kiwicafe's BLOG

3May

8:59:43am

Sitting in bed, a quiet ringing in my ears, a good nights sleep with my newly adjusted breathing device. Outside it’s quiet, still, overcast with a silvery grey light. Muy Emily’s daughter and grandchildren, mokopuna, are due for a visit and so I had better get my shit together and get up, shower and eat. I have read the news from round the world, NYTimes, NZHerald, BBC, LATimes, AP, etc, etc,. Scoured FaceBook briefly, deleted the 43 emails I don’t need. Sitting here I wonder. I wonder at how I feel. I feel really good. That’s he rub. I do. I know. My friends tell me. Bugger :) Yesterday, when we returned home from Wellington, I turned on the computer and there was a SKYPE call from my friend Dan H. in LA, with him was Marie and her friend. Awesome as I have not spoken to Marie for close on 10 years. We go back to 1990. Marie has been one of my core Al-Anon friends over the years. These are the friends who helped me change my life when I first attended Al-Anon in 1990 at Cafe Casino in Santa Monica. Everything changed with that first meeting. Finally! I accepted responsibility for my life. Finally :)

10:56:47am

Bloody cold sitting here in my Garage Studio, “too cold”, my hands are telling me it’s time to go sit beside the fire. I listen to my hands these days :) the barometers of my body. Ciao!

11:22:03am

Back in the studio, heater now on, dog by my side :) wearing gloves with no fingers as an experiment in writing. A bit bulky but doable, hard to see round the woolen bulk but, as they say, practice makes . . . :)

This week has been auspicious/conspicious? for the phone calls made and received from America. David and David, Dan and Marie, Joe and now from Brian, in Sydney. For years I have struggled with the concept of connectivity. Bitching quietly to myself because no one contacted me! Yeah Right! Today I accept it as part of my responsibility. Yes, I would love others to keep in touch but everyone has there own path, their own priorities, their own life even. It is up to me to invest in my friends. There are always going to be those who fall away, that’s the nature of the human condition. Fear and much more. I am not afraid of death. If anything, I am afraid of not finishing what I started. In the creative sense. My life simply finishes when it does. But even then, that is putting myself under pressure I don’t need. “It is what it is” I am want to say. Life is lived as we experience it, not as we see it. Quite a difference I believe. I have lived much of my life with rose tinted glasses and it was two particular dates that began the change. To strip away the fantasy. I could add a third I guess, my birth date? Anyhow, the other two were age 40 and age 47. 40 was the day a voice said to me “Richard, you need to change direction, or you are dead”. At age 47, the voice told me “Richard get to an Al-Anon Meeting!” My reaction to the first voice was to sign up for a course in meditation which continued for 4 years and laid the path for my move to New York. I have continued to embrace meditation, much less today than then. Still my body and mind for at least 30 minutes. It’s a challenge I am endeavoring to embrace. Not doing too well I may add :) The second voice has continued me on a path for close on 22 years and has changed my life and attitude in ways I never thought possible. Al-Anon Family Groups. The sister/brother fellowship of AA, Alcoholics Anonymous. Today, the fellowship is my family of choice. The phone calls this week, friends from the fellowship. In 1990, newly an Angelino, living right on Venice Beach, starting a new Company, breaking with Hollywood. That is when the voice came to me. I went to my first meeting at Cafe Casino in Santa Monica, 7:30 am. Wednesday 2^nd November 1990. 6 women, one old guy. The very same day I started my new company in Venice. Challenging. Both!

Me and my terror, sitting at a table, sipping coffee, hearing what I had wanted all my life. A spiritual rather than religious connection, the God of my understanding, not of someone else’s. I heard the concept, “One Day At A Time” ODAT! What a relief. I did not have to focus on the days or years or decades ahead but to practice being in the moment, mindfulness as described in Buddhist teaching. What a relief! I became a committed member of the fellowship. Some people refer to it as a cult. SO? What if it is? Isn’t the Church of Rome similar?

Wikipedia . . .The word cult in current popular usage usually refers to a new religious movement or other group whose beliefs or practices are considered abnormal or bizarre.[1] The word originally denoted a system of ritual practices. The word was first used in the early 17th century denoting homage paid to a divinity and derived from the French culte or Latin cultus, ‘worship’, from cult-, ‘inhabited, cultivated, worshipped,’ from the verb colere, ‘care, cultivation’.

Mmmmmm! Maybe it’s not a Cult in these terms. It is certainly a fellowship of shared experience. There are no abnormal or bizarre practices in my experience. Simply a group of people around the World whose lives are/were affected by someone else’s drinking. Simple really. A simple program for complex people. Learning to “Keep It Simple”. One Day At A Time. And so here I am, 22 years later, continuing to practice the principles I have learned over time. It has not always been easy and it has not always been clear. Today, with MND, it serves me well. To focus on what’s important in my life, not yours :)

And here I am. The heater is amazing, all of a sudden I am warm. The floor of the Studio is concrete. Possibly not a great idea when I had it built. I do love concrete floors, gives me a wharehouse, loft, sort of atmosphere.

An Email from Dan M. “You are a Prophet” he said “and I am a Poet”

In religion, a prophet, from the Greek word προφήτης (profétés) meaning “advocate”, is an individual who is claimed to have been contacted by the supernatural or the divine, and to speak for them, serving as an intermediary with humanity, delivering this newfound knowledge from the supernatural entity to other people.[1][2] The message that the prophet conveys is called a prophecy.

I told him I would rather be a poet, so here we are, both Poets.

A poet is a person who writes poetry. A poet’s work can be literal, meaning that his work is derived from a specific event, or metaphorical, meaning that his work can take on many meanings and forms. Poets have existed since antiquity, in nearly all languages, and have produced works that vary greatly in different cultures and time periods.^[1] Throughout each civilization and language, poets have used various styles that have changed through the course of literary history, resulting in a history of poets as diverse as the literature they have produced.

1:51:33pm

Lunch is over, time to curl up in a comfortable chair, in front of a roaring fire and relax. Watch a documentary on Bluegrass Music. Loved it.

Friday 4 May

11:37:11am

Another day, ,or should I say night on the breathing device, a good nights sleep, plenty of fun dreams and woke to muy lovely Emily as she brought me a cup of tea :) and left for work. As I sat in bed I remembered I could write with a pen, well I can sort of, but now the hard part. Translating the squiggles I made on paper and into the computer. Here goes.

Dear God, I guess I am trying too hard to find a voice or was it choice :) that I forget you. Keep it Simple. Dear God works for me and that is fine, amen R. x x x

A good nights sleep, woken a couple of times .  . . Oops, that is writing from the Hospital a couple of days ago.

Take 2 . . .

Looking at myself I see how it is my judgement that keeps me isolated. I am a communicator. So – communicate :) I need to take responsibility for myself, it is my attitudes that either do or don’t work. It’s not them, it’s me. Amen. R x

11:45:09am

I love sitting in bed, propped by pillows, looking out the window. Often I sit propped with my vipap machine so I don’t have to struggle with my breathing.  And now a few hours later, coffee and toast and many supplemental vitamins. The sun has come from behind and burnt off the cloud mass, I am going to fiddle at the keyboard and then go sit in the sun and meditate, dream and read. All or some or more. Many phone calls with friends this week. Yesterday was grandchildren day and a great lunch. All of us sitting together. Love it. Frank Sinatra croons behind me. Bills need paying in front of me. Just a small one. The exchange rate on my America dollars is helping me today. Finally. A high kiwi dollar kills my finances. I listed my car on Trade Me yesterday, hopefully priced for a quick sale. Time for a Mobility Scooter. I have done my research. An American company. Waiting on brochures and a price list. Can’t wait. Then it’s back to exploring my environment, as far as the scooter will go. I can get an option that will give me over 12KPH, wow! Speed King. I can see myself loaded with camera gear, slowly navigating country lanes while Fonterra Milk Tankers bear down on me. Tough! Time to take my power back. Maybe a flag on an antennae? Maybe. No highway travel though, no going over the Hill to Wellington. But I do look forward to the freedom to get out and about. Maybe my photographic collecting days are not totally over. Just a shift in style and subject matter. The ability to visit others in the village. Maybe :) But for now, sit in the sun in the garden and relax. The best medicine. Amen xxx

David Eddington & Kiri te Kanawa at Cow's End, Venice Beach

30 April

7:10:07pm

It’s Monday. I slept in this morning. Reading. ‘Working’ on my laptop. Thoughts of 1996 come back to me. In bed with my first lap top. A bike accident left me “half inch from brain dead” according to my Nuerosurgeon at the time. This time around my Neurologist asked me what I thought my issue was. I survived my bike accident and went on to do some of my best editing, ever. Today, my editing appears to be done, finished, over. Mobility has become an issue. My editing studio has a high step to enter and a tricky passage from the kitchen, across the deck, down two steps, across a concrete courtyard, small but tricky, and then, the door to my studio is high. I have a log which acts as a step. Not good. No matter the sophistication of the mobility chairs I researched today, they are not going to climb into my studio. Bugger. Maybe I can move all my editing gear to my garden studio or, as we refer to it, the Garage. Across the deck, along a rustic brick and totara log path I created last year, and into the garage to sit at a large desk that resides in my storage container. Maybe I can do it. Maybe. I write in the garage. My photographic hard drives are in the garage. The garage has my books lining the walls. It could be done. But here’s the rub. Not by me. Which raises a major issue for me today. Asking for help. I will need a couple of strong arms to lift and move, gently. I will need to guide, direct, instruct others to disconnect, move, reconnect and set up my computer gear. New experience for me but one I am beginning to accept that I need to do. Sooner rather than later. My laptop computer is my savior. It was in 1996 when I began to write my thoughts and today, as I continue the practice.

Today was hard. Muy lover went off early, a teachers meeting. I lay in bed. I made coffee, toast and cooked tomatoes with venison meat balls. I ingested my 8 or so tablets of a variety of naturopathic supplements. Vitamins and such. Luckily I have no man made drugs to keep me functioning. Yet :)

Skype had me connected to New York and my old pal, Paul Kelly, film editor and musician. It was great to meet again, finally, face to face. We worked together in 1993, Hollywood, Paul was my assistant on some damned fine work for Coca Cola and more. Today he is his own master of destiny. I am proud of him. I am proud of all my assistants. They served me well. I taught them, the best I knew how. They are the sons I never had.

It’s night. The fire crackles, muy lovely Emily cooks dinner.

Fish tonight. I feel blessed. I love muy lover. Muy lover loves me. That is so cool. Actually, I am blessed :)

8:06:13pm

Dinner done, supplements swallowed, dog and cat fed, fire continues to crackle. Muy Emily coughs, the remains of a virus. It’s been a tough year. The night however, is still. Darkness comes earlier. 7 weeks to the shortest day and then we turn the corner towards summer. Hah! What a dream. I have, we have, but today, actually, this exact moment, no more, no less. Mindfulness. To sit here and share my thoughts.

Dinner. Sitting at the table faced with salmon, peas, broccoli, potatoes, the dog and cat staring with hungry eyes. I eat too much. Actually it doesn’t seem too much as I love the taste and texture but it presses on my muscles, my stomach, my diaphragm. I am filled with gas it seems. I am and I leave the table. Muscles are the glue, the drivers of our body and when the little buggers don’t get the correct signals, haywire. My neurons go nuts, my muscles twitch and decay. No strength. My walking 10 feet is a chore. A chair will be replaced by my motorized one. I need to sell my car to get my motorized chair. That is for tomorrow.

Tonight is quiet time with muy Emily and Me. Maybe a read, maybe not. I look off at nothing in particular, feelings of sadness, feelings of what? Hopelessness? Resignation? Acceptance? Frustration? All the above as I watch muy lover at the dishes which we can no longer share. But hey, lift yourself muy Dickie, lift myself! I am not alone, I am never alone. I have the Universe and Friends, Family and Fellowship. It is so easy to slip and to slide.  I smile because I can. I smile because I caught myself in a moment of self something, pity? Maybe. A pity we don’t have some comedies. Maybe I could watch A Fish Named Wanda. . . And did, it’s fun!

1 May 2012

10:07:57am

Tuesday, first day of a new month. In 1987 I was starting my first day at work on Madison Avenue in New York. Exciting times. And the years from then to now have been full and rich with experiences. Quite amazing when I look back to that first American spring and my first walk up 5^th Avenue, tulips blooming everywhere, sun shining and my walk through Grand Central Terminal was the first of many. The start of my relationship to the people and atmosphere of the great building. The last time I walked through there was 10 years ago. To me it was the Center of the Universe, I guess it still is. A great ant nest of humanity. The canyons of New York and the Canyons of the American West are etched in my memory. I am so grateful that I was able to fulfill my dreams. Because that is what they were, they came to me as ideas to be lived. And they became reality when I took the action to make them happen. Now, it is a huge part of my life. Part of my story. Today I cannot walk more that a few yards without exhausting myself. I can no longer stand at the stove as I used to and cook for friends. Standing next to muy Emily, doing the dishes, is no longer an option. Mowing lawns. Driving the car. Taking photographs. Filming. Editing. All pretty much gone. My right hand today is protesting this typing. The cold and muscle loss work against me. Breathing is becoming an ever growing issue. I can no longer walk my dog of 13 years, Kiri, as in te Kanawa. I trip, I stumble, I sit quietly. I can read. I can pray and do. My friends are my building blocks. I reach out to them. They are solid. The kindness of strangers is a new experience for me, one gratefully received. Ex lovers :) Love never ends :) Ex lovers, one in particular support and continue to love me from afar. Thank you Stella. Life may, or may not :) continue to support me but while it does I will press on, keeping on keeping on. I need to light the fire, something, if I am slow and patient, not to say careful, I can do it. It’s cold today, Winter. The winter of our discount tents. I saw that on Broadway in New York at an outdoor adventure shop, always brings a smile. Fire lighting time.

10:31:48am

Hope I got the fire started in one go. Sitting on my stool setting the paper and kindling and fire starter, even that is a bitch! I lean back in my chair, soft cushions support me. My neck is becoming an issue. Muscle wastage. Atrophy. Those legs of mine that ran miles and miles in many cities and across many country trails, those legs are wasted. My bones larger than my muscles. Sitting here, staring into the fire. Amigo the cat, asleep on the couch, no potato that cat :) scourge of the neighbor hood cats. Rats don’t fear or interest him. Mice, he catches in the back paddock and presents for applause, which he gets. Time for a proper log on the fire. Time to read. Amen.

10:55:10am

An email from Dean & DeLuca in New York, the latest in their fare, mmmmm. The fire continues to crackle. Life is good right now.

27^th April

Clouds pour from the lip

Of hills before me

Rushing, they change

Shapes

To reflect my Soul.

I pray for a gentle breeze

For a steady hand on the tiller

Angling at waves that I may

Glide gently over the crest and

Down into the valley below.

I pray for wind abaft the beam

To power me across oceans toward

Knowledge that resides

On the other side

I pray . . .

Words come to me

And rarely have I

Had a pen in hand

Today, I hold my pen

Shaky lines

Appear on a blank

Page to remain for

Eternity.

I am taught

It is there, before me

The lessons, of life.

None are so

Blind they

Cannot

Sea.

26 April

7:16:15pm

Muy Emily just left for a Green Party meeting. Today has been a full on hive of social and physical activity. It’s night, the fire is warming me physically and warming my soul. The image of a fire in the grate, warm red flames rising, dancing, flickering. Music. Kiri my faithful dog of 13 years, sits at my feet. I wish to write. I am done with the Internet and Facebook and News headlines from round the World. Nut cases on trial for mass murder, a 4 year old hysterical as security guards pat her down, Rupert Murdoch lying and cheating his way through a court hearing. What a world. Life goes on, do I need, do I want to fill my head with such stuff? Probably not. But I do love to distract myself . . . Well, well, my higher power stepped in. The internet is down, telecom are onto it, it’s our phone line. Bugger. So I thought, I will use my mobile phone to text messages, won’t send. Mmmmm! Lost communication with the World. Strange but I guess there is a first time for anything and everything. How do I tell muy Emily if an emergency happens. I will try again. It worked. To bed.

27 April

9:30am

Yesterday had it’s price, took it’s toll. I enjoyed a good nights sleep. I enjoyed dreams. Now I am up and have cooked breakfast. Toast, egg, coffee, juice. Healthy. But now my energy is shot and I am going to light the fire and curl up with a book. Received a couple of Txts from telecom a few moments ago. A linesman is onto the Internet case. No distractions this morning. I can’t even skype my friends in America. Bugger.

This Motor Neuron Disorder/Disease is a toughie. I was just thinking how much of a challenge it truly is. How do I write about it and not get into a spiral of poor me. Today it’s as though someone has reached in and taken my guts. Grabbed a whole handful of my inner working, my energy center. Breathing is a struggle. My legs are shot. To walk is to drain energy. I could scoot around in my wheel chair but the cottage is not really suitable for that.. The day is overcast and a light rain falls. No breeze. It reflects how I feel today. Quiet. Because my hands have no strength it is almost impossible to clean my glasses. When I write I look at the keyboard, not at the words as they form. On the one hand this is good so I can simply focus on forming words and sentences as they come to me and not obsess if they are making sense on the page. But my glasses are disgustingly dirty :) and that blurs the keyboard somewhat. My coffee is a touch too strong today. Small mercies. Yesterday we stopped at a friends French Cafe for lunch, it was totally jammed, turning people away in fact. We walked in and were greeted by so many good friends it was quite funny really. We sat and ate and chatted. It was perfect. I even sold a couple of dozen bottles of my wine to Olivier. He prefers it to the French wines he buys for the cafe. That really has me smile. In 2005, I took a couple of weeks from my American West adventures and returned for a brief exploratory trip to New Zealand. Could I live here? I had bought a Roger Walker tree House over the Internet whilst hiking the Colorado Rockies. Sight unseen. The house was fine. After I had checked it out I asked the real estate agent if she knew of any cafes with a book selling aspect or a similar sort of business. She came up with a small vineyard. The prospects, the potential was quite amazing. A small cottage, a huge two story barn and 7 acres of good vines. Run down to be sure but with the promise that all would be well when I finally returned. It wasn’t. The seller conned me, however, I had a clause that held money back and sure enough it was needed. It took a year to restore the Vineyard. It broke me financially and today I live on my social security and a small, very small amount of savings. I do have a collection of wine however. I have the 2006 vintage. A Bordeaux and a Burgundy. Drinkable beyond my wildest dreams. Enough to cover two or three years of expenses :) I guess. Drink some, sell some. Stop giving it away Richard. 200 bucks a case. Not expensive at all. So that was a bonus for me yesterday. Now what can I sell today? Photography, writing, my film? My film needs editing. My book needs writing. My photography needs to go up on a web site. All in good time. I have started. One step, tiny as it may be, at a time. Life in it’s darkest moments also contains light and there it is. Richard, all you have to do is put that first foot forward and trust in the outcome. Not poor fella me. An attitude of gratitude. Indeed, Amen.

9:53:48am

My SciTropin, Growth Hormone just arrived by courier. That takes 3 cases of my wine to pay for it. A months supply to keep my body functioning. Bugger :)

11:54am

What am I reading and why I wrote.What is it I am trying to understand? Life? Death? God? At this moment I guess, I am looking for answers, where none exist. Acceptance. I am limited in my capabilities. I am stopped. I ask myself, why? No answer comes back at me. My motor neurons have begun to let go. Do I also let go? A sense of powerlessness washes over me. Seeking knowledge and not being able to find it. Or am I totally wrong in this? I have enjoyed my life. Would I be any different today if I had lived my life differently?  No, absolutely not! Life can appear like a lottery. Life. There is the key, Life. I could scream but I don’t. Why? It seems pointless. It is Life. And Life, it doesn’t matter whether I am a leaf or a bug, it’s all Life. We are surrounded by life and yet we walk on death. The leaves and bugs beneath my feet are life ended. Why do I see myself or any of us, as something different. Arrogance? Possibly.

11:23am

I love this country. It is the people who are the problem. We do not respect this Land. We have brought Northern hemisphere sensibilities, practices and attitudes and have stamped them all over. It simply doesn’t work, or so I believe. I have an itch I cannot scratch.

12:47pm

Sitting here I can see the concept of being ‘buried alive’. I cannot drive. The internet is down. Our phone line doesn’t work. To phone on my cell phone is outrageously expensive. But I can share my thoughts. I can express myself. My frustration. Filling the minutes and hours with tapping. More tapping that writing I guess. I tried turning on the radio to find a channel with interesting music or with challenging interviews, nothing. With out the internet I lose access to NPR, American Radio. I miss the ability to listen to Warren Olney,  such great material. Which Way LA. Morning becomes Eclectic. Jonathon Coleman. KCRW, Santa Monica College. A great radio station. I find NZ radio claustrophobic, much like the newspapers. Who died in which fiery car crash. Doom. Gloom. So I don’t listen and tend not to read local paper. Maybe it’s time for me to read some poetry, yes! Just got a text from Richard up north of Auckland. We have recently connected. Light rain begins to fall. I look around me. The fire needs another log. I need to eat.

1:48:40pm

And ate I did, venison meat balls sautee’d gently in a tomato broth with spanish flat bread and a glass of my own bordeaux. Kiri sat next to me as I sat in the sun which became spots of rain, clouds and changing weather. Vitamin D.

4:58:59pm

Telecom to the rescue, finally we have phone and internet connection. 24 hours free of FaceBook :) I did not die. A wire in the ceiling, that’s all and now . . . I’m baaack!

To write or not to write.

To write or not to write. I sit in my chair and ponder the outdoors. Without noticing nature. Strange. To be lost in my thoughts. To pull myself back. To notice the colors of trees, plants, flowers, especially the varieties of green. The sun soaks our garden. Music washes over me. Emmylou Harris. She speaks to me. As do many musicians and much music. Eclectic. My tastes. To write, or not to write. I choose to write. I know not what. But do. I love life. I have lived life. Today, today life is a challenge. I can feel the challenge. My hands. My legs. My brain works, good news. My fingers still tap. That is good for my soul. Do I create music? In words? Not up to me, I just tap, like counting fence posts out a car window as a child . I flashed through the countryside, counting, tapping. My metronome? Rhythmic at least. The rhythm of life passing. Fence posts. White lines, yellow. Telegraph poles. Cows. Sheep. Horses. Trees. Nature. Nurture. Environment. Inside and out. Beautiful. The great outdoors. The great nurturer. My environment.

24 April

2:28:39pm

And I sit and I ponder, I was going to say, I think but I don’t want to think, I need guidance and to receive guidance I need quiet. A quiet mind. I need to search the books on my shelves and I need to discern what I need. Not what I want. My wants have all gone, into the ether. I am left with needs.

3:08:06pm

A shower, a shave, dressed and a decision, a snooze or write or screw around on the internet? A snooze wins.

25 April ANZAC Day

8:59:18am

And it’s time to Rebel!

Reading Albert Camus, ‘The Rebel’ and it comes to me that I can rebel against my Motor Neuron Disease! I can rebel against the attitude, the thinking, that pervades me, the sense of acceptance. I don’t need to accept, I can fight back. Not in the sense that I can beat the dis-ease but that I can beat the state of mind it creates. I can fight back. I can do what I can do to the best of my ability, which, I have tended to do. But now I can consciously fight that sense of, not despair, more the sense of what? What is the sense that floats through me. Frustration? Resentment? Defeat? Not really any of these, more a sense of “oh merde, what’s the point?” that sometimes visits me. This is what I can rebel against and simply get on with my life and live as best I can. So out come a couple of books, a good starting place. The Greeks and Early Greek Philosophy. The Early Greeks in particular is challenging because of it’s author who chops up what is simple in trying to create something complex. It seems to me that this is the case of modern man, we have lost the art of simplicity. Heraclitus, my favorite philosopher kept his thoughts simple. Or at least, that is what I take from the fragments of his thoughts, all we have left today. I guess the other aspect of all this is that it helps me rebel against the ‘religious’ upbringing I received. To be open to ideas and to remain open to ideas, this is my diet today. I am hungry for knowledge, not necessarily answers. Answers don’t serve me but the questions do. They keep me in a state of flux, ever challenging, ever curious, ever rebelling I guess. The Greeks, it appears enjoyed a sense of “wholeness” that we are all thing and not simply one. A poet, a politician, a scientist, a sportsman, a soldier, a cynic and more.

As a child I was mentally, intellectually, lazy. I was curious but at a base level. There was nothing or no one to challenge my complacency. Or if there were, I was not receptive, I was a young rebel :) Even my curiosity I could accuse of being lazy :) no depth. I was rebelling with nothing in mind. My intuition served me to speak up. Naive? I guess :) So here I sit, facing my self, via my keyboard, ready to take myself in hand and fight my way through the jungle of doubt.

I have work to do. I have a film to make. I have a story to tell, in pictures and in words. I need help with this. No to do it, I may well at some point, but to hold my hand. To walk beside me, encourage and support me. To hold me up when I cannot stand. Feed me when I cannot. To love me as I love you. To be a friend. That is a new path for me. That is my rebellion today. Against my status quo. Asking for help, asking for what I need to walk my path. That brings a grin to my face and the sun shine to my heart. Amazing how simple it sounds and amazing how hard it is. To let it in. To share it. To be it. Today, that is all I can ask, that is all I can say.

And, as Steve Jobs so beautifully put it; “Stay Hungry, Stay Foolish”

“Hi Richard, found your blog, so sorry to hear the state you’re in! If I were in NZ, which I have been from time to time – but didn’t know you were there. If I was there, I’d drive over the hill and drop in for tea and a chat. All the very best, from the sound of it, your in good hands. Ray”

Easter, Passover, whatever. This is a time that has always brought change to my life. As a 21 year old I shipped out of New Zealand to settle in Australia. As a 44 year old I flew out of Australia to settle in New York. 60 and my wife of 15 years left and Easter 2005 I went exploring the American West. As a 68 year old I was diagnosed with MND and now, Passover, Easter, whatever, I am on a ViPap machine so I can sleep at night and expel carbon dioxide from my body. I originally wrote Carbon Monoxide but muy lovely lover suggested I wasn’t a car :) WoW!

Sunday April 8

12:53pm

Life is a mystery they say, to be lived, they say :)

I feel the easter bunny delivered me an easter egg, I posted my hospital spiel on my blog and voila an old friend, client, inspiration  even, posted a comment. Gratitude. What happened is it triggered something I have been toying with for some time and that is the story of my Australian years. So now Ray, I can tell you my story :)

Easter 1964 Wellington New Zealand

The Northern Star was the sister ship of the Southern Cross. For whatever reason I saw it as the cheaper, lesser sister. It looked kind of dowdy and funky. Green & grey & cream come to mind. I shared a cabin with 3 strangers. A rugged trip. We lost our stabilizers and so most of the meals ended up down the toilet or over the side. Pretty gross. The fish would have been happy though. A funky bent over lady, who shuffled about collecting all the bread left on the empty dining room tables, would proceed to sling it over the rails for the seagulls who swooped and squealed, grabbing dry white bread as it sailed in the wind. A tough crossing indeed. Fuck, (oops, wasn’t going to profane) it’s tough writing this. I have changed chairs, from wheelchair to my editing chair. Much better. Then back to wheel chair, sort of musical I guess. Choice of the day.

So there we were, tossing and heaving over the Tasman to Sydney. And there it was. An awesome experience. Sydney Harbor at sun rise, seen through the early morning fog. I am sure I snapped photographs, I am sure they are somewhere, deep in my negatives. Sun light tipping the trees of the Zoo. High rise buildings floating out of the mist. This certainly made up for the crossing and seemed to set the tone for the next 23 years.

My eldest Brother, Gerald David . . . Met me at the ‘Overseas’ terminal and strapped my bags to his pale blue Austin Healey Sprite for the trip to Lord Street. I looked after the house in North Sydney while he and his wife travelled in Europe. I got a flat mate, Eddie Hart. We partied but in a toney civilized manner I believe. My brother returned. Eddie and I found an apartment next to Clark Park looking out over the Harbor, beneath the Harbor Bridge to the high rising CBD. Those were fun days. Exploring, drinking cheap red plonk, partying down the south coast and working at inane jobs until I woke one day asking the question. “What the hell, I moved from New Zealand to explore, not sit and party.” Another friend, Brian McInerney and I decided to hitch hike around Australia. I went back to working at menial jobs to earn some real money and off we went.

Good old kiwi backpack, canvas on a metal frame. Minimal. 3^rd class carriage, wooden seats, Sydney to Adelaide, living in a caravan with no air conditioning. 100+ degrees. Trickling, irritating, rivulets of sweat! Worked at tarring a new roof on the Adelaide Art Gallery. Brian did the same on the Railway Station. Such an English city. Designed by Colonel Light. Moved on. Tackled the Nullabor and had a ball, hitching with truckies, sleeping in police cells. Much safer than the local park. The circus was in town and circus workers, well they party seriously and look for trouble. I didn’t want to be a black and blue statistic. Ceduna was like a border town. Actually Eucla was the border town. The border of South and West Australia. Chrysler Chargers, brand new cars being shipped to Perth, that was my next place to sleep. The Italian drivers were tough. Father and son. Uppers, downers to keep them awake. If I dosed, I got thumped. They had 5 days in which to make the trip. We were allowed to sleep in the brand new cars, as long as we removed our shoes :) They began by hating us rich white boys from Sydney’s North Shore but, in the end, were offering us jobs. Go figure. Laboring in Perth. Then went our separate ways when Brian got laid off and in sympathy, I followed suit. I was broke. Had no one to ask for help, pride dictated my work ethic. A rail ticket and a meal voucher helped get over the fact I was down to half a penny. That ticket took me south to Shannon River Mill and one of the best jobs of my young life. Timber worker. Tractor driver. Night guard. 3 shifts. Couldn’t do that today. Down in the deep timber country of West Australia, Jarrah, Karri, ancient native trees. Amazing timber to work with. Used for railway sleepers, telegraph poles, pilings and yacht spars. My hands were like leather, and black from the gum. I loved it but was totally lonely and wrote morbid letters to my mother back in New Zealand. Pity she never kept them. Glad she didn’t :) I was desperately lonely while loving the work. It was challenging and dangerous and I made good money. Living in a single mens, corrugated iron, hut against the tree line. A rusty wire bed and a lumpy mattress. Summer thankfully. The Mill manager was a fellow Kiwi. That worked for me. I lost the top of my right thumb when a huge log dropped on it.

Christmas 1966, the Mill shut shop and there I was, in my tin hut with my steel bed and kapok mattress. Brian’s mother sent a food package from Sydney. I was invited to join the families that stayed. I was working the holidays as the night security guard. Scary. Far from nowhere, the forest inky black and there I was walking around with the security key, clocking in and out of various parts of the Mill. Christmas went and back on the road, sitting on my backpack, covered in bush flies. The Mill had given me a send off and a packed lunch for the road. The flies thought it was for them and settled on everything. God only knows how many I ate :) They weren’t really annoying, just millions of the little black devils. Around my mouth and up my nose and in my ears.

Waiting for rides in an area of very low traffic sure played on my sense of loneliness. All my doubts of leaving New Zealand, falling out with my girlfriend and being so far from family and friends. Ouch! Not pretty is self pity, I guess. However, I continued on in spite of all my doubts.

I managed to get to Albany, looking out over the Southern Ocean. Went to the Police Station, I found this a great way to get information and a bed for the night, did that in Ceduna on the Nullabor when the Circus was in town. The Police in Albany had a billet system for well presented hikers and I was matched to a local Architect and his family. Back on the road I got a lift with a trucker who took me home to meet his mother who ran the trucking company, they fed me and had me stay the night and got me on a truck heading north to Perth.

North of Perth I went, making the decision to go all the way around Australia. My friend Brian didn’t find a job and had returned to Sydney. It’s a long way from Perth to Port Headland, a variety of drivers, truckers to salesmen to aborigines to . . . Awesome.

Perth, Geraldton, Carnarvon. Long stretches of unsealed road, vast landscapes, grain fields, pasture, spinnifex. At Roebourne we were stopped by the river in flood with the bridge closed. Memory has me thinking there were over 40 huge transporters parked outside the Road House aka Pub. They drank it dry. We all sat round and told our stories. The drivers found me fair game “so what are you doing mate, when you going to get a job, what you gonna do with your life?” 22 and quite naive. There was a group of American engineers, one in particular, wearing a golf cap, who stated in no uncertain terms, “hey guys, no need to pick on him, he knows exactly what he is going to do”. Wow! He was so right. I look back to that guy often and wonder at the direction my life has gone. He knew. It’s that simple. Once the bridge was open the truckers streamed north with their much needed supplies. I managed a lift in a ’56 Holden. Green, driven by an old aborigine on his way to Port Headland. He needed to stop and buy a carton of beer. He stated that Roebourne to Port Headland was a 12 pack trip. 124 miles. He had me smiling and laughing along with him as he drove and drank. The sky was crystal clear, the land flat and brown. To the far left, out over the Indian Ocean, a line of cloud appeared and within 30 minutes it had overtaken us and dumped a load of rain that had us navigating 6 inches or more of muddy waters. My friend took it in his stride. Port Headland, the new frontier. The northwest. A harbor from which to export the Iron Ore from the Pilbara. Lang Hancock’s legacy. Ore trains a mile long. Thursday Islanders laying track at a rate that defied the imagination. The pound became a dollar as decimal currency overtook us. I managed to talk my way into a job as a welders assistant. Underwater Welding! An Indian or Pakistani, I was too young to know the difference. Possible still can’t. He was a sadist. Trying to kill Gar Fish that swam around as we worked building the Dolphins for the Iron Ore carriers to tie up at. I was working for Taylor Woodrow. ‘Pulling Together’ was their motto. The heat was intense. One shift we worked high above the waters of the harbor, 12 hours later we were working beneath the surface as the tide lapped at us. We drank tea by the gallon. We were lodging at Spinnifex Camp, set up by Utah Construction, an awesome company. 1965. 40 years later, 2005 I met the CEO of Utah Construction in Ridgway Colorado. We share some great stories. He happened to be at the camp while I was there. Unknown to me. Vince Kontny. A gracious, amazing guy. My time at the camp was fascinating. The canteen served an amazing variety of foods to cater for the various ethnicity of workers. It was great for me to experiment in what I ate. I worked 3 shifts a day and made a small pile of money. I was earning $240 per week. I saved it while most workers drank theirs. Walking the streets of town it paid to cross to the other side if confronted by Thursday Islanders. Alcohol and Indigenous peoples simply don’t mix. Three weeks and I connected with a couple of Kiwi carpenters who were driving to Darwin, too good an opportunity. A Holden Ute, three of us crammed in the front. We hit Langi or was it Fitzroy Crossing, to find the river up and the bridge closed. A local priest was taken by a Croc just before we arrived. We sat between the boards of the bridge, muddy flood water running over us to keep cool. We had briefly explored Broome. The tidal range? Some 37 feet! We crossed Wave Hill Station at Halls Creek. 3.2 million acres and going strong for over 120 years, the station entered the history books in 1966 when Vincent Lingiari led the Gurindji people off the station to protest against the pay and working conditions. It was a strike which is said to have started the Land Rights movement in the Territory. All we saw of that were Aborigines sitting around and the company store closed. Mobs of kangaroos fascinated us as we sat waiting for them to pass. Flocks of Galahs, Sulphur Crested Cokatoos and Magpies provided us with continuous color and sound as they flew in their thousands across the sun.

Darwin. I was in big trouble. On the trip from Port Headland we took a mistaken detour into a swamp and got bogged. I slept in the rear of the Ute and my white skin and young healthy blood was too tempting for millions of Mozzies. In my sleeping quarters at Fannie Bay the sound of a single Mozzie had me screaming awake. It took quite a time to get over that episode. As I left Darwin, after a few weeks work washing dishes at the Fannie Bay Hotel and destroying the skin on my hands, the local Islanders gave me a farewell party. It was a big deal. I was being honored. It was up to me to kill the sacrificial pig. Couldn’t do it. I whacked it on the head but it simply squealed and tried to escape, I don’t blame it. I was ready to throw up. They took over and slit it’s throat, drained the blood and roasted my feast. Quite a send off. Trucks took me south toward Alice Springs. At night I slept on the highway. The rumble of approaching cattle trains woke me in time to get up, pack my sleeping back and thumb a lift. At Katherine a group of AWOL air force cadets picked me up in their Holden. Another ’56. A classic. This ride took me all the way south to Adelaide. The longest hitch I ever enjoyed. As we hit Adelaide, a Sunday, the whole exhaust system fell off and we were subject to not very nice stares. I didn’t stop, I was tired, ready for a real bed and real food. I didn’t stop. Adelaide to Melbourne where I ended up on the front page of the Age. Some statement about guys out fashioning the women. I was in my hiking shorts standing next to some super model in a mini skirt. Gave me some embarrassing moments at my bank the next day. I spent a few days with an old Kiwi pal, Richard Weston and then Sydney. The Employment Office in Crows Nest had me working for EMAIL. They thought it was a good match. What were they thinking? Electrical Mechanical Allied Industries Limited. Little did they know how EMAIL would change the World. I was a statistical analyst, go figure. My math results in High School were around 5 out of 50. I did have a fun year though, working with a North Shore collegiate chap, Roger Howard. The following year saw me take a really boring job counting bolts, literally. I took a sickie, my one and only, ever! Borrowed the neighbors SydneyMorningHerald. I lay in bed, lazily scanned the Positions Vacant and, voila!

My career in film began. I was 24, I put my age down to 20. Took a huge cut in income and I was away. End of Part 1.