Seat-belt lights are on.

Holding pattern. Fuel low.
No room for me down there.
I have written a note to a radio asking for guidance.
I am blowing kisses at the control tower.
I am tapping out Morse code on my forehead with my forefinger.
I am collecting my tears as proof of my distress.
I am staring at the approaching ground.
I am using 24-hour coda to tell nobody that it’s too late now.
This isn’t communication.
This is me and my sad dance.
“This is your captain speaking, and I can’t get the fuck over myself! The co-pilot was a figment of my imagination! I can scare away my imaginary friends, too! Surprise! I implore you all to stay seated. Thank you for flying with me!”
Oh, I do declare; that captain is a professional.
Oh, me. Oh, my.
Of course, the cabin is empty. I left without saying anything and left the ocean and the sky in charge of the space between us.
There’s only one motherfucking fake on this motherfucking plane!
All the life-jackets mean nothing in the face of the runway’s bitch-slap.
Slap. Crash. Stupid. Bitch.

Crash landing.
I was fooled by the wording.
There is no landing, only the crash.

Formes Frustes – Over and Out (2015)


On How It’s Over Now

Maybe I should wait a day or two, not just fifteen minutes after a dispassionate conversation, but I’m throwing my toys because it’s over now. It’s over, and I was the one who decided it should be so.

I spent last night thinking about how people stay with people because they’re convinced that nobody else will accept their flaws & whatnot.
Oh, what a terrible waste of joie de vivre! What a way to treat yourself and someone else! How confining!

What a situation I was in.

Of course, things were very lovely in the beginning. The giggling and the cute stuff. The way he’d let me trace words on his back for him to guess. The way he’d pretend the end of my braid was a paintbrush on my face. The squealing and tickle-fights. Arms over shoulders and around the small of my back. So much time and energy for each other; where did I keep all of that when I was alone?

There’s nothing I can really blame him for and there’s no definitive point from where everything went downhill, so this might just be me throwing out the baby with the bathwater. Maybe I killed another thing just because it was imperfect. Am I a murderer of fledgling hopes? Or did I just want something different, something fairer and more conducive to growth and understanding?

Either way, I’m back at square one, cross-legged, tracing lines in the dust. Not sad, just unsettled. Not annoyed, just resolute. Spurred to action by an ever-widening emptiness and loneliness in viscera, but bolted to the spot by fear and apprehension and goodness knows what else. There’s nothing anyone can do with that. I am solitary. Solitaire.

Ughhh. Fuck’s sake.

I’m going to go eat something. An empty stomach can’t help a broken brain try and make sense of itself, after all.

You’re very articulate for a Tongan, did you know that?

This kind of thing used to make me indiscriminately angry, despite the half-melted nuggets of a compliment being present in this god-damned biscuit of a sentence.

My “white” half gets pretty insulted too, seeing as it’s invisible most of the time. And no, this isn’t some sort of veiled complaint about how my feet are dead-person pale because I don’t go barefoot in the sun often enough. No, that’s not it, home-skeez. The fact is, according to a lot of people, if you’re a little bit coloured, then you’re a whole lot coloured.
My favourite example of this is Barack Obama. I mean, most of us know he has a so-called white parent, but that gets in the way when one wants to emphasise how progressive the world now is for having a black president all up in its guts.
Of course I understand how momentous that is, due to caring about Civil Rights problems and believing that everyone deserves a fair go in life. But I don’t like score-keeping and vague definitions of character.

OK, so I still get all pissy about it. I thought I grew out of it, but… …nah. This means I have to go deeper. Screw it, I’m game.

I’ve had something of a larger-than-average vocabulary for as long as I can remember, so, a while ago, I decided to ask who was responsible: my mother. And she ended up telling me what I thought she would, something like, “I imagined my two brown babies having nothing to say in a room full of smart whites, and it made me cry.” That kind of fear is very real, even though it may seem a bit melodramatic. That fear will drive a woman to teach her kids to read before kindergarten. It’ll make her massively angry when her brown babies are made to feel blue. It’ll make her beg them to make sunshine of her struggle.

And, sadly, it’ll hang a yoke around my neck that I don’t deserve.

As up-myself as it may sound, I generally feel like I’m representing something that’s marginalised, and I think that’s because I inhabit a lot of grey (or beige?) areas. I’m a tiny ambassador, I guess. If I’m not taking the left-hand path (HELLO SATAN), then I’m trying to wend my way through the middle. It’s kinda difficult when I get a lot of, “What… are you doing here?!”, but at least that gives me an opportunity to tell someone exactly why.

And god damn it if it doesn’t feel good to drop some knowledge on some motherfuckers.


they are not all motherfuckers. If I’m all about both halves of myself, then I have to admit that it’s nobody’s actual fault that stereotypes exist and get fulfilled more often than they perhaps should, and I also need to remind myself that there are other races far more marginalised than the ones my body contains. It’s no good to snap at someone because you hand-picked a few words to focus on, and it sure is silly to be the person who invites the US VERSUS THEM vibe into the room (guilty as charged), so it’s good to try my favourite thing instead: disarming, simplistic honesty.

“You’re kinda smart for an Islander.”
“Thank you! I’m clever and brown. I’m also female and prone to fainting spells. This is a conversation; you’re having one with me! Discuss.”

P.S.: Tongans call me white/palangi/hinehina all the time too, so, yeah, it cuts both ways. But I don’t usually get angry when there’s food involved, no matter who you are. You can call me whatever you want when I’m eating your chicken.
; )

the Morning of Doom

Ah, fucks. Fuckity-fuck-fucks.

Ah, outside world. We meet again. Who’s that bright fucker in the sky? Shhh, I’ma stare him out real quick.

this state
makes itself
hard to explain

Formes Frustes – Untitled (2015)

Once, when I was about ten or so, there was the Morning of Doom.

I’ll never remember the date or even the season, but I remember waking up and seeing the pre-dawn glow through my curtains, and it made me cry uncontrollably.

I had time to fall asleep again before I had to get up for school, but things didn’t work out that way.
I clenched my teeth and scrunched my eyes shut as tight as I could. I sang to myself. I wrote “YOU’RE OK” on my arm and stared at it. I knelt down and prayed to anything that’d listen.
However, the crying didn’t stop until my mother came to check in.

At first, I tried to hide that I’d been so distressed, in case I got in trouble somehow. As if my mother would threaten to give me something ‘real’ to cry about, or accuse me of faking sickness, something like that. But I was just so tired that no usual pretense would hold up. My chirpy little grin kept folding in on itself and my nutty little chuckles were dissolved in my closing throat, just to fall back inside and eat away at my dwindling resolve.
Amidst these feelings, I managed to get a few words out. I don’t know what I said, but it was enough for my mother to admit that I should stay home.

I had no idea what was going on with me; I thought I was having a heart attack somehow brought on by my sadness. I remember thinking, “Is this what happens when someone dies of a broken heart? Is this what really happens? I broke my own heart.”

My childish abandon had, in turn, abandoned me, to be replaced by paranoia and apprehension. In a flash. Just like that. Ouch. Who dropped the world on my shoulders? I’m just a kid!

Until I was about twenty, I saw that day as some kind of awakening to what the world was like and what it held for me. I thought to myself, “Well, that hurt, but that’s how growing up feels.” I looked back on my halcyon days of happiness and enthusiasm as if I had come out of a highly-publicised stupor and was very, very embarrassed indeed. Like I was so sorry for living out loud that I’d never do it again.

Of course, now I know that the Morning of Doom was a panic attack. Nonetheless, it stained my tiny soul, and left me feeling seriously empty and confused. And roughly sixteen years later, I still sometimes panic and cry at the very sight of the light of day, and I still can’t make steady sense of it even though I try and try and try. But now, my emptiness is my muse. I’ve found interesting things in my mind whenever I try to describe the abyss I sometimes inhabit. It’s not like I enjoy how any of it feels, but I often find myself looking back at these episodes quite philosophically and matter-of-factly and it’s very curious indeed.

But if it gets really bad, I’ll just remember “YOU’RE OK” scrawled in purple glitter-glue on my wee twiglet arm and I’ll give my inner child the comfort she would’ve liked on that sad day, because she really is OK right now.

If you voted National, please delete me. NOW. Anyway…

Govt Spikes Removal of Paedophile Name Suppression Bill

Rt Hon Winston Peters

New Zealand First Leader
1 APRIL 2015

Government Spikes Removal of Paedophile Name Suppression Bill

Parliament today refused leave for the Member for Northland Rt Hon Winston Peters to introduce a Bill to remove the right of paedophiles to name suppression when the victim wants their attacker named.

A host of National MPs objected to the Bill being introduced.

Mr Peters says he is disappointed the government is content to allow paedophiles to hide behind a cloak of secrecy.

“This is often imposed on the basis it protects the victim,” he says. “But in cases where the victim wants exposure of the crime and not secrecy our Bill will remove the subjudice rule, name suppression, and the legal cone of silence.”

The New Zealand First Leader sought leave for the Bill, Criminal Procedure (Removing Paedophile Name Suppression) Amendment Bill, to be introduced and debated on the next members’ day.


















*edit (8th Sep ’15) OOH LOOK AT ALL MY CAPSLOCK FURY. 

<(._.<) <(._.)> (>._.)>
^^^ so here’s a dancing marshmallow ’cause hell yes.

I Too Have an Opinion Pertaining to Natalia Kills and Willy Moon.


I think this is love in one of its many forms, maybe?
Shhh. It makes sense. Even if it doesn’t, they’re like, adults & married & goliveyourlifeok.

Despite knowing fuck-all about these two individuals and what they do, I will share an opinion on them. Maybe I’m trying to fit in. Or I could just be a piece of opinionated seaweed being dragged along with the online gossip tide. Honestly, at the end of it all, I don’t think it really matters.

I’ve read some stuff written by people who have been thinking about those two a lot.
The reason I don’t say, “I’ve read some stuff that people wrote about these two” is because I don’t think the articles are really about Kills and Moon, but rather about the author.

Think about it. If the morality of this situation is really the issue, then by all means tell us how much higher your horse is than whatever animal they ride (I’m imagining them riding a Buggalo; Moon has the reins and is looking really pleased with himself, whereas Kills gets to make herself a bit more comfortable behind him, saying great stuff like, “Darling, the back of your fashionable head makes me want to lick my own hand”).

But I’m assuming that’s not the issue. Because if it was, if these people really cared about how people provide considerate feedback and communicate kindly with each other, then why in the fuck are they being so horrible in response?

It’s like a parent hitting their child for “being excitable and nervous”. Sure, the child now knows they’re acting in a way that annoys their parent, but is now triggered by the experience, exacerbating the entire situation, thus perpetuating the ill will and bad blood.

It’s like throwing spiders at an arachnophobic person, claiming that it’s exposure therapy and that everything will be fine. Sure, that might have worked for someone before, but you know it’s not the best way, not by a long shot. You’ll probably lose a friend by acting that way, and I’m sure that’s not the way to treat arachnids (no matter how scary you find them).

It’s like going overseas with a gun, claiming that you need to go shoot some motherfuckers, because someone needs to show them that killing is wrong and that war is sad.

Except it’s not like any of those situations, is it? Not really. But the formula is in keeping, it seems.
Bad thing? More bad thing will stop first bad thing! No more bad thing! Wait… thing still bad? BAAAD THING!!!

OK so they got fired. Fair enough; they were employed as judges of showmanship and instead ended up making it personal. But what I find intriguing is that I hear it was prompted by a petition. See, I’ve signed a handful or two of petitions in my time, but none of them were about entertainment.
Sure, you can bend it six ways to Sunday and say “it’s not the type of entertainment, but the fact there’s such a horrible example of behaviour on TV, and we all know I’m a crusader for kindness”, but I will laugh you out of the room because you are so obviously lying.
Do you even know the auditioner’s name? Do you think Norman Bates is boring and that Psycho sucks? Do you know any facts, or are you making shit up? Whatever, let’s just not talk about this at length or I’ll draw conclusions about what your opinion says about you.

I summed up a lot of articles in one sentence each, kinda like: / THIS ONE’S ANGRY BECAUSE THE BEAUTIFUL LADY DIDN’T ACT BEAUTIFUL AND IT’S KINDA SEXIST OR SOMETHING / THIS STUFF’S ABOUT PERCEIVED IDEAS OF ORIGINALITY AND IS KINDA INTERESTING / THIS ONE’S ABOUT WILLY MOON’S ALBUM AND WOW THIS SHIT CAN’T BE REAL BUT HERE IT IS. Luckily, I didn’t get too far before I realised that I was only doing this because I was procrastinating an assignment.

So now I feel bad for anyone whose marvellous and complex brains were taken up by this story.
I’m also wondering how ridiculous I just seemed. But there’s the rub, isn’t it?
Express yourself, do your best, then leave. On stage and in life. The more we do this, the less we suck.

...unless you wanna Suck It And See? Bet you just fell off your chair. Or sank into a chair if you were standing. Because I'm funny.

edit 30/03/2015: here’s something interesting by Brian Edwards on this topic, (with something rather nice about Yehudi Menuhin for good measure). And don’t ask me who Edwards is, because I’ll just ignore you because YOU SHOULD KNOW.

What’s Eating Me (or This Was Hard to Type and Title)

Yeah, I know what you're thinking and yes, I'm looking pretty good in this one.

Clock face all up in your… face…

I haven’t been myself for a long time. I don’t know how to word that a whole lot better, but I’ll try.

Quite a long time ago, my mother had a health scare. Luckily, the issue was caught in time… just. I panicked, then I researched. I figured that the more I knew about what happened and why, the better I’d be insured against this threat. I got my check-ups and apparently, I was in the clear. Despite this, ever since I found out the problem likes to run in some families, I just knew I’d be one of the unlucky ones.

Years later, I was right.

And now I see the inside of a lot of plain rooms with clocks in them.
I see a few doctors.
I fill in a lot of forms.
I make a lot of jokes.
I create a lot of silences.
And I wait. For phone calls, test results, for the receptionist to call my name.
I wait for the right time to tell my loved ones. And when I get the guts to do that, suddenly the information has changed. If my condition improves, I tell myself I can inform people when it’s all over and done with. If my condition worsens, I tell myself it’s not time to burden anyone with such news.

I’ve just been informed that I’m in remission from cervical cancer. Again.

I don’t know how to feel about that or what to do. All I know is that some days, everything tastes like metal and I’ll sick up anything I eat, in triplicate. And then some days, it’s like nothing’s wrong. The other days in between are spent waiting. Not living. Not dying. Just being. Just waiting.

Anyway, I made some appointments and found a thing I wrote the first time my symptoms remitted. Here’s the thing.

A stay of execution,
a sigh of relief.
A sign of improvement
somehow incomplete.

If I’m going to die, I’d like to know why.
I want to live with terms better defined.

Saved from blades,
but not waiting-room charades.
Fears can only deepen
when you’re stuck in a bed you can’t sleep in.

May I trade a subsidy of pain
for my god-given right to complain?

Tell the reaper I’m not here.
Tell the house I have no bones.
Tell my parents I love them
and that I need a minute to be alone.

Formes Frustes – Remission (2014)