unseen

Sometimes, because of other peoples' behaviors around me, I sincerely believe that I must be invisible. Not as in, literally invisible, but as in unseen. 

Surely this is a choice - so what am doing to hide myself? And why am I hiding myself? These questions bother me. 

assembly of Japanese bicycle

"Peace of mind isn't at all superficial ... It's the whole thing. That which produces it is good maintenance; that which disturbs it is poor maintenance. What we call workability of the machine is just an objectification of this peace of mind. The ultimate test's always on your own serenity. If you don't have this when you start and maintain it while you're working, you're likely to build your personal problems right into the machine itself." 

- Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert M. Pirsig

an observation

Men hovering around the age of thirty seem to make the best lovers. Guys in their early twenties only want to fuck you. Or only want to fuck. Yet they've no idea how to speak with their skin; they don't take the flesh's cues. Men heading towards their forties are bored of it, or else lonely - which is a similar thing, really - and only want to feel your companionship, to talk and share blankets with you. They see the boundaries and they don't reach beyond them. You can deny them and writhe - ambivalently, in both pleasure and guilt - in the accepted sadness that lingers afterwards. 

Men in their late twenties or early thirties will fuck you and talk with you. They know how to equal the intimacy of the mind with the intimacy of the flesh. They know that words speak to skin speaks to spirit. They understand the importance of talking and seeing during sex. They understand the importance of listening and touching during conversation. They emit the energy of both wisdom and youth; anticipating the possibility of the present, and bearing the sophistication of experience - they've known people, places. The music of their lives is undulating in their veins. It's melody has not dated but they know the rhythm well enough to dance. 

I often consider how I will be when I am this age. It feels simultaneously distant and as if I am hurtling towards it. I'm not in a hurry to get there - I appreciate that many good things will happen between now and then - but I am curious to know it. To feel that certainty in me with room to grow. I'm cautious sometimes that I'm being too idealistic, but - if it creates hope for the future, then I will allow myself to fantasise. And in the meantime, I'll enjoy my vicarious encounters. 

return to paradise

It's 5.45am on a Saturday and someone's trying to jump off Bond St. Bridge. It's for real this time, not because we wrote it into the script. He's not even drunk. He's almost smiling. Welcome home to Auckland.

The airport shuttle drives past and I think, surely the iron-blue uniforms inching towards him are only encouraging his defiant, almost laughing fingers to gently lift themselves from the condensation-soaked handrail. Reaching towards the transient car bonnets conveyor-belting along the dewy tar seal lanes below.

There is no depression in New Zealand, ladies and gentlemen.

A tourist sitting in front of me marks the sign of the cross over their own body, as though they themselves are the one destined for great things. Their partner points out any slightly interesting sight  - houses, parks (there's no Skytower here) - to distract them both from a weighted first impression of Aotearoa's grey slump of dawn sunshine.

The sunshine is enough to make me feel hopeful; to know everything is beautiful; to know great things are coming. 

repeat

Sometimes I tell stories that aren't even my stories. I mean, I'm not lying - they used to be my stories, but they aren't anymore. Yet I'm still telling them. I keep writing and telling the same stories over and over again despite not knowing them anymore. 

I need to expand my vocabulary.