Yesterday, Andrew and I went paint balling, for Ben Bays birthday, with some other friends. I was on the black team (hence the name "Black Faction" in this blog). Unfortunately we forgot to use our face paint, although I doubt it would have made much difference.
The Soldier
The sun scorched through the needles, filtered by the upper canopy of the pine forest that had turned into a battle ground. The cool breeze came off the snow clad mountains to the west, making the heat from the sun slightly more bearable. The weather however was the least of their worries right now. "pop" "whirrrrzzzmmmfff", John could hear them whizzing past his head as he flattened himself out behind a fallen tree that barely covered him from the hail of bullets that were directed toward his vicinity.
Earlier that day, though it seemed like an indeterminable period (in reality it was 15 minutes), the "soldiers" of the black faction, motivated by greed, boredom or most likely a strong idealism, converged, their faces painted to achieve maximum inconspicuousness, they percolated through the pinus radiata to their rendezvous point for their surprise raid on those who would get in the way of them achieving their undisclosed objectives.
Purposefully, the guerrillas moved, traversing the terrain quickly, but without compromising their camouflage, always alert, scanning the perimeter, weapons ready for the unlikely event of an ambush.
Stopping just out of eyesight of where their scouts had told them the sentries were, they immediately moved into their pre appointed positions, blending into the surroundings, disappearing like a $50 note left in a bus stop, awaiting the signal to start the operation.
To John, a member of Black Faction, it seemed like an epoch ago, and with only a few centimeters between his present state and eternity, he wondered what he had done in his life that was worthwhile. Cautiously, he peeked through the rotting roots of the tree he was behind and let off a spray of bullets over to where his present adversary was taking cover. Rolling to reduce the amount of his person that was exposed, he shuffled round to try and get a better angle with which he could then dispatch his enemy. Raising his gun, he felt the sudden searing pain of two direct hits to his shoulder......... GAME OVER.....
I was away at Arahina for 2 weeks, hence the lack of blogging. On the way there, we had a blowout.
In case you are thinking something else, that disgruntled entity at the beginning of this one, is the tyre that blew. Not me.
The tyre
Because of the revolution, he was forced to adjust, stretching to accommodate the new position that he found himself, degraded and slighted, he carried the whole societal structure on his shoulders, but because of his unglamorous position, he was more often than not ignored.
The acuteness of his sense of duty was, in the past, immense, but over the recent months especially, his patience with the whole degrading system was wearing thin. Very thin. It had started with only an innocently disgruntled thought. "why am I doing this?", which evolved into a more "why am 'I' doing this?".
Inevitably, under such incredible internal and external pressure, he cracked. Not visibly, but he had sprung a leak, which would, in the near future, rip him apart.
Black smoke, the acrid smell of burning rubber, the squeal of balding tyres - Who ever was driving, they were in a hurry. The moon, partly shrouded by an evening mist, cast it's reflection on the shiny black surface of the speeding car. Onward and upward it drove, the driver concentrating hard, trying to keep himself awake, was always alert for the flashing lights, the wailing sirens that would indicate that their identity had been discovered. Round the bend ">>>>>>75" said the sign, ">>>>>>85", the driver unconsciously calculated. Over the rise they drove, the panorama of the ocean reflecting the night sky. "No time to look at the scenery...", the driver thought glancing at the clock - 12:47 - they were making good time....
"mmmmmmmmmmmmmrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmm...." The unexpected sound, accompanied by a rumbling vibration, snapped the sleeping occupants of the vehicle back into consciousness. The tyre, full of vengeful hatred - rather than air, had chosen this moment to spring it's last gasp surprise on the driver. It had chosen an effective time to go - 02:03.
The rubber of the tyre was torn. Pieces of steel were sticking out at unnatural angles, giving it, in the darkness of the summers night, the look of a mouth, snarling up at the driver (who was at that time, holding a cell phone's luminous face up to it, as he hadn't a torch).
In case you are thinking something else, that disgruntled entity at the beginning of this one, is the tyre that blew. Not me.
The tyre
Because of the revolution, he was forced to adjust, stretching to accommodate the new position that he found himself, degraded and slighted, he carried the whole societal structure on his shoulders, but because of his unglamorous position, he was more often than not ignored.
The acuteness of his sense of duty was, in the past, immense, but over the recent months especially, his patience with the whole degrading system was wearing thin. Very thin. It had started with only an innocently disgruntled thought. "why am I doing this?", which evolved into a more "why am 'I' doing this?".
Inevitably, under such incredible internal and external pressure, he cracked. Not visibly, but he had sprung a leak, which would, in the near future, rip him apart.
Black smoke, the acrid smell of burning rubber, the squeal of balding tyres - Who ever was driving, they were in a hurry. The moon, partly shrouded by an evening mist, cast it's reflection on the shiny black surface of the speeding car. Onward and upward it drove, the driver concentrating hard, trying to keep himself awake, was always alert for the flashing lights, the wailing sirens that would indicate that their identity had been discovered. Round the bend ">>>>>>75" said the sign, ">>>>>>85", the driver unconsciously calculated. Over the rise they drove, the panorama of the ocean reflecting the night sky. "No time to look at the scenery...", the driver thought glancing at the clock - 12:47 - they were making good time....
"mmmmmmmmmmmmmrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmm...." The unexpected sound, accompanied by a rumbling vibration, snapped the sleeping occupants of the vehicle back into consciousness. The tyre, full of vengeful hatred - rather than air, had chosen this moment to spring it's last gasp surprise on the driver. It had chosen an effective time to go - 02:03.
The rubber of the tyre was torn. Pieces of steel were sticking out at unnatural angles, giving it, in the darkness of the summers night, the look of a mouth, snarling up at the driver (who was at that time, holding a cell phone's luminous face up to it, as he hadn't a torch).
We were traveling on the Interisland Ferry over to Wellington the other day. It was pitch black and I got bored. Hence the blog entry.
The Privateer
The Black water churned as the ferry steamed along through the dark overcast night, brightly illuminated in contrast to the nearly starless sky. A lonely moth, lost in the middle of a vast ocean, and being drawn to the light, finds refuge on the deck, under the salty mist whilst the bright spotlight shone down around. The spots, shining brilliantly like a light saber piercing the inky blackness, searching for obstacles - ghostly white icebergs, wayward fishing vessels, submerged reefs, or other objects that would be detrimental to the whole ship's safety record. 21 years without so much as a stubbed toe, the Arahura was the pride of the "Interisland" line.
"Rise to periscope level" said the captain calmly, commanding a respect that wasn't developed by shouting. It was a good time to be a privateer, - a modern day Sir Francis Drake. Good crew were easily acquired with enough moolah to silence the conscience - his financier had plenty of that. Obtaining "equipment" was a little harder, but then, that's what bribery was invented for......
Slowly, the great steel husk named "AH12" in it's previous incarnation, began to surface. Stopping a few meters short of breaking the surface, the now renamed "pomegranate" - a nuclear "capable" submarine, surplus from the cold war spotted her target...
The Privateer
The Black water churned as the ferry steamed along through the dark overcast night, brightly illuminated in contrast to the nearly starless sky. A lonely moth, lost in the middle of a vast ocean, and being drawn to the light, finds refuge on the deck, under the salty mist whilst the bright spotlight shone down around. The spots, shining brilliantly like a light saber piercing the inky blackness, searching for obstacles - ghostly white icebergs, wayward fishing vessels, submerged reefs, or other objects that would be detrimental to the whole ship's safety record. 21 years without so much as a stubbed toe, the Arahura was the pride of the "Interisland" line.
"Rise to periscope level" said the captain calmly, commanding a respect that wasn't developed by shouting. It was a good time to be a privateer, - a modern day Sir Francis Drake. Good crew were easily acquired with enough moolah to silence the conscience - his financier had plenty of that. Obtaining "equipment" was a little harder, but then, that's what bribery was invented for......
Slowly, the great steel husk named "AH12" in it's previous incarnation, began to surface. Stopping a few meters short of breaking the surface, the now renamed "pomegranate" - a nuclear "capable" submarine, surplus from the cold war spotted her target...
We went to a Basketball game the other day (Go the Breakers..), and were waiting a while out in the cold. I was in the process of writing this one, but got too busy. In case you were wondering, New Zealand is not a communist country (yet)
The Game
The icy wind blasted across the stark grey square, buffeting the small gathering that was beginning to congregate. Cold air from the subantarctic swirled in gusts, one second wafting through the razor wire atop the pale smooth concrete walls surrounding the square, then suddenly blowing yesterday's newspaper in a mini vortex around the car park.
"Be there at 1900 hours sharp" was the instructions, be at the western packet arena. "something must have happened" muttered Nathivich, his eyes scanning the area most likely to be the approach of the organizational party who were coming in from the eastern part of the city. "they've still got 5 minutes" mentioned Johnofski, glancing at his digital watch, "They'll be here soon....."
Across the sprawl somewhere in Bloc F - a suburb that once housed the "oppressive class", but now housed mainly CDHB, ECAN, or CCC employees, Andropov stumbled back to his car, fumbling with the keys in the frigid air. A wheelie bin salesman since he returned from doing his service for Mother Aotearoa in the Navy (the Airforce would have been his first choice, but it never really recovered from the sale of all its fighter planes way back at the turn of the century).
The Game
The icy wind blasted across the stark grey square, buffeting the small gathering that was beginning to congregate. Cold air from the subantarctic swirled in gusts, one second wafting through the razor wire atop the pale smooth concrete walls surrounding the square, then suddenly blowing yesterday's newspaper in a mini vortex around the car park.
"Be there at 1900 hours sharp" was the instructions, be at the western packet arena. "something must have happened" muttered Nathivich, his eyes scanning the area most likely to be the approach of the organizational party who were coming in from the eastern part of the city. "they've still got 5 minutes" mentioned Johnofski, glancing at his digital watch, "They'll be here soon....."
Across the sprawl somewhere in Bloc F - a suburb that once housed the "oppressive class", but now housed mainly CDHB, ECAN, or CCC employees, Andropov stumbled back to his car, fumbling with the keys in the frigid air. A wheelie bin salesman since he returned from doing his service for Mother Aotearoa in the Navy (the Airforce would have been his first choice, but it never really recovered from the sale of all its fighter planes way back at the turn of the century).
On the last night of camping, it started to rain. Wet tents had to be packed the next day. We had fun......
The Monsoon
Precipitation. That's what they called it. Molecules of H2O bound together by a common cohesiveness to form rogue droplets around an airborne particle of earth/dust/pollen/exhaust/ash, surrounding it like the protective detail around a VIP in a hostile mob, or maybe more like the thin crust of an aircraft, piloted as a kamikaze bomb, hurtling toward the earth at a frightening pace. Whichever similitude you think is more appropriate, the "rain came down"
At first the droplets land on the dry dusty ground, making miniature craters in the dust, quenching the thirst of the drought stricken land. The hot wind blows the damp air making everyone sticky and uncomfortable, as if they had been suddenly teleported to some unnamed equatorial location prior to the arrival of the monsoon rains that come to drench the landscape of terraced rice paddies, filling the drainage trenches with water. Deja Vu?
Mud, the most likely result from the conglomeration of dust and water was inevitable. The dusty paths that had been trod were transformed into a murky, muddy, grimy, wet, brown muck making movement outside in the rain difficult at best. Unfortunately, it was necessary to traverse the bog between the cluster of shelters.
Muddy feet were epidemic
The Monsoon
Precipitation. That's what they called it. Molecules of H2O bound together by a common cohesiveness to form rogue droplets around an airborne particle of earth/dust/pollen/exhaust/ash, surrounding it like the protective detail around a VIP in a hostile mob, or maybe more like the thin crust of an aircraft, piloted as a kamikaze bomb, hurtling toward the earth at a frightening pace. Whichever similitude you think is more appropriate, the "rain came down"
At first the droplets land on the dry dusty ground, making miniature craters in the dust, quenching the thirst of the drought stricken land. The hot wind blows the damp air making everyone sticky and uncomfortable, as if they had been suddenly teleported to some unnamed equatorial location prior to the arrival of the monsoon rains that come to drench the landscape of terraced rice paddies, filling the drainage trenches with water. Deja Vu?
Mud, the most likely result from the conglomeration of dust and water was inevitable. The dusty paths that had been trod were transformed into a murky, muddy, grimy, wet, brown muck making movement outside in the rain difficult at best. Unfortunately, it was necessary to traverse the bog between the cluster of shelters.
Muddy feet were epidemic
I wrote this one while I was camping on the shores of lake Hawea.
The Photographer
The wind was blowing the tent, billowing the fly like a sail ship - strangely rare in these parts...
As he lies there, John tries to ignore it - why is it so hot? Why is there a fishing rod in the middle of the tent? Hallucinations of that sort plague his subconscious as he drifts between a fitfull wakefulness and a dreary unconsciousness. Frustrated, he tries a different position, in a futile effort to sleep.
The blue tent glowed behind his head - an ethereal halo of light diffusing through the fabric of the shelter that was barely protecting him from the elements. "Heck..... That's the Moon" the insomniacal Camper breathed, making sure that his fellow camper, there on the stretcher beside him wasn't about to be extradited from the land of Nod.
Although sometimes seemingly spontaneous, impulsiveness was not a trait that was generally attributed to John, but occasionally it would pop up. This was one of those moments. He pulled on a pair of shorts and carefully unzipped the tent sliding out onto the dusty ground. He felt the warm wind on his skin and turned to see the moon reflected brilliantly like a clone of itself on the water, chopped up haphazardly by the appropriately named "choppy waves".
The landscape was lit by a ghostly blue light, the black and green shrubs by day, were now black and blue-grey. "I must remember to find out the name of those bizarre plants" he thought as he turned from looking at the shrubbery to see the silhouette of the hills on the other side of the lake. The hills were black, like the inside of the camera that he retrieved to permanently capture this melancholic spectacle of the crusty lunar surface, reflecting the radiance of she sun onto a lake somewhere in middle earth. "I wish this had more features...." He murmured, steadying the camera to get a sharp pic. "CLICK".
The Photographer
The wind was blowing the tent, billowing the fly like a sail ship - strangely rare in these parts...
As he lies there, John tries to ignore it - why is it so hot? Why is there a fishing rod in the middle of the tent? Hallucinations of that sort plague his subconscious as he drifts between a fitfull wakefulness and a dreary unconsciousness. Frustrated, he tries a different position, in a futile effort to sleep.
The blue tent glowed behind his head - an ethereal halo of light diffusing through the fabric of the shelter that was barely protecting him from the elements. "Heck..... That's the Moon" the insomniacal Camper breathed, making sure that his fellow camper, there on the stretcher beside him wasn't about to be extradited from the land of Nod.
Although sometimes seemingly spontaneous, impulsiveness was not a trait that was generally attributed to John, but occasionally it would pop up. This was one of those moments. He pulled on a pair of shorts and carefully unzipped the tent sliding out onto the dusty ground. He felt the warm wind on his skin and turned to see the moon reflected brilliantly like a clone of itself on the water, chopped up haphazardly by the appropriately named "choppy waves".
The landscape was lit by a ghostly blue light, the black and green shrubs by day, were now black and blue-grey. "I must remember to find out the name of those bizarre plants" he thought as he turned from looking at the shrubbery to see the silhouette of the hills on the other side of the lake. The hills were black, like the inside of the camera that he retrieved to permanently capture this melancholic spectacle of the crusty lunar surface, reflecting the radiance of she sun onto a lake somewhere in middle earth. "I wish this had more features...." He murmured, steadying the camera to get a sharp pic. "CLICK".
Saturday I was helping some friends move house, this one is about that experience, though it has been embellished somewhat. There is no nefarious organization based in Kiapoi that I am part of, incase you were wondering
The fog
Fog was stratified, almost like layers of mud at the bottom of a stagnant tributary of the Kiapoi river, which slipped by underneath. The conditions were ideal, the fog, so thick as it hung there, motionless in the dawn would hide even someone as conspicuous as Wally Behan that Sunday evening (he was wearing a bright orangey shirt with a pinkish tinge) from the most inquisitive eyes. Eventually, the cargo accumulated in the hold of the barge and as the fog lifted, at last they set off downstream, wary of the other river people who were going about their business, oblivious of the audacious heist that was in progress.
The fog
Fog was stratified, almost like layers of mud at the bottom of a stagnant tributary of the Kiapoi river, which slipped by underneath. The conditions were ideal, the fog, so thick as it hung there, motionless in the dawn would hide even someone as conspicuous as Wally Behan that Sunday evening (he was wearing a bright orangey shirt with a pinkish tinge) from the most inquisitive eyes. Eventually, the cargo accumulated in the hold of the barge and as the fog lifted, at last they set off downstream, wary of the other river people who were going about their business, oblivious of the audacious heist that was in progress.
This is an extract from a letter that I sent to my brother Andrew when he was in the states. I will be writing some new things later but for now, while I am trying this technology out, it will have to do. I hope you like it anyway.
The Deluge
The scrawling script, meaning filled and yet uninterpretable like the innumerable Egyptian hieroglyphs before the unearthing of the Rosetta stone, extending over the whole dark wall of smudgy blackness. The sound of rapid scraping punctuated every now and then by an exclamation of annoyance, terror, grief, diffused throughout the chalk dust that was settling, filling the cavernous room with a quiet determination, the will to triumph, the resolve to conquer. The Mathematical Scholar, mentally exhausted from his efforts, but no less determined to complete the task, reluctantly decides to have a brief respite, and reaches for what has become so often a source of inspiration (apart from his copy of the inerrant Holy writ). As he retrieves his pick from the inner recesses of his pocket, he uses his cognitive powers to ascertain the correct song for his mood. Settling on "flood" the edgy tones pierce the compound as he emphatically strums, plunging their way into the collective consciousness of those for whom it had been preordained to hear that frustrated sound.
The Deluge
The scrawling script, meaning filled and yet uninterpretable like the innumerable Egyptian hieroglyphs before the unearthing of the Rosetta stone, extending over the whole dark wall of smudgy blackness. The sound of rapid scraping punctuated every now and then by an exclamation of annoyance, terror, grief, diffused throughout the chalk dust that was settling, filling the cavernous room with a quiet determination, the will to triumph, the resolve to conquer. The Mathematical Scholar, mentally exhausted from his efforts, but no less determined to complete the task, reluctantly decides to have a brief respite, and reaches for what has become so often a source of inspiration (apart from his copy of the inerrant Holy writ). As he retrieves his pick from the inner recesses of his pocket, he uses his cognitive powers to ascertain the correct song for his mood. Settling on "flood" the edgy tones pierce the compound as he emphatically strums, plunging their way into the collective consciousness of those for whom it had been preordained to hear that frustrated sound.
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