Art, IV Drips, and Meetings With No Meaning

Black and white minimalism at COCA, feels like mid winter. Everything is stripped back. Matariki, the rising of Pleiades in the east, signifying renewal in the Maori culture, is upon us. 

I take Sharyn to Noel Leeming to find a dish drawer. I'm still sorting the living room dimmer and call in on Lighthouse. Kahu's at home trying to forget about his sore throat but it comes to a head when cousin Kate suggests I take him for a Covid test and get a throat swab at the same time. When we get to the 24 hour emergency Kahu tells them he's got strep throat and they direct us to a special seated area. It's a winter Saturday afternoon and there's a multitude of fluey looking sniffers, and teens in sports uniforms. I decide I'm in for a 4 hour wait so leave him. Actually, I need a break and Kahu is big enough and ugly enough. A spot of digging calms me down. I leave the phone somewhere I can't hear it so miss the messages from Kahu which tell me he's in a room on his own with an IV drip in his arm. 

I feel bad but not that bad when I get back to his emergency. They have done tests and are pumping penicillin into his veins with saline for dehydration, or something. I hang around watching the drip and we wait for test results. I get his prescription- more drugs. About 7pm the young German doctor tells us he has glandular fever. We both feel relieved to know, and strep throat, which is feeling better already courtesy of the nuclear dose of antibiotics. They've saved my life at least twice- an infected foot and osteomyelitis in my finger. 

Home to settle in and rest. I need to look after myself at last and I self-medicate with a Central Otago pinot noir. Kahu sleeps. On Sunday I catch up with Nicki for the first time in ages. She's still struggling with a change of medication, managing two builds and two renovations. We discuss wall paper. Her wooden floor is finally finished after everything which could go wrong, and the interior is taking shape. I have family lunch with Ruth, Kate, Caroline and Emily. It's good to be talk with the cousies. When I produce Tui's cookbook which has been around and added to since I was a child, Kate pores over it. She recognises Ruth's writing and checks out an encyclopaedic collation of old recipes. We're fascinated by an Alison Holst pig's brawn. I remember a pig's head in a big jam pot sitting on the coal range which went rotten. It stunk and Lionel did a spas about it. Put us all off pork for a while. I can picture the eyes and the bristly hair. The smell has etched the image into my visual memory. First world childhood trauma.

I collect more leaves for the compost and get approving comments from mid winter walkers. Older folk. The trees are skeletal, their bones starkly silhouetted against the darkening sky. It's a week for keeping warm inside and I'm so grateful I've got a dry house. Comfortable, lacking the odour of mould and damp. Those welcoming smells typical of drafty, poorly insulated Kiwi houses. I'm grateful. It's been a busy week, ending with a PPTA meeting. One we didn't actually need.

Shopping for a dish drawer 

                                                                              Ruth

                                               My new bedroom pendant, minus the discount

                                                          Sleeping off glandular fever

                                           The albatross pendant I bought after Lionel passed.  

                                                           Hillmorton High mural

                                                                    PPTA on form

Art, Life and Sore Throats

The winter intensifies. So does sickness. I'm not feeling great, nor is Kahu but he gets worse. By the middle of the week he's got intense throat pain. And his tonsils have got white stuff covering them. It's gross. He has a phone consultation with the doctor and I pick up prescription penicillin. It's a high dose and he's got hope in his heart when he takes it. He negotiates extensions for his uni assessments.... extensions of the extensions. It's stressful.

Meanwhile I have another go at choosing curtain fabric- the samples to take home anyway. Sharyn and I go to the Ralph Hotere exhibition, Ātete, To Resist, at the Art Gallery. It blows me away. An artist I didn't know much about but whose name I have heard many times. Hotere was political and so involved with issues which defined us as a nation...Bastion Point, The Springbok tour, nuclear testing in the Pacific, the nuclear free movement, Aramoana with no smelter. Ralph has earned a place in our history as the archetypal activist, rebel, visual protester for the arguments that mattered. He stood up and was counted, his art a magnificent monument down the years. 

It rains and rains and rains. At last the heavens water our thirsty earth. I drive to Little Hagley and gather leaves for my depleted compost bin under the aegis of Kai Tahu tipuna, those who were promised land to stay on when they came to Otautahi to trade. I feel sad for them and whakamā, shame, on behalf of my ancestors. The billboard archival photo of them is a reminder of Māori dispossession during colonisation. No monetary compensation could right the grief or restore the mana of these disenfranchised generations. This afternoon I sense they are a benevolent force and I trust I am honouring their memory by gathering resources from what feels like their whenua, land, to me.

English colleague, Kendra's dad, has an exhibition called Cluster. An awesome take on Covid which already seems like a dream. Only here. Why were we so lucky?