Jump to content
×
  • Regional NT Summary

  • Recent Topics

  • Upcoming Events

    No upcoming events found
  • Blog Entries

    • Izzy_Indigo
      By Izzy_Indigo in In The Midnight Lands
         2
      I FIXED a smile. It felt lean. "Well, I guess, at least you're getting the right treatment now."

      My words sounded glib to me, too easily said, too little felt. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my sister. She was a far better person than I.
      When I was eight, she spent weeks painting my bedroom wall for no other reason than to delight her little brother. Slowly a glorious Smaug emerged, gloating over his gold-pile, to guard my sleep for many years.
      Ginny could spend months shopping for presents for upcoming birthdays; she agonised over every little choice. For Christmas lunch she made her own crackers, selected the toys and wrote the riddles and the jokes and cut out the crepe paper crowns, just for the joy it brought.
      If the situations were reversed, she'd know what to say.
      But my thoughts were too thick, too thickly coiled to properly empathise. Even then, as I felt for the next piece of small talk, my mind strayed to the things I wanted to do later.
      After a while I asked, "How are your room-mates?"
      A spark came to Ginny's eyes and she indicated I should come closer, dropping her voice so it would not carry beyond the curtain.
      "They all seem pretty nice," she said, "but you should see this one lady they brought in after lunch. I’m telling you, rouuuggh with a capital R. She'd fallen out of a car, drunk, and then - get this - been run over.”
      My mouth dropped.
      “I know, and that’s not even the funny thing, Izz. After they set her up in the room - "
      “Cleaned off the tire marks, that sort of thing - ”
      “Well she spent all afternoon making these loud phone calls to her rellys. Everybody on the ward could hear, and it wasn't like she was saying, 'I've been in a car accident, I'm in hospital but I'm okay'. The first thing out of her mouth was, 'Bring me my booze and my fags, and a fucken feed.' In that order."
      "You'd think, what with being run-over and all, you would have had enough to drink for one day."
      "I know, right?"
      We had a good laugh over 'some' people.
      * * * *
      This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last.
      If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. 

      * * * *
      Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment.
      Your support means a lot.
      Also, sharing is caring. 

      * * * *
    • Izzy_Indigo
      By Izzy_Indigo in In The Midnight Lands
         0
      WHY ARE hospitals so bright inside? What are they afraid of losing?

      That day the light, neutered of warmth and goodness, thrown from long rectangular bulbs in the ceiling and boomeranging off glossy walls and linoleum floors, had the quality of examination, of interrogation.
      I walked with squeaking footsteps down narrow corridors coagulating with stuffy air. The smell of disinfectant strong, but not strong enough to mask the miasma of corruption, of steel and blood, death and decay spilling from the rooms passing to my left and right.
      Some of the doors were open, and I caught brief glimpses of the intimate tableaus inside. Patients, lost, white, hunched, hacking and in pain shipwrecked amongst visitors hushed, numb, horrified and blind. I averted my eyes.
      Harried nurses, dressed in unripe greens and blues, flew past or sat behind untidy piles of folders at plexiglassed stations. I knew they did a tough job well, but - still, I couldn't help the prickle I felt in their presence, the sense of remnants remained, the end-of-timers they'd helped usher to other worlds.
      From one I got directions to my sister’s ward and room.
      I hurried on, squeaking.
      Earlier in the day my aunt had called to say Ginny was in hospital. My sister had been battling the flu for the past two weeks, one of those on-again-off-again health problems she always seemed to have. I hadn’t paid much attention, other than to check in with a few emails.
      That was until my aunt called. Hospitals meant something more serious; it snapped me out of self; sent me off in search, rattling down those antiseptic halls.
      Ginny I found on the second floor at the far end of a tubular, shiny-shiny room. She lay in a folded-up bed plumped with pillows, obscured from others by a half-pulled lime curtain.
      She looked pale - more than an aspect of the light or the shapeless white gown she wore - her freckles prominent, brown eyes bright, face framed by a trickle of loose, dark hair.
      A thin cord ran from her nose to a whispering machine at her side. Into one arm’s vein an IV dripped. I registered all this in the ten steps it took to reach her side. Registered also my first pangs of unease.
      Ginny looked like she needed to be in hospital.
      "Hi-ya," I said with forced cheer as she spotted me and made the effort to sit up. "I come bearing gifts."
      I took the seat next to her and fished out some X-Men anthologies. Ginny liked comics and the movies, crafts and the family. She had a great sense of humour and we laughed a lot. I never felt judged in her presence.
      She thanked me, took them, flicked through a few pages, and then set them aside.
      "So, how you feeling?"
      "Not the best," she answered. A far-away voice. She tucked a stray piece of fringe behind one ear, then said, "I ache, and it's like it's all over, Izz. Like it's in my bones or something. It's been that way for a week. And now I can feel these weird lumps across my stomach.” She indicated where they were, a disquieted look on her face. She made me feel them.
      "Aw, Gin."
      I didn't know what else to say.
      We sat looking at each other.
      "What do the doctors think?"
      She sighed. "Some sort of obscure virus, but they're not sure. They're pumping me full of antibiotics and giving me painkillers every hour. Hopefully it all starts to kick in soon."
      "Gin—" that lack of words again. "I . . . I should have known. Come to see you sooner." I was the only one in the family living close by but I had not seen her in weeks.
      Ginny fluttered her hand. "I didn't know. This morning I was at home with the flu. Weird, ay?"
      * * * *
      This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last.
      If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. 

      * * * *
      Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment.
      Your support means a lot.
      Also, sharing is caring. 

      * * * *
    • Izzy_Indigo
      By Izzy_Indigo in In The Midnight Lands
         5
      CHAPTER 2.

      YEARS LATER, I pulled into a hospital car park with a poem on my mind.
      Max Ehrmann's Desiderata had hung on my wall for years because I liked its sentiment and because I thought it helped my mystique with the ladies. (My mystique needing all the help it could get.)
      Lately one line in particular had been talking: take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
      I didn't know how you did that - surrender the things you love.
      The dance scene is many things, but mainly a movement of youth. From the moment you discover it, certain in your conviction it is important and it means something, the sand starts, flows. You have many years - good years, glad years - but time passes and you age and the dance scene stays the same.
      And then one day you wake and you are attending engagements and thirtieth birthday parties, not twenty-firsts or farewells for mates off travelling.
      An aficionado now, you know the good electronica, have a visceral dislike for the cheese and the tossers it attracts, yet jaded, also, and even in the better clubs of the deeper underground, the kiddies, with their exuberant first-time-on-drugs ways, begin to annoy.
      No, you don't want a massage. No, you don't sell pills. No, you don't want a huff from their just used nasal inhaler. You believe, truly, the scene was better, less mainstream, more real when you were their age.
      House parties and backyard BBQs become the norm. The music still electronic, for it is the soundtrack to your generation, but the talk now is of mortgages and children, not upcoming parties or superstar DJs.
      You drink because the come down isn't worth the come up, nod to the tunes because restraint has evicted enthusiasm, and late in the evening the boys still sneak off for a cheeky cone, or two.
      And all this with the same faces laughing over the same stories, with perhaps a shake of your head over just how far you've come, until even they begin to fade, one by one, and you realise that, soon, there will be nobody left to charge with.
      It was a death, gradual but implacable, I had watched and sullenly mourned for several years; for the good days gone never to be known again.
      A death I could feel at work inside as I diminished in the world, a star that had consumed all its fuel, becoming more insular and isolated, more remote - so much so that one friend felt compelled to sit me down one day and have a chat about 'no man being an island'.
      And it all would have been okay, all of it . . . if only I'd had a choice, or been ready to let go. But I didn't. And I wasn't. And it felt as if, dangling over a precipice, my fingers were slowly being forced open against my will.
      I was thirty-one, single, and still in love with the dance scene as if I were ten years younger. It was the source of my best and brightest memories: mental heirlooms my mind polished like trophies over a fireplace. My fondest wish was to create more. And more.
      But nothing lasts forever. I know that. Yet I wasn't ready to let go. Not yet. Not even if I was now prone at dance parties to attracting well-intentioned young fluffys in their first throes keen to tell me: "Man, I hope I'm still going hard like you when I’m your age." Their tone quite convinced they would never be that old.
      I didn't know how you gracefully surrendered the things of youth. Being graceful wasn’t a big part of my make-up.
      * * * *
      This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last.
      If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. 

      * * * *
      Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment.
      Your support means a lot.
      Also, sharing is caring. 

      * * * *
       
    • Izzy_Indigo
      By Izzy_Indigo in In The Midnight Lands
         7
      JOSEPH LED him to one corner of the lookout to pack a cone. I switched off my camcorder and stepped to the edge beside Tim, staring off into the distance.   Tim had his arms braced against the railing and a thoughtful look on his cherubic face as though he pondered, pondered the big questions, God and life, the unimaginables of the universe - though in reality, I knew, Tim likely pondered his plans for finally getting into Sandra’s pants at the festival.
      I said, "Can you believe we're nearly there?"
      "I know, Izz. It's about to get crayazzy."
      Smug looks were exchanged. The sun streamed, the wind strained. A fierce joy jumped liquid-electric between us. For that morning Hawkes Lookout wasn’t just the gatekeeper to some wild valley. 
      That morning it was the gatekeeper to our generation's dream: one we’d waited for our entire lives: that Prince had shot to superstardom popping about.
      New Year's Eve 1999 . . .
      And the party that went along with it.
      Except where we stood, what we were on the verge of now, wasn’t any old tinselled, tumbledown celebration. Not swaying shoulder to shoulder in some dilapidated club, not wine and cheese, families and fireworks.
      No, ours was the most famous outdoor EDM festival in Aotearoa, world-renowned (at least we thought so) six dance arenas, three hundred DJs, ten thousand revellers all madly swirling around one lonesome, romantic hilltop for forty-eight continuous, wondrous hours.
      Just up the road it lay, G2K. The Gathering 2000.
      It was a dream, this festival, even its website said so, proclaiming: The Gathering is a dream. A dream of hope that there is a place where we can exist without violence or hate, where our differences can unite instead of push us apart, where together we can create, experience, live, moments of perfection.
      Moments of perfection. Needless to say my hazily-conceived but ardently-felt anticipation ran high, roaring through me like a river carving a canyon. It was my first year in the dance scene, when all was still bright with the compelling light of newness.
      It was my first outdoor electronica festival - a sorcerous thing in my imaginings - an otherworldly place of all-day-and-night movement and music and jubilation under infinite, cheering skies.
      And that's before the rumours. The rumours, my god!
      It was said The Gathering was one of the safest places in the world if the Y2K bug struck. While missiles launched and planes came tumbling from the clouds, we would be off-the-grid and isolated, stomping it out.
      Awesome. 
      It was said The Gathering had made Oprah’s top ten list of things to do for the millennium, and that it had sold out months in advance with tickets going as far afield as Brazil and Finland.
      It was even said the local skinheads planned to descend en masse on the stroke of millennial midnight - anger in their hearts, violence on their minds - identifying all the loved up Gatherers in the dark, presumably, by the sheer number of sparkly things adorning their bodies.
      Now, standing on that lookout, all this orbited me how I imagined a solar system might, like satellites. Curving and turning.
      But even so, though I knew it all, every last rumour, had listened avidly to all of my friends’ stories and spent hours poring over the website and danced often in my mirror to the Gathering CD - look at the trees, these trees are wicked - but even so, even so, I still did not know what to expect, not really, not even then, standing next to Tim on that lookout, a few short kilometres away, the luminous morning of December the 30th 1999.
      Except that it would suck, at the start of the grandest adventure of my life, if that taxi driver didn't come back with all of our stuff.
      * * * *
      This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last.
      If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. 

      * * * *
      Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment.
      Your support means a lot.
      Also, sharing is caring. 

      * * * *
       
    • Izzy_Indigo
      By Izzy_Indigo in In The Midnight Lands
         4
      CHAPTER 1. 

      I TIGHTENED on Sam's troubled expression. He continued to bite his bottom lip and stare back up the path. "But how do you know, Izz?"
      "Because we're part of something bro," I replied. "Can't you feel it? I mean, just look."
      I panned away from him, out over the lookout's edge. Out and over and down to where the Riwaka Valley lay shimmering under the sharp southern sun like some great, sea-colored serpent.
      Curling to the distant Cooks Straight it was a view to intoxicate, deep and wide and wholly alive, and I drank it in, was drunk on it, and when I returned to Sam, Joseph was at his side. "Yeah, Sam," Joseph said, arm around his shoulder, "can't you feel it?"
      Sam fended him away. "I’ll tell you what I'm feeling. I'm feeling like that taxi driver just took off with all of our stuff."
      Sam had a point. Ten minutes before, on his own initiative, our taxi driver had pulled into the Hawkes Lookout car park and insisted we check out the view. To sonnets of praise for the vistas presented he shooed Joseph, Sam, Tim and I out of the van, and soon after, still loaded with our gear, he was driving the van away.   "Popping in for a cuppa at my mates around the corner," the driver said. "No worries," we replied and waved goodbye. Then, we'd gone to check out the view.   The way Sam said it now it did sound kind of, ahh, stupid. But then, in those tall midsummer days of 1999, after driving eight hours the length of New Zealand's North Island in raucous convoy - a convoy complete with blinker signals for toilet, food and spliff breaks -
      two days of twenty of us charging around Nelson - one of which I passed out in a park, after sampling my stash, to the immense delight of my crew - before the temporary separation, reduction to the four of us now, in the taxi van, for the final drive in:
      after all that, well, we were so amped to be on the last stage of our journey, so sure of our righteous positivity and so full of our youthful almighties, it simply didn't register anyone might want to steal all of our stuff.
      Other people's maybe, but not ours. I said, "Sam that guy loved yarning to us. He'll be back."
      "Hell, he'd probably come with us if we asked," Joseph added.
      Sam snorted. “I hope you’re right. Because I'm not going to be the one telling the cops we left everything with a stranger - let that stranger drive off - and then went off on a hike to sight see."
      We laughed. We weren't worried.
      Life was too glorious to us then to worry.
      "Give him half-an-hour, bro." Joseph wrapped an arm around Sam's shoulder again. "Come on, let’s go have a chuff."
      * * * *
      This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last.
      If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. 

      * * * *
      Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment.
      Your support means a lot.
      Also, sharing is caring. 

      * * * *
       
  • Who's Online   0 Members, 0 Anonymous, 46 Guests (See full list)

    There are no registered users currently online

Add Your Event for FREE


  • Birthdays this month

    • dais

      dais 0

      Member
      Joined:
      Last active:
    • Izzy_Indigo

      Izzy_Indigo 255

      Member
      Joined:
      Last active:
    • jakeb95

      jakeb95 0

      Member
      Joined:
      Last active:
    • marion

      marion 0

      Member
      Joined:
      Last active:
    • Tara1988

      Tara1988 0

      Member
      Joined:
      Last active:
×

Important Information

By using this site, you agree to our Terms of Use. Privacy Policy, and Guidelines