Not the Devil, not really, although this presence is equally hellish…

Shark attacks have become a way of life for beach-going folk of Western Australia. Some are saying that these prehistoric behemoths ought to be culled: ‘Beaches are no place for Great White Sharks’, they say…

Beaches are the exact place for fish, I say, and if you want to get all territorial on it, I would be tempted to also say, ‘Fish go in the ocean, people go on the land’.

Seems pretty clear to me, and whenever a person does choose to enter the ocean – the fish’s domain – that person must understand that there is a notable amount if peril attached to that decision.

Around 400 million years ago – long before Neanderthal man first skulked across the landscape – the first White Shark could be seen swimming through the ocean with tremendous speed and breathtaking agility, swiping a succulent Cretoxyrhina from the passing shoal, tearing into it with its razor sharp teeth then gulping down the morsel, still more or less whole.

White Sharks are awesome. These beasts have been around for a lot longer than you or I, therefore who the hell are you or I to say that these kings of the ocean should do anything other than go on living their lives as they please?

Word is, sharks don’t fancy the flavour of people anyway and while I can’t imagine that wrapping the aforementioned vertebrate in a wetsuit makes it any more palatable, here’s the thing: sharks are predators. Predators survive by preying on other living entities. Typical of predators or in fact carnivores of any kind, when they are not eating their prey, they probably like to play with their prey and this I believe is the essence of most shark attacks…

So you see, they’re likely only playing – just a pity a bite from a Great White isn’t a little more fun.

White Sharks are an endangered species. This means it is technically illegal to kill them. Since being labelled ‘endangered’ their numbers have burgeoned. A great many Western Australians, having seen the devastation that these sharks can cause, are lobbying to have them removed – by which I am sure they mean ‘killed off’.

That’s the arrogance of people. We think that if something is preventing us from maintaining our desired lifestyle, we should simply get rid of it.

White Sharks are the kings of the ocean. Their obvious land based equivalent is the lion. What would happen if lions became extinct? Zebras and deer would gambol through the trees without a care in the world; grass and plant life on the forest floor would grow unabated; insect life would exponentially multiply; now instead of the threat of being eaten by a lion, equine mammals of the forest should be more concerned with having their blood drained by swarms of mosquitoes.

Same applies in the ocean. Kill off the greatest aquatic predator ever in existence and suddenly tuna are living longer hence breeding more; with more tuna requiring food kingfish numbers take a big hit; fewer kingfish means mackerel numbers rise uncontrollably; won’t be long before so many mackerel have exhausted their food source…

I’ve often wondered if like us sharks possess the ability to think, or if like invertebrates they function purely on instinct – running the basic survive to procreate programme..?

Turns out they do have functional brains. A shark’s brain is purported to be highly visual, yet they are thought to be colour-blind. Australian scientists have used this knowledge to design a wetsuit which camouflages a diver in the water, thereby making him invisible to sharks. Another group of creative Aussie boffins have developed a way of effectively fencing off sections of beaches by implementing ‘bubble curtains’. These are essentially lengths of perforated hose placed on the sea floor and charged with a continuous supply of air, producing a wall of bubbles which confuses sharks’ senses, causing them to retreat.

That sounds much more sensible. It’s short sighted to think that we can rectify a problem through extermination. It’s our eco-system and it is imperative that it is kept in balance.

The reason that Great White Sharks are still in existence is because they are necessary to further existence.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Shaq Attack

Photography by W A Ocher

I know. I can’t believe it either. What a bloody sell out, right?

Not really, it was either this or poetry and no one likes reading poetry. Trust me, they don’t – I’m talking about the good stuff too, proper poetry, rhyming poetry.

I always thought that a poem without rhyme was just a story without pith..?

Good segue. If there is one form of poetry detested above the rest, it is Christmas Carols. Admittedly, there are people out there who love nothing more than a good hearty carolling; I just have yet to meet them. In fact most everyone I know, even those who claim to embrace everything about the festive season, despise Christmas Carols.

Certainly there is a time and a place for Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer to be hurtling through the Silent Night while Snoopy dreams of a White Christmas and yes, the place is probably wherever there is the mass of Christ – alas, the time is not the 21^st century. These songs were written mid 1900s and at the time, they were massive…

Nowadays, not so much.

Nowadays the majority do what they can to avoid being subjected to these gay little jingles but here’s the thing, they’re bloody everywhere. Fortunately my chosen radio station administers an equal dosage of Christmas Carol as it does Justin Bieber, which is to say, less than zero milligrams; still, one cannot expect to drown out the audio of the outside world all day every day, one must enter public arenas at some time, and the instant one does…

Ah crap. Like I said, they’re bloody everywhere.

Believe it or don’t, this piece of writing was not intended – not primarily anyway – as disparagement towards Christmas Carols. It is supposed to be outlining, illustrating and celebrating the joy of family, the delight of gift giving, the awesomeness of Backyard Cricket, the freedom of cracking your first beer by 10am, the immeasurable happiness then later turgid regret of overeating; then doing the very same thing next mealtime.

That’s what it was supposed to be, because those things are important to me and I imagine, this is a sentiment embraced by most New Zealanders.

It is my belief that Christmas is a time when all grudges should be dropped, all ill feeling should be forgotten and any other shit between any other shitheads ought to be relinquished as well. It is no time for tension.

It’s Christmas and whether you perceive it in the Christian sense or otherwise, it’s a time for family.

Be there for yours.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Chris Mist

Photography by Honey Carr

Often it’s those not directly involved in the failure of a task, who claim to have been able to foresee its downfall all along.

Problem is, this wisdom is only ever offered after the aforementioned debacle.

Must be one of life’s most enduring queries: why is it that the world’s supervisors, spectators; onlookers and overseers generally appear more qualified and at a broader range of tasks, than the supposed professionals?

As a woodsman fells a tree which drops the wrong way, the teacher in a nearby building can see what he did wrong; as a snowboarder lands a jump but sprains his knee, a congregation of skiers could have told him that was going to happen; as a truck driver’s load shifts on a bend causing his rig to roll over, the driver of the proceeding car sees exactly what the truck driver did wrong…

For you see we are that good – that clever, that insightful; that perspicacious.

Evidently New Zealand comprises a highly skilled, vastly knowledgeable; yet somewhat bashful population.

Skilled and knowledgeable in that we invariably know why things didn’t go right; then once they’ve gone wrong we are awesome enough to be able to point out that we knew that was going to happen. Bashful in the sense that we don’t ever seem to have the gumption to step up, put into practice our superior perspicacity and stop those things going wrong in the first place…

Wait. Is it lack of gumption – a startling deficit in the fortitude of man – or is it that as members of such an exclusive population we are basically a pretentious breed of people; who are inherently full of shit?

Well. As a NZ male, believe me, I know. Oh yeah, I know it all. A great many of us are indeed, full of shit. Some of us will make out like we know how to do stuff even though we don’t. Some of us act as if we don’t need any help with anything at all even though we do. Some of us preach about the best way to do stuff as if we know the best way even though we don’t. Some of us like to throw around a lot of big words and clichés in an attempt to make ourselves appear learned even though we’re not…

Some of us – these are the worst ones – like to elevate ourselves by not participating but waiting, then taking the retrospective high ground.

These pompous dickwads like to stand back and watch development unfolding while ever so helpfully pointing out imaginary problems; then once the task is complete and if a genuine issue is noticed, these pillocks come down from their lofty perches, hurry to board the bandwagon then kindly, retrospectively, start advising people on how it should have been done.

Man, these people are awesome. They are the complete package: skilled, knowledgeable, bash…

In my experience, those who elect to wait it out from the safety of the retrospective high ground rather than actually assisting in a process, are generally those who have no ability anyway. They will likely act as though they do but rest assured, they don’t. The only thing at which these people excel, is taking away from the glory of achievement.

Of course people who are genuinely awesome do exist but they’ll be hard to find – they don’t go around making a big deal of it.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by A R Swipe

Photography by Pauline Ura Head

Why the hell is everybody so damned opinionated these days?

Furthermore, why is it that every idiot with an opinion, seems to think that their opinion, is a bloody brilliant opinion and in their opinion, it should be heeded without exception?

For anyone to claim that their opinion should be heard above other opinions, in my opinion, is the wrong opinion.

Opinion is a personal expression of the mind and everybody is entitled to their own. As individuals our opinions are what set us apart – without them we would be sheep. Our opinions polarise us and rightly so…

Some opinions are daft.

As people, we need only see a new face to form a basic opinion of the character behind it. Problem with this style of introduction, potentially, it’s fraught with inaccuracies.

I entered a supermarket foyer the other day and was accosted by a couple of elderly women seated behind a bench, selling raffle tickets. As I scanned the adjacent display of vegetable saplings one of the pair leaned forward and beseeched, “Sir, you must have two dollars for a raffle ticket..?”

In fact my wallet contained several two dollar coins but glancing at the prize – a miniature Christmas tree adorned with Instant Kiwi tickets – I began to politely decline the offer.

The woman persevered: “Come on Sir, give it a go, you look like a lucky man…”

I paused, chuckled inwardly and thought, ‘Lady, if you only knew…’

With a wry grin I removed my wallet, popped the dome and parted with two dollars. Both ladies smiled broadly, clearly surprised at how easily men can be cajoled.

In reality I’d seen it was an RSA fundraiser, leading to a surge of magnanimity.

Accepting the pen on offer I hunched over the bench, thrust down my right hand then to the ladies’ horror, appeared to try and crush it with my left. I raised my twitching head, met their eyes in succession, smiled grimly, then with a spasmodic right arm steadied by its forceful opposite, painstakingly drew my name; straightened, handed back the pen, wiped the few beads of sweat from my brow, smiled again and bid the women a good day…

“Oh, Sir,” came an unnerved voice from behind me, “Sir, you forgot to leave your phone number..?”

“No I didn’t,” I called back.

Point made.

As mentioned, people tend to form instantaneous opinions on other people. The subjects of these opinions sometimes feel they are being judged – these people should learn to distinguish ‘judgmental’ from ‘observational’. Those two old ladies certainly hadn’t been judgemental, they had merely seen what they had seen and based upon that, had formed an immediate opinion of me: debonair gentleman – lucky…

Just a pity that initial opinion was so far from accurate.

…With limited control of his limbs – perhaps not so much.

That said, those who do bitch and moan about being judged by others, seem to be those same people who live less than wholesome, often reprehensible, sometimes even debauched lifestyles and to be fair, are probably already judging themselves anyway…

That’s my opinion.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Judge Mantle

Photography by O Pinion

Everyone has issues. This is a fact of life.

Whether they’re personal quandaries or problems of a worldly nature, everybody has their own. The significance will differ from person to person but to the individual in question, of course, their issues are by far the most serious…

Take a wealthy family from an opulent Auckland suburb: the father’s biggest concern is ensuring the success of a business deal in the Japanese fish market while still having time for golf on Fridays; the son is despairing because he feels that he is invisible in the eyes of a girl he fancies at school.

To father and son, these issues are all consuming.

Conversely, take a family who are in a constant struggle for financial stability. The father works 16 hour days just to meet costs and is worried by talk of a company take-over, leading to inevitable job losses. Bereft of a steady income he will not be able to continue funding his daughter’s overseas schooling. The daughter, understanding the importance of education; also how hard her father is working to give her just that, is obliged to ignore any distractions, forego a social life and immerse herself in her schoolwork.

Father and daughter struggle under issues resulting from their hectic lifestyles.

So which pair has the most substantial issues? The company man stressed about pushing through a big corporate deal, and his besotted son; or the hard working labourer fearful that his job could be in jeopardy, and his devoted daughter..?

It comes down to perspective. The company man believes that his issues are of the utmost consequence because that’s what he knows – big business is all he knows. He understands what it is to lose a deal of this nature and to miss out on Friday afternoon golf would be a similar injustice. His son has always had everything his own way and is powerless to comprehend what it is to not have something he wants – to this boy missing out on an opportunity with a girl is tantamount to a month of bad hair days.

The labourer believes that his issues are of such magnitude because to him the future prosperity of his daughter is paramount; the daughter knows that her father feels this way so is beholden to reciprocate the effort.

The reason that everyone has issues is simple: as people, we tend to place our single greatest concern at the fore of our minds, thus forming an issue.

To a person with multiple worries everything else is supplanted by the big one, rendering their other concerns less terrible by comparison. To somebody with few or no worries, they find something to fill that foremost spot then regardless of substance, consider it their biggest concern.

We secretly love it. We need it. It stimulates that subconscious part of our brain which yearns for disharmony. It occupies our minds, gives us something to think – something to worry about.

When the company man receives word of the success of his deal he sets down his five-iron and promptly makes a call; as per the plan, he cuts by half the employment base of his new company and relaxes, satisfied that all his worries have finally come to a close.

When the labourer turns up at work only to be told there is no longer a job for him, he reluctantly makes a call pulling his daughter from her offshore schooling; conceding that although she won’t receive the private education he had desired for her, there’s nothing he can do about it so he might as well accept these new circumstances.

When the boy arrives at school the next day to discover that the object of his affections has returned to her home country he is first shocked, then devastated, then angry.

When the girl is informed that her father has organised her immediate passage back to Japan, initial disappointment at a premature end to the school year soon gives way to relief at having so much pressure relieved.

A week later the boy is still feeling indignant at the way things turned out with his Japanese sweetheart, and being the spoilt little problem child he was brought up to be, is ensuring that everybody feels the full force of his maelstrom.

A week later the girl is glad to be home with her oddly relaxed father, who is in talks with a local public school to allow her to finish the year’s curriculum in Japan.

A week later the company man is still weathering the tempest from a hostile little rapscallion who is doing everything he can to make life a living hell for everyone.

A week later the labourer is pleased to have his daughter home and has found a less oppressing, significantly lower paying job as a janitor at his daughter’s prospective new school.

Interesting how things work out.

The labourer is still impoverished as he always was, yet is rather more content than the company man with a seven digit salary. The daughter is just happy to be back with her father while the son, having never been taught the sanctity of sacrifice, is frustrated at the way life has treated him thus far and as the years pass, will assuredly become less satisfied.

Most regular folk would argue that really, the company man and his son didn’t have issues in the first place and now, well, they still don’t.

I think the well-to-do duo would disagree.

Those same good hearted people would no doubt take pity on the labourer and his daughter maintaining they didn’t deserve the issues they had in the beginning, and would have been glad when things improved for them…

Realistically, that little Japanese man thrived on his 16 hour days at the fish works; after all, he had nothing else. Truth be told, his issues, he was lovelorn. As for the daughter, she had frightfully low self esteem. She felt as though she was constantly underachieving. The company man and his narcissistic personality disorder was always an awkward fit in their household, given his son’s sense of entitlement and propensity for tantrums.

As earlier stated, everyone has issues. It doesn’t matter how trivial; doesn’t matter if everybody thinks they’re nothing – as the brain perceiving the issue, if that’s all the issue there is, that issue will be there at the fore. People need to have issues.

Issues keep us grounded. Issues keep us real. Our issues complete us.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Percy Eve

Photography by Ash Hugh

The word addiction is bandied about a great deal these days, but what does it really mean?

By definition, addiction is ‘the condition of being abnormally dependent on some habit, especially a compulsive dependency on narcotic substances’.

Less officially, it’s an urge to do certain stuff, repeatedly.

Whichever way one perceives it, this compulsive behaviour invariably comes with negative connotations. For you see without the inherent detriment, addiction would have to be downgraded to merely, passion.

I’ve always believed that addiction is not so much a mental issue as it is the simple act of loving something too much – which, yes, admittedly, does often result in my detriment.

The point remains: some people have an excessive love of eating; these people are considered food addicts. Others are besotted with the rush of gambling or/and the grandiose effect of alcohol; some have their love affair with cigarettes or/and other drugs.

Addiction is a filthy word. It carries a stigma rivalled only by peoples’ general feeling for politicians. Here’s the thing though, addiction is not always bad. There are good, honest folk out there addicted to good, honest pastimes. Sure, perhaps they do it so much that it isolates them from their wonderfully balanced contemporaries, but that’s not detrimental, that’s their choice.

Take a diligent man who is so passionate about his career that he makes his work his life. By definition, this man is now addicted to work. Some might prefer the hackneyed colloquialism, workaholic, but no. If you want to mix alcoholism with work, that’s your call.

Workaholic, chocoholic; fitness freak, health freak… In the 21st century the aforementioned categories are said to denote addictions of sorts, but do they really? Can an undying passion for chocolate really be considered an addiction? I think more just a weakness of spirit. What about fitness? Addiction – or desire to be the best you can be?

That’s the thing: distinguishing addiction in its truest sense from merely enjoying, or loving something too much.

I am blessed with an addictive personality. This means that if I do something once and like it, odds are I’ll do it again and again and again and again until someone forces me to stop. Then when they’re not looking I’ll likely do it another couple of times.

I stop short of referring to these part time passions as addictions – suffice to say I am easily consumed. Smoking, drinking; gambling and kleptomania are but a few of the demons that have reared their compelling heads in the past fifteen years. In fact, I find myself in a constant battle to avoid the intoxicating allure of life’s vices. Substitution is my cavalry.

Nefarious Addictions for Innocuous Distractions.

It’s not perceived as a weakness to be a fitness fanatic but it is to be a smoker; therefore I cancel out one with the other. Then coming as nothing short of oxymoronic, my passion for healthy living makes up for my love of Scotch whisky; my compulsion to be prudent with money negated by a love of betting on greyhounds. Kleptomania’s an odd one, but my overwhelming desire to scrawl page upon page of rhymes long ago took care of all my accumulated pens.

That’s a lot of addictions for one man to harbour.

Get this. Our addictions are in our heads. Primarily; purely. They can be beaten down by the same part of our brains that elevated them in the first place…

Alternatively we could choose to die with our so-called addictions.

Would that be so bad?

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Kim Pulson

Photography by Mia Dixon

Seems Ashburton folk aren’t into drinking poison.

The aforementioned toxin takes the form of nitrate and has been found in drinking water throughout Mid Canterbury.

Reportedly it’s only ‘trace amounts’, but here’s the thing, when it comes to the health of newborns and pregnant women, trace amounts can be damaging…

Wait a minute. Stop. While I am a staunch supporter of the whole ‘let’s not poison our kids philosophy’, I reckon someone must have their facts confused. I happen to know that Ashburton and practically the entire Mid Canterbury region, draw their water from wells. I understand furthermore that water drawn from the earth, on account of soil’s natural filtering process, is indubitably of pristine quality..?

What if it wasn’t though? What if the dairy industry in Mid Canterbury had become intensive to the point that chemicals applied to farms’ surfaces were leaching into the earth; eventually finding their way into the water supply?

Fact. Nitrate has been discovered in over twenty Ashburton wells.

Have to admit, that does sound bad – sounds like the perfect opportunity for Canterbury Health Officials to do some scaremongering while at the same time, besmirching the nation’s favourite scapegoats, dairy farmers.

Fact. Nitrate has been discovered only in private, comparatively shallow wells; therefore Ashburton locals who take their water from the deeper municipal supply, need not be concerned.

That said, it’s still not good. Whichever way you perceive it, Mid Canterbury drinking water contains detectable levels of pollution.

Fact. The New Zealand drinking water contamination threshold is twice as strict as that of most other countries – what we might consider toxic, these other countries call refreshing.

Even so, as earlier stated it only takes a small amount of nitrate to affect the well-being of infants – depriving of oxygen the muscular systems in both born and unborn babies.

So how do we amend the issue?

Well. Federated Farmers maintain the intensification of farming in the area is not necessarily the sole cause of water pollution. While the addition of nitrogen-based fertiliser coupled with increased ground saturation appears the logical offender, run-off from the Ashburton freezing works is a likely cause also…

This is not so much amending the issue as it is shifting blame.

True enough. Bear with me. I am uncertain why the sky is blue, but I’m pretty sure nitrogen is what makes the grass green. During summer Mid Canterbury didn’t used to be green. It was more of a brown hue. It lacked water. Also fertility.

Then one day both deficits were met.

Now irrigation draws added nitrogen into the soil. Now the sky is blue and the grass grows green. Nowadays not only is Mid Canterbury dairy farming possible, it has become intrinsic to the New Zealand economy.

The obvious way to rectify this water pollution problem would be to stop, or at least regulate intensive dairy farming. Given that I don’t see this happening, perhaps chlorination is the answer because simply, it can’t work both ways.

Mid Canterbury cannot have fields of lush grass for its cows and unadulterated water in its taps.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Dear Ray Former

Photography by Polly Utante

If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound?

Fact is, no one really knows.

What if, upon the trunk of that fallen eucalyptus a cicada strums out its merry tune and still there is no one – is there still music?

Of course there is. There will always be music. Music is among the most enduring of all art-forms. For as long as there has been wind to blow through trees, rain to fall into puddles or sunlight to ripen the pods of broom bushes, there has been music.

Admittedly, melody usually requires an intelligent mind but music, in its most natural form, is simply the continuation of sound.

Let’s be fair. The ‘continuation of sound’ can be monotonous. It can be tedious and it can be downright dreary. People are blessed with musical preferences, the innate ability to distinguish good sounds from bad, so the screech of an angle grinder on steel is never confused for a mellifluous lullaby on bedtime. Both continuations of sound, both not aurally pleasant.

Musical taste is why some people believe that contemporary pop music is the greatest sound ever made while others believe the same of hip-hop or House music… These people are generally idiots.

Some will claim they are not bothered either way and that they enjoy all kinds of music. These people piss me off even more than the general idiots. They have no passion for music, thus no ability to discern quality from crap. Instead of listening to and absorbing a fine tune, seemingly they hear a cluster of nondescript chords, allow it to collide with their exterior then fall, unused and unappreciated, to the floor.

Personally, rock is the only style of music worth appreciation. In my opinion, this is fact. In my opinion, every other person in the world should share this opinion.

I do realise this is a ridiculous notion. It is as stupid as it sounds. That said, I am not alone in my thinking.

Every music aficionado who has ever lived will have claimed at one time or another, that their preferred genre is superior.

This is the polarising nature of music.

In my opinion, music attained perfection somewhere throughout the ‘90s, with the likes of Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice In Chains…

Come on. I am 30 years old. The generation above me will probably rate the ‘70s or ‘80s as the era of perfection; the generation above that, the ‘50s or similar.

The point to be drawn from this: music is subjective and constantly evolving.

Example given.

In 1937, Bing Crosby was a musical god.

In ’48 it was Nat King Cole.

Then in 1949 Gene Autry produced the track, ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ – the second biggest selling Christmas hit of all time; outdone only by Bing Crosby’s 1942 track, ‘White Christmas.’ While that record still stands, in the minds of most, to hear either of those songs today, would surely be tantamount to being bludgeoned with a satchel full of soiled diapers.

I’m sure some folk still relish those vomit-inducing jingles; this is merely an example of the way musical tastes have changed with time.

Christmas tunes aside, it’s not difficult to see a motif around 20^th century evolution of music: beginning with Bill Haley’s 1955 classic, ‘Rock Around the Clock’, then the commencement of Elvis’ groundbreaking career in ’56, these artists paved the way for the likes of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and Jerry Lee Lewis. The early ‘60s were punctuated with big, recognisable names such as Motown, Chubby Checker, Bob Dylan, The Beatles; with James Brown making his appearance in ’65. The following years were to be commanded by The Rolling of Stones, The opening of Doors and the closing of Jimi Hendrix. The ‘70s brought such epic groups as Kiss, Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath… Say no more.

Evidently. Rock, or at least rock’s effeminate brother, pop rock, has always been among the leading styles of music. This, presumably, is why pop-loving piss-ants like to talk about their favourite new-age pop track, ‘rocking so hard’.

Fact. Pop tracks don’t rock. Pop tracks blow. Get your own bloody word.

Anyway. Michael Jackson appeared in the ‘80s bringing some revolutionising tunes – as did Queen. The main difference here is that the name of one of Michael Jackson’s songs was not the inspiration for the stage name of a 21^st century pop princess.

Skip forward a number of decades: Lady Gaga. Arguably the world’s biggest existing female pop figure… She sounds like a wonderful person.

Music will continually change, musical tastes will continue to adapt; boy-bands will become younger, hairstyles will become more labour-intensive; pants will become tighter, vocals will become more electronically enhanced; girl-groups will increasingly show more skin, their music will become increasingly contrived; band members might become sell-outs but I will never shift my musical allegiance.

Times are changing. Music is changing with it. I am not so ignorant that I am closed off to the idea of new music in my life – just so long as it’s rock music.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Cadence B Sharpe

Photography by Pearl Jammer

For as long as I can recall I have been more interested in the physical rather than the intellectual side of the employment spectrum.

This preference probably has a great deal to do with my upbringing.

As a boy, school holidays were invariably spent working on the family farm; weekends usually no different. When it came time to select a career therefore, given that labouring was the only money-making strategy I had ever known, working with my hands seemed the obvious way to go.

Furthermore having grown up in an environment where tinkering with cars was a common pastime, the decision to enter into the automotive industry was a logical step.

Given my flair for all things academic this ‘logical step’ was perceived by many as a questionable choice: in the opinion of classmates I was disregarding my natural talent; some teachers even believed that I was selling myself short.

I wasn’t bothered. I was following my passion. Besides, there was no bloody way that I was going to wind up behind a desk; heaven forbid, at a computer.

Leaving school on completion of Year 12 and securing a workshop position with a local transport firm, life seemed almost too easy.

Too easy. Ha. It didn’t take long for life to reveal its sinister undercurrents – less than 12 months later unforeseen circumstances forced me to turn my back on my beloved automotive industry.

Fortunately I still had that other, God given ability.

Much as I endeavoured to maintain the physical side of life, I could feel it leaving me – dexterity had become limited. Cognitively, small motor control was gone. I accepted these deficits. What I refused to accept was that I could no longer sustain hard labour. I believed – I still believe that if I can perform a task once, I can perform it hundreds of times. I always used to have a seemingly infinite supply of stamina so, I query somewhat indignantly, why the hell should I have to pace myself now?

Well, I am older now than I have ever been. I don’t think that’s the reason though. I think the real issue is in my head.

I think it’s that cliché that we like to direct at the defeatists of the world, those people who give up before even really trying; those who say it’s hopeless before even beginning the search for hope…

To these people, we like to say: “Harden up loser, it’s all in your head.”

Great. So if my issues really are all in my head, surely my old faithful Mind Over Matter will cure what ails me..? Right. Here we go then.

‘Come on, I’m keen as to undertake a day of gruelling physical labour. Bring it on. Why should I not? Nothin’ stoppin’ me. I’m fit, strong, energetic, I have an athletic physique – shit man, I’m buff as. I am the personification of physical labour…’

If only it were that simple. If only the issue were not in my head.

It’s not a heavy head either; it’s not even overly large, yet it is my head that slows me down. Who could have imagined such an occurrence – my own brain has become the bane of my desire to commit to physical labour.

I still split a lot of firewood, still ride my bicycle with furious abandon; still like to do whatever it is that raises my heart rate to near popping point and causes perspiration to cascade from my brow.

Alas labouring is becoming increasingly laborious. Despite maintaining the peak of physical fitness, physical labour soon drains me.

So what am I doing now?

Whatever I can do within the physical realm.

What about those things that I can no longer do?

I leave them. Focus on what I can do. In other realms. I focus on the intellectual side of life. For me, that is now the escape. The physical side has a habit of presenting insurmountable obstacles. The intellectual side has its barriers also, but they can generally be surmounted.

Don’t misunderstand me, I am still passionate about my physical labour – nothing gives me greater satisfaction than working myself to fatigue. Problem is that these days it doesn’t take terribly long.

So I write stories about my hardship in the hope that it might help another through theirs; I write stories to make people laugh; I write stories because it’s something that after everything, after sustaining severe brain trauma, I can still do well.

So here I am, over ten years on, writin’ stuff.

It’s what I do now.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Harten Upp

Photography by Dusom Reel-Wurke

Nobody would question it, the affairs of Auckland Super City mayor Len Brown are in disarray.

The question some might be asking: should these affairs even be public knowledge?

A good follow-up query might then be: if they were to become widely known, should those affairs influence public opinion of the man at the centre of said disarray?

Looking at the situation from a quintessentially South Island point of view, one would no doubt claim that given the man’s preeminent position, he should probably try to maintain a manner befitting a Government lackey. Of course this would not include gallivanting with a Chinese hussy young enough to be his daughter.

From the perspective of a North Islander living anywhere but the Super City of Auckland, I’m sure the consensus would be that Mr Brown has a duty to exhibit the integrity, the scruples; to uphold the etiquette expected of a second term mayor. The fact that the aforementioned shenanigans commenced somewhere within his first term, is incidental. The fact that some would consider the terms integrity, scruples, etiquette and mayor utterly contradictory, also incidental.

So what about those millions of people squashed into the metropolis that is Auckland City? Yeah. What about those guys? Funnily enough the very people who should find Len Brown’s escapades the most disconcerting, seem to be the least perturbed. This likely relates to the fact that the majority of Aucklanders are not voters; thus even if they were terribly put out by their great leader’s infidelity, based upon the fine logic that is democracy, their opinions would not count.

Doesn’t quite add up, does it? The whole of New Zealand appear to have an opinion on Len Brown’s recent indiscretion, while those folk living under the man’s flailing command, per capita, have the least to say.

Granted, there have been numerous street polls; displays of general unrest, uproar and other unofficial methods of measuring public feeling, but on that sacred day when ballots are everything, Aucklanders appear much too blasé to stick their necks out.

Then there’s Mrs Brown. She’s an Aucklander. I’m guessing she’s suitably incensed at her husband’s philandering. She probably won’t do anything about it either.

Some might argue: ‘Dude, give him a break, he’s just a man – albeit a pathetic, snivelling, self-deprecating little piss-ant of a man, but a man nonetheless. Men make mistakes. Sometimes those mistakes happen to sample from the Orient…’

Really? Come on. Who would say that?

Fair call, that’s just me.

Ultimately Len Brown is human. Humans are renowned for their ability to make erroneous judgements – people make poor decisions leading to shitty mistakes. I’m not saying that I condone his antics, because I most certainly do not. I am simply saying that Len Brown is a man. He is just another person in the world. Yes, admonish him for his actions, but let’s not go on about it.

Brown is already the colour of excrement.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Izzy A Sheat

Photography by Hysa Fowler with Ngaire Spect