Unending ribbons of rain prevented me from taking my regular morning excursion, which ostensibly involves a benign mixture of yoga, tourism, and tramping through the West Coast’s forests. It’s far too damp to pretend that being outside is synonymous with ‘vacation’.
Today, the Regent’s company will have to serve as my daily distraction from the pain of being unlovable and barren. He’s so alive; so eager to talk about anything. Was it just the four months of Covid-19 isolation that we’d all endured, or was it a longer loneliness that had been begging for dissolution? His expressiveness reminds me of the few times in my childhood when I’d taken a precious school friend up to my room, my sacred space, and shown her all the treasures that I’d collected in my handful of years: shells and dolls, plastic horses and dream castles, books and bones and a long, shimmering snakeskin. Those rare friends slithered out of my life consistently, but I do remember how joyous that initial intimacy was.
Show-and-tell to a loving and genuinely interested audience is a childhood fantasy come true. The Regent deserves that. Why not? He loves to talk, like all men do, but our relationship is something special. He’s read my blog, and he knows who I am… at least to some extent, at least between March 23 and April 22 of this year.1
This blog is written in my honest voice. I really like it, and I want to share it, but I reckon everyone feels the same way about their voice. My voice is usually drowned out by the voices of other, more important people, and I always end up hating those relationships. Sharing my words with the Regent so early on might not have been the wisest idea, given the content herein, but it’s put me in a unique position of power. I’ve been heard on my terms. Is this the first time that a person has voluntarily taken the time to listen to me?
Of course, you talk to men on dates, but they don’t listen. They just stare at your flesh and think of their next brilliant quip. If you do manage to capture their interest with words, they’ll twist that connection into a competition and tell you how they’ve done it better or more dramatically. I always end up wasting my night, staring at them in forced adoration as they orate ad infinitum. Every time, I pray that we can stop this dick parade and maybe discuss something like two human beings. They never notice my kindness and respect in letting them drone on, and they absolutely never allow me to drone on. If I go on for more than five or six consecutive sentences, they stopper my lips with a kiss and move right on to sex.
Funny. If you replace the sex and kisses with yelling and whippings, they’d be exactly like my parents. Funny, funny patterns.
This is different, though. The Regent already knows me. My parents have never read my words. None of my exes have, either, except the Quaker, back in 2018. The thing is, I’m not sure that I want them to see my strength. They love me for my softness.
My words are my weapon. Divorce taught me that. I destroyed my ex-husband with my words, as much as one can destroy a vampire. He conquered me physically so many times, but I used my exquisite, sharp words to claw away at his deformed heart until it finally bled tears in recompense for the pain that he’d caused me. They were all so surprised that I’d hurt him. They thought I was prey, too.
It would be lovely and marketable if the sword of truth that my writing wields was a handy kitchen tool that I could use to slice off a piece of New Zealand to share with the world. But it is a weapon. Slicing away the Veil, sentence after sentence; a sword destroys boundaries. Humans love to peer within the hidden architecture of our character to find the juicy flow of life, a reminder of their own vitality. It’s the same old story: following the Universe’s injunction to look, perceive, know… to penetrate darkness with light. Then we can fulfill the only desire of the Universe: to lovingly see Itself in all Its naked glory.
Finally, that primal hunger to be truly seen and known is being sated. In my fantasies, that is love. I’m often wrong about such things.
The Regent hasn’t mentioned my writing, but it seems to have created a shortcut to our friendship. He sees me as a person without him ever having to listen to me speak. I feel heard, and he feels secure. I also feel exposed, as I cannot forget that these words expose my vulnerable vital organs to the world. He seems enchanted by my boldness. Is it a fox’s fixation on a mouse?
These rainy days have been ideal for working on my blog. Like everything I do, it takes forever because I like things just so. The tricky part is presentation. It’s always got to be fresh… new words to say the same things, covering up the obvious: that it’s all just a pile of zeros and ones; shaken, stirred, and served fresh daily!
This sort of mental and emotional challenge requires all of my attention. Sitting on the Regent’s guest couch, I fall into the memory of those lockdown days at the Lodge as though I’m falling into a hypnotic state and diligently tap my story into my cell phone. Sometimes I’ll sit there for two or more hours, and I often feel the Regent considering me from a distance. I’m spending as much time typing as I am hitting that tiny delete button with my fat, almost-40-year-old fingers. I need a proper keyboard.
It occurred to me that I might be able to buy a used laptop online if I could use the Regent’s address as a destination, so I asked him for permission yesterday. I love watching him be generous. Pride sits well on a Maori. That lifted barrel chest displays his culture just as obviously as the Regent’s full lips and well-creased eyes.
This morning, the Regent was eager to show me his Virtual Reality toys. In his casual Kiwi way, he waved at the small stack of VR units still in their boxes under his TV.
“I got a great deal on these,” he explained, “I want to set up a gaming room in downtown Westport.”
“Really?” This was the first time he’d mentioned any sort of career or community involvement. “What a cool idea! We need more social spaces, and I bet you’d get tons of business.”
“Nah, yeah, I’ve got a connection, and I can get a good space for cheap. It’ll just be a bunch of VR stations where you can rent these by the hour, and just play and chill.”
The way he said ‘chill’ made me giggle.
“Chell.” I mimicked his accent as well as I could, trying to curl the outer edges of my lower lip down and in so I could achieve the same delicate conch-shell shape. “Where’s the ‘i’? I think you mixed it up with your ‘iggs’ for breakfast.”
“Eegs!” the Regent insisted with mock outrage. “They’re eegs. Always been eegs. How do you say it?”
“Eggs… it’s almost an ‘a’ sound, actually.” I laughed at my American assumptions. “I guess it makes more sense your way. You say the ‘e’ sound and then a ‘g’… what else does a person need from two letters? It’s perfect.”
“Yeah, sweet as.”
“Another one!” I pointed to a Kiwiana poster at the far end of the living room that was simply a collection of Kiwi sayings and slang2 in a variety of jazzy fonts. “There, on the left: sweet as! You really do say all of the stereotypical words! I love it. And I especially love that it’s completely unironic. You’re a perfect tour guide.”
“I’m Kiwi as.” the Regent’s puffy chest rose as he laughed. “Here’s one that’s not on that poster: jafa. Have you ever heard that one?”
“Jaffa? A city in Israel? No… Sounds like something I’ve eaten before, though… Isn’t it a sort of chocolate-orange cookie?”
“No,” the Regent smiled wide and enlightened me. “Jafa, with one ‘f’. It stands for ‘Just Another Fucking Aucklander.’”
“Ahh! Awesome! Is there some sort of rivalry between the big-town snobs and the rural salt of the earth? Are Aucklanders really terrible or something?” It felt like getting the goss from the girls at work after a few days off – my ears were tingling to know about the juicy local social alliances.
“Auckland is just full of these assholes who think they’re king shit, with their huge cars and their fancy clothes. If they could, they’d buy up all the land and make wineries. The rest of New Zealand can’t be bothered with them.” The Regent shrugged. “You’ll see, if you ever get there.”
“Pff.” My disdain was obvious. “Doubt it. Sounds like Americans. Sounds like exactly the type of person that would destroy a continent for financial gain. Sounds like what I’m running from. It makes me so happy that there is a derogatory word specifically for city folk like that.”
“They’re basically wanna-be Australians. And Australians are wanna-be Americans. Out here on the South Island is where you get the real New Zealand.”
“Do you have any idea how lucky you are to be a citizen here?” I was serious for a moment. “This country is so real, and pure, and people are actually reasonable! I mean, they actually have common sense and they use it! You have no idea how rare this is in the States. I hate it there, and I don’t want to go back.” I heard my petulance, and I rushed to justify my discontent. “Americans are scared, stupid, and angry. I mean, you know. You’ve watched TV.”
“Yeah. The whole world knows what Americans are like.” the Regent’s chin wobbled in unambiguous assent. “Why don’t you stay here?”
“Can I?” I shrugged away his answer. “Everything’s still so strange with Covid. Do I belong here? Can I afford it? Maybe once we get to Level 2, I can look for a job.”
“Well, while we’re still stuck at home, do you want to try the VR?” The Regent really is good company. I must remember to compliment his excellent hosting skills when I write my review for AirBnB.
“A hundred percent.”
“Here, start with this.” He flipped through the options that popped up on his TV and rested on an Aquarium Immersion. “It’s just a small interactive world where you can try out the controls and see what it’s all about.”
A heavy set of goggles was strapped to my head, and the Regent pressed little control sticks into each of my hands. Darkness cleared, and the goggles showed me that I was underwater, facing a digital reef that swayed to a digital current. The sticks allowed me to navigate, as though I was propelling a little metal cage that defined the inside edges of this virtual aquarium. Fish swam past, traversing the field of my goggles with long, elegant strokes while anemones pulsed beneath me.
Visually, it truly seemed immersive; in a false, cartoonish way. VR could feasibly be quite entertaining. During my ten-minute session, I was extremely aware of two simultaneous realities: moving the hand controls and goggles to accurately interact with a world which only I can see, and how insane I looked as I did so. The cognitive dissonance was too much for me to bear, so I gently removed the lie from my head. It felt like quitting a job. I returned the VR set to the Regent with much gratitude for this new technological experience.
“It really feels like you’re surrounded by water! Amazing!” I used the moment to add some encouragement around his idea of opening a gaming room. He’s clearly lonely here in Westport.
“I’ve got stacks of these in the garage,” the Regent boasted. “I knew VR was going to hit big, so I wanted to get ahead of the game. Once Covid dies down, I can get the business into gear.”
“Once Covid dies down… How many times are we going to say that over the next few months?”
“It just won’t go away. And people are acting like eegs, making it worse. Did you hear about the idiots that escaped from quarantine last week?”
“What?! No, what happened?”
“They just had to get out of isolation,” he shrugged, “I guess they flew in from Australia and were under quarantine. It was a handful of people that just fucking jumped the fence and made a break for it. It was up north. They’ve been at Level 4 lockdown basically since this whole thing started: shelter in place, that sort of thing. We’re lucky to be at Level 3 and to be able to travel between towns. They’re going nuts with all the restrictions up there.”
“I got the impression that Kiwis were happy to follow the rules, or at least the Covid rules that impact public health.”
“Down here, yeah. We kind of go along to get along on the South Island.”
“There aren’t many people here. I guess that helps you respect and appreciate boundaries?”
The Regent pursed his curvy lips. “Yeah, and a lot of the farmers are used to being isolated and chained to their farms. They’re very conservative here in the South, especially when you get down towards Invercargill. Strangers bring change, and they don’t like either of those things. Lockdown was just fine by them.”
“And that’s not the case in Auckland?”
“Mostly, yeah, Kiwis will follow the restrictions. We’re all about family, whanau3, and we want to protect each other. Whanau isn’t just your immediate family, it’s your cousins and their cousins and anyone that we want to include in our circle. But we definitely have our share of radicals. That’s where Greenpeace was created, and those hippies are serious.” The Regent was flipping through his phone to find evidence for his assertions. A rather dry timeline of New Zealand’s Covid events appeared.
“See, here,” he scrolled, then paused. “24 July… five people abscond from a managed isolation facility, making a total of eight who have done so.”4
“Abscond!” I laughed heartily. “I love it here! They make it sound like Scooby-Doo and his gang are in trouble! Do they seriously need to keep Auckland under quarantine for so long? I know we’ve had new cases, but there’s been basically almost no deaths, and absolutely none since May 28th.”
“We’ve had 22 die.” The Regent’s pride was also a remembrance. “The first one was right here in Westport.”
“I’m so sorry. I forgot about that.”
“No, compared to the death toll in America, it is almost nothing.”
“America could use a culling.”
“America could use whanau.”
1 thousandpetalsproject.com/april-22-day-28-journal/
2 https://www.shopnz.com/blogs/nz-travel-and-culture/nz-slang-words-and-what-they-mean-to-us
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