22.2.2021: Remembrance.

Thanks for your loving thoughts e hoa. It’s a hard day & not sleeping well.

Two doors down a digger is smashing concrete behind a refurb villa where they’ll jam two or three townhouses.
The swampy earth of St Albans shudders. It is kind of triggering but as I know what it is, I can roll with it, to pun.

I’ve been better. Moving is upheaval, hard to feel a sense of ease, of rest, when everything must go, that is, be moved.

I’ve re-read some of Shaken Down 6.3 (now revised down to 6.2), but I feel “three” breathes better at the end of the line, than “two”.

I walk the dog and meet another elderly walker in Packe Street Park, with her arthritic old hound that barely waddles.

I sat there in this small garden park maintained by volunteers, under a grape vine, waiting for 12.51pm, to pray.

The kuia had been battling EQ-fucking-C for eight years to get her place fixed. Those of us who did not die in the quakes (myriad tremors) have nevertheless all had our lives shortened by PTSD = Quake Brain.

Still I am grateful and I give thanks. I could complain about the incompetence of some and the venality of others, but I choose to celebrate the ones who have stood by each other all these years.

Just don’t use that abomination “impactful” in my hearing, or blather, “it is what it is”. 😂 I reply, “Well, the effect on me is, it isn’t what it isn’t”. Doh! 🧐

As you can see, my brain is fried, my heart is tired, but “I ain’t dead yet, my bell still rings”, as sang Bobby Dylan ‘bout the Early Roman Kings.

Love you too, O Son of Blake, O Brother of Jim.


About paparoa

Writer and researcher.
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