us. Literally, that very second, it started hailing. Lovely.

This is the eve of the new semester, which means I have class at 9am tomorrow. It feels unreal being back, and knowing that I really need to be disciplined and work hard from here on. I hope it won’t get me down, especially while I’m very happy; this particular year of law has a reputation for bashing students over the head relentlessly.

I realised the other day that after this year I actually only have two years left of university, which isn’t soo bad. Hopefully I’ll be able to get my exchange next year; I’m very excited for it. My dad drove me to the airport today and he said a few things which I really appreciated. Basically, he didn’t say that I should be a lawyer, but encouraged me to finish the law degree as a personal achievement in my life, and as a source of confidence, regardless of what thing(s) I do once I’m finished studying. It was a pleasant change from my mother’s constant belligerence telling me I should be a lawyer.

Sophie sent me an email the other day which contained a beautiful poem by Kahlil Gibran…

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Worthy; speaking of poetry, I need to start working on something for the August competition. I can submit up to three poems.

I had a really wonderful day today, although I am sad I had to leave Auckland. I went back to the illusory maze with somebody else; we walked from my house to the CBD and it was gorgeous and sunny. Of course, me being me, we ended up at the Chocolate Boutique because I needed my frappe-fix…. Dear Aucklanders, the Chocolate Boutique is really average, and bad for chocolate. Just warning you. Good view though; we sat out the back.

I had a great time, very cool conversation with somebody totally new. Allowed me to indulge my theory that the world is owned by an ultra rich, faceless ruling class who manipulate people from a young age through vast use of media and social structure in order to shape society to remain semi-conscious to the fact they live in an elaborate vassalage. And also about how facebook only creates an illusion of connectivity in an increasingly disconnected society. I think I may have ranted slightly….

But yeah, I had to go back to Dunedin soon after, which is sad. I don’t dislike it the way I used to; actually, I’m quite positive thinking of what I hope to achieve with the rest of the year. Having said that, I think I’ll definitely make more trips home this semester, if possible. Listening to Fairytale of New York really doesn’t help when you miss someone, I’ve decided.

Hope you are all calm and peaceful and without worries.

PS here’s too neat tracks I’ve picked up in the last couple of days.


The Shadow.

Hello my dove we meet again
this time introduced as friends,
I did not recognize your face
with a smile in its place.
But come now cherub what’s the joke?
I know time’s passed since we last spoke
you did not truly think we’re through?
I was never gone from you.

You let me see the space within
then opened up and let me in,
letting me fill you up inside
guiding your body down to lie,
and in those moments in the dark
you felt me close – I’m never far,
for I have crawled inside your heart
filled the chasm – never part.

I knew you cherub flush with tears
sweet little dove arrest your fears,
for you will never be alone
inside your heart I’ve carved a home,
caused a carnal black embrace
caressed the tears upon your face,
became your joy and your disgrace
saved you – laid you down, to waste.

Please remember, please remember
to when your happiness was embers,
and it was I who gave you warmth
took your hand and pointed north,
gave you pain and grief and anger,
let you crawl inside my manger.
My little love what I have sewn
will never leave you – no, no, no.
My little dove what I have sewn
will never leave you – grow, grow, grow.

Before his first step he’s off again.

Long time no blog; that’s how the saying goes, right?

Given the lack of substance you’re about to endure, I’d better offer something tangible. I’ve been formulating an idea for a book (so soon after I started another one….discipline = O). Roughly, it’s about eating each other; a world in which the moral abhorrence of eating people has dissipated, and some humans are actually farmed from birth in order to feed the more fortunate humans. I hope I can pull it off. I imagine it will be shocking, but hopefully good.

For the past few days I’ve had a friend visiting from back home. We’ve known each other a long time now; about 6 years. It’s a cute story, really, but I’ll save it for in person. The short version is we never met, txt’d for about a year, finally met in person, then didn’t meet again for so so long. Anyway, 6 years later we’re finally hanging out regularly and it’s just ridiculously pleasurable.

She came and stayed at our flat down south; Tom’s away so his room was free (who, incidentally, might be stuck in a North Korean labour camp atm). Initially figured we’d camp for 3 or so days but I managed to end that idea by forgetting the tent, discovered at approximately 8pm of our first night camping. The next few days was just so interesting; I can’t really remember a thing we did, but we were doing them, I know.

There are seals not in this photograph. Skilled.

Hanging out was wonderful in the most ridiculous way; I’ve always thought she was incredible but actually spending a significant period of time with her has made me realise how right I was. I feel quite liberated around her, and everything is just…good. Was so sad to see her leave but I’ll be heading back home soon enough for the Tool concert so we can catch up then. She read her way through Catcher during the weekend and we just talked and talked. It killed me, it really did.

This is seeming a sort of pointless blog entry, I know, but I guess the core is that there were moments that weekend where I was just so happy. As Holden says (not verbatim); it was real right then. As it turns out, by some weird twist of fate, she’s one of my oldest friends now. Makes me wish I was home though. I could fly home tomorrow. I wish.

Since this is going nowhere, and I’m totally exhausted, here’s something I wrote the other day for you guys to muse on, if you feel like it. It’s the closest thing to poetry that I’m capable of.

Every man has it within himself
to be born privileged
Perhaps not with a silver spoon
in his mouth, but
with a song and a fire in his heart
that as long as he
wishes it, shall never be extinguished.

Face in the mirror; The Catcher in the Rye.

If you haven’t already, brace yourself for a spiel.

When I was younger, I was one of those kids who everybody thought was very smart, and who loved to propagate the illusion. I immersed myself in certain topics and studies, and most of all I read books which were far beyond my limitations of comprehension. One of these was The Catcher in the Rye, which I recently reread after many years of thinking it was much ado about nothing.

It’s amazing how much can change; this novel….is something indescribable. I know it has a lot of mythology surrounding it (to do with prominent killers carrying it at the time they were captured, etc), but it truly did reverberate with me at an incredible level.

There were times that I read Holden Caulfield’s thoughts and felt like I was looking in a mirror. For me, he is a person who feels so ostracisedso craving to be loved for who he is, yet who pushes away anybody who ever tries to get close to him; it’s a terrible cycle, and one which is clearly tearing him apart. Also, in my darker months a while ago, this idea of being surrounded by “phonies” was so strong; I felt, as I said to a couple of people, almost like an alien on Earth. The irony being that I felt like I was the only human person I could find; it looked to me like it had become alien to be a human.

Where I go to university, the preoccupation really is sex, drugs and rock and roll. Except maybe instead of the rock and roll, sex drugs and dubstep….and without the grungy appeal of being a musician. Long story short, I’m not it, and I’m not them. Things are a bit better now, I have some people in my life who are quite wonderful, and I’m a lot more on top. Still, I could feel that same nerve being cut when I read how Holden Caulfield was struggling.

He’s also a hypocrite, deep down, and I think he knows it. He hates mendacity and phoniness (which is why he hates films), yet ultimately plays out many of his experiences as though he were an actor. Ultimately I think it probably comes back to that need to feel a connection; to be loved. He hates them for it, but he’ll play the part if it means he’ll get the care he needs.

It’s been a couple of weeks since I read it now, and a lot of the images that were more vivid have grown hazy, but nevertheless, it was an exceptional experience. maybe I’m full of shit and this is all subjective. It hardly matters; personally I believe everything sub-surface (in novels, especially) is subjective.

Anyway, that’s just a brief few thoughts and I’m sure more might pop up as I think about other things. Sending my love out to any other  Holden Caulfield’s hiding out there in the world.