Browsing the shelves

There are four books on my shelf. I can’t feel them, these electronic copies, but the pages are shining on my tablet, bright in the darkness of my room. It is cold, spine chillingly cold, as a southerly blows snow from the south, and only one dry-skinned hand emerges from layers of blankets. But the stories are of warmth, of growth, of learning to love again. Three “incredible” books I find boring, self-aggrandising, repetitive; a fourth fills in time during bouts of insomnia.

I browse the shelves again, and his name appears, a man whose writing I adore. It is Albert Wendt, now in his 80s, tracing his life in Ponsonby, the garden he shares with aiga and friends. And a cat. Immediately I reconsider this man who I’ve held in awe for years, since I read "Ola" a decade or two ago. Tanoa: an aloof, bird-stalking, pillow-cruising cat. Wendt, writing about hip replacements, friends dying, Vegas losing its pull. Writing about cicadas and sweet tomatoes.

There's a tiny slip of paper in a shoe box, a page photocopied from Wendt's book, the edges worn as I’ve handled it, read it, digested it, cried over it. Notes and quotes scribbled on faded post-its, my italic hand a hybrid, with a loopy y and a sensuous s. Highlights in the cloud, thousands of ideas I can’t bear to discard. Authors and poets and philosophers who have crafted stories so beautifully that I’m drawn into their worlds, forced to copy and paste their words.

I wonder about Tiny Stories, its purpose, its depth, its longevity. For celebrants, I said, hoping that others would draw inspiration, as I cling to the idea of creativity as a habit. It’s easy to let housework or exercise or grocery shopping bury time to write.

So I write. Cold fingers, John Campbell talking about power supply in the background. There’s been overwhelming sadness this last week. And yet I tell myself, unconvincingly, that death is a part of life. These are the days of our lives. Queen pops into my head, and I realise I’ve omitted songwriters from my list. Melodies and lyrics are burned into the synapses of my brain, the depths of my heart. The glue that holds our ceremonies together, music makes us laugh and cry, turns a vow into a marriage, a service into a celebration.

These are the days of our lives
They've flown in the swiftness of time
These days are gone now but some things remain

When I look and I find no change

Those were the days of our lives

The bad things in life were so few

Those days are all gone now but one thing's still true

When I look and I find

I still love you

I still love you