I miss writing on this blog but I’ve felt unable to for ages. It’s felt hard to string much of anything together. So as a way of making a small start, again – fragments, like cards on a string hung across a wall. Some hardly approaching fragments. But: a start. Small start.

I was carrying a long heavy box down the steps when it got caught on a large fern frond. I stood there pushing against the frond, trying to free the box. The box contained a bookshelf in parts that needed to be put together.

Kerry lifting up his feet to show me his bright new shoelaces.

I got a new lamp that has an over-sized round bulb with exposed filaments. The filaments criss-cross each other, like a tiny game of elastics.

Thinking about that kid Gordon. The seventh-form hockey player from Tauranga. We billeted him. 1997. His laugh was a sudden booming sound, like his normal speaking voice had been plugged into an amplifier and then unplugged again. His favourite computer game was Duke Nukem, which he played at the little white desk in the hallway of our house. He emailed me when he had returned to Tauranga. Gordon’s email was all in caps and it came to our family email address and it professed his love for me. The email was passionate yet barely coherent. AGE DOESN’T MATTER. MY GRANDFATHER IS MANY YEARS OLDER THAN MY GRANDMOTHER. And how, afterward, sleeplessness for being so cruel, so mocking to him in my reply.

The poster that I see every day of that unbearably beautiful woman, advertising haircuts, with her hair made of tendrils of different colours, and the look in her eyes that says – I don’t know, I think it says – you wanna get out of here?

The future as a physical shape, with heft. Enormous high funnelling cloud. Air, its traffic, uncontrolled.

None of us have known a silence like this silence, wearing its notes down like the grey warbler.

The contributor has gone awol.

The contributor flowers only once every seven years and emits a terrible stench but is a cause of great scientific excitement.

The contributor has assumed the form of a hundred double happies going off in the gloaming of your childhood.

The contributor was banned long ago.

What is that bird? Where from and why that shade of blue?

Digging a crisis around yourself like a moat. Flying yourself like a small pennant from the tower.

Amenable. Are you amenable? To this? What about, to this? Are you able, at least?

Wrapping the security light in duct tape. To stop it disturbing my sleep by shining through the curtain. But – in the morning, its long face of bandages.

Are you able?

If your week has not snowballed. If you have a small window. If somewhere you are free. If you are flexible.

Jenny’s soft voice rising up the stairwell, wishing a happy new year.

I met someone who has only one spoon and refuses to own another. He can’t find another one beautiful enough. I think this is obtuse. He thinks I am a philistine. Why can’t I seek and treasure beauty, in small functional things that, like the bees, the frogs, shape our lived experience? I spit out: I can. I do. I just believe, I know, that in this world you need two spoons. At least. You’ll see. You’ll see.

Moving truck full of young men, four in a row, waving from the high windscreen, waiting to turn.

Sunday, I shared a punching bag with a man. The bag hung from a beam running along the ceiling and was big enough that each of us was almost completely obscured from the other. Sometimes I saw his leg – hairy, muscular – appear around one side of the bag as he high-kicked it, or I saw an elbow jabbing out. And his feet, moving expertly as he approached and backed away. I took care to also stay obscured as I attacked the bag. The bag twisted and bucked violently and at one point the instructor came over and repositioned it. Then we carried on. My hands weakening inside my gloves, my punches slackening, until the bag barely moved for me.

How amenable? How able?

Matt bringing me huge, new, soft, grey socks, which I unfold and put on immediately.


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The difficult second cover

A few years back I wrote about what I wanted for the cover of my first book. I ended up with more than I could ever have hoped for: a skull floating in a sky, with dogs (copulating, if you look closely) in one eyehole, trees in the other, and whales floating around. It was beautiful. My friend Rowan Heap drew it. He also illustrated the cover of a first poetry collection by Morgan Bach last year; it’s also beautiful. In a review of Morgan’s book on the radio, Kim Hill said she didn’t like it. Rowan was driving along with his radio on when he heard her say emphatically ‘I hate the cover!’ and he was so disconcerted he had to pull over to the side of the road for a while to get his bearings.

Well, for my second book, I asked Elliot Elam to draw me a picture, though I didn’t know what the picture should be. Elliot’s an illustrator who lives in London. I met him a few years back, after I wrote on this blog about his drawings of people on buses and trains – drawings which are still some of my favourite drawings of people – and he’s since become a good friend. After a lull he’s started drawing people on public transport again. You can see some on his blog. Each figure is so different from the last – their clothes, their facial expression, the sort of day it looks like they’ve had – but what they have in common is that we see very little of their immediate surroundings. Elliot’s people look suspended; they seem to hover, the seat beneath them an abbreviation. They’re not in place. There’s a feeling of haste about it, too – the artist scratching an impression (in Elliot’s case a sharp impression) as he’s rocketed along towards somewhere else. Maybe more importantly, a stranger is picked out of the anonymous crowd and made knowable. Without getting too lofty… in a way that’s what I wanted to do with this book of essays: attempt an impression of things that otherwise would have rushed by.

Even though the title of the book (Can You Tolerate This?) is kind of confrontational, the sort of thing a psychologist would ask you while administering a series of increasingly painful electric shocks, I wanted to avoid an image that plainly signified urgency or panic or a loss of control. The book draws on all of those states in one way or another, but the cover had to be unexpected. I didn’t want anyone holding their head and screaming, or anything. So I started throwing around a few ideas. Some of the ideas that I considered and discarded include ‘sweatband on a big sweaty forehead’, ‘pair of folded arms; arms are extremely hairy’; ‘back view of a pilot sitting at the controls; pilot’s neck is clearly tensed, muscles/sinew protruding’, ‘person in Balancing Stick posture, about to fall over’. I concede that all of these seem very bad but I maintain that any of them could have been good.

Finally I realised what had to be on the cover. One of the pieces is about my brother JP, and an important part of that piece is a red bomber jacket that he used to wear, which became known as Big Red. There are no photographs of Big Red. At least, not that any of us have found. But I do remember the jacket well. I remember its colour, its feel, its smell. A drawing of Big Red – rendered from my description of my memory, with all its own inaccuracies, fed through someone else’s head and filtered onto a page – was the right thing to be on the cover. And, because there is a scene in which I imagine the jacket sailing through the air, it also needed to be flying, or perhaps flailing. (All of my book covers must have a picture of an airborne object. They don’t; I made that up. But… it’s a rule from now on.)

So we started figuring out how it would go.

Below is a little progression of ideas.

Napkin cover

This is a napkin that Elliot drew on in a pub in Clerkenwell when I was last in London. (‘© Bloomsbury’ is a hilarious joke, by the way. My book is not being picked up by Bloomsbury.)

Next I sent Elliot a few terrible stock photos that were in the basic vicinity of the jacket. I’d said that the jacket had to be aloft in some way.

early rough of Big Red

This was promising. There are more ambitious things going on in the following (with a different title due to momentary lapse in translation):


‘I like it but it must be flying,’ I said to Elliot.

AY cover rough

I liked this scene a lot. But I wondered if the jetpack-like red jacket in the image above had too much volition and decisiveness. A lot of the pieces in the book were more about uncertainty, that razor edge in perception between floundering and flying, drowning and waving. So, we went back to the previous option.

It had to be caught in a storm, I decided.

Big Red cover rough

I liked how you couldn’t tell whether it was rising or falling, whether it had just been caught off guard right then or if it was drawing itself up against the wind.

Finally there had to be trees and leaves (and words). I sent Elliot some old photographs from the house where I grew up where you could see trees in the background. Like your classic difficult author, fixating on tiny details, I made a massive pain of myself, going on and on and on about leaves. In the end I was really happy with the leaves. And with the whole thing. It’s an image I find both strangely funny and a bit sad. And for some reason I imagine the jacket making a melancholic wheezing ‘hooooooo’ sound.

Final cover by Elliot Elam

Here’s the full thing, with the blurb, on the VUP website.

I’m still not sure what to say when someone asks what this book is about. I’ll need to come up with something soon. No matter how much anyone tries to fight it, people want to know what things are about. I do know that it’s an odd book; I didn’t know how else to write it. It leaps from subject to subject and its point of view skates around. I’d like to say that this skating was finely choreographed, but often it felt uncontrolled, on the verge of face-planting. And now, even though it’s the exact same crisis that I’ve tried to help authors through when getting their books ready to send out into the world, I’m overthinking things and feeling convinced that the book fails on every count. But that’s all part of the great publishing process. I know the feeling will pass, giving way to the soothing, almost feverish optimism of thinking about the next one.

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‘You need to think, and thinking well is the hardest thing in the world to do.’
—Vivian Gornick


‘Paradise’ by Cecilia Parades; image via Lens Culture


I was sitting on a balcony above a sea of heads, close to the edge, looking down on a lit stage. The speakers were going to come on soon, one after the other, to tell stories without notes or prompts. Good storytelling means being unguarded now. Audiences want to witness people unfurling all of their vulnerabilities so that they seem to bloom right there on the stage. Sitting beside me were two women – I think a mother and daughter – who were making each other laugh so hard they were rocking back and forth and sometimes the knee of the woman sitting directly beside me touched mine. Even though they were sitting right there and speaking English I couldn’t grasp what they were saying. I felt far away, and getting farther. Something wasn’t right. I felt as though my brain had sprung a leak and sense was draining out; I was draining out. I remembered how, the previous week when I was over in London, I was at my brother’s flat, and a plumber was there trying to find where a leak was in the water pipes. He started prying up floor tiles in a corner of the house, uncovering dirt and metal bits underneath, and as he was crouching there the back of his pants slid down and exposed this amazing, picture-perfect view of his butt crack. At the exact same moment there was a flood in the kitchen, water bubbling up, rippling brazenly all over the floor. The plumber, James, leapt up and hitched up his pants, and shouted with delight, ‘There it is.’ (He’d been here for hours, searching, and talking to me, and just before he finally left he shook my hand and said, ‘Come back to England!’) Anyway – I wished I, or someone, could find where the leak was in my head, let it bubble dramatically for a moment so that we could shout about the volume of stuff coming out, and then plug it, even temporarily, at least until I got off this balcony and wove my way through the crowd, out of this event, towards a benzo and bed.

When someone came onto the stage and started introducing the speakers, I couldn’t understand what it meant whenever the audience laughed. The speaker said something like, ‘And they will discuss whether the South Island is, in fact, another country,’ and there was a laugh that sounded weirdly geological, like a hunk of cliff falling into sea. Maybe I was still just jetlagged. That was likely. Nothing bulldozes your sense of humour, nothing hollows out social niceties like jetlag. But maybe the joke was unfunny, actually, and what was I doing back here?

Every place is a bad place to get depressed but an arts festival seems to me like an especially bad place, because all around you people are making a deeper, better sense of things while your basic comprehension is curdling and souring. Most other people are appreciating truths. They are being stroked by wit, story, grace. But you’ve lost the sensitivity to feel these strokes. In some sessions at a literary festival it’s like the audience is having a collective, slowly gathering orgasm all around you while you lie there cold. I remember a friend telling me about a yoga class she went to once, where the instructor got annoyed at her for apparently not following instructions, so made her sit on the floor for the remainder of the class. ‘So I just had to sit there motionless while all these beautiful people did yoga around me for an hour.’ A literary festival can feel quite a bit like that sometimes, I think.

When I fall off the balcony, I thought, I’ll fall through the air and then onto the people underneath, and I’ll feel their bodies against mine, their clothes, their hairdos. Thinking this, I wasn’t afraid, just resigned. It seemed to me like something that would happen in one simple motion, like a kid losing a scoop of ice cream off their ice cream cone. I knew I wouldn’t jump off the balcony, because I didn’t feel like I had any volition in me, but I thought I would soon lose control of my body and it would tilt slowly towards the edge, without my willing it, and then like a cicada husk it would let go and drop. I was drawn to the simplicity of such an event, though writing it down now really disturbs me.

On the stage the writers were speaking about – and it’s daft, how appropriate this is – ‘altered states’. Vivian Gornick spoke about the blinding power of infatuation. ‘In essence, Daniel was something of a sociopath,’ she said of one of her husbands, ‘to whom I nonetheless remained married for four of the most dramatically confusing years of my life.’ Carmen Aguirre spoke about a play in which she was acting, and in which she encountered a ghost – formerly a lighting technician, they thought – who turned the house lights up, blinding her. Jeanette Winterson’s mother, horrified at her daughter’s reading habit, said, ‘The trouble with a book is that you never know what’s in it until its too late,’ and later built a roaring fire from Winterson’s books. Tusiata Avia spoke about the cherry-sized brain tumour that sometimes makes her feel as though a sparkling gauze has dropped over her eyes. And then, after telling us about that, she seemed lost, and admitted she didn’t know how to put all of the strands of her story together. ‘I don’t have an ending,’ she said, ‘so I’m going to leave you with the mystery.’ She just stood there, and that was enough. Something was starting to happen as I was listening. I didn’t feel the jubilance that other people in the crowd clearly were feeling; I wasn’t as moved as some of them were; but I felt less far away, or at least that I had stopped moving away, that a warmth was clotting the gap. It wasn’t that any of the stories were really dazzling. It was that hearing a single, strong voice was quieting the bad ones in my head. The full sentences were slowing the sense of fragmentation I had been experiencing. Maybe I should say something about the ‘healing power of the arts’, but it was much more basic than that. I think I just needed someone to talk to, and listening to stories tricked me into thinking that I was.

Over and over again, the next few days, that happened. The feeling of being about to let go would overcome me. Then some small thing would pull me back. When I passed someone in the crowd who used to be a close friend but who no longer is, I slunk away feeling awful; but later I heard Vivian Gornick speak about the first time she experienced joy while writing, and I felt better. I watched Ann Goldstein, who seemed so anxious, her hands in a small nervous bundle in her lap, gradually becoming more open and fluid as she spoke about translation, as though the conversation was strengthening her a little.

Through some rare privilege I was able to meet Vivian Gornick herself. I didn’t think I should go, being in an altered state, but I went anyway. Elizabeth Knox and I met her to take her to dinner with some others. I said how much I had enjoyed her talk earlier that day, and that she was the reason I had come up to the festival, and she touched my arm and called me sweetheart, and she would disapprove of this cliché, but my heart sang. During dinner, at one point she said, trying to decipher Elizabeth’s accent, ‘I don’t understand what you just said.’ She turned to Jolisa Gracewood who was sitting next to her, to translate; Jolisa duly did. ‘But,’ Vivian said, bewildered, ‘why would you say “e” when you mean “i”? I mean – you’re educated people, right?’ She was joking but I loved her openness about her confusion, and her resolve that, actually, our accents didn’t make sense. None of our explanations seemed to touch her; she just accepted that she was on the outside here. The night culminated with us singing the New Zealand national anthem at her, across the table – I was so embarrassed I had to pinch the bridge of my nose while I sang – while she looked at us all with this deep, almost beautiful confusion.

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Everything will be alright, there’s really nothing to worry about too much

It’s always uncomfortable when people talk about their favourite bands and you don’t like their bands, or can’t be bothered to listen to yet another thing that people say you should listen to. So maybe this post isn’t for you. Maybe it’s not for any of us. Anyway – I was listening to Voom’s album Now Am I Me while going for a walk last week. Nostalgia via music is predictable, and it wasn’t long before I was transported to a warm car on Peachgrove Road in Hamilton, waiting for one of my brothers to come out of his flat so we could drive off into town, listening to ‘Lose in the Long Run’.

I thought about the first time I both heard and saw Voom. I was lying on my parents’ bed, watching their tiny, ancient TV. A man with curly red hair was flying through a postcard-blue sky. He was wearing red-and-white striped pyjamas. Every so often, his head, like a huge glowing candle, would fill the screen, staring out with liquidy, flowering eyes as he murmured the words. ‘When you went to Australia, I promised I would come over …’ I hadn’t heard the word ‘Australia’ in a song before. (I probably haven’t since.) At one point in the video, the singer fell into some sort of cave and had an argument with a pair of uniformed officials. At another point, when he was flying again, this time through space, a guitar swam into view and he grabbed it and started playing it. There was also a bit where he looked down at the palm of his hand and his own mouth was on his hand, mouthing the words. On the whole, the man seemed unperturbed by this, and by everything. Words seemed to leave his mouth by their own volition. At the end of the video, he was returned to his band, who turned out to be the officials he’d argued with. Then the little NZ on Air logo bubbled up. That was the true sign I’d seen something weird.

I think it was a few months after I heard that song, ‘Beth’, that one of my brothers bought the album Now I Am Me, after hearing other songs from it on student radio. This was when all albums became part of the places that we drove through, because we dubbed all our CDs onto cassette tapes for the car. Now I Am Me was the grainy landscape between Te Kuiti and Hamilton, between where me and my parents lived and where my brothers flatted, and it was also driveways where I waited in cars for someone to come out.

The lyrics of Voom songs weren’t that clever or strange, or even incoherent, which song lyrics usually had to be in order to seem good. You could hear exactly what the singer was singing. One song was purely a monologue from the point of view of a surfer who had weird lumps all over his body. I figured that the song was meant to be funny – and the guy’s accent in the song was like the accent that I heard my brothers and their friends do, in their Hamilton bands – and I liked to imitate the bit where he went: ‘I’m not really worried about people kicking sand in my face. I’m just – a little, self-conscious.’ Voom lyrics were, on the whole, straightforward. They tended to be things that you could probably say out loud to someone. Even the love songs were made up of ordinary phrases, things that you could imagine muttering. ‘I care about you. You know I do.’ You could probably say that in a New Zealand accent and it would be alright.

Then there was ‘Isn’ That Good’, which I liked to play over and over, usually while lying on the floor pitying myself (I was 13). It was a song about a man trying to comfort someone.  ‘You are bleeding now, soon you’ll feel all right again. Isn’t that good?’ It reminded me of Dylan’s ‘It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only bleeding)’. I liked the sudden force of the man’s voice in the chorus. It sounded like he was yelling into a phone. Actually it sounded to me like he was losing it a bit – trying to reassure someone, and then, partway through, realising: Oh my god, we’re actually completely fucked. In that chorus he reminded me of an exchange student who stayed with our family for a while, who would make late-night phone calls to his family back home in Brazil, and he would get increasingly upset and end up screaming down the phone. No one in my family expressed emotion in such a way. Maybe this was why I liked songs where the singer spent some time screaming or yelling or otherwise making odd noises – it was cathartic. If I closed my eyes I could almost imagine that it was me screaming or yelling. I particularly liked how, in ‘Isn’ That Good’, you could hear the singer laugh towards the end. Hearing a singer laugh was proof that they were really alive. I loved it, for instance, when Paul snickered in the otherwise horrible song ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’. It meant that Paul McCartney was real. It might even be possible to be the person to make him laugh.

Voom was one of the last bands that I wasn’t able to find out anything about. The internet wasn’t really in flight then, and the music magazines I bought didn’t have New Zealand stuff in them, except for Crowded House sometimes. I had no posters blu-tacked to the ceiling, no damp grainy pictures I’d printed out. And I had never seen Voom play (… and still haven’t). So apart from that one mysterious video, they held no persistent imagery for me. There was nothing but the songs with which to feed my love of Voom. I wonder if because of this, the songs became bigger to me and occupied more space in my guts.

It was a long time before Voom’s second album, Hello, Are You There?, came out. Even though years had passed, the new album immediately touched all those old nerves, and I loved it intensely. Again, there were the lyrics that seemed like someone talking basic sense (‘There’s really nothing to worry about too much’), even though the person was clearly messed up in a few ways (‘You had it made, you had it all; but then you lost it and you’re just so goddamn pitiful now’). I listened to the album a lot while walking around leaking from the eyes. I had broken up with my boyfriend and had decided it was a bad mistake, the defining mistake of my life. Voom was the only band I could listen to, the only band that seemed to give me permission to feel sweetly terrible. It seemed to turn my heart into a little portable speaker, with all the songs amplified through it. As soon as ‘We’re So Lost’ came on, my heart started spewing heartbreak all through my body like something exploding in a microwave. A few years later I stumbled across an interview with the singer, Buzz Moller – finally, I knew his name – where he said that he wrote that song when he was at the lowest low of his life. And really, the song simply transported me back to 13 years old, lying there like a tenderised steak, full of blood and ridiculous feeling. I think that’s all it was: their songs were frank about wanting things, and feeling things, that they reminded you how simple it was to experience longing. ‘There ain’t nothing you can do about it – let it lie,’ he sang in ‘I Want My Baby’.

from 'Beth'

from ‘Beth’, via NZ on Screen

[The title of this post is from the song ‘No Real Reality’ from Hello, Are You There (2006)].

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The Tri-Suit

Today I bought a tri-suit. A tri-suit is a versatile garment that you can wear to swim, bike, and run without having to get changed in between. To make these seamless transitions possible, the tri-suit has to be sleek and all-encasing. That makes it sound like something Cat Woman would wear, when really it’s a bit like wearing a single pant leg. People talk about certain pieces of clothing as being ‘unforgiving’. The tri-suit isn’t unforgiving – it doesn’t even want to get involved in the first place. It has nothing to do with you actually. If it betrays any emotion at all, that emotion is grim acceptance: Let’s get this over with so we can both move on.

Looking at myself in the changing room mirror, I was reminded of a story in the Frog and Toad series of picture books by Arnold Lobel. I think the story is just called ‘A Swim’. The two amphibians go swimming – Toad wears his bathing suit, while Frog prefers to swim in the nude – and when it comes time to get out of the water, Toad refuses unless all the animals that have gathered around the riverbank go away. He doesn’t want any of them to see his bathing suit. The animals continue to wait, hoping for a laugh, and Toad gets colder and colder in the water until eventually he’s forced to get out. When the expectant animals see his bathing suit they all laugh hysterically, including his best friend Frog, and that’s the end of this cruel story.

Toad in his swimming trunks

from ‘A Swim’ by Arnold Lobel, Kerlan Collection, via UMD. [Note the callous Frog attempting to suppress his laughter.]

As you can see, Toad’s bathing suit has, at least, some semblance of style: the stripes, the elegant shoulder straps, the interesting neckline. And unlike the reckless nude Frog (uncharacteristically reckless in this story), Toad is respecting others’ boundaries – maybe they would rather not see him naked, so he has worn the bathing suit in order to preserve everyone’s dignity as well as his own. Only to be ridiculed. It was a lesson to us all.

Toad was always my favourite character, for his grouchiness and his emotional hyper-sensitivity, and in this gritty story I felt an even deeper kinship with him. On swimming sports days, it didn’t matter how inoffensive your bathing suit was, there would definitely still be something bad about it. The air on those days prickled with the scrutiny of pre-teens, which of the many different kinds of scrutiny is the worst scrutiny of all. To make your way to the starting blocks, past the crowded grandstands, you had to run a gauntlet of eyeballs, all of them hunting for things that were wrong with you. Once, I made my way through the gauntlet and then sat in a marquee to wait for my name to be called for a race. I was relieved I’d made it through the gauntlet unscathed. Then I heard snickering behind me and felt a weird pinging on my back and realised the boys behind me were pulling out my back hair.

Although the tri-suit is an unbeautiful garment, it’s well designed for the triathlon, which is one of the most liquidy sports. During the three disciplines, the competitors spit, wee, sweat, cry, chafe and bleed, and the tri-suit has to be able to withstand all those elements. And for my first adult triathlon, I have to be able to withstand the tri-suit. For a long time I would never by choice wear anything that revealed my bare arms or the outline of my body, so in many ways the tri-suit is an intense experience, and an experiment in self-perception. As a garment it’s completely dispassionate: it just shows exactly what bits of you are where, and how they go. Its unloveliness is testament to its focus on what the body can do, not how it looks. Maybe this will lead me to focus on the same, although at the moment getting the thing on and then off again exhausts all of my mental focus.

The reason I’m doing the triathlon is that a few weeks ago I was out cycling, and somewhere around Miramar Peninsula I realised I was caught up in the cycling component of a triathlon. It was an accident, but suddenly it felt like a nice thing to be a part of, and everyone, amazingly, looked like they were having fun, drying out after their swim in the sea, together in their tri-suits.


Toad in his bathing suit.jpg

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A week goes by. A year

The thing about writing is – I reckon – that it requires a lot of space where you don’t write. You think about nothing or one very small part of a poem you aren’t happy with. Hours go by, days go by. You put on a CD. You read half a book. You walk into the next room and forget why you did. You walk back. A week goes by. A year. Then you join the French Foreign Legion.

—In an email from James Brown

Laura Gee instant touch

Instant touch by Laura Gee

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Holding note

I’m trying to finish writing a very odd book. Which is why I haven’t posted here in a while. I feel a bit nervous around this blog now. It’s like standing behind a horse. It’s either going to kick me in the arm or wander off into the internet looking for better people. Well anyway. Here are some paintings by Noel McKenna which I came across yesterday at work, when we were thinking about a cover image for a book of poetry. One of the things I love about Noel’s work is the strong animal contingent. There are numerous dogs, horses, cats, and they all tend to look slightly wonky, out of sorts, as if in the grips of an inner struggle, perhaps enduring a moment of existential dread.

Quiet Room by Noel McKenna

Quiet Room, 2013, via


Noel McKenna Food on Table, Dog Begging

Food on Table, Dog Begging, 2015, via


Cat in Kitchen Noel McKenna

Cat in Kitchen, 2013, via


Horse behind fence Noel McKenna

Horse Behind Fence, 2015, via

I met Noel late last year when we went to Futuna Chapel in Karori, with Greg O’Brien and Pip Adam. Greg is putting together a book about the history and architecture of the chapel, and wanted Pip and me to each write something for it, and Noel happened to be there too, visiting from Sydney. So we wandered around in the chapel, all of us quiet (except for Greg, our tour guide). Noel took photos and looked at everything very carefully. He had a quietness that I imagine I can see in his paintings. I tried to feel inspired by the chapel, or to notice something there that moved me, but I didn’t much, which is what nearly always happens when I look at beautiful things that I’m supposed to find beautiful in the company of others; I try to get a hold on everything so that I can get the good stuff, but it’s like trying to open a jar with oily hands while being watched by someone stronger. After our visit, Pip wrote a fantastic short-short story about the chapel, which went into the book. And I … didn’t get around to writing anything at all. I still feel guilty about this. I felt like I couldn’t write, because I was feeling frantic and stressed, and also I kept putting my shoulder out. Those are excuses that writers use all the time, though.

The thing that did really interest me a lot about Futuna was the story of its life-sized mahogany Christ figure, which was stolen from the crucifix on the wall in the year 2000 (or possibly the year before; at this time the chapel was standing empty). The thieves would have needed to use ladders to get it off the wall, and must have had a vehicle waiting outside to cart it off, so it’s likely to have been premeditated. Twelve years later the statue was discovered in a milking shed in Ahititi in Taranaki. It had just a few scratches and a broken finger and its crown of thorns was missing. ‘I think with a good clean he’s going to be all right,’ the figure’s sculptor, Jim Allen, said. The figure was triumphantly returned to the chapel and crowned with new thorns.

I’d thought about writing about other significant objects that have been stolen around New Zealand. Things like the Jesus, Mary and Joseph figures that were stolen from a nativity scene in Waipu a couple of years ago. The giant bronze eel that was stolen from Auckland Botanical Gardens and discovered in a scrap metal yard with fins and tail missing. The Ronald McDonald that was stolen from a McDonalds in Whanganui in the early 2000s. I know the thieves of that one. They just kept the Ronald in a closet for about nine months, until a police officer knocked on the door. What would it take to steal something like that? What kind of recklessness? What is it in the human brain that makes us want to possess giant objects?

At the gym yesterday, when I was on the ground grappling with a medicine ball, a trainer guy almost screamed at me, ‘DID YOU MAKE ANY RESOLUTIONS.’ I sat up and said ‘No.’ This seemed to agitate the trainer, but I felt good that I’d been honest. I don’t believe in resolutions (not for myself), but there are things I would like to do. I would like to write more often than just thinking about writing. Looking at Noel’s paintings I was reminded that it’s possible to make something out of the very moment of thinking, not just the moment when the thinking’s ‘done’, when the idea’s been had. The most static-seeming moment exists on some kind of threshold; something not happening can be something about to happen. This idea, though vague, excited me. I will also get better at opening jars.

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