December 2011 Archive

When depression looms, some of we puling land carcasses walk their way to a lighter state of being. Myself, I write poetry. Possibly of the Vogon variety, however it affords me a sense of satisfaction to be of the knowledge that I am an undiscovered poetry genius who is being thwarted only by the hegemony of the baby-boomers. One day I shall be an adult among adults and my works will be disseminated in libraries worldwide. I am quite happy to post others’ worthy works; email me and I will view and possibly post. In honour of my imminent departure from these shores:


Steve sat at his ‘well-hung’ newsreaders desk.
He reflected idly on the subject matter, extended his arm and flicked the head from an impertinent Tall Poppy.
The chatter fades as the blonde flower head lands on the carpet and rolls.
He lowers his voice and continues.            
No matter where you go
You’re never far from a South Islander.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from a brassy JAFA.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from an iron-man competition or the provinces A&P.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from the works of Billy T
No matter where you go
You’re never far from Shortland St repeats on TV.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from ubiquitous misogyny.
No matter where you go
You’re never very far from the sea.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from someone who knows an MP.

No matter where you go
You’re never far from family.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from a native tree.

No matter where you go
You’re never far from an umu or a hangi.

Or a Warehouse sausage sizzle.

No matter where you go it always rains on Christmas day.
As the tears from Ranginui and Papatuanuku
mingle and drift
from the sky down
to the sea.

Venture not far ye shorn lamb of mixed descent.
For this land still bears the imprint of your feet.
And the wind of your departure
Rustles through the trees.
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I’m leaving the place I have come to call home for the last eleven years. I am feeling rather sentimental and am mulling over the friendships I have to leave behind. If your other half is your “rock”, your female friends are your anchors. I’ve often thanked the heavens for my best friend in the last eight years of starting our family.
A best friend is someone who rushes over at 2am on New Years Eve to watch your children and sleep on your couch so your husband can attend your babies’ emergency delivery. She attends your delivery as your midwife. She gives you the news that you will be having a general anaesthetic and you won’t be meeting your babies for a while.

You cry and joke about childbirth, you hold hands and go out on the sound of her counting.

She holds the babies up to your unconscious face to bond. Whilst doing so she sheds tears on you. You know this because the anaesthetist dobbed her in later. 
She has twins too, and like you with yours she feared for their lives in the early days.
She is your neighbour, she shares a similar sense of humour, she has a disability and so do you. Her sons are in the same year at school as yours; your children play together, she is your sister; you just met her. She’s a prolific Facebook poster and a blogger, just like you. 

Late at night you read her updates and snortle into your husbands sweaty elcove* She’s a feminist, a 1950’s housewife and politically is the polar opposite to you.

You laugh over men and Shirley Conran, you drink coffee, share gossip and tell dirty jokes. She predicted the sex of your baby after talking to a pounamu. 

You tell her all your life secrets. She forgives you your trespasses and joins you for a meal regardless. You’ve known her since university and wish you could catch up more. You both have commitments, and newborns; periodically you exchange your news.

You’re well acquainted with the rigours of parenthood. You’ve both had children in the Neonatal ward. She lost a child. You’ve had several miscarriages. Your souls are now tempered in the great forge of pain. 

She has taught your children at Playcentre and preschool and has been a great nanny too.
She is still a teenager. She brings you muffins as gifts and brie and crackers. You both know what it was like to starve for the sake of “beauty”.
Beauty takes a second footing to health when you’re both struggling with chronic conditions. She has a bad back and heart and you both get on and make the most of what you have.

You both take on far too many commitments. She is the cousin you just got back in touch with. She used to work and drink with you. When you were at your wits end she took you out for a coffee, she’s even a techie geek too.
She is a different generation and holds a public office and has even written a couple of books. You admire the heck out of her, though you’d never tell her. She fed your family when you were ill; your children call her the biscuit lady. Her house has been in Home and Garden.  She is an entrepreneur and a sloppy perfectionist like you.

Most of all: though she will live in a different city now, she watches your back; she’d be there for you no questions asked and you’re going to miss the hell out of her. She is a great mother, a patient listener and has always been there for you.

*elcove – The inside arm just above the elbow that is interchangeable with the top of a  butt-crack. As in: “I’m in my warm safe place; listening to Morrissey and smooching into my husbands elcove”. 

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The jury is out on Hemana over the alleged murder of 9 month old Cezar as the Herald reports.

Jury retires for night in baby Cezar murder trial

Victoria Taylor will be nervously awaiting their decision. If the jury comes back with manslaughter as the verdict that makes Ms Taylor the guiltiest party. Guilty failing to provide a safe environment for Cezar. Effectively she killed him by not getting help.
 Yes Ms Taylor you handed your own baby over for slaughter. However I suspect that doesn’t particularly affect you as you’ll have plenty of wriggle room to justify your actions. You have been reported as providing conflicting stories to the police during the investigation. It’s obvious you want to appear in the best light possible. And this won’t be hard. People will be lining up to sympathise with you along the lines of: “she must have been totally under his control”. The underlying message of this is: “you poor dear. After all, it’s the fault of those dirty nasty violent males”.
Rubbish. He shook him, but ultimately your nonaction makes you just as culpable.This makes you a baby incubator, not a mother.
The first rule of parenting is NCGBMAMK.

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The Herald reports:

Government agencies should be able to remove children in ‘p’ environments within 24 hours. Any mother who is breastfeeding while high on P needs to address her addictions and get an iPhone to play with rather than blithely putting her latest ‘toy, ‘a human baby at risk.  The culture of: “CYF’s was working with the family”, is rubbish. That just leads to more deaths and damaged children. The following excerpt from the CYF’s website is a bit too touchy feely for most: 

We work closely with families to help them find their own solutions, so they can:

  • deal with their problems
  • make the changes they need so their children will be safe and well cared for
  • achieve their goals for the family. 

Lovely.  These families can tit around with fluffy social workers at the tax payers expense and carry on offending without fear of real consequence. Remove the children. Change our: “they just need more hugs”, culture.

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