Blog
Bellevue road (a dozen for the boys)
I think they sold it to the New World supermarket next door, but before that my grandparents lived in a 1960s brick house on Bellevue Road in Ōtūmoetai.
My granddad built roads all across the Bay of Plenty. He’d point them out to us on long drives. He said he slept in ‘ponga whares’ in the bush when he was away.
Photos replace memories and I’m not sure if we got to see his bulldozer or if I just remember the photo.
I remember the cockles in the big pot on the stove though. And those sea snails with the cat’s eyes. I remember the bowl of shortening in the fridge and the open can of sweetened condensed milk. I remember my grandad and uncle Patty laughing as they picked at a pig’s head on the table in the kitchen. I remember piles of buttered white bread and sliced tomatoes and cucumber. “You had a feed?” were the words that welcomed us when we arrived to that house.
And although the net curtains were always closed, there was a soft warm light in the lounge. And the national program was always playing.
I had my first cup of tea there. My nana assured me it was a very refreshing drink. I added 4 teaspoons of sugar and never looked back.
I was in the front yard on rubbish day one summer. My grandad got talking to the truck driver and he called me over…
‘Run and get the boys a box of beer from the fridge!’. I returned with a box of Waikato and grandad wished the boys a merry Christmas.
‘Bellevue road (a dozen for boys)’ didn’t make the ‘We lived our lives on top of this’ album but these things niggle at me if I don’t release them. Now added as a bonus track exclusively on Bandcamp at this stage.
Happy festive season! Ngā mihi o te wā ki a koutou!
We lived our lives on top of this — Bandcamp
How to run up hills
I have a loop that I run twice a week, and it starts with a hill. Every time it’s hard. Every time it’s steep. And about halfway up everything is sore and heavy and I just despair that it never gets any bloody easier — but I can’t stop running.
And then I’m on the other side, and just as I hit the corner where that dairy used to be opposite the zoo, I see a guy. Skinny, long hair, about 20 years old. And I don’t know it yet but he will give me hope.
The first time we passed each other, I heard something but I wasn’t sure it was directed at me.
The second time, he beamed light and clearly said ‘hey bro’. He wasn’t at all surprised that we passed each other at the same spot days apart. He expected it. He planned it.
The third time he dressed up for it. Sunglasses and some sort of matching outfit. A cool jacket. A hat.
My default is an eyebrow raise. An inaudible ‘kia ora’ at best. But my guy beams light and I can never remember things exactly but I’m sure he tipped his hat, and it felt like he said, ‘Hey bro, good on you for running up these hills! I’m happy that we get to share these brief moments, and I think you’re doing awesome. What a joy it is to run, eh?’
Today I ran up to Tangi-te-Keo instead and I thought about my friend and about having a thing you do over and over and you can’t stop.
We just got back from a couple of shows in Paetūmōkai/Featherston and Whanganui. A continuation of our DIY tour. Send the emails. Do the promo. Pack the car. Pack the other car. Pack in. Set up. Panic. Sing your heart out. Pack out. Lie awake buzzing. Sleep. Repeat.
And man it’s hard work. And there is so much hope and anxiety and disappointment and fulfilment and happiness and justification and meditation and joy. And we don’t make any money. But of course it’s a privilege etc.
And we keep hoping things will get easier. We keep thinking we’re getting fitter and we won’t need to struggle. Soon I’ll reach the summit without sweat. Sell out every show.
If you turn left just after the crystal shop in Featherston, there’s a colourful mural on a building and out the back is the cosy room we played at on Friday night. My brother lives up the road. He arrived late and I got everyone to applaud as he found his seat. We were all getting on great.
Sometimes it works. Sometimes I feel safe and at home with good friends. And I am open. And I knew there was light because I felt it and that’s why I wrote it. And then people feel safe and open enough to let that light in and then people glow. And there was one woman who glowed and she took me aside and told me about real life things and that she felt it too and she thanked me.
I will keep running that loop. And every time it will be hard. And every time it will be steep. But every now and then I’ll pass my friend with the long hair and the sunglasses and the hat. And he will give me hope.
And when I get fit enough, I can stop running and start walking. And I know it will be hard, but I will wear sunglasses and a hat, and I will tip it as you pass me. And I will say that you are light and that it is such a joy to watch you run.
