I held the thing in my hands as if was an idol. A sacred treasure. It was, to me.
It was a thing of magic. A hideaway I could escape to, away from the billowing dramas of my life. It was a friend who was always by my side, who listened calmly as I babbled on about my problems, and didn’t hold the slightest judgement. I embraced this thing ritualistically, in my own corner of the Pit, folded into the layers of Dunedin city. A simple thing though it was, only now was I coming to understand its true power.
I placed it on the pile of its forerunners and reached for the next one. It was bound in a pack of three that cost me only five dollars: there was a red one, a blue one, and a black one. I only used the black one, out of a desire for consistency. The red and blue ones were beginning to clutter my storage space - the pile would keep growing so long as I ploughed through the pages of the black ones and required a new pack within the month. I would need to find purposes for those… I looked down upon my new journal, wondering what story it would tell. How do I even begin? I thought as I opened the first page, whirling the pen through my fingers.
The first page. How am I to introduce this chapter of my life? Where do I start?
My journalling had evolved since my first scrap-book of a journal. That worn old thing was a confused jumble of thoughts, ideas, and rigid attempts to describe my surroundings. Not to say that was a bad thing - it was a start. Seven or so journals later, I had embraced a story-telling approach. I wanted each journal to tell a complete story. My journals had become living, breathing reflections of each chapter of my life. But now, my life had taken a turn I didn’t expect. The decisions I thought would lead me to personal victory had in fact resulted in disaster. It was July 2018, of the year I had declared to walk my own path, upon an unshakable conviction that I could make a living doing what I was born to do. But trying to establish a life as a full-time Artist - a Writer, Pianist, Composer, Videomaker - was proving to be impossible. My so called ‘Quest’ crumbled before my very eyes, and I was left on my hands and knees scrambling to fix my big mistake. I was trying to get work, but it seemed that my attempts only lead to dead ends and disappointment, as if I was in a maze with no way out. And so, I had no choice but to turn to the government for financial assistance. It was now my third week on the benefit, earning just enough. No, not ‘earning’. What had I done to ‘earn’ my weekly $250?
I shook my head, annoyed that I went off track. Chewing my pen, I thought about how to sum up this introduction. Then I set my pen into motion, etching my first few words into my eighth journal. I’m optimistic and hopeful by nature… I wrote. I can’t just sit here and watch my life continue its descent, like an aeroplane nose-diving into the ocean. In no time, my pen soared and flitted across the page, energised by hope. It was clear: I wasn’t going to let the struggle throttle me as if I was some hopeless mule. I needed to find an answer to my problems - and I was going to find it. I marked my name and the date at the bottom of the page, as usual, and read what I had written. Perfect, I thought. This journal was going to tell the story of how I found my answer. But the answer itself was yet a mystery. I closed the journal and tucked it into my bag. The sun would be rising soon, so I put on my boots, donned my colourful jacket, and left my room.
The other corners of the Pit hadn’t changed much, except that it was more gloomy. It seemed darker, less homely. Or perhaps that was just the winter seeping into the wood. Tommy was still living in the lounge, their ‘room’ separated from the kitchen by a taught string and make-shift curtains that were really just musky old bed sheets. Despite countless attempts to contact the landlord, their actual room still hadn’t been cleansed of its mould, which shambled along the walls like some awful disease. The inside-room (it had no windows) was now a chaos of feathers, after Tommy had torn open a pillow. Nobody had made any attempt to clean it. What was the point? We didn’t mind Tommy living in the lounge anway… The others must have just left, I thought, noticing just Tommy up in the loft, absorbed in the record collection. We had been up all night. I made brief chatter with Tommy, grabbed an apple, and headed on my way.
Outside our main door, bloated rubbish bags were piling up. The guts and refuse of the past two months we were too lazy to deal with. They were heaped against the chicken-wire fence that cornered off the gaping hole, which dropped down into the depths of the building. It didn’t look out of place alongside that strange cavity. It was accursed to our eyes. A mystery. The way our lives were deteriorating, I wondered what was really down there, wafting into our home, tampering with our livelihoods. As I began climbing the damp wooden steps out of the Pit, I wondered…
It was still dark, yet the distant skies framing the tallest buildings were peeling back with a bit of quiet light. I headed down into the city via the thin metal staircase, and walked the empty streets. It was remarkably peaceful and still - I didn’t expect to find anybody at this hour. The odd seagull eyed me suspiciously as I marched past on my way to the Octagon. Over the road, the street cleaner (that always seemed to remind me of Mr. Tumnus from Narnia) was already at work, his lifelike street-vacuum ’Glutton’ trailing behind him and grumbling. That guy is the silent hero of Dunedin, I thought.
The Octagon was still fast asleep. Even after 5 months of living in Dunedin, the place still had me bemused. Why was there ever an Octagon here? What did it signify? It begged questions in my mind, but sometimes I wondered if I was just being childish for thinking it meant anything at all… Still, there was something about it that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around. The statue at its crown looked strangely life-like in the coming dawn as I marched past, heading up the hill. The town belt - that’s the place I had in mind. I would get a good view of the sunrise from up there.
With each step I climbed higher above the city, I pondered over the answer I would find, the answer to my struggle. Perhaps it was to just work even harder on my own creative projects; put even more time and hard work into my writing, my music practice, my video-making. That was definitely on the cards regardless… Yet, earning a living from my creative work still seemed impossibly far away. I would continue the job search - that was a requirement for the benefit. There was always SHEEP…
I reached the town belt as the sun’s morning glow began settling into the near skies. The bush looked deep and rich in the early light. I followed the spindly road that wound through, and abruptly stopped at a little gap in the trees. It revealed a vista of North Dunedin, responding to the call of the morning - cars puttered through the streets, orange and purple lights hummed, cyclists trickled along. With the sun rising up behind the distant hills, it was a mesmerising sight. There in my little nook in the town belt, I noticed something peculiar about what I was seeing. A straight line, directly in front of me. A road that wasn’t a road, it cut right through the residential block. And cut through the next residential block, and the University, and beyond. A remarkably straight pathway, as if this block of town had been constructed beside a giant ruler. Or… perhaps it was just my imagination.
And right then, somewhere within the brush of the town belt, I was curious beyond curious. Perhaps my answer was hidden somewhere in Dunedin itself.
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