meri kirihimete

Kia ora, friends! It's Christmas morning here in Nelson, though it doesn't feel like it at all. The day's all rain and misty mountains---a favorite of mine but no friend to a day planned for the beach. It's just about cleared up now, though, so we're packing our bags and heading to Tahunanui in the next little bit.

So, quick update (and I won't be editing this, so apologies in advance):

I cried at first sight of land. O laughed, but N's eyes matched mine and she reached across the airplane aisle to grab my hand in a gesture of solidarity as we touched down. There's still a very surreal sense of this all being the best of dreams; I sit here at 111 Tipahi Street as if it's the most usual thing in the world. I'm here, I keep telling myself. New Zealand. Here. Home. And yet my mind refuses to process the enormity of it. Instead I feel the relief of a long absence over, like I can finally relax, let go, settle in. It's very much the same as returning from a summer's trip, fun as it was, to fully revel in the familiar and the comforting. It's been absolutely beautiful.

Oh, shoot. Tahunanui calling---um, AucklandWellingtonCubaStreetTePapaNelsonHomeNCGNCBsuperlove
churchSalomeSurprise!Macka'sAwkwardLoveLifeLaugh got to run!

(did you catch all that?)

haere mai

I'm here.

this is the last time

So not supposed to be blogging at a time like this, but here's the latest:

::: my dad & I just decided to nix the laptops. So I'll be cafe-ing it from here on out, meaning blogging may not even be a possibility.

::: but I'll try to get a post or two in, really I will.

also,

(and this is silly, I know) the freeway. I hardly ever drive, and haven't made the trip home for a while, so it was something of a shock. It's just so zippy.

mum's the word

'Cause mine's the best. Just when you think Christmas couldn't possibly be any better, she slips this under the tree. It's red. It's British. It's typographic brilliance. It will follow me wherever I go, wherever I stay, from house to house as long as I live.

Throw in tomorrow's flight and I'm gold. Whatever did I do to deserve such a life?

if you give this girl a sharpie

She will want a piece of paper. Actually, she might want two. She'll have to clear off the kitchen table, because she likes her workspace empty and clean, but if she can only have half the table, that's okay, too. She will draw a swirl or two, but then do your dishes because the full sink is too distracting. She'll switch the music to shuffle but continually change the songs to her liking. So it's not really random, is it?

Once the dishes are done, she'll want her chair back. And the Sharpie. And another piece of paper, because your PoliSci notes aren't exactly inspiring. She'll change the music again, instrumental this time, and turn it down low---but even that doesn't matter, because once she starts drawing, nothing outside the page exists. She'll forget the music. She'll forget your cluttered half of the table. And she will most certainly forget that the most crucial to-dos on her list have yet to be ticked off.

hail the conquering hero

All that hard work paid off in the end---though I give full credit
to mum for my Most Fashionable Fellow award
(the gold sweater was all her work).

waiting on the world to change

You know those nights where you keep looking at the clock
and thinking, Wow, I should get to bed, and yet you make
no move to act upon said thought?
Yeah. I should get to bed.

more of the same

{and some 80 Hill Street in celebration of 5 more days}
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1 Random memories I had just this afternoon:
::: Staying up to finish another Agatha Christie long past midnight in a Monterosso hotel.
::: Helping Romney hang a plywood pirate flag from the Fetzer's apricot tree.
::: Consciously deciding to say "Such the best" whenever possible after being inspired by Bloomability's Peter Lombardy Guthrie the Third. See also: "Libero, libero, liberooooo!"

So much to think about in the lonely dungeons of the JKB lab, apparently.

. . . . . . . . . .

2 So tonight X decided to play a little game, in which she opened to a random page in her copy of "C.S. Lewis: Words to Live By" and assigned us all a personality based on the first word at the top of the page. The results:

LL: Failure.
Sophs: Excuses.
X: Purgatory.
and
E: Seeking God.

Much laughter in #215 tonight, I can tell you that.

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3 Top Five Dearest Places on Campus:

::: the JFSB roof [looking over the railing, south side]
::: the Maeser steps [good book + classic architecture = love]
::: the MOA [Minerva Teichert and Kershisnik's Nativity? The world is too, too much]
::: the HBLL [fourth floor, fifth floor, or the map collection]
::: the Writing Fellow office [corner armchair, round table, dictionary to my left]

If I'm on campus, chances are I'm at one of the above.

it's those small little insignificant things

It's a bit late, and though my speech is written, I've yet to find a theme for my C.S. Lewis paper. Still, I apparently had enough time to dash to the grocery store with Jacq and then spend the next two hours in Deep Discussion about love and Love, so I suppose a little bit of blog can't hurt now, can it?

. . . . . . . . .

Sometimes I find joy in the silliest places. Tonight I just cannot get over

::: the glow of the Apple logo on my MacBook when open
::: reading by Christmas light
::: clear-cut winter air
::: blackberries + powdered sugar + buttermilk waffle
::: how, when wearing a parka, your legs positively freeze but
the rest of you's warm all over
::: the return of my (favorite) lost earring
::: the way I start writing in lists the moment finals begin

Walking alone along Seventh in snow boots should be a part of daily living. Such freedom in feeling so small and so incredibly full all at once.

tuesday morning

The house is empty and still, and today I am grateful for

::: early wintry mornings and bright new sun
::: velveteen slippers and peony-print pyjamas
::: hot water bottle and IKEA pillow
::: pomegranate tea and lemon curd toast
::: Mosiah, chapters 18 through 26
::: a silent hour to myself to finish Till We Have Faces

Joy silences me.

on d'urville sand

“In memory everything seems to happen to music.” – TENNESSEE WILLIAMS

And now, a word from guest blogger O, giving me words to fill this space until I come back from the dead of finals. Figured you'd appreciate this work more than my Italian essay on the neorealistic movement of the 1950s.

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Laughing, I change the station and a familiar tune* plays. I sing along momentarily, until my laughter turns into a kind of sad nostalgic smile. “How is it possible that out of 100 stations there isn’t even one good song? Aren’t you so sick of this one?” my friend complains, changing the radio station. “No, not really.” I reply, switching it back to the song that sings glimpses of my past. Within seconds I am no longer a part of my reality. I am gone.

I can taste the salty air, feel the soft wind and hear the crashing waves seeping out of the stereo. I can’t physically see my memory, but I can feel it with haunting intensity. And to think I was fine, only seconds before; but then that song started to play---our song. I think back to that time, getting lost in the memory until I’m not just remembering, I’m living it: I’m walking along the rocky beach, the waves crashing down, drowning my feet. I’m eating Pavlova and banana chip sandwiches. We're singing this song on D’urville Island, sitting on the giant hammock with our guitars in hand.

Music can evoke the remembrance of memories within seconds, bringing back moments in life that have been set aside in our mind. It plays a part in our lives that is often looked over, but when you stop to think about it, every song accompanies some kind of memory or experience in life.

In Tennessee William's play, The Glass Menagerie, the characters' memories are always remembered with music accompanying them. Amanda fondly reminisces about her past with the gentleman callers every night and the beauty she once was. Laura obsessively plays the phonograph to get away from her painful reality---sometimes too often. The sweet-sounding music overshadows their current woes, and numbs their minds into a form of bliss. Music serves as both a reminder and an escape in the lives of the Wingfield family.

While my memory is not a tragic one, it brought back the same feelings I imagine Amanda and Laura experiencing: a longing for a part of life that isn’t real to you anymore. When remembering the past, we sometimes only want to see the beautiful aspects, the music. Eventually we must realize that, while the music of our past is beautiful and sweet, it ends more quickly than we’d like. We need to continue living our lives, moving on, turning on the radio only occasionally. We can’t get stuck like Laura is, constantly playing a tune of fantasy. Music can evoke so many emotions within seconds of hearing it, but whether it be a small experience or life-changing event, it’s how we sing the song in our life that matters.

. . . . . . . . . .

Not quite twins, but definitely sisters.

. . . . . . . . . .

*For the curious, the song that sparked this memory is, of all things, Michelle Branch's Everything. Except that we put it to new words (there were sheep involved). And strummed the song ourselves (from the top of the green, green Marlborough hills down into the blue, blue sea).

We met one day at the marae . . .

like spiders across the stars

Be careful when thinking about artichoke dip.
You never know what could happen next.

organic peanut butter!

This should be a rant. A long, fiery, passionate rant. Because, if anything, I despise group work—and slipping this project amidst the hectic final weeks of semester only spurred me to greater spite. My group’s been great this entire semester, but with all the pressure of finals and outstanding homework assignments, we had a lot of trouble getting our schedules to match up. We traded a few emails, a phone call or two, and at last resort met last night, the night before it was due. Typical, I thought, annoyed with my own failure to pull the group together in some semblance of responsibility. It’s going to take all night and be awful anyway and why do we have to do this now, of all times? Of course, this was before the actual work began; before Bean threw the ramen, still packaged, into the pot, before Steve licked raw Bisquick from his fingers, before Chris held the dinosaur’s hand. I said should be a rant. Subjunctive. This is now a full-fledged, rave review.

We did get it done, and it didn’t take all night. Plus, it was fun. Ridiculously fun. The assignment's only guidelines were to create an eight-minute video on the topic we pulled from the pile, and we're not being graded on quality, either. Without the product to worry about, the process become one of camaraderie and creative energy, bouncing ideas off of one another as we were going, never quite knowing what happened next but tying it all together in the end. The process was such a release, such a welcome change from the stress-charged air of the semester’s end. For me, it was not only a chance to spend time with fantastic people, but make use of that time with real thought and action, no matter how ridiculous the result might be.

Surprisingly enough, we started with a clear idea, even typing up an outline and discussing the play-by-play. From the first scene, however, everything was given up for the tangential—which terrified me in the beginning. I’m a very have-a-plan-and-stick-to-it kind of gal, but the boys would have none of that. It only took minutes before I was swept up into their laughter and “go with it” attitude, and it was really enlightening. I loved letting go. This group project taught me that a little silliness is okay (which is another post entirely), that I can lay off the stress and seriousness for a while because it does the spirit good. The boys reminded me to laugh at myself, to embrace improv and forget the camera. It was liberating. Hip, hip hooray for group work (at least for now).

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Also, I love soy nuts. Can't get enough of 'em. Probably eat too many of 'em. Love that my roommates can't stand them and that the entire bag is all for me, huzzah!