So after a weekend alone for the first time in months . . .  I’m pleased to have found some footing. Its true there is lots of missing, lots of sad, lots of wishing and alot of empty. But I find there is more of  thanks, of changes, of life, of  new, of  good, of family, of friends and of love.

P.S ….  I wonder what I would lo0k like with short hair. Just saying.

Will miss you every day for the rest of my life mum... till we meet again. Thank you for everything you are. xo

Any excuse for a family get together I say…   but  living for 80yrs does call for a celebration

more photos . . .

Rangitoto; the view from mums front gate

Well things are very simple these days, taking care of mum whilst trying to maintain a balance and grip on my own life simutaniously. . .

One thing good about being temporarily based in Auckland is this beach…

More photos here . . .

I have to be honest in that this post was instigated by a strong surge of procrastination. But fully justified as a self promoting task has been put to me and such a task certainly does not come easy, to me anyways. So yes i should put  some substance in here, details, facts or points sooo… yes been spending alot of time with my mum with her health like it is, looking forward to a good kiwi summer. Surfing on the weekend was chilly but thats hasnt put me off ! bring on the waves!

“Today I bought a new skirt. It is bright blue, and in the dark seems to glow. When I arrived home, I put it on and tried it with a dark blue singlet I had bought at the age of 14, 10 years earlier. “Tehe”, I think, as I observe myself in the mirror, “it is so tight you can see the definition of my buttocks through that lycra”.
Walking down the street, I feel like a model, strutting down the catwalk, and that everyone’s eyes are drawn my way. However, out of nowhere, analysis sets in and I start thinking about the contrast between my faded blue singlet and my sensational new skirt. I feel more warmth towards my singlet, but excitement about the skirt… there is no way I could enjoy the skirt without my singlet. My singlet is what I know and what makes me feel secure. Although it is nowhere near as glowing as my skirt, just like a best friend, my singlet represents stability and intimacy.
My singlet tells the story is the story of sleepiness nights, running races and training, beaches and freezing mornings. It’s the story of an object I have not always been fond of, but which has always played a fundamental role in its own history and my memories. Although it is now full of holes, and looks more tie-dye than navy blue, and even though I can only use it for a day before the sweat, accumulated in the fabric over many years begins to make itself known, it is my favorite singlet because I know best how to wash it, dry it, and I can wear it with any other item of clothing, no matter how embarrassed I might feel in doing so. For me, it is perfect in its imperfection.
Of course my skirt also has a story, which goes much further back than the store where I bought it- to the factory, the countryside, and the truckies that transported it from wherever those origins might have been. Nonetheless, in contrast to my singlet, I cannot know its story, I don’t know it.

Eventually my skirt will grow old, and perhaps for this, I will grow to love it more. Although it will no longer have the same shine it has at the moment, it will have its own story, and will have come to form part of my story. It is only a question of giving it the opportunity to shine, no only in a superficial sense, but also in an emotional one.
If we visit a second-hand, “used” or “pre-loved” bookstore, unlike a new clothes store, in which one looks for the least wrinkled, most finely sewn, and shiny item, in such bookstores, the most destroyed, coverless, coffee-stained book is that which best indicates a quality tale, just as old-people indicate certain wisdom. Taking this into account, it is not surprising that artistic photographers take pictures of old-people and collapsing buildings, and not plastic youth and spaceships, as in advertisements. The former tell a story, the latter show.

Imperfection is the key to that which is interesting, exotic and strange. It’s the spare tyre which indicates the tasty meal from the night before, the loss of control, and at times, the suffering of a person before society’s judging eyes. Imperfection might be the scar on a man’s forehead that prevents his hair from growing, and the perfect number-1 cut. It might be the story of when his sister dropped him on the head as a baby, or the battle he had with his brother when Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were all the rage. It could be the tremour that suggests the hidden vice, buried insecurities, sadness, and the “I can’t go on” of an alcoholic, and the orthographical mistakes of a child whose parents couldn’t afford to pay the electricity.  These are the clues of imperfection and the way to its beautiful treasure.“

“ Several months ago I wrote a story. It never made it to e-mail press, but it dealt with the beauty of imperfection.

Over the past few weeks I have been having that sensation of brain-overload with an inability to express the emotions which usually can be dealt with through a wee tale or two. Amongst these emotions, there has been a good chunk of embarrassment, disappointment, failure, and nostalgia, whilst at the sametime, euphoria, satisfaction, solidarity, and gratitude.

It was not until the past couple of days, however, that I came to understand the significance of, and common thread to this plethora of emotions, which I now see relate back to the beauty of imperfection. That is, the beauty of our humanity.

It is incredible the frequency with which we try to hide our vulnerability and what makes us human. That is not to say that we should constantly expose ourselves either. Wounds will get infected by criticism if open too long to the world, but if we were never to injure ourselves, and see our own flesh, I believe we would lack a certain self-awareness- that we are human, vulnerable and perfect in our imperfections. If we are to hurt ourselves emotionally and hide the feelings such damage provokes, effectively we are using an unsterilised band-aid which eventually will lead to infection, possibly sepsis and a bittering of our spirits.

By contrast, if we are not afraid to let our injuries air, and let somebody (of course not anybody, but the correct person) see such vulnerability, we can treat the wound and let it heal in its own time.

This leads me to what makes a good author or artist. At high school, whenever they would speak of writing, they would say the best comes from personal experiences, and I would add, exposing oneself to a certain degree, showing the wounds, learning from the scars, and using these experiences to understand one’s own behaviors, those of others, and to learn to relate to people around us. In short, to empathise.

A good drama, take Grey’s Anatomy, for example, or a great film, almost anything from Disney, perhaps Beauty and the Beast, and ask yourself: why are they dramatic? Why do they make us laugh, cry and empathise? I would argue because they reflect the real complexities and fireballs life tosses out. Although we often say these things don’t happen in everyday life, I beg to differ; they show life through the eyes of a good storyteller, through the eyes of those who are not afraid to put their cards on the table and show that despite all bets to contrary, they never had a fullhouse.

A good bridge player will use their dummy hand on the table, that is the weaker, exposed part of themselves, to compliment their own strengths and to hopefully win the grand slam. If the player does not manage to make the contract, the game goes on and the players around them will make the most of the open dummy hand. A misjudgement on our part will never go to waste. As long as we don’t try to conceal it, someone will always benefit.

All this said, in my current state of being, faults might not necessarily be what make us human, but rather remind us we are human. They are what give us the strength to laugh, feel relief and be thankful for the pleasurable experiences we have when we are lucky enough to experience them, to soar above with the sensation that we are super human. Equally, sharing what we perceive as shortfalls, our humanity, can be surprisingly soothing.“

The end.

Hey guys!

Yay for finally being bothered with Picasa! check out the rest of the photos here!

Basically; had an awesome time with Mum, Ben and Anna as an early 21st birthday get together and managed to explore Dunedin and the spectacular Otago Peninsular in the process. The south island is Beautiful! i’ll be seeing you later!!

Thou must never under estimate the power of Fruit Salad!

Six reasons why this week was awesome; in order of occurrence

1. Acquired a Futon Mattress; thus gaining some awesome nights of sleep.

2. Acquired a very nice Woman’s fencing Jacket, at a slightly uncomfortably, ridiculously yet awesome deal!

3. Attended the first of 6 intensive, educative ‘Sleep’ seminars, met amazing, friendly people and drank delicious herb teas.

4. Fencing! Another enjoyably hardcore 3hours of training and leveling up including an invitation to attend and try out Épée !

5. Post-Fencing Fruit Salad! a joint instigation and creation on behalf of Adam and myself. Extremely excellent.

6. Hysterically laughed my way through ‘Horton’ & in conversation to  mum.