Reports

As the houses fall around us the amazing gurus wile away behind their screens and think up ways to explain in no more than 50,000 words , what happened and how to avoid responsibility.

It appears to be a common trait at the current time .There are all types of 'events ' happening and anyone in supposed authority is running for cover.

Not responsible. It's an infection. Look over there!

Well a report has materialised in our inboxes. I haven't read it yet as the initial response is ho hum. No one has listened so far so why bother reading a report that cost another dollap of ratepayers money for little or no return.

 The wreckers left nothing behind and liquidated the memories of a hundred years or a dream of a new settler. There is but a bare square of earth with the odd dock, rye and rampant fleabain.

This once living community does not figure in the 'report'

It does not matter any more. People can move, people can move on, people can consume the turmoil of the day and secret their feelings in to nights , dark, away from pesky prying  nine to fivers.

I will return to illucidate in due course. 

 

 

Destruction

Mikes' place has gone. Hidden amongst the greenery and fences , quietly housing a couple then a family.Gone. They picked at it for a few days.Looking for salvageable ,recyclable building treasures.The black cladding slowly disapearing ,then the roof then. the windows. Then. Whamo. The diggers lifted their strongarms and delivered the final blows. Mikes has gone. Now Malcolms. Danger ,danger! strategically placed signs warn everyone, though no-one is going near, that there is asbestos on site. Run for the hills.It might jump out of the house and nab you while you are not looking. Health and safety reaches in to every corner and scares the hell out of otherwise sensible people. Pallets of wrapped sheets sit waiting .Where will they be hidden from the masses? Now a digger. Smash. A truck. Malcolms has gone. Dougs has gone. A stately Spanish style brick home that had lost its long time residents and had been transformed in to a home for travellors. Working travellors that plonked their back packs on the porch and dossed down where once the fires burned to keep wonderful long term locals warm in the winter. No mucking around here. Big digger and gay abandon.Smash to bits and dump in a dusty bashed up truck. Memories and presence gone in a flash. Dougs has gone. Bobs has gone. A simple house .Old weatherboard .Rimu and Matai.Home to hard workers and and a list of historical residents.Mike lived there for years and then Clare and family.The property name changed with the times and the game.Now the game has changed. Mr and Mrs Bob rescued from the roof of this strong old home.Bob falling of during the rescue yet making it back to safety.Now the roof is gone. Boof.The yellow beast swings in to action and Mr and Mrs Bob luckily miss seeing their house assigned to history. Bobs house is gone.

Categories Who comes up with these ideas? The intellectuals need to find some way of organising the way ahead. It's always hard to find the source of the decision. It was the result of the Christchurch earthquakes where categories arose. Red zone was the worst area for damage.The point of no return.The end result of a great shakedown where no one could see a future. It would lead to despair and weeds .Loss of futures.Loss of hope.The end of dreams and a full stop on life at tthis juncture. It is a small part of a lifetime but a large imposition on life and emotions.A shattering period of disbelief and bewilderment. Categories ae the wrong way to confront the after effects of disaster. Every persons situation is different. Every person is different. Slamming all into a category is like herding them in one direction. As a community we live our lives according to those rules some observe ,some don't thus some become insured some don't.

Cheers for Chairs

Giant Chairs. What is the use of a giant chair? Too big to sit in, too big to fall asleep in , too big to fall off, too big to cuddle in. Giant chairs to provide perches for errant gulls and their indiscriminate deposits.Giant chairs in gawdy colours ,where kids fall through the cracks. Nah. Contrast. Portugal. Private hideaway .A hill.A view.A labour of love. A giant chair constructed of natural , selected, contorted aged lengths of timber. No paint.Just a carefully crafted chair.A throne.With knots and curves,twists and flats.Sitting quietly in the long whispering grass .Stately, comfortable and body enveloping. In memory of a mother .A plaque to explain.

Rain Again

Here it is. The first rain for sometime.It is almost welcome after a prolonged dry period. But that is the weather.Nature wonderful in its unpredictability. The rain has stirred the memory and tempted one to look up the myriad of websites that interpret the weather according to how much they are paid. The free sites are just as good and with a lifetime putting a finger in the air one can detect wind direction and the likelihood of hot,cold or wet weather. Years of built up knowledge can accurately assess the degrees of comfort or discomfort one may experience. As soon as the weather swings to the East the antennae stand up a little more to detect how intense and how long it may be damp. There does appear to be some muted panic by authorities and fair enough.They copped a fair bit of flack over the last year. The ground is very dry at present so will soak up this initial showery event with the hope that it eases off over night . The river channels are very low in volume.Plenty of room for a few millimeteres yet. Have heard some kids are rattled by this rain.They sure remember major events .Parents will be assuring them all will be OK this time. Looking forward to a peaceful nights sleep and a better day tomorrow.There's work to be done.

Bathtime Late afternoon is the time. I fill the birdbath with fresh water. Before too long the waxeyes turn up.They like to flit in and out ,up to four at a time.Splash and dash for them. Waiting are the goldfinches.A quick drink and a quick bath and off. The fantail is always lurking close by and often is first in.It's the same one.Must be clean conscious .He dips in and out, has a break and comes back for more. The odd dirty sparrow has a turn and sits contemplating whether to have another go or go for a feed before sleep time. The waxeyes are sitting in the dead trees drying off and some even cuddling up , feeling clean after a dip and preen. Look out for the thrush.He will plunge in and takeover the whole bath.He has a good wash and is off. By the time the procession is over there is bugger all water left.The bird brigade have splashed it out and about until there is a small puddle and a few feathers left. Ah well. Guess I will give it a refill tomorrow.

Anniversary< I was passing over the river today. The river was flowing clear, slow, winding as it passed between shingle banks and sandy sidelines. I caught the site of a dog making a deposit right beside this quiet , content , ripple of busy water. How fitting. The dog shit river . I am sure this dog was not responsible for the somewhat offensively named waterway. May be the name should be changed as is the custom these days. A year ago today this river was a raging torrent.A dirty fast flowing conveyor of excessive rain from the hills to the sea. A torrent that carried timber , trash , anything in the way , along its path to the sea. The bridge halted the path of massive amounts of timber .It piled up and surged in the whirlpools , eventually jammed piece by piece in a massive muddle ,leaning on the bridge abuttments . The water level reached the height of the bridge and surged ,threatening to break the strong concrete structure and win . It had already broken the Puketapu bridge.Succumbed to superior strength of nature in its anger. Not before the damming had caused massive flooding upstream . I reflected on the quiet , slow flowing water today and the contrast nature had provided just a year ago. I think of my friends who traversed the bridge hours before a disaster , friends who walked in water to the bridge and made it out before it was too late. It was a day we will never forget. b>