As we go marching, marching…

Apr 1, 2020 | Blog

 Kia ora koutou, this is the second week of self–isolation for me. The news from Italy, Spain, France is still awful. China seems to be improving. The Pacific Islands – hope they’ll be okay. Boris is muttering away in Britain and USA citizens are still buying guns.

 I have found out some things about myself. That I’m impatient is not new but the level is rising…sanitising door handles, cupboard handles, the button that makes the toilet flush are okay but that damn shower mat is annoying. I have to use a mat so I don’t slip but it’s a big  nuisance having to clean it in the tub. This is because I’ve got shorter as I’ve got older. I used to be five foot four inches (you can do the metrics) and last time I had a check–up, the nurse measured me and very kindly used the old measurements,‘Five foot one.’  When I looked cheesed off, she said, ‘I can count your hair and make it five, one and a half, if you like.’

 For the last three or four years I’ve had two hours a week help in the house for which I pay. That’s cancelled for the duration. I cleaned houses once and discovered employers either put me in a different category compared to them (eg not a human being), or they pretended I was invisible. They left used condoms in the waste paper basket, soiled underwear and towels on the floor of the bathroom, dirty socks wherever they were taken off. I blamed this behaviour on their Woodford House or Kings schooling until I realised that some people are shits whether they’ve been to a state school or Christ’s College. I think though that if you’ve always been warm, well fed and well clothed and if you’ve never experienced real hardship, you have a different level of understanding from someone who’s been hungry, cold, shut out from education because of lack of money.

I am amazed to note how often I touch my hair. At my 90^th, my oldest son said one of his main memories of me was my habit curling some strands of hair around my fingers as I read. I am adopting a habit of clenching my fist so if I touch my face, only my knuckles make contact and that is such an odd feeling that I pull away instantly. Habits are hard to break because they’re so engrained, so instinctive. And when they’re connected with the habit of reading, even harder.

Someone from Greypower was interviewed on RNZ and I thought,not for the first time, it should be called Whitepower. About 6 years ago I joined, went to a couple of meetings, only lasted for half the second one, just a lot of OWM holding forth at great length, while lots of women, who should know better, leaned forward and pretended to be interested in the pearls of wisdom. As far as I could tell I was the only non-Pakeha there. I confess I joined only to get a card because at that time an electricity provider was giving a discount for cardholders.

On Morning Report Monday, I heard a young woman being interviewed about her grandparents. She spoke as though her 70–year–old grandmother was really old. Why couldn’t RNZ interview the 70–year–old herself? I’m 90 and I’d be steaming if RNZ interviewed any of my granddaughters about my movements and attitudes instead of me – my moko wouldn’t do it anyway. 

Sleeping is relatively good. I get about six hours mostly and occasionally seven. This is helped along by the Leafy Greens biscuits I make. During these last two weeks I’ve had more broken sleep but that will pass. My habit is to put the light out early and lie awake thinking, mulling over what I might be planning to do the next day, perhaps think about the novel I’m writing,  and occasionally, just occasionally,  thinking about those rare rare times – those happy magical moments – when I get it right.

And for the next few weeks, maybe months, who knows, sing it my friends, sing it …’As we go marching, marching…’

We can do this.

Renée

A rose by any other name…

Nov 20, 2019 | Blog

Kia ora koutou, its interesting to think about how we all received our names and probably more importantly how we live with them, feel about them. We are given our names and we have no say. Its usually a name chosen by a parent, sometimes by someone in the whanau, sometimes in remembrance of a much loved sister, brother, friend, and of course sometimes just because its a name both parents can agree on. Occasionally, as in my case, there is no reason except that it was a name that was liked enough to want to call their daughter by it.

I have huge (I use that word advisedly) difficulty with names of characters and its nothing for my characters to have five or six  name changes before I’m satisfied I’ve got it right. These days this is made very much easier by the Find and Replace tool.

Choosing the name for a character, especially a lead character or hero, is very difficult. I want a strong name so I look at the hard consonants like (for example) K or D or R, maybe B or J or N. Sometimes an A is good because quite often it has a hard consonant following it. Then I have to think of their age. Is this a name that was current around the year they were born? Or is it, like mine, quite out of kilter with her own generation’s female names.

Of course I start off with a name but as I go further into the story and things happen and my character acts, reacts or is silent, I start to rethink the name. Unlike parents I can change it simply by going to Find and Replace.

Once upon a time, in the days of the dreaded Twink, if I thought of a name change when I was well into the play or the novel, it was really hard work. However, because I have this ‘thing’ about names and how they need to match (in my eyes) the character, personality and actions of this imaginary person, I do it. I find a name and give it a history. I muse on how my character got it, how she feels about it and I realise all over again how amazing it is that although many of us real life characters dislike our names, only a few of us do anything about it.

I have a couple of friends who’ve changed their names and I love that they acted so boldly. In my own case I could never think of another name I wanted to be called so I kind of just stuck with this one.

Of course with characters its a whole different story. It took me ages to settle on Ruby for the name of the hero in The Wild Card. And not content with one R I gave her two. Ruby Ruth. Once I’d settled on these names there could be no other. Which is the beauty of it really. Once I’ve got the right one, bingo, no need to look for a name any more, no need for any uneasy feelings that I’ve chosen the wrong one. I can relax…until the next time…

Renée

Local Council elections – yawn or wakeup call?

Aug 21, 2019 | Blog

Kia ora koutou, I find it hard to get interested in local body stuff and that’s because I don’t feel connected or involved. There’s a kind of miasma over what actually happens at their meetings and what points of view are operating given that they’re mainly Pakeha, male and older.

Nominations have closed so think about this – if there are young people, female, Maori, Asian, standing for election vote for them  Yes I know the general consensus on the street is that they’re too young, no experience and the killer – they don’t belong to the old boy’s network but think about voting for them.

The history of local council elections shows that even if a Maori wahine stands they very rarely, almost never, get voted in. Their courage in even standing, given the stats, deserves a medal. The message they get from you, the voter, is,  ‘Butt out, your point of view is not wanted – its not important – you don’t understand how these things work and anyway you don’t belong to Rotary or Lions.

Stats tell us that 72% of councillors are male and over 70.

Time for a change. It might come as a shock to those who take it for granted that simply because they’re Pakeha, male and older they’ll steam in but listen you voters,  we need a variety of experience and points of view on these councils.

What a thrill it would be to see all–female councils, not only female but young and with a good mix of cultures.

‘Oh no,’ bleat the nay–sayers, ‘they’re too young, they don’t have any experience, they don’t understand the processes, and anyway why should there be just one gender represented?

‘Hello?

Local councils have been dominated by old white men for over one and a half centuries and the records are not always good.

Time for a change. Time to move on. Time to vote for the young and female. Oh, you say, that’s a narrow view isn’t it? We need a mix don’t we?

Yes, we do but so far we haven’t got it. What we’ve got is a practically mono-cultural represenation and that’s not us. Its simply not us. Never has been but its becoming clearer and clearer that old white men simply do not have the skills or the knowledge to vote on important local issues because they only represent a very narrow wedge of our population.

If you find local politics boring then you have the power to zap it up, make it lively, make it informed, make it like our own community, a mix of cultures. And when women have had 180 years on Councils then your great great great granddaughters can change the mix a bit. Allow a few white males in as a trial? See how they go?

Renée

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light…

Apr 3, 2019 | Blog

I’ve been thinking about this poem by Dylan Thomas. He wrote it for his father and meant it to be about dying but I’m using the line to moan about my eyesight and horrible and annoying and frustrating and irritating it is.

This is my second blog about it I know, and I won’t make a habit of it, but I went on a road trip last week around the East Coast and discovered just how bad it is when I’m away from familiar surroundings.

Here I know where everything is and in spite of frustrations and with a little help from my friends, I manage very well. But take me away from here, and that comfort goes.

Motels are not built to cater for people like me. Even allowing for poor eyesight, the lights are dim and the bathrooms are real traps unless you’re very very careful or have really good eyesight. Showers have shiny slippery floors, especially when wet, making it a combination of will and terror to have a shower. They haven’t heard of shower mats.

The toilets are all very low – and made me glad I had a higher one installed at home. This was not because of poor eyesight but I’d discovered when I went to vist my granddaughter how much more comfortable theirs was so I decided to get one too.

Ages ago at my request Kim installed hand grips on each side of the shower. At the time I had no idea that my eyesight was going to take a dive. Now I’m just thankful for my foresight.

I had two of my sons with me on the roadie so they acted as my eyes when I needed them. Think about it. I can’t read menus, have to peer at notices, at faces. Luckily the white stick is a good signal when crossing the road. Thanks to the drivers who stopped for me.

However, there were more (metaphorical) bright spots than dark ones. Me and my white stick walked from one end of the Tolaga Bay wharf to the other and back so I was very pleased, its quite a walk as you’ll know if you’ve been there.

I can see things at a distance a bit clearer than up close so was able to enjoy the scenery as we passed. All the names that roll off the tongue, Te Puia Springs, Tikitiki – the RSA cafe there makes a great cup of tea, includes a pot of boiling water without being asked, make the best spring rolls I’ve ever tasted and has a framed photo of Sir Apirana Ngata gazing benignly down on you while you sip tea, Hicks Bay where one of us loved surfing.

It was a combination of three different sets of memories and lots of questions of the whatever happened to so and so? variety.

The night he slept under the big Pohutukawa tree, the time he went to Prince Tui Teka’s tangi, the time she got stuck with a flat tyre and this woman came along and helped change it.

And of course Wairoa, the river, the places we all knew so well. The college, the bar where the river and sea meet, and dah dah, there’s still a bookshop on the Marine Parade.

Said kia ora to a few friends, met a new one, a Facebook friend. So now we’ve met in person. She lives just round the corner from where we lived back in the day.

And Mahia, still the most beautiful place on earth. We remembered swimming, gathering pipi, looking for paua shells, lying on the beach dreaming, reading.

Sure I’ll continue to rage against the dying of the light but  there’s a light inside that can’t be dimmed and that’s memory, now happily loaded with another layer of new ones.

Its only words ‘cos words are all I have…

Dec 11, 2018 | Blog

So sang the BeeGees while the remarkable and talented poet Adrienne Rich said, ‘Words are purposes/Words are maps.

I have read some other remarkable and talented poet’s work recently and here’s a taste of three of them.

Rachel Tobin’s collection, Say it Naked … the purpose and power of words… I first met Rachel at a workshop run by Hinemoana Baker, a good workshop too. I wrote a reasonable villanelle for homework at that workshop. In Say it Naked (publisher Submarine), Rachel  includes drawings as well as poems and as you turn the pages there’s a lovely feeling of symmetry about the placement of words on some pages and drawings on others. Its like the poems and drawings link to each other like they gain richness from proximity, a sort of nod to each other, another facet, or thought takes place as we turn the pages. And some lovely lines…

I saw her a few weeks back leaning like a sickle    (from Riddle)

‘Sometimes Wellington wastes no breath/ on words. On such Gelato afternoons… (Beneath the Feet)

..and the poem to her mother, Last Word Puzzle, with those catch of the heart opening lines…

we sit in your square boxed garden

sipping phlox and February flowers

a framed woman on a white canvas

smokes her way into our last puzzle

Have you met my daughter you ask

Ah  you are proud of me…

…and there… that lovely vulnerable catch of the heart happens…Ah you are proud of me…speaks to the uncertainty in all of us. Rachel’s poems lead us into those tricky and subtle highways and byways of love, whether its from a parent, a friend, or a lover.

Nicola Easthope”s Working The Tang (published The Cuba Press), which I launched at Kapiti recently starts basically with a mihi. She’s saying these are my ancestors, this place is where I’m from, these are the people who live in me,

I’m six parts loch ‘n whisky

I’m two parts iron ‘n rose

I’m four parts gorse ‘n’ heather

I’m four parts broch ‘n’ stone…

Nicola and I met when she joined a class I was teaching at Whitireia Polytechnic in 2005. Her poetry is full of movement,  Ka mua ka muri …we look back in order to move forward…

These women are wrapped for the weather

The fleece of long–nosed black sheep

so knitted into their skin, wchen their men

undress them there is often a little blood…

Mary McCallum and I met at a hui organised for writers and mentors by Huia Publishers. A fateful meeting because last year Mary’s Makaro Press published my memoir, These Two Hands.

I knew Mary had written a highly acclaimed novel, The Blue. I knew this because I’d read it.  but I didn’t know she was a poet until I read XYZ of Happiness. Using the alphabet as a guide she leads us through her collection, one poem to one letter. So many pleasures. One of my favourites right from the start was the poem under V, Vessels, where Mary looks at the vessel of time and how while one mother is watching her adult sons in the kitchen eating bread, laughing, teasing, happy,  just a little distance away, a mother is receiving the news that her son has drowned and we rememberall over again that life happens on all sorts of levels at four o’clock in the afternoon..

…In the thickening day in the thickening

water, the young man, really a boy, had

probably already fallen from the kayak,

and was struggling to keep his head up…

while across town the poet’s two sons, young men, are laughing about a TV show and enjoying the happiness of that same moment…while the mother, looking back, knows the fragility of 4pm in the afternoon.

There is a stunning poem Kikoi for Sleeping about a road trip but really about how the bonds of friendship plait and entwine around such a time, become strong and lasting, and here are some lines from another one..

Gardener

Here she comes, my mother. Arms full

of borage, deep blue hydrangeas…

…and the reader can see the woman in the garden, arms full of flowers, full of love.

So three memorable collections…go on, treat yourself, treat another, stick them in someone’s stocking, definitely in yours…go on…celebrate words this Christmas…

Renée