freewrite 1

(the assignment was to write for 20 minutes. i closed my eyes and let my hands work.)  I dread this exercise, only because it is so hard for me to remain present and I fear failing. I know that it is not a failure if I do not have a copious amount of text; however, it feels that way. My head has felt fuzzy these past few days; perhaps I simply haven’t been drinking enough water, maybe haven’t been eating enough. (my closest think I never do.) Nothing personal, at least, not toward myself. I’m dizzy; this will be dizzy, it will make you dizzy. I will forget I am writing for you to read. I’ll take a step back. Take a step back and breathe.  I think, mostly, it hurts. I don’t know why. The last of it all, this year of lasts. I’m scared, I think, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m to do. What am I to do? Everyone is telling me opposite and I live only to please. 

Today, in Greek Mythology, I wrote, “I need no more purpose than the spring flowers. They do not seek reward for growing.” THey do not. They make people happy. Sometimes, I ask of the flowers, “Why must you return yearly? All you are is trodden on and plucked for vanity.” I’ve decided it is simply because they have a place here; so be it. So do I. I haven’t yet found it. I think I’ve just been nervous. 

So that now, while I sit and pour my heart here, I am reminded of how often blood flows easier than ink, but the ink is less viscous. It never made much sense to me. I feel like my hands are bleeding. I’ve ached for years and it never undoes itself. I don’t know why. I’ve been trying to swallow it up, to hide it. No one needs to know; no, people need to smile. I love seeing people happy. It hurts me when they aren’t.

 My baby cousin thought she’d never see me again after Uncle Charles died, but there she was. Now I’m going to carry snacks for her because she asked me for food and I didn’t have any. I felt almost shameful, I know she doesn't have much at home. She’s pretty, though. I missed her.

I miss lots of people.

I don’t know what happened between me and many other people but I suppose that’s just how the world works. And, as I’ve often said, the world exists for its own torment. There. It hurts to say though. My heart feels funny, it has for a while. 

Mother doesn’t mind when I tell her my heart jumps in my chest, sometimes painfully. Mother doesn’t mind when I tell her that my arms go weak and numb often. Mother doesn’t mind. 

I feel as though I've been wronged.

Yesterday, it was hard to put all that I said into words. I wanted it to make the listener dizzy as I am. I wanted it to have people hurt and ache and wrenched into questionable places, where I am.

It sits. Breathe. Listen to the silence.

Silence has always been my word. It surrounds me. It exists in the black vines that reside in the deepest parts of my lungs, that constrict my breathing when I am faced with anything. That inky blackness.

 Let me make you understand.

It is what makes my hands and feet tingle. It is what makes me constantly have to move, to twitch, to snap, to look. To look! It catches me on my shoulders and presses me against the back of my chair and demands that I look. And I look! I cannot blink! I cannot focus! It’s horrible.

It keeps me up at night.

I haven’t slept in ages.

Sometimes, too, I think the clock gets in my way. The hands are always fighting, and it just keeps moving. I don’t like it, either. It’s wasting. Time’s wasting! All this, and I’ve gone nowhere. Am I making any sense? I was told stream of consciousness, what if I don’t have a stream? I feel like I haven’t thought in years. I feel like my thoughts are not my own. I feel like I am not my own.

 Really, that’s about where I am. Father wants me to go to a trade school, not to go and do something with forensics or mortuary sciences. I think I might. Every time I think about it, I cry. I am crying. I hope I trust you well enough. I’ve debated not turning this in. I wish I would’ve been more willing when I was a freshman. Maybe then, I wouldn’t have had to sit alone for so long. I often think of that year, and how much different it could have been.

At least I had real friends here. Not now. I can’t wait to make it out of this place. I’m so scared, though. I feel like I’ll be followed, like I’ll be watched. I feel like I have to watch myself at every step I take so that I am a good example, and I’m positive, and I’m gentle, and I’m happy, and I’m the perfect little princess my father always wanted.

I wish I wouldn’t. I am a storm. Wait. Take a breath.

I’m worked up.

Sometimes, a pattern of back and forth comes between myself and myself. I’ll argue with myself- why must i be so strange? I don’t like it. Things don’t make sense to me. I ache all over.

I hear static.

I don’t feel very well.

Why must I be so strange? I don’t know. I hope it’s not too much of a nuisance. Sometimes I think I may as well be better off alone in a room somewhere. By degrees, lower myself into the basement. Lock the door. Put chains around my wrists and close my eyes and wait. Wait. It will come, and it will pass, as the tide does.

I never quite liked the ocean.

 I’m still so sharp. I’m afraid to cut people that get too close. I wish I wasn’t. I wish I were gentler. Every so often, my heart hurts all over again.

I wish I had never seen the things that I have. I wish I wasn’t so surrounded by death. I wish I would’ve never seen it.

It began with the cats. Then, it went to the dog. Then, it was my uncle, then a friend, and another, and another.. 

I know how she laid. I know what happened. I shouldn’t have had to live with that, but I’m still living, I suppose.

 Look me in the eyes. You should know that I wear many masks. I wear makeup to hide how exhausted I am. I smile to hide how much I hurt. My chest aches. 

That inky blackness. 

It’s been sitting in my room for days. It sits in the closet at night and looms over my bed while I’m trying to sleep. I stare at it. No longer does it frighten me; nay, it is an old friend. I know it well. It sits on my chest and makes me vomit up whatever may be in me. It leaves a foul aftertaste after my morning coffee. It snaps my eyes awake at 3:00am and makes it so I cannot fall back asleep. It watches me while I fix myself in the morning. It leers while I gather up the shattered pieces of my mind and put them together loosely enough I can make it through a day.

I’m only half-present at any given time. I try my hardest, and I am trying, but it is just horrible. Sometimes, entire days will be absent from my memory. Sometimes still, weeks. And again. Back to the silence.

It is a comfort at night, when all else is still and there’s nothing; not even the moon. It’s a comfort when I wander the paths in absolute pitch, because I know nothing is pursuing me. I feel most comforted when I cannot see, because I know that anything I can see is not real, and it cannot touch me.

I am something to be reckoned with. At least, I hope so. At most, I am fearful, and therefore I am nothing. Honestly, I do believe that I am nothing. I will leave this place, perhaps my name will put a fond memory in people’s hearts. More likely, in ten years I will be forgotten. I am afraid of being forgotten. I don’t know why. I write myself onto the simplest things;  

Another year on earth - Hard News - Public Address

Sometimes-- often, even-- grief is an ambush. You do not know what's in there up until you lose something, or someone. You do not know how the experience of loss will make you feel about yourself, or what to do about it.

It was chance that brought me back into the ambit of my old buddy Grant Fell and his wife Rachael at the end of 2017. Formally, Grant was clear of the brain tumours that had been the central reality of his life for three years, and I wanted to do a follow-up on an interview I 'd done with him for a prepared Audioculture post-- which itself had actually taken 2 or 3 efforts to carry out, as he shuttled in and out of healthcare facility. He wasn't addressing his phone or returning messages.

Eventually, I acquired Rachael, who informed me that problems from treatment had actually made Grant really ill, really rapidly. He was back in hospital and it wasn't great. I went and visited him, but we never did the follow-up interview. My old good friend was passing away.

I don't mean to pretend I was among the group of people, led by Rachael herself, who took care of Grant for every single day of those 3 years. I 'd just seen him sometimes. I think I did sense quite rapidly that it was time for me now to step up. One of the very first things I did was break the law.

Grant appeared to have actually benefited earlier in his cancer fight from the modest use of cannabis oil. It can be found in a syringe, handed down from another cancer patient who had passed away, but Rachael's mother had actually mistakenly thrown away the last of it when she cleaned up the fridge. Rachael and I discussed it and I stated I figured I could source some more.

The experience of doing so, and briefly going into the neighborhood where these things are shared, was humbling and interesting. As I composed later in a submission on the federal government's medicinal marijuana expense, it seemed to make a crucial difference to Grant

's final, valuable days. When Grant left us, we were fortunate to have Hilary Ord, a brilliant and knowledgeable celebrant, to lead the small group of pals entrusted with putting together a funeral service. She described to us what a funeral for somebody like Grant indicated-- it would not be a little affair. I was charged with rapidly raising some money. We didn't reveal the names of individuals who helped financially at the time, but I think it's appropriate to tape them here. The New Zealand Music Foundation, Tim Wood, Phantom Billstickers, the Music Managers Federation and Flying Nun Records, thank you.

At Rachael's demand, I likewise delivered the eulogy. That was a deep dig. I believe it was the very first time I've spoken some words of te reo Māori and not been simultaneously conscious that I was doing it: it was as if the words at the end merely streamed up through me. I nearly wasn't sure what had actually happened.

It wasn't practically Grant, however about everybody; the kids who satisfied all those years back, matured and did things. About how typically we did things since Grant decided they might be done and beckoned all of us in to the doing. I discussed it in interviews and in the Audioculture article-- and every time it made me assess the method he 'd altered my life.

It likewise made me think a lot about tribe and identity, about who all of us were and what was important to us. In specific, about my function in our tribe. Outside of the bonds of family, it seemed the most enduring duty I had.

Something it wasn't was a job. After 9 years of a minimum of 20 weeks annually of TELEVISION loan, I was obliged in 2018 to transform the whole thing. It wasn't simple and sometimes I questioned whether it was even possible. I have actually long been comfortable with the dangers of freelance life, but it was getting a lot harder. Each time editors are ordered to cut editorial budgets, the very first and simplest place to do that is self-employed costs. It was hard to get commissions and when I did, the word rate was barely better than it had remained in the 1990s.

We're house owners, so we are not bad. But with 2 adult handicapped children still in your home, we're not an inexpensive home to run. It's not an enjoyable feeling, burning through long-time cost savings just to keep things going. I wasn't depressed, however there was the odd despondent day. You simply keep pitching.

And all the time, things circled around back to Grant. I discussed him at the Taite Music Prize event, then did a little crisis PR the next day. I wrote the medicinal marijuana submission about him, then took a trip to Wellington to make an oral submission to the committee. I do not think I was launched up until the Headless Chickens played that big, psychological set in his name at The Other's Method festival.

There was also Public Address. I've been thinking about how much I utilized to do here and I genuinely don't understand how I had the bandwidth. Writing blog posts most days, moderating the sprawling discussions in the most intensive, in some cases mentally taxing, way. Trying to have brand-new concepts. And due to the fact that it typically wasn't a living, making a living somewhere else.

This is a quieter place than it utilized to be, for a range of factors. A new, more professional generation of digital publishers has emerged. The most immediate argument now occurs on social networks, and Twitter in particular. Likewise, I could not actually do it any more.

I've constantly been great at drawing a crowd; at tossing a celebration. A community had formed around Public Address and it brought me terrific new buddies. However when you're the host, you're accountable when the visitors-- some of whom had actually literally been together under my roofing system at different times-- begin fighting, it's not enjoyable. It feels like there has actually been a new, sharper, more polarised sort of argument abroad in the last few years that the site is ill-equipped to handle. That I am ill-equipped to handle. Perhaps it fits locations where nobody is actually accountable; where there is no host cleaning up the empties. In that sense, this being a quieter location has actually been an option.

I also feel less likely to basic commentary these days. I 'd rather compose about the things I have experience with and insight on. You primarily get drug policy, music, bike-riding, the occasional fact-check. Often this year, I've been too hectic worrying about not having writing work to simply write, and all at once aware that that's a dumb position to be in.

The entry of Press Client and its voluntary subscription platform has come a little late for any big strategies on my part, but I want to reveal my deepest appreciation to those of you who have actually contributed. It's a substantial motivation to keep going with this. I have actually started to treat it as not just support for the website, but support for what I perform in general. The majority of months, the $700 to $800 it generates has actually been an essential part of our household managing.

Happily, things enhanced in the latter part of the year and I'm fairly optimistic that I'll remain in a position to ask CactusLab to do some modest deal with the website. I'm not actually hiring new blog writers, however I want to clean the cruft of years, retire all our inactive individual bloggers to an emeritus section and maybe open a number of new topic blog sites for periodic contributors. I believe Access has been of worth because sense and I'm grateful to Hilary Stace in specific for her care and commitment to impairment concerns.

It hasn't been all bad. I've leared new skills and written some things I'm really pleased with. It was great to be totally vindicated on the "meth contamination" ordeal I blogged about two years earlier. I've really taken pleasure in working a couple of days lately at RNZ and it looks like that will continue in the new year. I'm hugely happy that my older ASD kid is working once again, with excellent people who like and appreciate him, at the excellent Cotto restaurant.

I have actually also been cheered and enriched more than ever by the music made by individuals around me. Blair Parkes, Tom Scott, Julia Deans, Tom Scott, Julian Dyne, Marlon Williams, Sandy Mill, Anthonie Tonnon and others, thank you. You make a distinction to us-- to me. And The Beths: guys, you would not think how lots of dishes and kitchen clean-ups your brilliant, bouyant album has helped with. I'm also personally pleased to have provided on what I composed this year after Golden Dawn closed-- about making your own areas. On Friday night, our final DJ night for the year at Point Chev's Cupid bar was great. It really seemed like we 'd done something. We'll be back there next year. Come see us.

I was happy that you all voted "compassion" as the Public Address Word of the Year. Do respect each other, and believe what kindness means in action. Have a great summertime and take pleasure in people and locations. Swim, ride, stroll. Request for aid if you require it, use assistance when it's needed. Be kind.

And next month, Grant's anniversary will occur, and that will be difficult for Rachael more than anybody else. I'll weep, yet once again, when I think of him. We'll all believe once again about who we are, where we have actually come from and what matters to us. We'll be another year in the world.

13/06/17

Tomorrow it would've been one year ago. One year since I made one of the worst decisions I could've made. You see the thing is, nothing good comes out of rash decisions. Nothing good comes out of listening to your heart instead of your brain- because your brain, it will guide you to the logical answer, prevent a thousand shatterings of hearts. "All it takes is 20 seconds of insane courage and something good will happen," they say- but what "they" didn't realise was, it was that same 20 seconds that brought me to where I am now. That same 20 seconds that made me experience what all those thousands of love songs are about- heartbreak. "They" describe it as your heart shattering into a million pieces but it's a lot more than that to say the least- trust me. When you shatter a glass you grab the dust pan and sweep up all the tiny little shards of glass and throw it away before simply picking up another from the cabinet and it's no big deal. But what happens when your heart shatters into a thousand pieces? You sit there staring at an empty floor blinded to the fact that it's even broken in the first place. But then when you let out the first sob and feel an excruciating pain in your chest-you can suddenly see those tiny pieces shattered all over. But even if you can see them all and gather them into the dust pan- the question is how do you put them together? The simplest way seems to be getting who you thought was "the love of your life" back. "Maybe he really still loves you," something within you whispers. "Or maybe it was all just a really bad dream- a nightmare- and I'll wake up to a good morning princess text tomorrow." All these thoughts do is instil false hope within you. You see the thing is- as long as you grasp onto that glimmer of hope- you won't be able to put those pieces of your heart back together. The shards will remain in your hand piercing you, reminding you of everything you'd rather bury away and forget forever. And at that moment in time you feel as though nothing could ever be as worse. You'll want to hide away within your bed sheets soaking them with tears and feeling the emptiness from the place your was "heart" once was. Well it's not as if you want to- but at the moment you have no other choice. I know you'll never come back to me and I understand that we were never never meant to be- that we weren't written for eachother. But why do I still feel as though I'm still holding onto some pieces of my heart tightly, allowing their sharp edges to cut into me. You see I'm not so hopeless to have mended nothing of my heart, some pieces I have managed to stick back together- but others, others I do not know what to do with them. If only there were be some type of superglue strong enough to piece them back together. Or if only they would just mend themselves automatically. If only a type of serum existed that would allow me to erase your every feature- your sole existence, completely from my mind. As I type this, I realise how you're not even worth me writing about. If I couldn't even cross your mind once for you contact me in these past 7 months, then you shouldn't be worth a second of my time either. So this year around, at 4:31am tomorrow, I'll be deep asleep rather than believing fake promises and rosey words from your tongue. "Because I know we'll be together forever," you had told me. But now I lay in my bed tears rolling down my eyes, still not over you 7 months later when you should've been nothing more to me than a random guy on instagram discovery feed. It's about time I forget the guy who forgot me. The guy who wasn't as special as I thought he was. My first love. My first heart break. The guy who didn't deserve my heart. It's about time you abandon my thoughts as you abandoned me. I feel stupid knowing I mean nothing to you whilst I cannot seem to get you out of my mind for a day. I feel stupid writing these entities all the time as if I'm talking to you. I thought about sending them to you once, thought about making you realise how I felt, but then I remembered I meant nothing to you in the first place and you'd just read them and grow an even bigger head. I could imagine you saying something along the lines of, "man these girls can never get over me." Yes, girls- because I know there's more than just me. I wonder if they can't sleep at night too sometimes- thinking of you. But that's beside the point. You're not deserving of exploring my mind and deepest thoughts- even if they mostly revolve around you. I wouldn't want you to ever know the extend of my pain. It seems pathetic wasting my time over such a piece of khara like you. I wouldn't ever give you the satisfaction of knowing that my heart in all its broken pieces- still craves you- that tears are still shed for you. And that's why I've never reached out to you in all this time. If you had said to me one month after you left, "don't tell me you're still not over our breakup," what would you tell me now, 7 months since we last talked, a year since you confessed to me? You'd laugh and go about your life. And you know what- one day I'll be strong enough to do that too. You see the thing is- I should be the one laughing, not you. Laughing at the fact that I dogged a bullet. Laughing at the fact that I only lost someone who didn't care whilst you lost someone who you meant the world to. Well at least you don't mean the world to me anymore- that has to be something. One day I'll be so happy in life you won't even cross my mind for a second. One day someone else will be the reason behind my smile- someone who isn't you. One day someone will be making me so happy, that those few sweet words you said to me will seem like nothing. The only reason I miss you is because I've never experienced love from someone else- not that your love to me was true by any means. But that's the thing you see- I have nothing to compare you to. But when I feel true love one day I'll laugh at the fact that I even wasted a tear over such a pathetic excuse of a boy. It'll be as if you were just some silly teenage mistake. You see when I really think about it I realise that's all you really are to me right now- a mistake I cannot seem to forget. -H.A