Worse than I thought.

Have just got home from securing a building site and  it's even worse than I thought.

I've seen bodies crushed by rubble awaiting collection not to mention the devastation to buildings. Bricks and mortar, however take a backseat to life lost. And the cost there is horrific.

My city has gone.

In it's place, a scene from a world war two remains. Crater like holes in the road with mass destruction to buildings that are demolished make it look like parts of London in the Blitz. 

My thoughts go out to those who's fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters won't be coming home.

Earthquakes. And why they should stop.

I'm lucky. I have the good fortune not to be able to sleep at this time of the morning. Others don't have that luxury anymore.

I live on the outskirts of Christchurch and, being removed from the centre city, thought it was just another aftershock (albeit a serious one). I heard the rumble (I don't care what they say: I know I can hear them!) and with cavalier indifference kept working at my computer. It started, I waited for it to stop. It didn't. It got worse. I got up. My house went up! Then down..... then started along movements generally associated with the wash cycle of my agitator washing machine. This was a different feel from the September 4 quake last year and we knew this wasn't good.

I managed to get through to a workmate who was near the building site where I was meant to be working. The site that I was meant to be on at the time has gone from two storeys high to 2 feet high - rubble and bricks, dust and splintered wood. So I'm lucky. Others are not.

It's frustrating having skills that could be useful and sitting at home while the city that I have lived and worked in for a great period of my life is hurt.  I'm frustrated and angry that I can't do anything.

But I guess I have that luxury while others don't.

Thats why these earthquakes can stop now.

It's my blog and I'll cry if I want to.

For the past few months, I've had nothing good to say.

So best not to fake it. Just don't say a bloody word. Not one

Without sounding deliriously depressing (uh, too late there, pal), I've just had sod all that I wanted to write about. The politics has been "relaxed", the sports mediocre and while there have been umpteen issues of great note, relevance and import, none have struck me as been worthy of sitting down to compose a piece.

When I started the Home Office, I wasn't in the mood for a confessional that have made bloggers such as Girl With a One Track Mind a sensation. I didn't want to be a kind of news aggregation and comment site such as Kiwiblog.

I wanted to write because I like it. It feels good and I wanted to feel good then. At the time, every little bit helped. I wanted to actually try to craft a piece of writing in a way that, like music or a great movie, it connects with other people. To get an emotional reaction from a reader. Reaction is measured in novelizations by book sales. Blogs are measured by page visits and readers comments. And a few people did come, read and comment. It is fantastic gratification and ego stoking.

I rang my old English teacher and asked him to look at it early on. He is an amazing wrangler of good, old fashioned, "Anglo Saxon" words. People even buy his books. I was sure that the qualities that he possesses would be found here. I went looking for praise and got a critique back that could have come straight from a 5th form homework assignment - full of red lines, notes and admonitions on my bludgeoning of the language and grammar. That wasn't gratifying. It was honest but it didn't stoke my fires. It was a blow. One that I knew would come. I asked for it when I emailed him. So why be discouraged when it happens? Re-reading the article he commented on, it's no bloody wonder because it is appalling.

He also gave me advice. For example:

"Writing is a good thing to do. But if you want people to read what you write, you need to work on the craft, the trade. It's a trade like plumbing. You need to know how the bits work. It takes a long time to learn".

Bugger that, I thought. I don't want to take the time. So I started reading successful authors liner notes. I went to their webpages and read their notes and FAQ's where they told the secret to great writing. And this is what they pretty much all said.

Discipline.

Something I have none of. Nada. Zilch. Keiner. Nulle. None.

I'm an empty 44 gallon drum. An amount of air contained by a thin skin. To the outside world, I look purposeful, solid and capable but inside is empty. I could try and be nice and say "I don't have the patience" or "I can never find the time" but that would be a lie. The truth is that I am undisciplined. I am a lazy sod.

Bugger.

So, in an effort to change this, I'm going to be more purposeful in my writing. After all anything will be better than my productivity over the last few months. I will write often but I probably won't always write well. But it's not if you win or lose, it's how you play the game, eh? Perhaps an old dog can change his spots. Maybe I could start filling the drum too.

And by the way, anyone who points out that I didn't start this blog as a literary hand wringing exercise then served up this tripe, you are quite right. But it's my blog and I'll cry if I want to. So up yours.

P.S If you read this then think that I'm vain and shallow - you're right again. I am. Isn't life a bitch sometimes?

Putting It Together

You know when you have those days when everything just seems a little........mmmm........not quite there? Know what I mean? A bottle short of a six pack perhaps or off colour ...... or even off white? Maybe a spanish cream with a little duck egg thrown in? Or perhaps a lighter shade of pale (snigger). It's been one of those days.

I've had a ton of work to do which I have achieved perhaps 60%. I've also had a list of things to action on my desk all with the priority number "1" scratched beside them in pencil, pressed hard down on the paper so it makes an indent on the page for extra emphasis. And I've done two of those. There is not too much that I will get a bollocking for - hell I run my own business so it will be interesting to write myself a written warning. And if I do that then I'll need representatives from both sides to witness the procedure so do I get two people or can I save money with just one?

It's just I haven't been able to put it together today. Something hasn't been gelling.

Well it's just gone 5 o'clock- the end of the working week - and I have only just solved the mystery. Actually I haven't solved anything. Merely found a salve for a troubled mind. See, when things sorta pile up on you, sometimes its just best to bathe in hope and look elsewhere for inspiration.

I went to YouTube and in the search engine wrote words without consciously thinking...... and this is what came up:

Whether or not you agree with his politics, whether or not you even like this guy, the words of this song are enough surcease to let you lean back, preferably with a nice glass of wine, and think yeah.... I can do that.

So , my "End of the Working Week" thought is this:

Give yourself a break, give yourself time to put it together and always remember, as my Grandad used to say around duck shooting time, "When there's lead in the air, there's always hope".

Have a great weekend all.

I Think I Get It Now

(Disclaimer,

This maybe the hardest thing I have ever written about and the chances of making a complete fool of myself are high. A topic that bears ridicule when trivialised, oversentimented or any other way killed by massive, blunt, cliche trauma.

Had I not promised that the subject would be addressed - albeit after equal large amounts of sun, food and alcohol - I would probably never go near it.

Here it is then.)

I was at a wedding the other day. Nothing unusual in itself except for the first time, I was at a wedding where one of the two main participants was a very, very, close friend.

This may sound callous and if there are people reading whose wedding I have been to, I apologise if you thought I liked you more than I do. But to explain, the groom at this wedding is part of what I call "The Front Row", this being my three most important mates who prop up my life from time to time. They are the the guys that do the hard yards -often unnoticed but never ignored - behind the scenes. And one of these Front Rowers, the loose head prop, was gettin' hitched!

The girl that he was marrying is one of life's amazing people. Burdened with beauty and brains, she never-the-less carries it off with superb aplomb. Bright, articulate, caring and generous, she is one of those people whom, if you only met once, is able to worm her way into your subconscious leaving an indelible mark. You could be on your deathbed, your mind addled with age, confusion and small amounts of morphine yet, like a bonfire on New Years eve, you would be able to remember her face clear as day. And she was marrying my loose head prop.

To say that she was the person that I'd imagined my prop marrying would be wrong. Not that he wouldn't deserve such a paragon, she just probably wasn't what I'd had in mind when thinking of the girl whom the prop would eventually join with.

With that in mind, you may not be surprised to learn that I'd previously always viewed the Bride with a degree of skepticism, as if she had hijacked my best friend and was taking him on a voyage that would lead to disaster. "This" I thought to myself, "is going to lead to me picking up my mate, dusting him off and telling him that he'll get over it in time" after the bride had systematically pureed his heart to a fine paste then served it on crackers with a garnish of fresh spring onion and a nice cup of tea.

But I didn't get it.

To say that there is a hint of jealousy in the paragraph above would be like telling Bill Gates' son that there maybe a future in this whole personal computer malarky or warning the Dalai Lama that those Chinese fellas mightn't be as friendly as they seem. After all, she couldn't know what was best for a front rower, could she? Only a fellow forward would know that.

But because he is in the Front Row, I was paying a bit more attention than usual. I actually watched, listened and absorbed on a level I'd previously reserved only for Oscar nominated films or woman whom, after I'd slept with them, lyingly told me how good I was in bed!

Even at this point, I didn't really get it. Sure, I noticed the devotional words, the slightly embarrassed grins from them both as the most poignant and sentimental vows were spoken - such words as they are should only ever be voiced once in your life. Even at the point where the union was blessed with the phrase "man and wife", my conceit meant that I still didn't get it.

It was only until the speeches that things started to become clear.

The nice thing about be a spare wheel at a wedding (something I'll talk about more in a later post) is the general absence of responsibility. One isn't laboured with a partner,wife or girlfriend whom you feel compelled talk to every once and a while. Likewise, because there is such a mix of the bride and groom's friends and relations, chances are that you will be seated beside a person that, since you don't know them that well, you can choose to not talk to them and it isn't seen as rude - merely nervous. So, you get the chance to look and listen a lot more than if you were in the midst of it all. And it was there that I saw it - on two distinct occasions!

Through a break in the crowd I watched as the Front Rower was looking at the woman who had recently promised to join him in matrimony. It was a long look. So long, in fact, that I thought he'd gone to sleep with his eyes open and a grin on his face. She was talking to the bridesmaid so had no clue that he was watching her.

This look was powerful......... but gentle. It was loving but not smothering. It was lustful yet kind. And I'd never seen the Front Rower look at anyone the way he looked at his bride. He is not the most expressive of people at the best of times. Indeed, this guy could qualify from Human Statue College with a double degree in granite looks and still motion with honours! In all the time I have known him, the front rower never gave much away with his eyes or face. Except here. He had given it all away.

I reached for a tasty beverage to consider what I'd seen. The bugger was more in love with this woman than he'd let on! Sure, there was the whole "marriage, declaration before friends, family and the world" thing but surely he would have told me if it was really "The One", wouldn't he?

I looked back at him to find that he had turned away to someone else, and this time, the Bride was looking at him. To say that the look that the bride gave the front rower was the same as his but magnified would be a wonderful understatement. It was more.

She had this smile dancing across her face. Only a small smile, you had to watch her a while to make sure the disco ball lights weren't playing "Purple Rain" with your eyes. And this smile said, "I know you better than anyone. I know you love me and I adore you".

I looked away as if I was seeing something I shouldn't. Something intensely private, R18 or not meant for general release. Another tasty beverage was called for to cool the heat of embarrassment from witnessing something so personal.

Then I got it.

Love is looking at someone else and, whether or not they are looking back, letting them know how you feel. And for such looks, words are not needed. It made me fervently hope to look and be looked at like that one day myself. And the reason that the Bride and the Front Rower could look at each other so long with this gaze on their faces was that they had "got it" long ago. I also realised that my vision of my mate's interior organs being served as hors d'oeuvre was way outta line and certainly wouldn't come true. I also realised at that time that there could be no other bride for my loosehead prop. Even props need front rowers of their own.

Because she does know the Front Rower better than I . She does things for him what no other woman could, gives what no other friend could provide and looks at him in a way no words can truly encompass.

So there you are. Thats what I think love is. If you don't think thats right, feel free to comment, but thats my line and I'm sticking to it.

For Keith and Helena