“Yeah, nah,” someone says to you. They mean ‘no’. “Yeah, nah,” someone else says to you. They mean ‘yes’. Up is down. Summer is winter. Birds can’t fly. Meanings have no meaning.
A local university encourages you to ‘take your place in the world’. Because you don’t have one. The outside world shows you maps every day. Your place isn’t there. People question if it ever was.
It’s not that hot outside. You can sit outside for hours. The layers of skin that allow you to feel things will burn in the first few minutes. Then you can sit outside for eternity.
Everything’s always shaking. You’ve finally stopped caring whether it’s the void opening up beneath or you or your father jiggling his leg.
As you drive through the countryside, you pass a cow. You pass a sheep. You pass more cows. More sheep. It’s the same animals from before. They’re following you. They know you’ll follow them eventually.
They call it the Land of the Long White Cloud. It’s an outdated translation. There was no word back then for the mysterious, unidentified entity that once hovered over the country. You will when it comes back.
There’s always sea spray on your windscreen. You don’t live near the beach. The window washers at the traffic lights don’t live by the beach either. You chalk it up to the Number 8 wire mentality.
“She’ll be right.” Who is she? How is she still alive? What if she’s wrong for once? Where is she? How do you know she’s alright? No-one ever answers you.
“Call me loyal,” sings Dave Dobbyn. The public refuses, so he keeps singing. “I’ll say you’re loyal too.” His pleas continue to be ignored. No-one wants to bargain with Dave.
The rate at which Shortland Street kills characters has caught up and overtaken the birth rate of the country. It will soon be your turn.
Someone makes fun of Australia. You laugh. You keep laughing. The whole room is laughing. You can’t stop laughing. The more you panic that you can’t stop, the more you laugh. Someone mentions the underarm bowling incident. The laughter stops abruptly.
Every time you half-heartedly mumble the first verse of the national anthem, a Maui’s dolphin dies. Yes, you. Learn the words. We’re running out of time.
You don’t follow politics, but still know that Peter Dunne’s hair is sentient and has been controlling his body for the last 30 years. It’s better than the alternative.
Your world is binary. It makes things harder. Black or white. Marmite or Vegemite. Cadbury’s or Whittaker’s. Union or League. North Island or South Island. Beef or lamb. Vege crisps or a Cookie Time cookie. You long for a third option, but that third option fired John Campbell. You’re stuck.
You’re eating chips. You hear a voice whispering “you know I can’t grab your ghost chips.” You look down, and your chips are gone. You were never eating any.
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stormborns
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