Kaleidoscope Eyes

Soon, I'll find I've disappeared completely, once more. Again and again, all over again. A blur in the headlights. A mirage in your eyes. A figment of your imagination.

(Quiet)

Sometimes, it pays to really, truly appreciate the lush, red carpets and amber lighting, the oaken furnishings, the clipped echoes of eager footsteps trotting along long, candle-lit corridors. It pays to let the strains of music flow over you like a park fountain in summer. It pays to quell the fury within.

The Tongariro Crossing

A crossroads of a kind. One that would tint, ever so subtly, the little that remained of our trip. In a way, I guess, it couldn’t, shouldn’t really have been any other way, though at the time, I would’ve disagreed violently. Regardless of the fact that there is no dearth of reasons to go back to New Zealand, the one burning just that shade brighter is that I have to do the Tongariro Crossing. Again.

Even before I’d set foot into Kiwiland, the other thing I had my heart and legs firmly set on, aside from the bungy, was this Crossing. The grave title felt misleading, given that the Lonely Planet (and several other sources) repeatedly stated that this is the best, most spectacular, most mindblowing one-day trek in New Zealand. Promises of emerald-hued lakes, dazzling, scorched volcanic landscapes, plains of ash, steaming vents, and miles of blues and greens and yellows and reds. A crossing between three towering volcanoes, Mount Tongariro, Mount Ruapehu, and Mount Ngauruhoe, the latter, better known as Peter Jackson’s “Mount Doom”. A heady prospect, in the end, too good to be true.

So it was that John and I set out, into the bitter cold of 7 a.m. in National Park village, into a wilderness we could barely perceive, thanks to a stubborn fog that we were told would clear up in a couple of hours. Ever-trusting, we soldiered on, through wisps and streams of cloud, trails of wood and rock, up, down, along, over.

Somewhere along the beginning of the route, unchallenged by the gentle terrain, still optimistic, still cheerful, still bursting with anticipation and energy, I would remark to John that even if the weather didn’t clear up too cleanly, I didn’t expect we’d regret making the decision to do the crossing on a less-than-perfect day. But, as it always comes to pass with brash statements like that, Mr. Murphy prevailed, yet again. I spent the next four days nursing a deep sense of guilt for subjecting John to what ensued that day, digging into my wallet to pay for his meals as atonement, deaf to his protests.

The weather never cleared. The cloud never lifted, and the rain never stopped. The heartless wind never relented. And we never got to see a fraction of all that we’d hoped we would. Every promised landscape, every emerald lake, every red crater, painted white. Obscured by clouds, by stinging rain, and the aching cold.

We spent the next seven hours trudging through volcanic ash and sludge, damp and soft enough for our feet to sink into, but dry enough to scour our ankles and eat away at our toes. Shoes filled with pebbles, ash, mud and hellknowswhatelse, and bloodied socks. Furiously flapping ponchos, soaked parkas, dripping t-shirts, drenched pants, drooping caps. Numb hands, frozen noses, icy cheeks, chilled to the bone and the marrow and the whateverelse that lies within the marrow. Seven hours in wet clothes, further refrigerated by the ubiquitous wind. I have never, ever, ever, EVER been that cold in my entire life.

Towards the end of the crossing, when we’d entirely given up all hope of comfortable survival, we stumbled into the Ketetahi hut, the DOC place for long-haul trampers to crash. Furnished with only the mere essentials – basic bunks and two small stoves, it also hosted an additional feature that brought us (and all the other day hikers with us, the collective foolish!) nearly to tears – a heater. You had to see the sheer numbers of miserable, soggy, icicled trampers that thronged and jostled and wedged themselves against each other like pieces in a jigsaw, just so they could get closer to that object of benevolent radiation. And you had to see the funnels, channels of steam issuing from each of us the instant we stepped away from the wind and into the hut. When he regained sensation in his fingers, John managed to take this picture:

John insists that what he was trying to capture was the haze of steam billowing from my cowering back. I can only recognise bits of my bright blue tee and half a mop of wet hair. But there is a certain haze…

The skin within

Putting on a show for an invisible, disinterested audience. Speaking, incessant chattering, desperately seeking a spark of recognition, a nod of acknowledgment, approval, affirmation.

Unwavering coldness to contend with, a mask of disillusionment, of irrational anger, of helpless, silent misery. Refuge in the solitude of memory, an escape to another place, another time, anywhere but here. Distracted with nothingness, a pervasive vacuum. Staring into space, lost in idle hope, failing to keep abject boredom at bay. An aching for more, complete ignorance of what that ‘more’ is.

Exhausted by inactivity. Silent screams. Lying in bed for lack of anything, anyone to wake up to, for. Dead in the head, lost in regret, itching for action. Examining toes. Shuddering in the cold, swatting mosquitoes. Counting sheep, deafened by crickets, violent snores, battles with nocturnal demons, otherworldly phantoms.

Disappointment with words, lack of clarity, of articulation, of coherence. Futile attempts at energy. Lack, loss, silence, darkness. A blanket of disarray. Silent and waiting, intrepid resignation. Giving up the ghost. Giving up any feeble attempt to be understood, refusing to emerge from behind the wall. Words in circles, and loops, twisted, meaningless to anyone but yourself. Breathing noisily, writing fitfully, uselessly. Eyelashes, spectacles, swigs of water, moaning in sleep, listening, idly wondering what devils force those moans, gasps, rasps, sighs.

Shafts of light from a door ajar. The glow of a dim lamp. The glow of music, of words, close companions both. Firecrackers, bangs, rolls of thunder, more moans, starts, jerks. An insect crawling up a leg, a timid trek. Amber embers, incense. Incensed. Inhaling the incense, choking on the fragrance. Heady, heavy, toxic, intoxicated, in your skin, within your mind. Inside a book, calling out to a lion, a skin. In its skin. The skin of a lion.

Further down the spiral

Another Day
by Air

Say
Goodbye
Sunshine
Daylight
'Cause it's just another day
You will lose it anyway

Kiss
The time
That goes
Away
'Cause it's just another day
You will lose it anyway

You
You lust
In Space
In Time
'Cause it's just another day
You will lose it anyway

The Edge of Reason

Fury

???s

There's always a few that nag at the brain. Like a popcorn fleck stuck between your teeth. It's possible to ignore it entirely, unless, of course, you tongue at it. Then, once you know it's there, you'll always be tempted to tongue it, even though you know it's completely futile, and that doing that won't get rid of it. What you need is a ruthless toothbrush and a mirror. See, prod, poke, extract. Sheer relief. Examine fleck with satisfaction. Throw away.

A random sample of questions:

1. If you had to choose one or the other, would you rather be deaf or blind?
2. Do you believe in heaven, or that it all ends once we die? (Ref: Kray's post)
3. To be or not to be?
4. Life on other planets?
5. Darwinism vs Adam-and-Eve?
6. Is there anybody out there?
7. Red pill? Blue pill? (*grin*)
-----

Sigh. Do forgive; I've had the crappiest week. I'm so frustrated I don't even care how pretentious this post is. I really, really don't.

*deep, heavy sigh*

How work makes me feel.

And where I'd rather be instead.
Especially today.

Yo-yo

So, my office is located at that midget-sized building, nearly entirely hidden behind all those trees, next to (in front of) the arrogantly tall one.

Right. Now you know. And yes, I will permit you to lend voice to your undying gratitude for that piece of information, which I'm acutely aware has enriched your life in ways you're only beginning to comprehend.

*pause*

Hmm.

Three posts in one day. This can only mean one thing.

incomprehensible, inescapable, bone-crushing, gut-wrenching depression

Don't Let It Bring You Down
by Annie Lennox

Old man lyin' by the side of the road
Where the lorries rollin' by
Blue moon sinkin' from the weight of the load
And the buildings scrape the sky
Cold wind rippin' on the valley at dawn
And the morning paper flies
Dead man lyin' by the side of the road
With the daylight in his eyes

Don't let it bring you down
It's only castles burning
Find someone who's turning
And you will come around

*seethe*

I haven't been this furious since 2001. The year I read Ben Okri's The Famished Road. Then, I felt murderous. Incensed, completely, gut-wrenchingly enraged that I had wasted a month (yep, books that excruciating absolutely go on forever) of my life reading a bunch of words that said so little and were so much rubbish. Maddening.

And then, last night. After ploughing (at 600-odd pages, I imagine 'ploughing' is more or less appropriate) through Dan Brown's Angels and Demons for about a week now, I finally had it. Committed sacrilege, I did. Did something I've never done, swore I would never do.

*whisper*

I skimmed.

*shudder*

I swear, I swear, a book has to be that horribly bad for me to skim through it after a week of dedicated ploughing, just to get it over with. Honest! It really, really was. I still can't get over the fact that the man has written 600 pages about one day in a manner so sensationalistic, so hackneyed, so cheap-Hollywood-thriller-type, so... so... arrrghhhhhhhing!

I could really get into the gory details. I'm itching to bitch. There's so much I have to say about this book, so many bones to pick, so many issues I have with so much of it, the plot, the filmy-ness, the characters, the raciness, the crappiness of it all... So much to diss! I really, really am dying to vent heaps more vitriol, except I promised myself last night, as I melted into pacifying sleep, that I'd let it go. Be the bigger person (Yeah, right! Like I have! *grin*) Not allow my blood pressure to shoot up over a book. It is, after all, a book. Words. Sticks and stones, not...

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breatheeee out. Peace. Hush... Zzzzz. Dreams. Calmness. The ocean. Shhh. Escape.

Sigh.