The long drive home

I feel like visitor to this skin. Like this body is something foreign, clunky and cumbersome to use. I’m hit with waves of blurred vision and unexplained sweating every 15 minutes. My arms feel like logs and my fingers feel like jelly – both of which have rendered me too useless to get this fishbowl off my head. Ha, fishbowl. I’m like an underwater astronaut. Who swims the waves of nausea. I'm going to be sick or fall asleep. Do I have allergies? Sneezing, coughing, wiping-eye allergies? There’s this one thing I missed out on doing and now it's manifested itself in all these other ways; it could have been so easily solved. Like a puzzle. An inside puzzle for my face. I love the small mirrors in the backs of spoons and in cell phone screens. I like to check my face in the camera to see if my bags have turned blue yet. I think my tie is too short. Did I just say recession? I probably shouldn’t be driving. Is that oil on the ground or hallucinations in my eyes? Who am I asking all these questions to? I’m scared of getting stopped by police but it’s not like I’ve been drinking. Hah, drinking what? I am a caffeine master with a black belt in black juice. Riddle me that, Officer. This is a massive unspoken drama that only I’m a party to. I am my own director, cast, audience and reviewer. And I’m doing a damn good job of getting home. Every corner’s like a party I haven’t crashed yet. Every traffic light a rave I’m invited to. Jet lag is for the weak. Boy George sleep is going to feel awesome. Just as soon as I can remove this fishbowl.

--
Sent from my iPhone

I've been a little quiet.

I'm currently in the middle of roller derby season and have little time for anything that isn't derby, thinking about derby, writing PR for derby, practicing dance moves for pre-derby entertainment, dressing up for derby, doing my make up for derby, playing derby and...

Photo by Flick

...getting ejected from a game of roller derby.

I have three more games, on the 14th and 28th of November in Auckland, and on the 5th of December in Wellington. Here's hoping I'm back into the swing of all things wordy and awesome after that. I'll try and keep updated until then, but in the meantime, do forgive me if all I'm doing is this for a while:


Peace out, friends!

Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #8

After I recently RSS'd Jono's blog over at The Shortest Word, a graphic design / inspiration blog, I was reminded of a few things I had banging around (with various levels of inspiration.)

John Samuel Waters, Jr

Michael Roulier

And a little bit of achy breaky truth from the people over at Postsecret:

I love other people's things.

Adapt and/or Die

It is with great discomfort and mild embarrassment that I make the following announcement:

I like to take photos. I... I... I really like to take photos. I don't think I'm a photographer, but the trouble is, others seem to think I am.

Their belief in my abilities has cropped up a few times:

When my roller derby league entrusted me to document the year with an enormous quantity of polaroid film,

When travel buddies pocket their cameras because I'll "probably document it better anyway",

When bizarre, vibrant photo opportunities arise out of my bizarre, vibrant job,

and large Catholic family gatherings.

I've been thinking about it, and I've realised why I've never considered myself a photographer. Taking photos is just a hobby for me, and hobbies have no consequences. I don't have any expectations to live up to, and if I mess up, who cares? It's all for fun.

Enter Ashley Noel Hinton, stage left.

Ashley fronts a local band by the name of Canadia.
Canadia's making an EP.
This EP needed artwork.
Artwork done by me.

The following weekend, I set out around the greater Auckland area to find images suitable for an album entitled Beg, Steal and Burrow. With five assorted cameras, a full tank of gas and a sunny day at my disposal, I tried to find pieces and places that looked like old-world New Zealand - farm animals, vintage cars, gardens and signage, In the end, I was pretty happy with the results.

So without further ado, I present some of the images taken that day, as well as a little announcement. From now on I will endeavour to post images as well as stories - I hope you guys don't mind a bit of diversification. And just as a plug (and a thank you) to the man who got the Autumnal Fuck ball rolling in the first place, come and see Ashley's music and my photos in the flesh: Auckland's Wine Cellar, 23 October. We'd love for you to come and see what we've made.

The Seamstress

When I ran away, I was wearing a simple summer dress and flat white sandals with gold clasps. I sold the clasps to pay for the dress that you see me in today - the woman at the thrift store was feeling sorry for me, and felt that she could on-sell my fasteners for more than the yellow shirt dress. The dress was so faded it was almost white, but I loved it. With its crisp collar and deep pockets that reached from the hips to the thighs, I said, this is the only passport I need.

I started work at a factory - repairing and recycling sails for a boating company. The work was tedious but precise - I enjoyed the feeling of finishing each one. As I'd test the strength of my stitching with my hands, I would stop to admire how strong my fabric suturing made each piece. These sails could win races, I thought. I made friends, each with a face hardened by their history; I felt at home amongst the stories of broken homes, broken relationships and severed friendships. If only we could stitch them back to life as we did with these sails, I thought. Then we'd all win races.

A new, delicate job required a new, delicate look. Pocketing some leftover material as I left the sail factory meant that I was able to give my white dress what it needed - pink piping around the collar, cuffs and hem. I hid my rough hands behind white gloves, also fashioned from sail-factory off-cuts; they were perfect for working with the softer fabrics at the lingerie factory. Like the women at my previous job, their faces did not match their disposition - soft and well-presented on the outside, these supple faces hid cold, hard contempt. They would scoff at my gloves and snigger behind my back. They'd say the piping on my dress looked like entrails; I'd think up garments I could make with theirs. After months of back-stabbing and whispers, work became a burden I could no longer bear. Each stitch - each rise and fall of the needle, each puncture of the material - was a slow reminder of how far I was from the end of my shift. The only thing that kept me sane was the precision with which I worked - each garment was a work of art; each pin prick a stroke of my brush.

The day I carelessly struck my hand was a blessing in disguise. On the way to the hospital I tugged at the piping - my dress' entrails - and removed my worst memory of that place. When I arrived in emergency, I was so woozy from stress and confusion that when the orderly called me forward I assumed I was to be fixed up; it was only when I was handed the needle that I realised what I was required to do. I straightened my skirt, adjusted my gloves and did what I do best; stitched. And mended. Repaired, wrapped and sent the finished product on its way; the doctor said it was the finest work he'd ever seen. I created seven works of art that day, and have made hundreds more since.

Hospital work is hard, but working with any new material requires a bit of adaptation. I take pride in my precise, efficient work, and know that every face I see - hard or supple - is grateful for the work of art they leave with. Sometimes I wonder if they'll find out, and if I'll have to run again. But I rely on the few meagre things this drifter requires. A firm hand, a crisp collar and deep pockets that reach from the hips to the thighs. They're the only passports I'll need.

Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #7

Photo: Rosabel Tan

"HIT SOMEBODY!"

The screams from the bleachers were as clear as day.

"BOOORRRRRIIIIIINNNNNG!"

They were right, we'd been doing a brilliant job of holding our opponents back, but when it comes to a contact sport like roller derby, these spectators weren't here to see walls of skaters; they were here to see blockers and jammers hit the floor.

"En-ter-tain us!
"EN-TER-TAIN US!"
"EN-TER-TAIN US!"

Their relentless chants drummed their way in so far that I nearly shouted back at them, "Give me a fucking second!"

Instead, I focussed. Lined her up. Averted my gaze as to not give my intentions away. And bam! Clocked that bitch in the chest.

The crowd cheered.

-------------

Sometimes we all need a little bit of encouragement, but how effective this encouragement is depends on what an individual responds best to. When it comes to encouraging me, it's simple.

Threaten me.

I'm serious! Threaten me with the idea that I'm rescinding on obligation. Threaten me with the feeling that I might not be achieving my potential. Threaten me with the fear of disappointment. Whether it's out on the track at roller derby or behind the safety of a computer screen, I'll respond in the same way; with action.

When it's come to my writing, I've been suffering of late. It's not one of these awkward I'll-Never-Amount-To-Anything scenarios, nor is it a Woe-Is-Me writer's block, I just haven't felt like I have anything interesting to bring to the table at present. It's been more than a month since I last posted anything, and my friends are starting to notice. As I entered my second month as a post-less wonder last week, the threats began.

One friend said:
"You know I always visit your blog right? I think, 'Ooh I wonder if Hannah's posted?' Then I go there and see nothing new."

Another offered:
"You've been a bit quiet! I know you can perform better than this. Where's your new shit?"

Then a third yelled:
"WRITE SOMETHING, OR I WILL SMASH YOU."

So here I am, sick from work and burrowed up in bed. I am flanked by lemon water, crackers and some delightful afternoon sun - and I'm starting something. As it has been with my last few stories, this new one focusses on the mind, on madness, and on something that makes a person in question peculiar.

I guess when the writer requires threats in order to produce it, this theme is not hard to understand.

Brain Machine

I knew I was different when mother banged on the table. Everyone was laughing, and mother was banging on the table. Mother bangs on the table when I am wasteful with my food or if I am not listening to her and watching the television instead. Mother was banging on the table, but everyone was laughing. I started crying and apologising, Mother laughed even louder and banged on the table harder. Everyone was laughing and I was crying. Later when I was put to bed I asked Father why everyone laughed when Mother banged on the table, Father said it was an added thing people do when they find things very very funny. But it is not very very funny when I am wasteful with food or watching television instead of listening to Mother. Father said that was a different kind of banging on the table and that's how I knew I was different.

Last month in gym class, Kate Bishop looked crummy and when Mr Nelson asked if she was sick she pointed her thumb to the sky. Then Kate was sick on the floor and Mr Nelson was very angry with her. He got a big bucket to clean up her sick and the school nurse had to call Mr Bishop to come and get Kate from school. Mr Nelson asked for someone to help clean up Kate Bishop's sick. I didn't want to clean up the sick so when Mr Nelson asked for help I pointed my thumb to the sky like Kate did when Mr Nelson asked if she was feeling crummy. Then Mr Nelson made me clean up the sick and the boys laughed at me and called me a "sick lover". When Father picked me up from school I asked him why Mr Nelson would make me clean up Kate Bishop's sick even though I pointed my thumb at him like Kate Bishop did when he asked if she was sick and she was. Father said that the sky thumb is called Thumbs Up and it means "okay" or "I agree with you" or "that's a great idea" or "I am fine" or "yes". Father said that people do not think like I think. He said people say things they don't mean to make jokes or lie about things or to compare things to other things or to try and not be a burden to other people. I said I say things to say things. Father said people sometimes smile and say they are feeling great when they are feeling crummy. When a person asks me how I am and I am feeling crummy I say I am feeling crummy, but now when they ask me if I am feeling great I give them a Thumbs Up because I am saying "yes okay I am fine".

My Grandma is a nice old lady and when Mother takes me to see her she gives me biscuits and fruit juice. Mother doesn't let me have biscuits and fruit juice at our house because she says I will gain weight and have too many fat cells for a young boy and have trouble when I am old because I will become a fat man. Mother says I have to have a balanced diet of carbohydrates, protein and a little bit of fat and exercise sometimes if I want to become a normal man and not a fat man. Grandma is a fat lady and when last time I went to her house I told her that Mother says biscuits and fruit juice will turn me into a fat man like she is a fat lady. Grandma looked at Mother and then started moving very quickly and taking plates from the table to the kitchen. Mother looked at me for a long time while Grandma made a lot of noise with the plates. Grandma was moving very quickly in the kitchen, scrubbing plates and putting things away and stacking things back on the shelves in her huge pantry. She was sweating on her shirt and I could see it on her face so I went into the kitchen. I touched her sweaty face and told her that she is good for getting exercise because it will stop her from being a fat lady. I don't go to Grandma's house any more and Mother says it is because fat ladies don't like being told that they are fat even though they are. Mother said that all ladies don't like being told what their weight is and I got angry because I was trying to be nice to Grandma and wanted to have more biscuits and fruit juice at her house. I made fists with my hands and told Mother that she was a skinny lady, but she laughed and said she liked being called a skinny lady. I went to my room and cried but decided to not talk about ladies and their weights any more just in case I got it wrong.

Sometimes I don't understand words like normal people do, and Father says that's because I have a special brain that means I think about things differently. When I was little I would read words and if they didn't make sense to me I would get very angry and cry, but now I can sometimes look at words as silly. People are funny when they use them and don't know that their words can mean two things. In English the other day I wrote a story about a very sad tape dispenser who cried a lot because its tape was tearable. I laughed and my teacher Miss Pike didn't because she said my story would not be funny unless I read it out to the class because tear and tear sound different but look the same. Father told me that my special different thinking brain will help me write great stories. Today I wrote a story about a machine that makes brains like mine and gives them to people so they can think differently like me.