The meta-narrative

I wake early, the waves crashing outside my window. It is early morning, and the salt-sprayed double-glazing struggles to keep the sound out. It is overwhelming, thunderous yet rhythmic, like the train that no longer runs on the track, its bridge destroyed by the cyclone. I open the doors and look into the sky, littered with stars, a lone truck or seabird punctuating the inhalations of the sea.

This blog is “Tiny Stories” but there has been no room to write, no incentive. All the stories have been big: Gabrielle, bringing destruction and heart-break; weddings and funerals, laced with sorrow and joy; rising prices and frugal habits. The safety net is torn, and people are retracting. Or fighting. Energy wasted on competing when collaboration is the key.

Library books on grief and poetry collections litter my house: the words a comfort for me and those I tend to. Lucy Hone, New Zealand’s own resilience expert; a tiny guide to sit in the palm of your hand or gift to a friend who needs reassurance that this is normal. I have my own grief, brittle and sharp, shiny and smooth, hiding in my heart. It is tempered by great moments of joy, a small boy asleep in my house, his tiny yelps and soft breathing a reminder that he is here. When his mum arrives, we play the singing bowl, its vibrations tickling our senses.

I trawl through free-to-air, the subscriptions long gone from my account. Rose Matafeo’s Kiwi accent and natural style in Starstruck draws me in, compels me to watch another episode, snuggled under a rug on a cold night. I stream its twin when I need music, Adam Lambert’s vitality oozing through the screen. Skipping the dialogue, I watch “just a teacher” (her words) impersonate Adele, and the transformation is astounding, her tone, her expression, her pain …

Serendipity leads me to Making Waves, a history of cinematic sound. It starts slowly with films I barely know, building to a crescendo as I hear Star Wars, Saving Private Ryan, Jurassic Park, each brought to life through the patience and skill of these less famous technicians. I am drawn in by the wheel of sound – seven components carefully orchestrated to give depth and soul to the story. The cold tin bodies of R2D2 and the Pixar lamps personified, our emotional connection with them firmly captured in just a few seconds, with a squeak, a whistle, a bell.

I wonder about pitch, about speed, about tone in my ceremonies; the importance of music and lilt and ambience; a tui singing in the background, or the rumble of trucks when the prevailing wind is blowing the wrong way. I wonder if I can change my style, what tweaks I can make, what foleys I can add.

As the waves crash on the shore and the clock ticks behind me, I wait for the final line, the final sentence to emerge. Today it is a non-sequitur, an unfinished symphony …