Haere Mai, Welcome

True to my word, here I am, publishing the story I entered into that writing competition this year.
I'd be interested in what you think of it, especially compared to the piece that won.

Haere Mai, Welcome

There’s a sign in Auckland airport. That sign reads ‘Haere mai’. Those words of welcome are seen everyday, read by a thousand eyes. Immigrants, tourists and travelers- the phrase welcomes each and every one.

The phrase welcomes home kiwis who have been traveling the corners of the world, travels which have confirmed that New Zealand is home.

People will pass the sign, their feet now firmly on New Zealand soil, and breathe a sigh of comfort and relief.

…welcomed into the country like a child into the warm embrace of their mother…

I stare at the screen of my outdated computer and almost laugh. I reread the e-mail my younger sister has sent me from New Zealand, a coy smile playing on my lips. She should really consider a career in sales, I think, and just because that stuff’s not true, that doesn’t mean it’s not persuasive. I sit back and fold my arms around my waist. A soft sigh escapes my pouting lips.

My younger sister has been trying to get me to come and visit her in New Zealand for what seems like a very long time.
You see, while I watch December snow fall outside my window, she is probably staring at the moon with our father, moist, summer air surrounding them both. I suddenly feel the need to go outside, to breathe the air. I step out onto my small porch and a wall of cold hits me. I take a breath, the Bordeaux air stinging my nostrils. I look out over my town, and scan the horizon. My mother once told me I always used to try and spot the Eiffel Tower from here, and, secretly, I’ve been continuing the hopeless game ever since. A jolt of disbelief jumps within me, I see something tiny and grey far off in the distance. I shake my head, snow falling around me; this air must be just a little too cold. I amuse myself by looking down on the streets below, at the beautiful women hiding in their warm, but very chic, winter coats, and the French men, still trying to swagger despite the nipping cold.

I look back to the horizon, back to the uneventful, pale blue line. A rather large, grey bird swoops down from the roof behind me, making me start. It then begins to fly loops above our building. Round and round it goes. I watch it, transfixed. I’m starting to get dizzy. The bird gives one mournful hoot, and then is gone. I stare into space briefly, listening.

People often describe a change within themselves by comparing it to a sudden snap; of one thing just ending to become something new. As weird as it seems, I was sure that my change was audible, that I heard the resent in me snap, crack, melt away.
I went back inside and faced the dirty screen once more. I hadn’t realised how cold I was. Images of beaches with warm sand and dark blue sea entered my mind.

Fleur, take a breath, grab your inhaler. Pascal and Dad will take care of the tickets. I want to be there for Christmas, so I’ll see you soon. Send my love to Dad. Can’t wait to see you.

Love, C.

I hit the send button and let out another sigh. This was it. I, eighteen-year-old, Coralie, am finally getting out of Europe, to go to a town whose name I can’t even pronounce.
I had never been more scared in my life.

The next week or so went by in a blur of excited emails, time spent staring at the horizon, and many, many, proud smiles from my mother, Pascal. Whenever I caught her gazing at me with that expression on her face, I’d raise a brow and ask, ‘Quel est ce, mère? What is it, Mum?
Each time she would look at me, right into my eyes, and give me some variation of, ‘Nothing, can’t one just smile anymore?’

Before I knew it I was standing in the airport, people busting past in all directions. French crackled through the speaker system, its furious speed coupled with a thick Parisian accent making even me, a born-and-bred French girl, listen more closely. Tourists took out their copies of Learn French, Fast!, cocked their heads to one side, did whatever they could to try and discern what on Earth was being said. I passed an elderly couple, trying to ask where the bus station was. Their French was garbled and rough, but as they were about to give up, the man they were asking raised one hand to stall them. I heard him say, in perfect English:

‘Walk out the main entrance and take a left. You will see a lot of buses, that may help.’ And with that he walked away. Always with the dramatics.

Mum grabbed me at the gate. She wrapped me in a hug. After a moment, she held me at arms length and reached up to brush some of my hair aside. One of those smiles played on her lips again...

‘It feels much better, doesn’t it?’

I pulled her towards me, our tears mixing as we kissed each other on both cheeks.

I walked through the gate and promised myself I wouldn’t look back.

I turned around at the first corner. My mother is still smiling. I raise my hand, take a breath of warm, conditioned air, and start walking.

*

It’s a strange feeling waking up to the same light, the same image, sitting in an uncomfortable seat beside a women you’ve never seen before. That was long-haul flights for you.

It’s also strange to wake up with the same thought you drifted off to still in your mind.

It feels better, doesn’t it?

Mum knew, somehow, that the heavy, rock-hard resentment inside me had gone. A warm feeling filled me. I rested my head on the plane window, cloud stretched above and below us. Then, slowly, an anxious chill began to permeate the warmth. I hadn’t seen my sister of father in three years. I was hurtling through the air towards this strange land; there was no going back now. What had I got myself into?

*

I stare at my phone in disbelief. Their car has broken down. I have to get to their beach-side town by myself. I get out my road map and try to pronounce the town name one more time. My accent-stained lips do not seem to want to say it. Whangaparaoa.

‘Fon-ger-pear-ro-er.’ I mumble, in a fashion I think must be amusing enough to be up to standard with Kiwi humor.

As I stand, bewildered, in the Auckland Airport I notice a blatantly German women looking lost and confused. She draws a breath and goes up to a couple waiting by the arrivals. The pair smile encouragingly and then bring out a map. The women hands over a pen and together, I see them work out the problem she has. As they hand over the map and wish her well, she thanks them with and expression of mild surprise and undisguised relief. I love France deeply, but I had to admit, that that never would have happened there. We just love our condescending humor too much.

The automatic doors swoosh open, and dry, warm air greets me. I marvel at the fact that, even in their biggest city, the clean air still carries traces of the sea.

Okay, taxi stand, where are you?

Spotting it, I begin to trundle my bag towards it. Walking across the sun drenched foot path, a broad but kind voice calls me.
A young man jogs up to me, holding a small booklet.

‘Hey…uh, New Zealand’s choice, who wouldn’t want to stay, eh? But, maybe you’d like to go home and get you jandals or something…’ The man stops, his features echoing my own nervous, unsure expression.

‘Your passport?’ He proclaims, louder and slower, as if this is likely to assist the situation.
My heart is beating so hard and fast, my limbs feel like they’re hollow.

‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ I feel as though I might cry.

‘No probs, oi.’ He smiles widely then turns away.’ One thing is nagging me, though.

‘‘Excuse me, but…‘jan-daals’’?’ I call after him.

He laughs mutely and kicks out his feet.
I let out a soft ‘oh’ as he turns once more and walks away.

I collapse into the back of the taxi, lean my head back and try to pull myself together.
Jet lag pulses through me, a wave of fatigue close behind.

‘Alright, love?’ A voice that is somehow warm asks. I had almost forgotten where I was. ‘Oh…yes, thank you.’ He is a kind-faced Indian man, but despite appearances, I have no doubt that he is a real New Zealander. The man begins to negotiate the airport car park. My tired, clumsy fingers open the road map. The mazes of lines and minuscule writing blur before my sleep encrusted eyes. As he exits on to the main road, he says,

‘Where to, mam?’ I am staring at the map, it still was refusing to make sense, but I can hear the smile in his voice.

‘Well…’ I begin. ‘I need to get to…to,’ I did not feel like embarrassing myself. I wait for some snide words from the driver, perhaps a snigger.

‘Jet lag’s a bugger, ain’t it?’ He looks at me, I feel safe, the fear inside me subsides a little. ‘Just show me the map, love.’ At the red light he nods, says we’ll be there in an hour if the traffic’s good. I manage to mumble the street address before the comfort he offered makes me drift off into a sleep, despite the uncomfortable headrest and sound of city life.

I open my eyes and glistening blue sea and white sails present themselves to me. It takes me a moment to realise that we are not, in fact flying.

‘The ‘Arbour Bridge, no?’ I say sleepily.

‘That’s right, hun.’ But he didn’t get far, because I had just seen something that had woken me like splash of icy water.

‘Is that- is that a volcano?’ I say a bit too loudly.

‘Indeed it is-’

‘What! It’s not active, though, surely…’

‘Oh, yes, ol’ Rangi is just dormant. A lot of the others are just dormant, too-’

‘There’s more?!’

‘Sorry to break it to you,’ the cabby begins, cautious because of my panic, ‘but the city’s built on them.’

‘Built…built on…’ I start, but my body craves sleep. ‘You people are crazy.’ I say as darkness envelopes me.

But before I am completely emerged in sleep, I hear:

‘Fact of life, that is, dear,’

I awake to the sight of New Zealand, images of suburbia meets beach culture go past outside the dusty window of the cab. It’s early afternoon, the sky nothing but relentless blue, everything seems so vibrant…so alive. We stop at the traffic lights, and, to my greatest, jet-lagged, surprise, the guy the next car over says,

‘G’day, a beauty, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, you betcha, mate.’ The taxi driver replies, like this good natured chat is the most normal thing in the world. A thought slides through my mind as we accelerate: maybe it is. Maybe all this is the most spectacular, gorgeous normal. We drive next to houses that practically drip into the ocean. The water is cobalt velvet, immersed in sparkling diamonds. Before I can stutter ‘My word, where in a postcard’, the car has stopped outside a small white house set back from the road. The grass is short, dry. There’s a pole with a piece of rope hanging from it, a tennis ball hangs at the end of the rope. Another question. Another answer I’m looking forward to.

I pay the man and soon he is driving away. I stand, staring at the house. The hinges of the front door squeak. My little sister runs from the house and flings herself around me. My jet lag is gone for the moment. My father follows in her wake, a shy grin on his tanned face. He opens his arms, I step over the threshold, into home.

‘Papa…I whisper into his chest. He holds me tighter.

‘Haere mai, welcome.’

An original story, based on true events

Earlier this month I wrote about a certain writing competition that I won last year (and didn't win this year). I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, you might want to read that ''winning story''. So that's why I'm posting this story on my blog. I'm also considering posting the story I entered this year, so you guys can see the comparison. Yes, I'm doing it all for you.
Anyhow, this is based on a true story, and I hope you like it.

Surprises around each corner, and over every wave.

As I sit at my computer and stare out at the water trapped between Tindalls’ distance strip of cream coloured sand, Big Manly Beach covered in tiny specks of happy families and Swann Cove’s lush pohutukawa trees I recall the events of that unforgettable January day three long summer’s ago…

The air was filled with our anticipation for the day ahead. It was early, the sun just a pale yellow shape silently rising from behind the Gulf Harbour peninsula. The air was cold; a mirror of the eerie blue sky’s watered down colour. It was going to be another beautiful day here in the Bay, how could it not be? With not a single cloud to be seen and the water looking like a plate of frosted glass?

We were going to go fishing today out by Mota Ora and I knew we were going to have a really successful day. Why? Because my dad had told me so the previous night as we had watched the sun go down, departing through a leaving party of fluffy pink clouds; ‘Pink at night, sailor’s delight. Tomorrow it’s gonna be like shooting fish in a barrel.’

So while dad and my older brother were hooking up the boat to the tow bar and mum was packing the picnic and filling the chilly bin I had been set the task of sorting out the towels and beach things. I went to the cupboard and pulled at a pile of towels managing to bring down the entire contents of the top shelf in the process. I grabbed a few then pushed the door closed to cover the evidence as we all probably have done at one time or another. I went out to the deck to get the beach bag and found everything covered in sand from our sand castle building expedition a few days before. I shook the bag out and left a small beach and a half sitting on our deck.

It was now nearly time to leave, apparently, as dad kept saying; if we left it to late the boat ramp was going to be choca-blocked, whatever that meant. Mum was rubbing sun block on my arms and face and like everything else it hadn’t been spared from the sand. The white cream was all gritty as she rubbed it in and as usual she left one big blob on the bridge on my nose. And so, after reluctantly putting on a hat and dad saying that no, we couldn’t ride in the boat on the way down we were turning into the car park of The Bay Boat Club.

We didn’t have a big boat then just a twelve foot Mac boat, basically just like a fancy fibreglass dingy. So after the usual fighting over who got to ride on the tractor and dad letting us both squish on to the back, dad was letting the boat slowly into the water then driving the trailer away with my brother sticking his tongue out at me all the way.

We sat in the blazing hot, January sun for three hours. Jumping with excitement whenever we thought we got a bite or sighing melancholy when we realised there was no fish on the end of our line. We had only used three or so bait fish because nothing was biting at all. At the climax of our fishing trip dad managed to catch an extremely undersized snapper that I insist he throw back, albeit reluctantly.

The heat and sunlight reflecting off water (no matter how gorgeous it looked) was starting to get to us all and so after mum saying to dad; ‘Pink at sunset, fishermen’s regret’ we were headed home. The mood was not uplifting to say the least so I suggested we go for a little look around Tindalls. That was proved to be a very wise decision indeed. We rounded the corner in a wide arc and saw about six or more boats all filled with people motoring about the same small area. Dad was excited when he realised it might be a new amazing fishing spot. Well, it turned out there was no short of marine life in that little patch of water but not in the way you might think.

As we got closer we realised that it was actually a pod of dolphins, and a big one at that.
We were heading closer to join the sort of semi-circle of boats around them when one of them did an amazing jump right out of the water. It seemed to stay up there forever, droplets of water glistening on every inch of its smooth blue-grey skin. Unfortunately, gravity still existed and it dived back down into the crisp, cobalt blue water with a splash.

They were heading in land at an angle and so everybody began to follow. It was quite spread out and really, still quite private as only little dinghies were there. Though we were close enough for me to see the expressions of pure joy on everyone’s faces, and the expression that could have been perceived as a smile on a golden Labrador’s face that was sharing a boat with its master.

Now, people say dolphins are extremely intelligent animals but personally I think they are just genus humans that are so smart the have mastered the art of breathing underwater. They were swimming so close, I reached out and my fingers and they found the silken skin of a dolphin as it sped past. Then my dad proved that even if he couldn’t breathe underwater he could still use his intuitive pretty well; and he threw a whole bait fish over the side. It only was on the surface of the water for a few moments before a dolphin swam along and it was gone.

Right after that we all simultaneously reached into the bait bag and threw a fish over board. We had the attention of some of the dolphins now so I decided I should use my brain and held the bait fish over the side by the tail. We were stopped by now so it was possible that a dolphin might be feeling friendly and pop by for a bit. It proved true as a dolphin’s elegant fin sliced through the water and stopped about a metre away. It cautiously edged close and took it in its mouth. A dolphin had just eaten something form my hand, my jaw was probably touching the sea floor. There was still half of the fish left and the dolphin back came over and stayed there while it ate. I touched the skin around the side of its head and let my hand glide down the front of its long face.
Then as time reluctantly moved on it made a squeaking noise that I will forever remember as a ‘thank-you’ it dived deep down and swam away.

I didn’t want to spoil what had just occurred with another attempt so I just sat there, rocking with the slight swells and watching as dolphins shared special moments with humans all round. They soon began their retreat out to deeper ocean and us inland. We didn’t speak much as we were all so awestruck. We all were probably smiling like idiots as we put the boat on the trailer and drove home but it didn’t matter as I felt like I was floating on air and I just felt whole and so unbelievably happy.

And that’s my story. I’m sure many amazing things have happened to people all around Rodney; it’s just that kind of place. With little bush tracks and secluded little nooks and bays around nearly every corner its something that’s hard to avoid during summer. But I think us as people; can get too caught up in out work, distracted by money and little problems that would soon blow over in the cool summer breeze if you let them. Rodney is an absolutely amazing place, it’s a beautiful oasis and I believe that it needs to be recognized for what it is.

Paradise.

A group of words forming a unit and conveying meaning

The blank box of a new post no longer glares at me and taunts me. It tempts me.
I could write whatever I wanted. I could create a new world, a new person, re-live the worst and best memories, without ever leaving the office chair. I could write a pointed argument, or relate to you the trivial goings on of my life. I could be sceptic, and question the entirety of man kind.
I can write my thoughts, knowing that someone else, even it if is just one person, will be exposed to my writing. My thoughts, my opinions, my emotions and experiences. I can control this.
I can write about something I detest or adore, and influence somebody else.
I could write of something I learnt, and while sowing the information deeper into my mind, educate another person. The opportunities are endless.
I have a feeling some people might be reading these words, thinking,'Okay...', perhaps shaking there head at my enthusiasm, my optimism and ambition. Some may think I am writing out of pure emulation to have the most entries.
All of these things come together to illustrate one point: I am making you think. You are, sub- consciously or not, countering or agreeing, analysing, criticising, at least of which, processing, what I have to say.
It is thanks to this blog that I have a wider audience of readers. Even if I had wanted to, and taken my journal or a piece of writing to school, not that many people would be amply reading it.
And while I am not at total liberty with this blog, I am expressing myself. I have mentioned it before, self-expression is an important thing to do, and doing it on a regular basis is particularly beneficial, in my opinion. You will be getting better and getting all your ideas down, and getting them out there in a form where others can understand them.
I was never opposed to this blog, despite some opinions, but now I don't think of it as a task.
I hope this way of thinking eventually grows on the other members of my class, and that they can to find the simple joy of successfully translating your thoughts into words.

A Letter to the Folks

Dear the wonderful Mum and Dad,

I am writing this letter today in the hope of convincing you to take me on a world trip. I know that sentence is slightly ambitious, but I will be happy with just Europe or the Americas.

For ages you two have discussed a world trip; in the naive year of 8 you scared me out of my wits, saying that we were going somewhere for six weeks. All these ideas, all these dreams, have sadly never become a reality. I feel bad to think that I have helped to stop these dreams by refusing to miss a day of school. I am glad to inform you that I have matured, perhaps slightly too late, in this respect, and am willing to take up to three weeks off school.

This trip really should take place sometime this year, as next year is NCEA (School C.) and I could not afford to miss much time for such an important year. I truly believe that I deserve this trip. I am by no means that perfect daughter, but I am ideal for bragging about to you friends. I am aware that this is incredibly arrogant, but I think it is a valid point. I bake for you on-call and take your youngest son off your hands almost daily. Mum, you were taken to San Francisco and Hawaii at my age, wasn't it an amazing experience? Don't you want your own children to have th same oportunities? I mean, you turned out fantastic, is that in some way related to you international trips?

Let's go a world trip. You've never 'done' Europe, so I'd be happy to share that experience with you. Or you could show us North Africa, Morocco, and transpose the love of their culture on to us. The speak French in Morocco, I could even order you coffee. Or you could take us to America, Canada. I know your eldest son has already been there, done that, but I have obviously gotten over than injustice, and am ready to explore the U. S. of A.. You said it yourself, it won't be long until family trips are a thing of the past, let's make some great memories and finish this era with a bang.

Yours most sincerely,

Eve,
(Your loving and some-what brilliant daughter, who desperately needs her mind widened by travel.)

Sub & Trans

This 'story' is a home-learning task for English. We were instructed to use all the sub and trans words we were given in a blog entry, such as transfigure (transform, to change in outward form or appearance) and subdivide (to divide which has already been divided).
So, subsequently, here is that explicit entry, with the subject of the afternoon and night after I was given this assignment. Ahem.

Last night, I went for a swim at the beach. The water held a certain chill, but after I had submerged myself beneath its surface, the temperature became comfortable enough.
I returned home to the smell of dinner cooking, a very welcoming scent indeed. Over the past couple of weeks my mother has been transfusing her knowledge of cooking to me whilst I help her preparing meals. While this is an enjoyable experience, I can't imagine doing it every night, and it has helped me realise why some nights my mother just buys Subway. [I understand this isn't the correct use of the word subway in relation to this task, but, hey, I just didn't ride on an underground electric railroad that day.]
Later, I sat down at the table with my family. Well, 80% of my family, since my six-year-old brother was not feeling particularly submissive (i.e. compliant) at that instance. He was currently transverse on the floor, playing with his Bionicles.
'So, Eve, how was you day?' My father asked.
'Good, we had a substitute teacher for P.E., but it was still a good lesson.' I replied. 'How was your day?'
'You wouldn't believe it, we've had another problem with the rent transaction. Our current tenant is definitely transitory, but I hope he realises that not paying rent is a transgression of the law.' At that moment, my older brother had thought Dad to be distracted, and had reached for the remaining steak. Displaying sharp reflexes for a man of his age, my father swooped his fork down and had the steak on his plate before my older brother realised what was going on.
'You treat me like such a subordinate.' He complained, his downcast eyes pointedly focused on his steak-less plate.
'Here, have some carrots,' my father consoled, 'and stop trying to subvert the hierarchy of this family.'
I drank some water out of my transparent glass and felt content with the fact that I had nothing to submit tomorrow.
Later still, with dinner complete, the family remained seated around the table.
Mum looked around at us all, and asked the dreaded question. 'Who is going to transmigratee to the kitchen and do the dinner dishes?'
'I believe, unless you have transposed the chore list, that it is Dad's turn to do them.' I chimed.
Dad shot me a look, to which I just smirked, then headed down the stairs to the kitchen.
'You have half an hour to transmit e-mails, Eve, then I want you to start on you French translation work. '
'That smirk probably isn't transient then, is it?' Dad called.

Writing Competition

I opened our family's Inbox and felt a surge of excitement as my eyes found the subject line reading, Rodney Writes Award Presentation.
Did I dare think it? Had I won? I read the words of the e-mail, convincing myself that perhaps I had got a placing in this district-wide competition. Sadly, it was not to be.
At the end of the message were the words, and I quote, For you information, the winners have been notified. Oh. Thanks. Needless to say, I have decided against attending.
The thing you should know is that I won this competition last year, first place in the Young Writers' category. This title also came with a five hundred dollar cheque.
I'm not that disappointed, to be honest. I mean, yeah, it would have been nice to win, but what's happened has contradicted some fundamental principles of mine.
I wrote the first story, Surprises around each corner and over every Wave, in about a half-hour. Seriously, I just sat down at the computer after hearing about the competition and wrote it. Then I forgot about it and finally submitted it in on the last day before the deadline of the competition.
But with the second story I spent time on; planning it, writing and re-writing it.
I suppose that the theme was more forced than the first theme.
Maybe I won on a fluke, and it is true that there weren't that many entrants the first time round.
Oh well, that's beside the point. What happened is that a careless attitude triumphed over time and effort. It's very interesting.
I wasn't particularly proud of my first piece, it was tacky and obvious and had way too many metaphors. I definitely think my second story was better put together, and it must have been written better- I was a whole year older and had surely developed more skill.
It is not encouraging to think that I have, perchance, become worse over time.
I have concluded that I will not take full-credit for not getting a place in this competition, and that they probably just didn't want to let the same person win two years in a row. (That's what I have been consoling myself with at least.)
Oh well. I believe there is no peak of skill when it comes to expressing yourself, and so I will just have to keep practicing and think positively.

Over & out.

Horton Hears a Who

Horton Hears a Who is a wonderful movie. I have just returned from seeing it, on this windy Tuesday morning. Based upon a story by Dr. Zeuss himself, I knew it would be lovely, and it was.
The story goes a little something like this: Horton is an elephant living in the jungle of Nool. One day, during his morning swim, a speck of dust floats by and he hears a cry coming from the speck. He is convinced that there is a person, or possibly people, living on the speck, and that they need his help. He eventually gets to communicate with the life forms on the speck, and there is indeed a whole lot of people who call the speck their home. Living in the speck of dust is all of the Whos, in a place called Whoville. The Whos have no idea that their world is a speck of dust. They are all in danger and so Horton takes it upon himself to help the Whos and take them somewhere that they can continue there existence in peace. He is ridiculed and isolated by the fellow animals of the jungle, and only his best friend Morton believes him.
But Horton perseveres, and sticks to his morals, even when the whole of his community is against him.
This movie conveys a great principle- a person is a person, no matter how small.
It captures your imagination and gets you thinking. Maybe they aren't small...perhaps we are just big?
This a feel-good movie, and I do recommend you see it. Whether you are a child at heart or four-foot tall, I believe it will leave you with a smile on your face and, do I dare say it, a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Why You Should and Shouldn't

Hello, again.
During that daily talk at the end of my friend's driveway last Friday afternoon, she said that no matter how perfect you think someone may be, everyone has flaws. This is very true. And while flaws are often determined by people's personal opinions, nobody is perfect. Boy, am I glad of that.
So, I have decided to save you the trouble of judging and/or assessing me by telling you reasons why you should and and shouldn't like me. Of course, these are my opinions of myself, and even though I probably know myself best out of anyone, you could quite possibly loathe certain things I do, and I might not even notice them.

Reasons you should like me:
I'll always be there for you.
You can feel normal around me.
I don't forget much.
I won't lean on your shoulder to make you feel short.
I'll study with you.
I'll push you to be the best you can.
I'll laugh hysterically with you.
I will approach the in-depth topics with you and happily discuss them confusedly.
I will always be up up for any crazy, dare-devil thing.

Reaons you should dislike me:
I talk, a lot.
I always bring the subject back in relation to me.
I don't commit to anything on-line.
I am extremely competitive.
I awlays talk about myself (you may have noticed).
It may appear I am glaring at you when I am just thinking hostile thoughts about you and not controlling my expression.
I am unintentionally bossy and assume the role of ''leader'' or ''captain'' almost always.
I don't want to believe this, but I'm pretty sure it's true: I am either really negative or really postive, i.e., happy or sad, but never just normal.
I have very strong opinions.
I do quite like to argue and debate, and if I am right, I enjoy proving it.
I don't forget much.

Divagate- to wander

Okay, I realise I have been neglecting this blog more than usual.
I'm not that busy now, so I have sat down at the computer and promised myself that I won't get up until I have published this entry.
Trust me, I have began many, many entries for this super-fantastic blog. I have tried to make each one have structure, meaning, and enough descriptive language to prove to a few certain people that I am capable of creative writing.
Well, what's been happening in my life?
It's holidays. Yay. End of term. 25% of year ten- done and dusted.
Okay, I've thought of something that I can write about.
I am doing the Bronze Duke of Edinburgh's Award this year, and so I have to do a service.
Last Thursday I started my service with our district's local library. I chose to do it at the library because I use that facility so much I wanted to give something back. Not that I don't notably fund it with all my over-due fines. It was pretty good, quite enjoyable actually, and everyone was really nice. I basically just got a quick tour, but at the end I got to shelve some large-print books.
That was fine, too, though it was rather awkward with the librarian just standing there, staring at me, while I frantically tried to remember what came after 'H'. (The shelving system was in alphabetical order, if you didn't understand that last part of that sentence.)
Oh, on Friday I talked to my friend after school, standing at the end of her driveway as we have done nearly everyday for the last two and a bit years, until about four thirty.
When I got home I ate some cornflakes, watched some t.v., then went and lay down in my bed in full school uniform because it was so cold. I woke up a few times over the course of the evening and early morning but basically slept until quarter-to-seven the next morning.
My mother said that I had been burning the candles at both ends for a while (getting up early to run or go to netball training and staying up late to study) and I just needed a catch up.
Later that very morning, I made chocolate chip pancakes/pikelets (what is the difference?), I made quite a mess but they tasted good.
Then my mum, dad, little brother and I went down to the beach to look at the 'shipwreck'.
The major storm that has recently attacked our country, even, sadly, claiming lives, had flipped a boat upside down and washed much of its contents onto the shore. This is quite disconcerting as it's around the same size as our new boat and it was moored right by our mooring down at the cove. In fact it's still attached to the mooring, but it's upside down.
Oh-oh, last Tuesday it was my little brother's sixth birthday and also the day of his party. It was pirate themed and very, very cool. I did dress up as a pirate and badly tried to act like one. We had pin-the-eye-patch-on-the-pirate, the doughnut game, balloon races and a massive, beautiful cake made by me. I even ran a treasure hunt. It was a slightly degrading experience, made worse when you realise all the boys really cared about was the lollies.

And guess what? I am going to see Panic at The Disco live! With Cobra Starship and The Academy Is... It's going to be rad! (Okay, so I might be grieving the loss of the exclamation mark from Panic! At The Disco, but at least I don't do this: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11)

Bobbie-Leigh (if you were bored enough to even read this), this is what happens when I ramble.

Before I Die

Before I Die is a fictional novel by Jenny Downham. The story is about a 16-year-old girl named Tessa Scott who, as you may have guessed from the title, has leukemia. She was diagnosed when she was 11, and had been doing chemo, and every other perceivable treatment, since then. She was not getting better, and she knew she wasn't going to.
The language in this book isn't ''soppy''. It used short, and very sharp, sentences. Written from the view point of Tessa, the language did have a certain morbid wit about it.
She made a list of everything she wanted to do before she 'went'. Drugs. Fame. Love.
One thing was that she had to say yes to everything for one day.
She wanted to fit a life into 8 months.
I know it's quite predictable, but reading this story has made some things I, and a lot people, worry about seem embarrassingly trivial. It made me want to go out a live life. Really live it.
I better understand now that you can't just live your life with a brutal recklessness like Tessa did, though. Not when you have a whole life to live.
I can't remember the exact words, but one thing a certain character of the same age as her said really struck me.
'It's just so unfair. How come I get to have a whole life ahead of me? Why?'

I recommend this book to anyone and everyone. It will make you feel dismal. Ungrateful. Frustrated, and unsure about the justice that is meant to be in this world.
But it made me feel so lucky. So immensely, insanely lucky. I am healthy. I am alive.
And cancer hasn't permeated any part of my life except through stories.
It has helped me grasp the concept of taking things for granted.
I say 'helped' because I don't think we can truly understand how lucky we are.

Grief.

My Nana passed away last year. This was my first loss of immediate family. This, though, is not the point. I don't know much about grief. My dad lost his mum and he changed; for a while it was like he was half-turned inside out. He was exposed and vulnerable.
There is something terribly frightening about seeing you parents, especially your father, cry. You mind yells, 'But you're meant to be invincible and unchanging, you aren't scared of the dark!'
I wrote this poem, if I recall correctly, the night before the funeral. Oh, the drama.

I don’t want to say goodbye.

I won’t utter a sad farewell,

Because you haven’t gone.

No one else can seem to tell,

They just say so long.

They wear black,

Then move on.

But you’re staying, you’ll never leave,

I’m drowning in prayers as the countless grieve.

I won’t hold you in my heart,

Because you’re all around me.

It’s not the end, it’s just a start,

Your love surrounds me.

I’ll place a rose on your tombstone,

I’ll do it just for show.

I know alone,

That you’ll never go.

There was no final breath,

It’s not true.

There was no death,

You’re still you.

Don’t give your pity and contempt.

I will not mourn

What has not gone.

I will not say goodbye.

Youth Declaration

Yesterday, on Saturday April 12th, I was very proud to actively participate in the inaugural Youth Declaration 2008. I assume you are a very dedicated reader of this super-fantastic blog and so understand what I mean when I say Youth Declaration.
Anyhow, I got up at 6, dressed in my appropriate 'smart casual' attire and basically readied myself for the 8 and a half hours of conference ahead of me.
Conference, though, probably portrays the incorrect idea of what happened yesterday.
After milling around in the flash new Business School section of the city university for half an hour, followed by a short opening ceremony, we headed off into groups to discuss our topic.
It wasn't that formal; we sat around tables and ultimately, just talked.
It was incredible, I recognised over a half of people there from the Model Untied Nations.
There were twelve people in our group, with one facilitator, and we started our discussion with what poverty meant to us and what issues we would like to see raised that day.

One of the main issues we discussed was how poverty and lower education are linked. In fact, they create their own sub-cycle off the vicious cycle of poverty.
Let's say a parent dropped out of school because they got pregnant at a young age, they therefore haven't got any qualifications and have to live off the benefit because they don't have the time to work a minimum-wage job. The education that is supposed to be free sends many bills to the struggling single parent; fees, uniform, stationary, school trips. The student has to drop out of school because they simply cannot afford to stay in school. They then do not have any qualifications and so have to work a minimum wage or live on the benefit...

To target this problem, we proposed that 'schools should be run as non-profit organisations, not businesses'.

I know some of you may be thinking that poverty isn't a major issue in New Zealand. When we were discussing what groups we were in at the lobbying lunch at the M.U.N., someone said that exact thing to me. And that, my friends, is the problem. According to statistics, 1 in 5, that is 20%, of children going to school are going there hungry. We are supposed to be a developed country.
Another myth about poverty in New Zealand is that people living off the government are too ''lazy'' to get a job and that the explicit benefits are fostering dependency.
Did you know that over 50% of the people on the Unemployment Benefit only stay on it for 6 months?
Yes, there will always be people who take advantage of the system. But I hope you are aware that the number of benefits available for the people of New Zealand do not allow for many, if any, luxuries.
All I can ask of you is to appreciate what you have and how lucky you are, and to donate food or money to the Salvation Arm. When you can donate money or time to community projects.

I won't carry on too much longer, because I know how my class love my long entries, but at the end of the conference the document was presented to the current Governor General of New Zealand, Anand Satyanand. That's right, the Governor General. The Minister of Youth Affairs was scheduled to come, but then something to do with Labour Party cropped up.

It was such a great experience, and thinking that some of my thoughts and ideas will be kept as a record in parliament and may even be used to help make decisions in the future is just mind-blowing.

Now, how to bring about world peace?

The Zoo

As the following article describes, the whole of year ten went to the city zoo last Thursday. This article is going into next week's school newsletter. Writing articles for the newsletter is harder than one would think. But I managed this one:

On Tuesday the 8^th, all the year ten students boarded a fleet of buses and headed down to the city to go to the zoo. The point of the zoo trip was to learn about introduced and endangered species. We had a worksheet to complete and one session to attend but besides that, we were free to roam maturely around the zoo.

The session was mainly focused on endangered species of endemic birds in New Zealand, and how introduced species, including humans, have severely disrupted the ecosystem. The session taught me how unique and special the flora and fauna of New Zealand is; we were an isolated island 65 million years ago, and so our animals could evolve free of mammal predation and develop some very unique factors. You may realise that our country is home to things that are found no where else in the world.

Just wandering around the enclosures and appreciating the wonderful animals that the zoo has to offer was great. Seeing the tiger roll over and yawn like your pet cat never ceases to be amazing. Watching the chimpanzee, giant tortoise and tamarind monkeys up close is a really nice experience.
Being able to realistically apply ecology made the study more interesting and easier to grasp.

A big thanks to the teachers that organised this trip and the parents that came along, it was a really enjoyable day.

Billy T. James

The other day in English class our teacher showed us a few videos on youtube. These videos were of a famous New Zealand comedian of late, named Billy T. James. The character he portrayed in some of his videos was the epitome of the modern-Maori stereotype; very funny stuff. She then asked us to write a short story about him and how he would fit into, or more likely, not fit into, today’s society. She also said to make it funny. Well, I tried.

Billy T. James lumbered into Foodtown, slipping every few steps in his socks and jandals. A middle-aged lady with a stony expression glared from behind her counter.

‘Hey ‘cuzzy!’ Billy yelled across to her, ‘Howzit?’
Her face flushed, then she pretended to busy herself, wiping the spotless counter and glaring at that instead.

Unaffected, or perhaps just plain oblivious, Billy walked along the aisles. He came to the deli section and began an inspection of the food before him, his hand patting a large belly spilling over the top of his stubbies. He wrinkled his wide nose at a small jar, and picked it up for a more in-depth inspection. The lady from the counter walked past, now pretending, badly, to readjust a pile of bananas while her eyes never left the man squinting at a label on a jar of feta.

‘Look at this fancy-schmanzy…goat’s cheese?’ He said to himself. It was loud enough, though, to make the check-out lady bristle once again. ‘Twelve bucks…yeah right!’

He then came to the deli counter and stopped in his tracks in front of a certain product.

‘‘Scuse me, bro,’ He said to the young man behind the counter, ‘what’re you trying to sell here?’

‘Well, that would be sushi-’ He began.

‘Su what?’ Billy said loudly, ‘Looks a bit weird to me, looks almost like seaweed…’

‘That’s because it is, sir, and in the middle there is raw fish, it really is quite nice, from Japan-’

Cutting the man of once more Billy said, ‘I didn’t hear anything past seaweed, mate! Trying to sell seaweed! Sorry to break it to you mate,’ he said between laughter, ‘that’s one thing that’s never gonna sell. You can get seaweed from the beach, man!’

Leaving the poor man quite confused, and with a slightly open mouth, he continued to walk, muttering to himself in disbelief.

Netball Tournament

Yesterday, I arrived home from the netball tournament that I have mentioned earlier. We stayed by a stunning lake surrounded by pines and Nikau palms, a sight that blew me away every time I saw it. The camp itself wasn’t too shabby either, and the cabins were had proper walls, unlike year 8 camp, where we stayed in log cabins with gaps between the logs. We had no netball games on the first day, seeing as we left the school at around two o’clock. There was a four hour drive down to the tournament venue, but it passed pretty fast, and a large amount of junk food and stupid jokes helped to pass the time.
All the parents and teachers were very nice but it was quite amusing because, as I am vegetarian, I couldn’t eat most of the meals they had planned. They day before we departed a frazzled teacher had asked me, ‘But what do you eat?’
My mum wrote a list, trying to make it as simple as possible, and in the end, I brought food home because they bought so much for me.
I only played goal keep in the four and a half games I played (there’s ten in our team), but I want to start playing more GD as the season goes on.

The next day we had three games of netball. We won two games and lost one.
On Saturday we had four games, and we won three of those but lost one by two, 13-15, which was a real bummer, as we were winning in the second half.

The team we were playing in our last game pulled out, so we only had one game on Sunday, which we lost, but that team had been undefeated and we lost to them by the closest margin out of the entire tournament.
Depending on other results, we most probably came third overall in the junior netball. The aim of the trip was not only to try and win the tournament but to get our team playing well before the season starts. It was a pre-season tournament, obviously, (the real season starts next term).

The trip was very useful because we have already started training and are working on weaknesses and team strategies.
I have to admit that I am one of the worse players in the team but, being the fantastically positive person that I am, I have decided that being in Team 1 will force me to improve.

The camp was a lot of fun and I am so glad that I went.
Now, bring on the netball season!