Setting the Record Straight - the Actual Truth

(Patrick, if you read this, read the lot, it's about time you heard my side, it's been a long time coming.)

Well ladies and gentlemen, I am endlessly sorry if you find yourselves, however remotely, involved in this sordid affair, but recently an ex of mine with whom I have had no contact for over two years, decided he would share his tale with many of you for some un-fucking-known reason. As if anyone cared. However, since it has happened, I am forced to set things straight. My reputation must be restored, and he must be told the actual truth. For this I am very sorry. For the record, much of his almighty rant was erroneous and twisted, mainly because he who wrote it was both unaware of the actual truth, and likes to make himself look hard done by.
I begin to wonder what sort of person does such a thing, to feel so insecure as to need to have his side of a story that no one even knew about or even cared about known to the world. He has made me look bad, and made himself look like a victim of my cruel negligence. The things he said made me physically sick to my stomach. It is thoroughly embarrassing and I would hate to think that the people I care about would believe such things about me. No one needs to know my personal life, these things should be kept well, personal. But now they have been laid bare and, in several cases, distorted horribly and assumptions elaborated on.
In most situations I would rise above it and do nothing, not sink to the level of the one who has insulted me. This time however, it has to be different. This has severely crossed a line. I will not have lies and slander about me spread around at random, defaming me and spoiling my reputation. Anyone who knows me well will know that I am not the cold-hearted she-devil that I am made out to be in his verbose narrative.
It really is a sickening and sordid affair and I utterly regret that anyone apart from myself, himself, and my mother has heard about it. It really isn’t a grand or interesting tale by any means, but I will not have anyone thinking for a moment that his side of the story is the right one. I cannot leave things as they are now that he has started this. Primarily, he needs to read this and learn my point of view.

If you did not read the message that was sent to a random assortment of my FaceBook friends, please do not read on. This was very difficult for me to write and it is only intended to be read by those who read his rant. If not, show some respect for me and close this window now.

Let me begin by saying that this ex boyfriend of mine was very emotionally abusive. Obviously, this has not changed. After our unsettling break up, I spent a year living by myself in the middle of nowhere in my van feeling bitter and misanthropic. In the lead up to the break up, he told me cruel and hurtful things. We argued daily. I felt like I was constantly walking on eggshells, I could hardly say a thing without a being shouted back at. I attributed much of this to the stress of moving countries, but I was wrong.
The story basically goes thus: shortly after I moved to Edinburgh, Scotland, I met who I thought was a charming and funny Irishman. He seemed kind and caring and undeniably loyal. He looked after me and helped me through all the unfortunate things which befell me there, such as being robbed and brutally done over by people I had trusted. Typical New Zealander in another country story, we are too nice and trusting and people take advantage. He helped me out morally, and looked after me when I was sick. However, things began to decline as they often do in relationships. His joblessness bothered me. I worked long hours, usually 12 hours 7 days a week to support the both of us. It was not the fact that he didn’t have a job, but the fact that he didn’t put in the effort to look for one that bothered me. My love and affection waned and we argued frequently. My interest in sex vanished, fair enough.
He chose to come back to New Zealand to be with me provided I tended to my ‘asexuality’, I said I would do something about it because it troubled him. My mum paid for his airfare to come over. Once we got here, the arguing got to the point I simply couldn’t stand it anymore. He became more abusive, I was very upset and unsettled. Perhaps he didn’t consider it abuse, maybe he doesn’t realise. We went to work in Central Otago at an orchard I have worked at before. I worked very hard there as per my usual style, he put in very little effort, starting 3 hours after I would and such. We returned to Dunedin. In that time, we broke up. I didn’t see why we couldn’t still be friends. He, on grounds of pointless personal rules, is “always rude and ignorant to his exes”, and so he was. It made being at home very uncomfortable. In the end, he took a lot of my money I had trusted him with (my British bond, money of mine so that he could get an NZ visa, etc.) and literally did a runner. Left a note, and sodded off. He returned to Central Otago to find his job gone, and blamed it on me. He bunged a lift of a chap at the orchard and went to Wellington where, over two years later, he remains.

Now, to rectify various issues one by one. Some of these are extremely personal, but he has brought them up so regrettably, I must do the same. The rest is written in address to him personally, assuming he will read it. Here we go.

1) Patrick. Neither my mum nor I ever interfered with your employment at the orchard. They didn’t give you your job back because they didn’t WANT you back. They told me you were an incompetent, hopeless worker who couldn’t do most of the jobs you were given, which doesn’t say much for you as they were all pretty simple. Last season there was a 17 year old boy doing your pack house job, and after you left an old man replaced you. They even had an amusing nickname for you and made fun of you for a long time afterwards. You don’t know what hard work means. Not once did I see you put in anywhere near the effort I did - in New Zealand or in Edinburgh. Your narrative makes you out to be a hard worker and seems like you had a job most of the time, which is of course erroneous. You were an unemployed, lazy waste of space for most of the time I knew you.

2) So, you were my slave, were you? I see you neglect to mention the 70 hour weeks I was working so that you could sit at home all day playing computer games. I left for work every morning with an ironic “have a productive day” knowing you couldn’t get out of your own way to look for a job. I’m pretty sure my efforts outweigh your occasional dish-doing. You seem to forget that I paid for all your groceries for six months, that you took money out of my money box, that I bought you clothes, took you on trips, paid all your bond. Or did that just slip your mind? Do you remember Christmas time, when it was freezing cold and snowing, when I put my back out, was covered in a rash from that allergic reaction, had a chest infection, and was still going to work? It was so I had enough money to look after you. So fuck your “giving me a comfortable life”, if it weren’t for me you would have had no home. I took you in and gave you a comfortable life. You appreciated nothing of it. Before that you were a freeloading mooch, something you are proficient at.

3) The trickles of money you did pay me back far from covered what you owed me. Also, I never asked you to fix my laptop, in fact I asked you not to. What you did, Patrick, is theft whichever way you slice it. I trusted you to give my money back, and I was wrong to do so. You did me over worse than Sheree, Sean and Judith, or the Korean woman. Lesson well learnt! I should never have trusted you. I thought you were the flower that grew out of the pot of dirt, but you are no better than the shit that fertilised it. You can try and justify taking my money and doing a runner however you want Patrick, but you’re a thief and a pitiful liar and that is a fact.

4) This part makes me sick even to think about. How DARE you say such disgusting things. Just because a girl’s underwear is unclean does not mean she has been furiously masturbating, it means her body is functioning the way girls’ bodies do. You ignorant dumbfuck. Stop trying to justify the fact that I didn’t want to sleep with you. I certainly was not off playing with myself in lieu of intimacy with you. It is abhorrent to make such assumptions and post them publicly because you suspiciously eyed your girlfriend’s underwear while doing the washing.

5) As for the addressing of my sexual ‘problems’, I did certainly address them by means of a very expensive therapist. I went to placate you and my mother who both thought it unnatural that a girl should be disinterested in sex. The therapist told me I was an intelligent, independent young woman who just wasn’t that into it. I also saw a counsellor, who said the same thing. Not every girl is a lust driven libidinous slut like you seem to expect them to be. I am very prudish, it was not the first relationship in which I had not um, ‘put out’ for want of a better term. Here’s something I wish I had realised at the time; a person’s appearance changes once you get to know them. An outwardly attractive person might be ugly on the inside, and so become ugly to you; their appearance seems to change. The same applies vice versa, a physically unattractive person might be beautiful on the inside, and they become beautiful to you. You did nothing to make yourself attractive to me. A lazy, argumentative, unmotivated, uneducated sloth is not the sort of person I want to jump into bed with. The more I saw these unattractive aspects of your personality, the less attracted I was to you. I didn’t want to have sex with you, and why would I?

6) You need to grow the fuck up. Seriously dude, you’re almost 30 and you are behaving like a teenager. But then, that’s nothing new, your tantrums were reminiscent of a small child. What the Hell is wrong with you? What kind of person writes all that rot and sends it out to his ex girlfriend’s friends, over two years later, as if anyone was interested. No one wants to know about our intimacy issues, that’s no one else’s business. And what prompted it, my walking past you? Obviously, Patrick, you haven’t moved on. Either that or there is something fundamentally wrong with you. Yes I was bitter for some time but I got over it, because that’s what normal people do. I have even had a ten month relationship since. You really need to do the same. I don’t care what you’re doing with your life now, but I know it won’t be anything noteworthy. I would like you to know that my life improved tenfold after you departed it. I have been doing well and am working towards a career. I have wonderful friends that I adore who know that your bullshit is… exactly that.

7) I did not beg you to come to New Zealand. I recall telling you that you had to make that decision promptly while it was still possible to cancel flights. It was stupid of you to have all your belongings shipped across the world to a country you had never been to before and might not have liked, especially when you were uncertain of the future of the relationship you were going there to pursue.

8) How DARE you say I was raped and in denial, would you kindly stop thinking that, and would you kindly not tell everyone you know? It is a VERY serious accusation. I have not been raped, stop trying to convince me that I was, that’s fucked up. Again, trying to seek some reason why I didn’t want to have sex with you.

I have learnt some very important life lessons from this experience. Patrick, get over it, move on, and leave me alone. I have had my say and you have more than had yours. Leave it there. I don’t want you anywhere near me. I never want to hear from you again, and my friends will ignore anything you try and send them. In future, if you have something to say, say it to me alone. None of it is anyone else’s business and no one else actually wants to know this shit. All you’ve achieved is to make yourself look like a right dunce. You have upset me greatly for the last time. I feel sorry for those reading this. That’s all for now, I’m too upset to think of anything more to say. Uprooting all this crap from years ago is thoroughly unnecessary, and just because you haven’t gotten over it, doesn’t mean I want to be dragged back into it. I burnt your love letter and gave away the things you left behind. It’s called moving on, try it. I have achieved a lot in the time since last I saw you, I’m willing to bet everything I own that you haven’t. If you consider getting a job and a flat a high achievement then hooray for you. Part of me still hopes that you’ve enjoyed New Zealand.

Good bye, get over it, grow up, and shut up.

Freyja.

PS: Have a shave, you look like Captain Haddock.

RATTLED

What follows is an account of three days, encompassing what has become known as ‘The Blackest Day in New Zealand’s History’. It begins with a day that seems bizarrely normal, especially compared with what was to follow. I had gone up to Christchurch for the Amanda Palmer gig which I had been looking forward to for ages, but instead I got a nightmarish experience which I pray is never to be repeated. Luckily I kept this small journal of events. Here is a story of the Christchurch Earthquake, viewed from where I was standing…

~ GINGER IN THE CITY 21st FEB 2011 ~

Strawberry Assam Milk Tea. That has so far been the main feature of my sojourn in Christchurch, as after trying a little box of it last night, I can’t get enough of the stuff. I even bought it instead of Calpis today. That is saying something.

Apart from spending too much on drinks from the Asian markets, I have been spending largely on other things as well. Today I spent over $260 before lunchtime, but I’ll get to that later. For now, an observation, as I sit here in this little hostel surrounded by people.

I think I must be intimidating, but this is fine by me. I have discovered that the more intimidating you are, the more room you have. To elucidate, on the bus up here, the only people with no one sitting beside them were me and a monk. The same thing happened on my 35 hour bus trip from Romania to Italy, the last seat to be filled was the one beside me. Now that I am here in my hostel, no one seems to want to talk to me, but they all talk to eachother. This is also cool, since I’ve had quite enough of making small talk with foreigners lately. The key to having more room is to dress unusually and conduct yourself pompously. That’s what I’ve been doing at least. This can also have an adverse effect, however. Twice I’ve been asked for my picture already, sure this is always a nice compliment, but I still don’t like it, I had enough of that in Edinburgh thank you very much. One chap asked for my name and I told him it was Ginger without hesitation, and now I think I prefer it to Freyja. Normally I give my name, and the response is usually “What?”.

The hostel I’m staying at is all I can afford, and is very basic, but nice and generally all right. I’m sharing a room with three girls, two of whom snore, one like a man, and it’s like a little box with two bunk beds and nothing else. A bit like a prison cell that I’m allowed out of I suppose. A glistening, decent kitchen and all round pleasant atmosphere. There is even a cat which is really smoochy and has its tail curled right over its back.

Anyway, my expensive day. I began it with an evil, pounding headache. I had a wander around the shops, got some money out, and sought the piercing shop. I got my much awaited dermal anchors, four of them in my collarbones to replace the surface piercings which grew out. It wasn’t too painful, it didn’t take too long, but it bled like a neck on the guillotine. Well perhaps not quite as much as a neck on the guillotine, but I left the shop smeared with blood and with a smile on my face. I did my best not to notice the bloody sodden cotton buds passing infront of my face one after another. The anchors look stuck on, like children’s shiny stickers. That was what cost me $260, completely worth it though, I missed my collarbone piercings and these should last much longer. Throughout the day two of them continued to bleed, not entirely sure why, my blood usually coagulates more promptly than this, oh well.

So, Christchurch is a place you can’t help but impoverish yourself. If you’ve been living somewhere small and empty like Cromwell, as I have, the sudden presence of shops and restaurants is an explosion of choice and fun. You don’t quite know where to run first, it’s all a bit too exciting. Not knowing where to find a supermarket, since I don’t think there is one in the middle of town, I had french toast for breakfast at Subway, salmon nigiri at lunchtime, and souvlaki in Cathedral Square for supper, all punctuated with Calpis and of course, Strawberry Assam Milk Tea. Tomorrow I think I’ll go hungry to make up for it. More likely the sudden presence of shops and restaurants will get the better of me again.

My evening was unexpectedly lovely. Having had a thumping headache all morning and aching, blistered feet all afternoon, I spent a few hours half conscious on a couch in the tv room watching documentaries. I put my slightly too small but oh so stylish boots on again and took to the city once more. I walked along the Avon river, watching the trams go past, and was delighted when the bridges and fountains lit up. It makes a really pleasant walk, it would have been romantic had I not been by myself. In Victoria Square, which is my favourite part of Christchurch, I came upon a pipe band which seemed to be practicing. It was utterly wonderful to sit there in the dark with the illuminated statues and bridges around listening to the pipes and drums. The fountains there weren’t on, which was a shame, but it was lovely nevertheless. I was miffed about the fountains because there is one which looks like dandelions in seed. The first time I came here was with my Dad when I was seven. Of that trip I have two solid memories; getting lost in the hotel, and that fountain. I didn’t see it again for years and years, and thought I must have imagined it. Then lo, one day I walked out onto Armagh Street and there they were, the dandelions.

I meandered around for a long time reading plaques on pretty bridges and admiring the statues of James Cook and Queen Victoria. I returned to the hostel via the famous Manchester Street, where I tried to see how many prostitutes I could spot. Since then I’ve been sitting here writing this, and wishing I had more Strawberry Assam Milk Tea.

~ 22nd FEB 2011 - MORNING ~

As I sit here drinking a bottle of Strawberry Assam Milk Tea, I am frowning and rubbing an aching back. I have had an awful night because of the thoughtless, weird, stupid bitch sleeping under me. Nearly every time I’ve come into this room whatever time of the day, she’s been lying in bed. She’ll pretend to sleep, turn the light off, turn it on again, get up, read a book, turn the light off, pretend to sleep again, lights on and reading again and so on. Last night or rather this morning, her alarm went off at about 6am, and continued to go off every 10 minutes for the following hour. After a while I and the chap in the other bed started protesting, but it made no bloody difference. Sometimes, moments after it had gone off, I’d hear her deep growly man snores. Maybe she was able to fall asleep again but I could not. My back was already sore from the thin pillow and having to keep in one position, and it was hot. Four fresh, stingy piercings in one’s chest does not make it easy to doze off either. Falling asleep was a near miracle and I was ready to choke this bitch if she prevented it again. I almost said, “If I hear you snore again, I’m coming down there and removing your windpipe.” Or, “If you don’t get up now, I’ll see that you never do again.” We were not amused and we still are not. The city is noisy outside, it’s raining and there’s a school next door. The gig is tonight, I’d like to be awake for it. I would quite like to jump on the free bus today and see if it takes me near a supermarket, I would like to pay less than $7 - $10 for a small meal. Christ it really is raining, I do hope it stops, or we will be very unamused for the rest of the day. Now that I am sitting up, after my uncomfortable night, my every bone snaps loudly when I move it. I feel like a wooden doll. 

~ 22nd FEB 2011 - LATER - THE CUP OF TEA I NEVER GOT ~

So it turns out fortuitous that I was kept awake last night. It wasn’t until 11.30am that I got out of bed, got dressed and such. I went down to the kitchen, made a cup of tea and then - it struck.

Perhaps the most devastating earthquake in our history. Only 6.3, but shallow. 

It felt like the world was leaping around, rocking from side to side violently while shuddering at once. I’ve never felt anything like it, it was unbelievably violent. Feet away, a tree fell down where people had just been sitting having lunch. Everything in the kitchen went flying, I saw the oven shoot out, and all the dishes and cups smash over the floor. I grabbed someone, fell on someone, then leapt up and rescued my laptop. Very important of course! It lasted for perhaps a very wild 15 seconds. 

At first we laughed a bit when it had stopped, and I thought my heart might leap from my - ooh there is another aftershock as I type - from my chest, and I was quivering, naturally. It was only on walking outside that the seriousness of the situation came into sharp relief. 

A building across the street fell down, a chip shop that a fellow lodger had been at minutes before. Another down the street collapsed, crushing cars. Within a few minutes, pandemonium had ensued.

People, some with blood streaming down their faces, were running or biking down the street in a panic to find their children or to get home. Traffic quickly clogged up. Sirens blared from all around. A fire erupted a block or two away, and great thick columns of smoke rose into the sky. Perhaps three large fires could be seen nearby. Helicopters carrying monsoon buckets flew past one after the other. There were police and ambulances going past constantly with their sirens on, but not so many as the fire engines of which I saw dozens. They were even coming in from surrounding small towns and rural districts. 

The owner of the hostel, Geri, returned and was fretting for her children. People trickled back, and others joined us from Stonehurst around the corner, of which the front wall collapsed.  A chap returned from the CBD, his lip quivering, and said, “There are dead people everywhere.” 

Scraps of news reached us, each bit more ghastly than the last.

We put chairs, blankets and bottles of water in the car park and sat there for hours, leaping into a fearful huddle whenever a violent aftershock came. When I say ‘us’ or ‘we’, I mean the ever changing group of strangers lodging at or hanging around the hostel. I grabbed my belongings and clung to them religiously all day. There was a general feeling of helplessness and uncertainty. We didn’t know if it was safe to stay where we were or to move on, but in which direction? No one knew what to do. We decided it was wisest to stay together and not leave the hostel, it seemed like a safe enough place. Phone reception went out and no one could contact anybody. I was able to get messages through to both my parents to let them know I was alright. Some children came over from the school next door, one of them couldn’t get ahold of her parents, and another was crying. Two lost dogs came by, one stayed with us all day. An elderly Danish couple who only just arrived here joined us for the day, unfortunately this was their first impression of New Zealand, as it was for many tourists. I and those around me spent hours breathing through cloths; the wind brought the smoke of the too close for comfort fires to us. The air was thick, smoky, and acrid. 

This was not how I had planned to spend my day. I had been planning to jump on the free bus, cruise to Riccarton, have a shop, visit friends, buy some food, then get ready for the gig. The Amanda Palmer gig I was so looking forward to, and the reason for my trip here.

I can’t help but realise that, had I got up earlier and gone into town as I had planned, got brunch before jumping on the bus etc… I could be injured, or among the numerous dead. Many, many people are. I truly believe I’ve had some sort of protective spirit with me. I thank the girl who kept me awake in the early hours. I would have been in the CBD, at the centre of the disaster, where hundreds are still missing under the rubble.

The beautiful Cathedral I admired yesterday is destroyed. The Avon river I meandered by last night is overflowing and full of muck. The centre of town is a scene of chaos and horror. Even though I am literally around the corner from the worst of the action, this is a good place to be. To think, my biggest concern this morning was that the weather promised to be unpleasant today. 

I have no food, as I was planning on buying some today. Gosh, no more  Strawberry Assam Milk Tea, alas! We have no water in the hostel, and have been rationing out the few bottles of it between everybody. 3 or 4 small bottles between 30 - 40 people. 

There was another aftershock just now, I wish they would stop, it’s very scary. It’s raining outside now, so there’s no sitting outside with a blanket ‘just in case’ as I was going to do. I don’t want to go up to my bed, which is upstairs. The whole of Christ - oh hell there was another big tremour - Christchurch is chaos. So much has fallen down, I really can’t look at it and believe what I see. It’s a complete disaster! I want to get out of here, but my bus tomorrow has been cancelled. Not sure at this stage how I’m getting home. I’ve had enough of this!

Right now, I am supposed to be at the Amanda Palmer gig. I know a lot of people are having a far worse day than I am, but I am still very miffed about the show being cancelled. I should be having a completely awesome night with my friends, finally getting to see Amanda, dressing up and on my official ‘comeback’ into society after being ‘in hiding’. Oh, another little tremour. How many have there been while I write this? I was so looking forward to this trip and the planned fun was replaced by sudden fear, horror, and tragedy. Not entirely sure how I’m supposed to sleep, don’t think I’ll bother trying. What an utterly hideous day. Another shake. I just want to go home, I don’t care how I get there.

Tomorrow, as I suppose I’ll have no choice, I’ll walk away from this hostel and see more of the devastation. More of the buildings I had walked past only yesterday, gone into, admired the facades of… can’t believe how so many of them might be gone now.

Right now I’m drinking tea made from boiled rain water, surrounded mostly by cheery Irish people. Also in the room is Barny Luck of Wales who has just been interviewed for the Daily Telegraph and a Welsh paper. The rain also turned out to be a blessing, we put pots outside and caught it. It’s the first cup of tea I’ve had all day seeing as I didn’t get my morning one, that one went flying! 

~ 23 FEB - THE NIGHT & DAY AFTER ~

Last night was indeed an unpleasant one. It is difficult to sleep when there are little tremours every few minutes, a big one every hour or so, and you’re not certain whether the building you're in is going to crash down around you. Two nearby hostels had collapsed as well as a number of other buildings on Barbadoes Street. I didn’t want to go upstairs to my room, so I ‘slept’ in the computer room on a narrow couch. Not much actual sleeping was done, it simply wasn’t possible. 

Most people went to bed for an hour and then got up again, having very promptly given up on the idea. After 20 minutes of snoozing, I was awoken by a big jolt, and then got about an hour’s sleep between 6 - 7am. There were a few other people around, nobody I knew, but most I spoke to. I chatted to the Dutchwoman Louisa who was on her own too. She ended up in a Dutch newspaper and was recorded for the Dutch news. We were kept company by the smoochy cat. 

I spent a lot of time overnight on facebook and twitter letting people know what was going on, and got a supportive tweet from actress Fairuza Balk (Nancy from The Craft) which cheered me up a lot. 

I checked the Intercity Bus website and found to my delight that the busses were going again, leaving from the corner of Bealey Ave and Columbo Street. So in the morning, I bid farewell to my fellow lodgers and began my walk across town. I did not go through the centre of the city, that would have been a mental thing to do - it was cordoned off, buildings were still collapsing, people both living and dead were being recovered. In the Cathedral Square, an impromptu mortuary had come into being, as corpses were lined up. I had only just been strolling through there in the sun the day before, watching jugglers, listening to musicians, and looking at stalls. 

Astounding what a difference 15 seconds can make.

I walked instead along Barbadoes Street and down Bealey Ave, both of which were annihilated. Houses, shops and churches had been reduced to heaps of rubble, the streets were cracked open, trees and lamp posts were down, a bridge was buckled, and thick, silty liquefaction had swallowed cars. I had a long way to walk and the same views met my eyes all the way down. To me it looked like a giant had rampaged through the city, ripping off roofs, punching out walls and stamping across the ground. The X’s on doors made me shiver somehow, just knowing they had been inside looking for bodies. The whole place had an eerily dead feel to it, like a ghost city.

I spoke to a few military men, who were stationed with their army vehicles at every corner, and asked them where I might find Hagley Park. It wasn’t far, but I found the park resembling a jigsaw puzzle, all cracked up with silt oozing out of the cracks. By the time I had found the tent full of people, I was feeling sore and lightheaded from lack of food and water. I had had only two bits of fruit and a few mouthfuls of water in 30 odd hours. Immediately I was ushered into a queue, given a box of Up n’ Go, and before I knew it I had a plate of bread, bacon, scrambled eggs and tomato. I also got lemonade, bottled water, a healthy cookie, fruit leather, and more Up n’ Go. When I got a cup of tea and a biscuit, I was very content, and felt well looked after. I felt like a new person after having something to eat and drink.

I met a number of people from Canada, America, and Australia. An American woman, I forget her name but she was on TV as well, told me she had been inside the Cathedral when it collapsed and reckoned that other than herself, her husband, and perhaps one other, she hadn’t seen anyone else come out afterwards. They are saying on the news that everyone inside the Cathedral was killed; I believe I met one of the only survivors. More than twenty bodies are thought to be inside Christchurch Cathedral. I wonder if that woman realised how much of a miracle it was that she was still alive.

Three times I was recognised, as it turns out my picture was in the paper, The Press apparently. The Press building was also badly damaged, by the way. As usual when I find myself in the media, it is a stupid picture and makes me look like a muppet. In my defence, it was taken by some drive-by paparazzo when I was sitting with about 20 other people infront of the hostel, when it was cold, rainy, and the air was thick with smoke. The collapsed CTV building around the corner was on fire. Everyone was the same, wrapped in a blanket and breathing through it.

So anyway, after getting myself back to normal at Hagley Park, a woman gave me a lift to the bus stop. It was wonderful to sense the community spirit, and see how everyone came together. I was offered three lifts, and the conversational exchange of “Hey, are you ok?” “Yes, yourself?” was often heard between strangers.  Everybody seemed very cheery, New Zealanders have this marvellous way of coping with things. If this had happened in another country, there might have been widespread panic and hysteria. But we who are known for being laid back and possess the ‘ok so this is bad, let’s cope with it’ attitude, are managing this terrible situation commendably.

At the bus stop I chatted to a chap named Warwick for a bit, who simply wanted to get away. That is really all anyone wants to do at the moment, escape. At last, a bus finally came and bore me away, it was a moment a long time coming. 

Now, I am at home in bed, safe and warm, but I can’t get the sound of sirens out of my head, and every tiny jolt or rumbling sound makes me jump. However, my experience has been nothing compared to others’. There have been limb amputations on site to free people from wreckage. People have been stranded on rooftops, or clinging for their lives. People have lost family members, and children have been orphaned. Hundreds are still missing, there are still people trapped under collapsed buildings. Rescuers have been risking their own lives to save others. It is indescribable, unbelievable, surreal, and unspeakably terrible. And it all happened so quickly. Christchurch is ruined. The garden city which is normally so lovely and vibrant suddenly resembles a war zone.

I would like to point out that what has been covered on the news so far is only a fraction of the damage. The destruction is everywhere throughout town, absolutely everywhere. The death toll is ever rising, hundreds are still missing, and most places haven’t even been searched yet.

I don’t know what else to say. I am exceedingly thankful to fate that I and all my friends in Christchurch are unharmed. It has been a unique experience hopefully never to be repeated, and definitely a dark mark on New Zealand’s history. I can’t quite express the magnitude of this in words. We are a country of only 4 million, this is our 9/11, this is a great disaster affecting the whole nation. I  do hope that beautiful Christchurch will someday recover from near total obliteration, and wish all the very best to those who have suffered loss, and those who are part of rescue and recovery teams.

Help Christchurch by donating to the Red Cross .

For more detailed news on the quake, visit Stuff .co.nz

Progress and Priorities or Lack Thereof

I am trying not to think about the strife I went through while in the process of getting my first agency submissions away. After all my mind splintering efforts, five artfully whittled letters and accompanying examples were sent away. Weeks later, after ‘the wait’, of those five, I have received four rejections. Some polite, some rude and impersonal. I wasn’t feeling too confident, but it is depressing to remember the effort and expense I went to only to reap no benefits.

It is the story of my life, work work work for no gain. No, think not of me that I am giving up. I expect many more rejections, perhaps even dozens, but my next trick will be to attack the problem from a different angle, and force my presence upon the prospective agent/publisher. I am going to do it in person. Perhaps not all of them, but a few if I can, and since Britain isn’t looking hopeful, America is next on the list. I will also do Canada. This has always been Plan B. Giving up is not an option, and would be an utterly stupid thing to do as my life would cease to have a point to it. Many great authors were rejected loads of times. Look at J.K. Rowling, rejected 12 times. Ursula Le Guin, told that her book 'The Left hand of Darkness' was unreadable, John Grisham's 'Time to Kill' was turned town 28 times, Stephen King's 'Carrie' was rejected 30 times. Stephenie Meyer's 'Twilight' was rejected 14 times, I'm surprised it wasn't more, but the point is that it went on to do well. Four rejections at this early stage are certainly not going to put me off.

As far as the book goes, I’ve long had the feeling that it takes too long to ‘take off’, but I think I’ve found a way to change that. My brain is an overflowing bowl of ideas lately, only I’ve hardly had the chance to write anything down as I keep getting invited to parties, dinners, barbeques and such, and haven’t the time. Bloody fun getting in the way of work again :p  

The almighty second draft of epic doom is in encephalous utero as we confabulate, and something shinier and more beautiful may emerge. Nay, will emerge, unfurling its sticky wings and flying free to charm and impress the world. *Cough* A ha ha anyway...

I’m feeling a bit miffed about the artist I commissioned to draw me a picture featuring my characters. Well, the second one. The first one told me she was, after many months of me asking her, ready to take my instructions. All excited, I wrote a verbose description of what I wanted. Then she told me she was too busy with other tasks again and that I had to wait a few weeks. I couldn’t help but feel miffed then too, that despite my asking her many times over a long period, that she put who knows how many others ahead of me in priority. So I thought bugger it then, I’ll ask someone else. I did, she seemed very keen and liked my ideas, so I sent her away a different but still very verbose description of what I had in mind. I kept track of her commission statuses and saw that she was finishing others’ first, but was pleased to see that mine had been started. That was oh hmm, eight months ago now, and I’ve had nothing from her. I thought artists wanted to be commissioned, I thought people liked getting paid. So you know what, fuck the whole idea. If artists are going to keep putting other commissions ahead of mine, or forget mine entirely, then I don’t see why I should bother even asking. If my books are a success, then they won’t be the one I ask to do the covers. I wouldn’t ask at all except that I really can’t draw, and thought it would be nice to see an image other than the one in my head.

Thinking of this has put me into something of a sour mood. I think I’ll remedy that with a large bowl of ice-cream and chocolate sauce. By the way, my diet’s going really well.

Actually it is, well I assume it is, since I can see my collarbones again. They’ve been missing for a while. The fact that I’ve been spending evenings doing exercise, ie bike riding along the lakefront, has also meant that I’ve been too exhausted to cogitate any creative ideas. 

Ah, my excuses are plentiful, aren’t they? 

However, getting my slightly marshmallowy body into a more pleasing shape is also a priority. I want to look a bit more decent when I reemerge into my usual society, or when I come ‘out of hiding’.

I’m counting down the days until I leave the orchard and the speck on the map which is Cromwell. Four more sleeps. I’ve been here now for four months, and living in the back of my small van the whole time. Not a glamorous lifestyle but there you go. Next I’m going to spend two months stressing irrationally, then hopefully I’ll go to Canada. Whatever comes after that will come as a surprise, I don’t like to be too prepared. Anyway, I’m getting distracted from that promising bowl of ice-cream.

To conclude, the book publishing saga continues. I do often wonder why I make things so hard for myself. I could try publishing here in New Zealand, but the challenge wouldn’t be quite so monstrous, in other words, not as much fun, or as much of a monumental achievement when I get there. I shall press on in this journey until my legs fall off.

Musak

I do feel sorry for my ears, for they are assaulted daily by the rubbishy musak played on the radio. 

Why, I begin by asking the world, must they play the same songs several times a day, sometimes even hourly? Why, I put to the world at large a second time, are these songs popular to begin with? It amuses me that these very similar sounding songs appear on stations which claim to provide ‘musical variety’. At this claim I snort and laugh derisively. Do these ‘artists’ consider themselves good, talented, even gifted? Are their fans who will have forgotten who they were in a couple of years’ time of the same opinion? 

I think I can safely slot all the forgetful songs I hear lately on the most popular stations into several unhappy categories.

Currently, most female singers either fall into the ‘slightly country’ love song category, the gentle breathy voice with tinkly music in the background which you hear on TV ads a lot, or some strangely distorted accent and nasal voice which makes it impossible to tell what they’re singing about. Katy Perry, some of you may agree, sounds increasingly like a wailing banshee with every new single to hit the charts. Then there’s the Kesha kind, who doesn’t seem to be able to sing unless her voice has been filtered through a digital auto-tuner. Regarding these two, it must be their image that people like, because it certainly can’t be their music. It isn’t only them, I’m sure there are plenty of others too. 

I am also having difficulty telling the difference between several recent male vocalists. I’m not sure of their names, because up until recently I thought they were all the same person. It was only when I started paying attention to the announcer saying who the ‘artist’ had been at the end, that I realised it wasn’t. Their songs are a lyrical waste of time, and seem to consist of the same line or word repeated over and over again. Have you heard ‘Homesick, homesick, homesick’ a zillion billion times lately? Each of these songs I hear is more generic and forgetful than the last. Sorry, but even Stan Walker, Australasia’s beloved winner of Idol, sends my brains crawling out of my ears in an attempt to flee the boredom. Oh, and don’t get me started on Justin Bieber, but I think he’s become a standing joke now anyway for anyone who isn’t a giggling 15 year old girl.

Thirdly, tinny techno boppy stupid nothing musak which took the ‘artist’ about five minutes to ‘compose’. These are about nothing, the lyrics are pointless, repetitive, and the tune non-existent. “Yes!” I hear you cry out in protest, “But techno music is like that!” And to that I say indeed, I know what techno music is like and that it can be very good. But what I speak of isn’t good techno or dance music, and I am one of many who cannot fathom how this flimsy, tinny crap made its way onto the airwaves. Here’s an example which springs to mind, the latest from the Black Eyed Peas… I’ve always sort of liked them, but these lyrics are just disappointing:

“Tonight’s the night night,

Let’s give it up.

I got my money,

Let’s spend it up.

Go out and smash it,

Like Oh My God,

Jump off that sofa,

Let’s get get off.”

A work of true genius if ever I beheld it. I find the fact that we idolise and pay money to hear these thoughtless songs and auto-tuned voices overlaying a synthetic boppy beat, while there are plenty of people out there with real talent who can actually sing and play intruments, utterly abhorrent. Will those genuinely talented people ever be heard on the radio? Unlikely. What possesses recording companies to say, “Hey, this is great, it sounds exactly like the last fifty generic songs we heard. Let’s put it on CD and print six million copies!” Or, “It doesn’t matter that she can’t sing, we’ll just put her voice through the auto-tune, take half her clothes off, and film a sexy clip. She’ll be the next big thing!”

To them I say please, stop inflicting us with what you assume the masses will enjoy, and trying to convince us that we like it!

Bring us something new, and for a change, something good! Bring us a struggling artist who plays to small crowds in pubs, someone who loves music for music’s sake, someone with talent who actually deserves the spotlight, and give them a chance!

I would like to conclude this little rant by pointing out that I am no authority on music, I have never studied it, I can’t read it, I am not a critic, and I can’t sing. However, I am your average person who likes listening to the radio over their morning bowl of porridge. Your opinions may differ from mine, and frankly I don’t mind if they do. That’s up to you, but this is what I have noticed, and what I personally  think. Granted, I will also say, not everything played on the radio today is akin to the aforementioned shite. There are some artists who genuinely are good and deserve all the praise and air time that they get.

I just don't think it's fair that this rubbish gets put on the radio and the corresponding videos get put on TV, when there are thousands of people out there who deserve it so much more. It just isn't fair.

To the Land of the Rising Sun, or of Moose and Maple Syrup?

Well hullo there my dear wee dumplings, my excuse for not blogging about anything lately is simply because I've had nothing to blog about. No sudden electrocutions, interesting celestial events, or progress with the book. Life in the orchard revolves around the dwindling cherry crops at the moment, and scrounging for work. However, I've been thinking again, which is always a dangerous thing.

I am at a point in my life where I ought to decide what to do with the rest of it, or at least choose some vague direction to head in, or provide myself some sort of metaphorical cushion to land on should other plans turn to sour custard.
Much still rests on getting replies from the UK based agents I submitted to, and should any of them be successful, then I might yet find myself back in Old Blighty. I'm going to start submitting to American agents as soon as I get all my responses, and should those be successful, I was thinking of moving to Toronto, Canada, where I would be nearish to New York, America. I cannot live and work in America, their visas are stupid, but I can easily live ad work in Canada. I had been looking at accommodation costs and job possibilities, when my darling mother talked me out of it, and gave me what might prove to be a better idea, but yet a far bigger challenge. Let us return to this later in the post.

Oh, before I forget, happy new year! I hope you, wherever you are, had an enjoyable evening and didn't feel too groggy the following day. My new years was unique, but kept with my unavoidable tradition of doing very little. New years is always such a let down, don't we think? We have high expectations and go out with the intention of having a lot of fun, but often when fun is planned, it doesn't happen. Every year I make the mistake of stating, "This year, I'm determined to have fun! See if I don't, damn it!" and ergo, I find myself wandering home sober, lonely and disappointed at around 12.30am. Ah, alas. This year I walked to one of the local pubs with one of my lovely French friends and three seventeen year old Kiwi girls. Because of our underage companions, we couldn't actually go into the pub, so hovered around outside and watched the band play. There was a rather uneventful countdown to midnight, the guy doing it didn't exactly seem sure what time it was, and on midnight there was no following Auld Lang Syne, loud bangs, or fire crackers. Counting down to nothing just leaves one with a sense of... oh, ok then. Woo. Apparently Cromwell had spent its firecracker budget on Guy Fawkes, pfft.
So young Paige, one of the three young'ns, and I, walked to the lake where we lit a little fire, and sent floating candles bobbing out onto the black water. On the way there there was silent lightening in the sky, and Paige saw a shooting star. So it was an atypical but nevertheless very pleasant way to usher in the new year.

My Christmas was delightful; it involved much pudding, chocolate, and jellybeans as always. Anyone who knows me knows that one of my weaknesses is American Jelly Beans. My buddy Adam gave me the matching 'Psycho' bloody shower curtain and bathmat that I've admired for some time, which gives my bathroom the 'Guro' look I originally desired, and a tin of 'Unicorn Meat', since at some point I must have asked for a unicorn for Christmas. He, who knows me all too well, also gave me jellybeans. My grandparents gave me a large tin of jellybeans, which I am still making my way through, but I will blushingly confess that I have nearly finished them.

Now, back to my big life decision thing. Canada still appeals to me, and something in my intuition tells me that going there is still the best option. However, apart from seeking an agent, what possibilities does that country really provide for me? I had wanted to visit Japan for one month to see the Snow Festival (Yuki Matsuri) before heading somewhere else for longer term lodging. Yet, my mother thinks it smarter that I spend a year or two in Japan, to improve my Japanese. I've not been there for eight years, but have been twice, and once upon a time my Japanese was almost conversational. This was when I was only fifteen years old. But I stupidly gave it up and as a result, I've forgotten most of it. If I spend more time there, I can get myself fluent or close to it, thus plumping up the aforementioned metaphorical cushion. I could give private tuition, or do translation, and so on. I can still submit to American agencies. There is no difference between submitting from here or there, either way I am still not in the USA. I believe the Japanese working visa, which is available only to people of like seven different nationalities, lasts for three years and has a 'come and go' option, meaning you can travel overseas for a while, but then return to Japan to work. So if I need to visit America, I still can do so.

And yet! The very idea frightens me. Yes, yes! I know lots of people do it, many people I know have spent time there, but I think it is largely the Korean hostility brewing next door which is making me slightly uncomfortable. That, and the natural worries of 'will I get a job, what if I don't?', and the knowledge that Tokyo (where I intend to stay) is a staggeringly enormous city writhing with at least 12,000,000 people. That's four times the population of my whole country! I am used to wide open spaces, mountains, lakes, trees, peace and quiet. I'm not used to tall concrete buildings cluttered together, packed trains, and streets that flow with rivers of people. But if I coped as a teenager, I'm sure I can cope again. I'm older now and that's er... different, right? Naturally, as I always do, I'll be going alone.

As I conclude this blog entry, I will point out that I have just now finished the large tin of jellybeans. Shame on me. All that remain are the few liquorice ones rattling around in the bottom, which I don't really like.
So... uh, I don't know. Canada? Japan? Moose Milk? Sake? Maple Syrup? Miso Soup? Alas, alas, I am torn! I'm not sure what the *best* idea is. Something to sway me in the right direction would be utterly helpful right now. My life balances on the precipice of uncertainly. Well anyway, toodle-pip for the time being!


EDIT: *Loud screeching noise* Spanner in the works!! I can't remember where I read the three year visa thing, but every other site I've looked at concerning visas says one year. Hmm, feck. This does rather mess things up a little. Canada is now looking more likely... I could go there for a year, and then to Japan for a year? Best of both worlds, yeah?

The Lightening Tree

Many things are vexing me right now, I have had a day of numerous things going wrongly. What is currently bothering me, although not as much as others, is the new group of girls who have set up camp here. I don’t know where they’re from but they speak some European language. Clearly they come from one of those big, busy places, seeing as they have no sense of personal space. Three times they have walked into my personal space, very close (the space between my van door and doormat) while I am sitting in the doorway. They pass a foot in front of me, when there is ample space around, and pay no attention to me. It is making me feel very uncomfortable and I’d rather they just sodded off. That would please me right now. It just isn’t… socially right! 

They come so near I expect them to talk to me, but they don’t, and when I send them off with a displeased expression, they don’t seem to notice. Weird. Also, I have spent my evening repairing my fucked internet. I have shouted and ranted a great deal but several hours later, by pure dumb luck, I have fixed it. I was about to call Vodafone, for I thought shouting at something might cool my temper.

Here’s the thing that really got me today. I was very tired, but not for long, something woke me up completely. Too completely.

I had been out picking cherries on a cherry picker as usual. No one believed me at afternoon teatime when I said I had been electrecuted by a tree - twice. 

“Oh no,” they all said, “That can’t happen. Wood doesnt conduct, we learnt that at school.” 

To which I replied, 

“It seems it can, and it just did. Twice.”

Power lines, the strong kind that buzz, had sagged into the topmost point of the tree I was picking from. When I seized a branch to pull it foward, it gave me the biggest shock I’ve ever felt. It was definitely an electric shock; the kind that makes you shudder and jerk. I blamed it on the heat of the day, my imagination, muscle spasm, static from the machine perhaps, and tried to assure myself that I was being absurd. I looked at the tree. It was just a tree, I said to myself, don’t be ridiculous. A minute later, I tentatively reached for the same branch with one hand, to reassure myself that I had imagined it. 

It happened again, and this time I screamed. Lindsay drove past on a tractor minutes later, and I asked him if it was possible to be electecuted by a tree. “No, it’s not.” he said simply. Then he looked up, and it was he who noticed the power lines brushing the branches. Excellent, I thought. I asked a few people if I should worry or not. 

“Oh yes!” said a few, “You could have died! That’s very dangerous, very serious!” This did little to calm my nerves. I was quivering all over, but probably from my growing fear. Others tried to tell me that it was just static from the machine I was working on, like how a car can shock you when you get out of it. I tried to explain that it was obviously not the machine, it was definitely the tree, and that I can tell the difference between static electricity and a painful proper shock.

It just bothered me that no one believed me. I know it sounds absurd, but it happened I say! I had all sorts of explanations about how currents flow, which made little sense to me, but I couldn’t help but thinking that had it not been for the tree being deep in the ground, the rubber tyres of the machine, or my thick boots, that my day might have turned out a lot worse. I may not even be here writing this, my dear reader! I came to the conclusion that the wood obviously had moisture in it, and that is how it conducted electricity.

Tonight, I have been informed, there will be a lunar eclipse. Looks like ths weird day will end with something else unusual. Until next time my dainty dears, toodle-pip!

Technical Thinking

You know, I have read dozens of online articles on writing tips; what to do, what not to do, sentence balancing, beginnings, hooks, adjective use, and so on. Many of them contradict each other and could easily leave one feeling rather confused. They always leave me feeling uncertain of my own work, and make me think about everything from a more technical perspective. They make me question myself. I begin to wonder if anything I have done reaches these persnickety standards. While these articles are intended to help, since I started reading them, I swear my writing has become worse! Much worse! There simply isn't the flow or the sensation of a natural thought process. It seems stiffer, sounds less like my voice, doesn't read as easily, in short it just isn't as good. I think too much about what I'm doing. It's like anything that you're well practiced at; the less you think about it and let your learned subconscious do most of the work, the better the result. I much prefer reading over the things I've penned spontaneously, without giving them a speck of technical thought.

Here is an example. I ice-skated for ten years competitively, starting when I was 5 and finishing at 15 when our rink closed down. I was no master of the sport but I was quite able to do all spins and jumps etc. It was ingrained into my brain. Eight years on, I can return to the rink (our new one) and have another go. Firstly, ice-skating isn't like riding a bike, you can't just hop on and still be able to do it.
I am nowhere near what I was, but here's the thing. I can do almost all the spins and jumps as before, provided I don't think about what I'm doing. The moment I start thinking about where my arms are, am I balanced properly, should my leg be straighter, and worst of all, will I fall over, everything goes to custard and I can't do a thing. My brain knows how to ice-skate, it is printed in my subconscious. I just have to let my body remember what to do, without trying to remember it consciously, and it just happens. And it happens right. Well, a little wobbly, let's be honest, I'm taller and heavier now than I was eight years ago.

So really, things that you know well how to do can suddenly become complicated when you start thinking about how you do them. Although these 'writing tip' articles often do offer sound advice (some people sorely need it) I'm quitting them because they hinder rather than help me. Sod them! Who's to say that the people who wrote them know what they're talking about anyway? The best writing comes when you're not paying as much attention to details and technical stuff. If there are errors, they can be fixed later. Do what seems best at the time, think less, and change any fuck ups afterwards.
I have had to remove and redo whole chapters of my book because of this. Bits I did while I wasn't totally in the mood for writing but rather forced myself to sit in a silent library and do it, and thought about every sentence from this new perspective. It simply doesn't work.

Perhaps this is one of the only occasions where it is best to act first, and think later.