Cafe 1989

We met in Cafe 1989, one of the newest additions to the ageing Canterbury University after the earthquake of 22 February, 2011.  Gabrielle is small and slender and elf-like, with her sensitive, gently pointed ears and wavy, dark-brown, waist-length hair.  She is beautiful, but doesn’t try to impress her beauty on those around her with clothing or makeup, her expression of her own character being of greater interest to her.  With the gentle influence of the rich-smelling cafe and the joy of simply being students drinking lattés at a university coffee shop, the elf and I discussed our upcoming assignments.

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There was a man seated behind us and he was talking into his phone.  All day, he said, he had been travelling by bus through the city in pursuit of fish pieces for the lady on the other end of the phone that had wanted him to buy them; in almost every place he had been there was no fish to be bought.  Gabes and I looked at each other and we chuckled; I wondered whether the lady on the other end was his wife, and what she wanted the fish pieces for.  His voice shook; the two pieces of fish he had bought had cost him $7.80, he said.

My friend and I looked out of the windows.  An overcast sky hung lightly, gently wind-tossed; softened curves of pastel clouds at the horizon touched the darker sky, their contours illumined with afternoon light.

The trip had started in Avonhead; an appropriate name for so respectable a place: middle-class citizens living in an area entirely disassociated from ugliness and dysfunction; smooth roads, orderly trees shedding leaves quickly swept, large brick houses sheltered by private fences, gardens painstakingly trimmed and weeded.  I realized, shocked, looking from the influence of the sky to the area we were moving through, the difference in landscape now.  The upright, middle-class oaks and sycamores of Avonhead and Ilam had merged into storm-broken pines, stunted cabbage trees and dishevelled hedges.

Passengers started to be bumped and jostled as the bus turned towards Brighton.  When the earthquakes came unrelenting, the already broken roads in poorer areas such as New Brighton, Becksley and Southshore were peppered with potholes and cracks; lumps formed where the ground had spilled over and formed sandy hills over the tarseal.  Looking out of the front window I noticed the road ahead was broken and split; puddles had formed in the recesses of the road and over the road surface was the remnants of the gravel the council had spread to prevent cars slipping up in the sand-slime after the earth overspilled.

State housing lined the road.  Paint was cracked and peeling, curtains standing open at house windows allowing us to see the gray, empty insides; backyards in a riot of weeds and long grass; miry puddles making up the surface of driveways.  Between houses I noticed empty spaces where homes had been, now a mess of weeds and water.  Everywhere boundaries were dissolute: between two houses the cheap, high wooden fence had keeled horizontally; short brick fences had broken over the pavement, white and gray and red bricks with gray plaster.  Whole shopping plazas were red-stickered and abandoned, curving lines of broken-down shops awaiting demolition a year after their business had been disrupted.

On the corner of the road towards the town we thanked the driver and got off the bus; I'd noticed a little antique shop close by and was curious to see inside.  We walked towards the sea after that and we thrust our hands into our pockets as the cold wind penetrated our jerseys, determined to find stories in this dreary location.  Gabes noticed a bookshop and compulsively went inside, drawn by an attractive book in the window.  Sitting on a low stool at the back of the long shop was the owner; I briefly wondered about his life: surely boredom must follow a bookseller in a second-hand bookshop in a near-deserted town.  We paid for and walked out with the attractive book; then turned and went back inside: who better to ask questions of than a bored bookseller?

"We actually came to Brighton to work on an assignment", I said.  "We're asking about people's earthquake experiences - did you go through much in the earthquakes?"

The man had an attentive face and restless eyes; he was very willing to talk.  In the September earthquake, he told us, a whole side of his shop had fallen down and the books had fallen also - they went everywhere; the shop we were standing in was the third shop he'd moved to since that earthquake.  But the rent was so much higher in Brighton!  The business was not making enough money, not with a wife and three children and another child on the way to support.  I wondered aloud, curious, how he came to be working in a bookshop?  Was it his dream job?  The man's small face glowed; his answer was earnestly affirmative. Before the bookshop in Brighton, he explained, he'd worked near Perth as a technical engineer in data communications, but he'd done too well at his job and the company had promoted him to manager and it was all too much work and he was bored with it.  So he quit his job and moved back to New Zealand, to Brighton, and set up a retirement bookshop business where his work gave him flexibility and he could play computer games when he wanted or simply read good books while waiting for customers.  

At this point a man wandered into the shop and inquired about books involving detectives and zombies; the book keeper promptly directed the man in the right direction and returned to us.

"We'll probably end up in Aus," he said, confidingly.  "Better standard of living over there, and just can't afford the rent here.  You know, there were families just up the road - houses all flooded out, they had to just move out, there are lots of people worse off."  Gabes and I nodded, recognizing the truth of this; still, I wondered about his comment, having heard it before from people who had lost a great deal in the earthquakes.  People weren't going to complain to those that asked them, and they were working on quitting their own secret complaints too; it was in some ways an accurate recognition of their suffering in the light of others, but I wondered whether people simply didn't allow themselves to realize how much damage had actually been done in their lives.  He told us his name was Andrew, and we thanked him and gradually moved out of the shop, looking regretfully at the books we had to leave behind.  

We noticed, walking down the main street lined with shops, how old fashioned Brighton was.  It was as though we had gone back fifty years simply by travelling from Avonhead to Brighton: there were shops like 'Aunt Betty's Crochet and Yarn Shop' and 'Brighton Coffee Lounge'.  

Close to the end of the street and the corner bar we saw a group of Polynesian men standing around.  In the centre of this group was a car with its radio on full.  They were big men, smoking and swaggering, wearing hoodies and caps, a formidable aspect to two middle-class, carefully well-dressed young women.  I had chosen with a greater deal of precision than normal what I wanted to wear to ‘interview’ the people we found on our trip, but I hadn’t been aware before now of the clothing I was wearing; now I felt painfully self-conscious.  I persuaded Gabes to come with me to talk to them, as I really wanted to get stories from different kinds of people to understand the earthquakes’ impact for the population.  

“Hey guys!  We’re asking people about their experiences with the earthquakes for this assignment we’re writing - can you tell us some stuff about what happened to you?”  I felt confident of my manner of speaking, that it was informal and less precise; hopefully this would put the men at ease.

The men became a little awed, and John asked whether we were writing for the paper; they were more ready to talk after we explained it was a ‘uni assignment’.  They all had different stories.  Rangi was ‘over’ the earthquakes because they had happened ‘ages ago’ and there hadn’t been quakes for a long time.  He was living in Aranui and whole streets were still closed; but the difficulty of his situation was over for him and a sense of normality had set in long before.  Mark told us that the homes in the Brighton area and surrounding suburbs had been without power for several months, and that the Earthquake Commission (EQC) was ‘screwing us over’.  His mate had pulled off the ‘red sticker’ from his house and was still living in it, as he had nowhere else to live.  Mark’s story made me wonder about how the classes in our city were split up and how the middle classes had been without power for a day or two at the most, while anyone who had lost their homes, or had their houses damaged in any way, had very quickly been given money to replace their houses, and repairs had been done rapidly.  

John looked at us both, and his face became friendly: “Do you guys have weed?” he said, and we understood by his intonation that he was asking whether we took weed.  I shook my head.  Gabes explained that she hadn’t, since she’d moved to Christchurch.  She’d told me before then that ‘everyone in Waipawa takes weed’.  “You want our numbers then?  Or can we take yours!”  John and the others laughed a little; Gabes and I also chuckled, then thanked them for their time and walked away.  We were a little tired of talking to people by this time and the Brighton pier was invitingly ahead of us; Gabes mentioned, when I admitted I felt we were being delinquent in our story collecting, that there were bound to be fishermen we could accost at the end of the pier.  

There were few people on the pier, and no fishermen on the end, though there were a few people wandering up and down.  Two couples caught my eye, the first tidily dressed: he in a shirt and jeans and she with straightened hair, holding hands.  The second pair were scruffily dressed and her face was plain, her hair untidy; they looked at each other and I think they were unaware of much else.  Gabes and I were on a mission and had predetermined that we would come to this town on this day; I was curious as to why these couples had chosen to come out and walk by the sea when it was so bitterly cold.  I remembered how I used to point out to my fiance how ‘cute’ other couples were that we saw on our walks together, and how he told me that I had only begun to notice other couples since we started dating.  

A city and a sky

All that can be seen from the green sofa are pots, orange and red, parsley and capsicums wind-ruffled.  Their outlines become sharper against a darkening sky; the black curve of the deck chair is just visible.  There is a spire thrust accusingly into the blue-black clouds and on its knife point balances a brilliant red light.  Across from the tower another tower sits squarely, its blunt corners proud with red lights; on a sort of raised platform in the middle of the roof line is what looks like a miniature Eiffel tower.  The clouds are swelling, full, and swathe the city in blue tobacco smoke. 

The mild yellow light inside the apartment caresses the dirty white brick walls, glitters on the embossed gold titles arrayed on the bookshelves, gives the smooth sheen of floral Victorian teacups a subtle gloss, and makes the city and sky look, by contrast, foreign and menacing.

Series of Ramblings about my day and otherness

it's six minutes to midnight.  i'm smelling the burnt smell of cookie batter that fell into the oven, and listening to Celtic Woman's Caledonia - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v28is4jFWeo.
the chocolate chunk cookies are looking deliciously crunchy and chewy and chocolatey and all those things that they ought to be, cooling on the bench while I type.
the dishes are waiting on the bench.  no-one did them.  there haven't been enough people around to do them, since a couple of my brothers left - one to go flatting, and another to rather suddenly elope with and marry a beautiful girl over in the States (read the story here).

Finished my last exam today.  I was scared of it, anxious for a couple of days, which was all the time I'd given myself to study.   Studied with a fellow student, Grace, and talked about being a christian, and churches.  Maybe she'll come along to Campus Church, like I asked her too?  ...this morning I got up at around 6:30, with great intentions to stay awake and study for an hour before walking (40 mins) to uni and studying 'til 2:30, which was when the darn exam was.  but I kinda have a way of sleeping in between trying to read my Bible, and falling asleep and waking up and falling asleep after my alarm wakes me.  and  it's all not very disciplined, though it is the most delicious, luxuriant feeling to sleep past the alarm in the mornings.

So I studied at uni, finally.  And worried, and bit my fingernails.  ...boyfriend alex has told me times without number to stop biting my nails.  I have a feeling he doesn't care much what my nails look like, but he knows that deep, deep down I care.  So he's just the lovingest and always tells me reprovingly to stop, and to promise him to stop!  but I can never promise truthfully, because I know that when the temptation comes... or when I get nervous about an exam or essay... good intentions will melt and nail-ends will become ragged.

For all that worry and so-short nails, the exam was good.  It was stimulating.  It was about the 60s, and the Civil Rights Movement, and Feminism, and Gay Rights and Abortion.  and I was happy and productive, filling ten sheets of paper carefully, hurting my fingers and wrist with the pressure.  Thankfully I had three hours in which to write answers to two questions, so a happy amount of time.  Because these questions were my questions and I felt them and believed what I wrote.  and that felt very good.  our souls get tired and strained when they feel out of place and unneeded at university.  we analyze and remember and structure but we get tired, tired.  because there is more to life, but exams and tests and essays trick us for moments into believing otherwise.

Because you will be happy if you make them, I wanted to share this excellent recipe that I found while searching for a chocolate chunk cookie recipe.  They were the first I found and they are good.

2 cups flour
pinch of salt
1/2 tsp baking soda
170g butter melted and allowed to cool a little
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
1 large egg & 1 egg yolk
2 tsp vanilla essence
1 1/2 cups dark and white chocolate chunks/whatever you happen to have around

Do the normal thing.  Preheat the oven to 165C.  Sift the flour & soda.  Beat the sugar into the butter & mix in the eggs & vanilla.  Then mix the flour into the wet & add the chocolate.  Remember to add the extra half cup of chocolate:  I didn't, and now I have half a cup of chopped dark chocolate sitting on the bench.  The mixture will be kinda cakey-wet, so leave it for like 2-5 mins until it forms up.  Then form it into balls & stick 'em on a greased tray.  Bake them for 15-20 mins, whatever floats your boat.

Eat them with blue milk and be quite happy.  Share them around with your family/friends and be happier still.

New happiness

Many new and exciting things have happened since I last wrote.

Several months ago I started to like clothes.  I never had particularly cared about them before.
And shoes!
As a result, my wardrobe is full of 'thrifted' or bargain clothing - dresses and tops and jeans, a dizzying number of belts, and shoes.  They are all arrayed as they never had been before.  Clothing that had never been loved and never would be was unmercifully separated from cherished pieces and pushed into big boxes.  Necklaces and belts now dangle spectacularly over the shoes arrayed on the top of a new dresser in my wardrobe (thanks Esther for the upgrade!).
I generally leave one half of the wardrobe open so that I can glance over at the prettiness and feel happy.

I suppose this is all rather strange goings on; it's exciting for me because it's all so new.  Clothes are so new, and exciting!  Going to opshops has become a heart-thumping adventure, that can be so thrilling (carrying home a truly satisfying piece) or tragic (if the store is shut before I get there).

There are so many things that one could wear!

Something I've noted about all this happy clothes-hunting:  It would be so very easy to let clothes take over my heart's affections, to put it in a Victorian-esque way.  To turn into someone who cares for friends and clothes and nothing else.  (Scary thought indeed).  Jesus needs to be most loved - a constant process of loving him first - and then I can love whatever else I will.  And those loves will be clothes family, and lesser important things like clothes.

Here are some beautiful sites I've come across:

Ruche: http://shopruche.com/
A Beautiful Mess: http://abeautifulmess.typepad.com/
Saturated Canary: http://saturatedcanary.blogspot.com/p/fashion-pinup.html
etc. etc. etc.

...when I'm meant to be studying (or sleeping, as in now).

And what all this means is that I want to start sewing.  And I want to do exciting, crazy things; more exciting and more crazy than usual.  And I want to be 'myself' - a cliched phrase because it's so awfully true.
And.. there's so much more I could say, but I should sleep.  Soon I will be finished Uni, and I'll be able to write on here more I hope. :)

'Connecting' Assignment

Hello everyone!

I thought I'd share with you a piece of writing I did today. This was actually uni work - an assignment for CHCH101, the new course offered at Canterbury University which teaches students about service in their community. For our assignment we're allowed to use whatever format we like to convey ideas - I chose prose/poetry this time. The question was...

How can service and learning be connected?

There is a man, old in his mind and frail in his body
Crosses his legs when he sits, and reads
You can find him hidden, corners, dust
In a room full of voices he cannot speak
Few sit next to that man, preferring laughter
Sometimes he’s visible
But sometimes he has never existed
Youth cannot long tolerate age

There is a young man, bones, bones
Thin, long hair unwashed
His person and his soul uncared for
I’ve seen him
Corridors, and once in the café
Then hidden in a room full of enthusiasm
Of arrogance, trivialities, laughter
“Yeah I’m pretty happy, getting an A for Bio”
He is not seen
A moth in the daytime
I wanted to cheer him; encourage him
But how?
He must have pride; I must not show that I pity him

There is a woman
Tiny, dwarfed, deformed
Imprisoned in her wheelchair
Yet her eyes are full of light
She smiles, and others smile with her
Can it be possible that she is happy?

Sometimes we are faced with disasters
This city of cards, knocked over
Our pride, the gladness of our heritage
Only bricks, no structure
A terrible cry, the death of the helpless
But now I think
Through this disaster
We have seen our need
For food and clothes, a dry place – yes
But too long we have not felt
Our ache; we have not seen
The struggle of the invisible
Who have faced the shattering of our city
But whose lives are a long-term disaster
Whose difficulty could be eased
If they were recognised
If they were cared for

I is tired, but I is alive.

I'm tired.

Seems like everything that this world consists of is tension: relentless deadlines; stress that I'm not getting work in on time; late nights drifting cloudily into early mornings; a nagging feeling that God is being left behind, that I'm just using Him and not relating - help me with this essay God, please help me; next year and what shall I do? A job; I must work; household quarrels, pain is never old; my body muttering and complaining: too much sugar, not enough exercise, too much gluten; has my writing finished? will I ever be able to pick it up again?; worried that I am losing my youngest brother, am not spending the time I want to spend with him and he is getting so old!; drawing, how it absorbed me before university and now no pursuit is alive - what I thought was my identity, gone and now i'm smart, such an intelligent university student, am I what I wanted to be?; everything, everything too cliche; listening to people - wishing there was more time to be tired.

But there is newness.

A new bible - blue, wreathed, ESV - a 'good christian girl's bible', so beautiful, perhaps I will learn to love it, though never as much as I did the falling-apart, cheap black one I used so long; flowers, birthday brightness and a red rose; an unexpected A+, the uncertain but glad knowledge that God is love and all is purposed; magical, evil light on waves at New Brighton Pier; the realization that really, the earth from the vantage point of a plane makes so much more sense; a new handbag with convenient pockets.

duel

a wall and bookshelf give minimal protection from frustration and self-love.
The muted voices continue on. A female voice penetrates at intervals, interested more in expressing than in aiding. Strange that, though the tones convey nothing new, they seem always to have the power to stifle, eroding peace and the semblance of tranquility.

there is nothing more to be said. One finds that he has said all, the other that words are lacking. Inevitably, the door slams; glass ringing, the sound heard down the corridor, throughout the building. Minutes later, footsteps approach the room; the antagonist realized he had not finished with complaints or vocabulary.