It was just a normal Thursday, except for the traces of magic in the air.
The magic came to greet me during my piano practice around noon, nudging me like some fairy. Go outside, it said. So I did. I unplugged myself from my practice session - something I rarely did - and went outside. There was something in the air, some kind of feeling that made me want to go to the beach, or to explore a new place. There is a word for that in New Zealand. We call it ‘Summer’. But… It was the middle of winter!
Within the hour, I was turning the key of the Emerald Wagon and loading the trunk with my keyboard gear and camera. It had been at least a month since I had made my last piano music video - a month of stroppy skies and bleak horizons. But today’s conditions were auspicious. If I followed the magic keenly enough, traced it to its source, I was bound to capture a perfect video. I had the entire Otago region on my doorstep - heck, the whole South Island, even, depending on how ambitious I was feeling. That is, I had leagues of promising settings to film a video in. Where was I being drawn to? The first place that came to mind was St Clair. I kicked the Wagon into motion, and began meandering through the warren of streets upon my first instinct. St Clair seemed like a good place to start my hunt - a place that signified my own unique connection with Dunedin. I had named myself ‘Joshua St Clair’ before ever knowing that Dunedin had taken my name well before me. And now this place was a mere drive down the road.
I followed the roads in St Clair and found myself ascending to the higher reaches of the suburb. The Emerald Wagon puttered up the hill - it was dying, poor old thing - and I pulled in to a park in the far corner. The road ended abruptly in a cul-de-sac, where a plot of fancy households overlooked the ocean. It was an impressive corner of Dunedin I didn’t know existed until then. Between two properties, I noticed a path leading down into a cluster of flax bushes.
A secret path in St Clair? I have a thing for secret paths...
I snuck down the path, my scarf billowing behind me, and followed it through a tangle of thick grass and flax bushes. Where it came out left me short of breath. It was where ocean met land; far beneath me, waves heaved against a mighty sea-cliff and recoiled in white mayhem. The cliff stood bolder than the titan of myth, unaffected by the ocean's relentless barrage. It was a sheer drop from where I stood, and the path was like a spindly goats track curving around and down to the headland. It was a place of magnificence, hiding in broad daylight. The ultimate secret place of Dunedin.
I scampered down to the peninsula and sat on the wind-swept grass. Unfortunately, it was a bit too far to take my keyboard. So I traced my eyes along the coastline of the South as it curved and faded into the horizon, cushioned in clouds. I would have been content with staying there for a time, if I wasn’t struck by another pang of curiosity, at the sight of the next headland along. It jutted out like some off-kilter pyramid, a horizontal flat section cutting its middle. It was very unnatural. Perhaps that’s where I’ll find my shot, I thought. In any case, I wanted to know what on Earth it was. I hurried back up the path to the Wagon. It was certainly an interesting little adventure I was on, discovering new corners of Dunedin.
It was a 15 minute drive to the spot - a place called Blackhead beach. I got out of the Wagon, eager to see what this strange pyramid-like feature was. I mounted a grassy knoll, only to be confronted by a big fence. Behind it was a iron-clad quarry, with workers moving about like big ants around gravel mounds. Behind me, the beach curved out to like some golden scythe, the ocean and its waves curving with it. The beach was a mesmerising sight, to make up for the quarries lack-there-of, awash as it were with blues and greens. It was the perfect shot! I pounded my fist. It seemed that I had found exactly what I was looking for, by… accident? I turned back to the strange looking pyramid that was merely just the edge of the quarry. Was it magic or just curiosity?
I reached into my Wagon and hefted out my keyboard. To my left, a dude with shaggy bronze hair pulled out his surf board. The only waves I know how to surf are sound waves, I wanted to tell him, but kept it to myself instead. I carried my gear to the grassy knoll and lay it all down on the remarkably green spongey grass. Positioning the camera was next. I wanted a balanced frame, with me and my keyboard between the foreground of grassy knoll and the background of the brilliant coast. Something was amiss - my filming missions never went this smoothly. I mean, the whole ‘chasing the magic’ thing was just a fancy mind game to make the whole expedition feel like an adventure, but maybe there was something to it after all.
Just as I had everything ready, I went to peer through the viewfinder, only to see something strange bobbing into view behind the grass. I pulled back, and watched as the thing manifested into a piece of equipment, and then a head, and then a man! It was a camera he was wielding, secured to the end of a professional looking tripod to put my wobbly-kneed thing to shame. The way he held it told me that this guy was no mere novice, and suddenly, I felt like a complete amateur, crouched behind my entry-level Canon Powershot. And yet, the man surveyed me and my set up with a look of fascination. Who is this guy? I thought. “Hey, how’s it going?” I said as I stood up. “Hello!” The man said enthusiastically. “What’s it you’re doing here? Looks very interesting.” He was eying the keyboard rig and myself quite thoroughly. “I’m filming a video and recording a song,” I told him. “It’s such a nice day! And I found this really nice shot.” I pointed to the beach.
“That’s awesome man! I’m Derek.” He offered a broad hand and I shook it. “I’m out here to get some photos of the surf. I’m a surf blogger, and I like to document what’s happening around the beaches in the South.” His tripod was leaning casually against his shoulder, and I almost expected the camera on the end to blink at me, it was so lifelike. Derek looked my rig up and down again, and glanced back out to the beach. “You don’t mind if I get some photos of you doing your thing? And maybe an interview?” I wasn’t sure if I heard him correctly. An interview? Photos? “Uh, yeah sure!” Could this be my chance? I knew I needed some kind of miracle to get my music and videos out there, but surely it didn’t just fall into my hands like that. And the man was more excited than I was! “Cool!” He said. “I’ll just run down and grab the rest of my gear. Won’t be a moment.” He went hurrying back down the mound.
And so, there on the grassy knoll, I filmed my video and recorded a piano song I had only finished composing that week. I named it ‘Riding the Wave’ - it seemed apt, because that was what my life had become. And that was made particularly clear to me there on that grassy knoll, having an (almost) professional photo shoot and an interview with a local blogger, who just happened to chance upon me. ‘Riding the Wave’ was the way forward, I realised. To let go, and trust. I had tried to brute force my way to success with my creative endeavours, but I seemed to find more auspiciousness when I threw out my sail and let the natural flow of things take me with it. And now I was going to be featured on a local blog! I couldn’t believe my luck. Maybe there was a chance yet to salvage my creative endeavours and finance this lifestyle.
Maybe it was just a case of finding the magic, because it was definitely out there.
———
Several weeks later....
One sniff of the fresh air out of the Pit and I was sure. The magic was there again. Either that, or I was going crazy. There was only one way to find out.
I leapt down the stairs and into the Pit. Tommy was sitting there with a bored look, phone slipping out of a limp hand. “Hey Tommy, I’m gonna head out to film a video. You wanna come?”
They looked up. “Okay. Where to?” The rat-chewed chair squeaked beneath them.“Not sure yet," I replied. "But I'm sure it will be beautiful. There's magic in the air."
I grabbed my keys and we headed out of the Pit. It wasn’t particularly early in the day, and we only had about three hours of peak sunshine left. The destination had to be somewhere around Dunedin. I pictured Dunedin from above and thought of one area that I hadn’t explored yet. It was the land behind the suburbs, tucked against the rolling hills and farmland, a place I might be able to find a shot equal parts simple and gentle. That’s where we would head first. Perhaps the way to the perfect shot would lend itself to us somewhere in that direction, if this adventure was anything like the last.
The song I wanted to record was nothing too showy, so I wasn’t aiming for anything too spectacular like a setting of mountains, lakes or wild beaches. I wanted a backdrop with just enough colour and beauty to grab the eye, but not much more. I was almost about to tell Tommy about the whole following the magic thing, but just before I opened my mouth, we were blasted with hard thrashy music. The suburb on that edge of Dunedin was called Brockville. It wasn’t anything special, except that it had a fish’n’chip, and we were hungry. The shop was crumby and unkempt, but quick to produce our burgers. We took them to the nearest park - a very ordinary square of grass that’s only redeeming feature was a single, slightly run-down swing - and munched our lunch. I was annoyed that I didn’t get any napkins. My fingers were a greasy mess - how was I to play gentle piano music with slippery fingers?
We fled through the back door of Brockville and followed the road that lead us to the top of the farm hills on the outskirts of Dunedin. The views were quite pleasant, as I had suspected - a typical country scene with farm houses, paddocks and blotches of trees. It had promise. The road mounted the tallest hill, and swiftly descended down into a valley. The views were best there, but it was all private farmland and gnarly fences, so I continued down the road. Tommy was content to simply enjoy the views, but I was seeking the best one. I clicked my tongue in vexation as the views slowly disappeared.
“Damn, I was hoping to get a shot from up there. It was quite nice,” I told Tommy. They looked at me. “All good,” they said. “There’ll be something down here I reckon.” The farm valley was starting to look a bit like what I had envisioned for the song - blankets of pines draping over the hills, grassland sketched with fences. Tommy was right. This place had promise, and I trusted the road we were on. I trusted the mysterious ways of Dunedin, and how it helped me find only the best scenes for my videos. The road passed an estuary, the water stiller than the thick of night, and I pulled up to the side, considering it for my scene. Glancing down the road, it swerved into a thicket of young pine trees. Take this shot now? Or trust where the road was heading? I hopped back in the car, and headed on down the road. Magic was near.
“It’l be just along here, for sure!” I told Tommy, confident in my decision. The perfect scene. We turned with the road, and it headed down towards a cluster of buildings, one of which was quite large and miserable looking, with black smoke curling out from its ominous chimney. This was not the dream scene I was hoping for… It was the scene of a nightmare. “What the hell…” I head Tommy mutter, as we descended further.
Dead end. The most blaring thing about it was the huge pile of blood and guts - a mound of dead things - with a cloud of seagulls swirling around in a frenzy; buzzards on a carcass. The smell crawling into my nose was like a thousand midden heaps all in one, overwhelmingly potent. The ground was muddy and marred with gumboot prints, of which were the doings of two big men who turned to regard us. They both wore full-body meat-suits, bloodied and dirty, and from our distance, it looked like they were scowling. Trying not to look panicked or hasty, I executed a 180* turn, and drove back up the road. The image was still spoiling the windscreen, all the way until the bend in the young pine trees. And then we booted it.
Tommy and I were shook. We pulled up at the Reservoir, trying to regather our senses. I felt dizzy… “Well I totally didn’t except that,” I said to Tommy. “It must have been the abattoir,” they said. The unexpectedness of it made me imagine a lot worse… The reservoir was my last option, then. “Well, time to get to work then,” I said, opening the boot. I carried my stuff to the edge of the dark body of water, set up my things, and went about recording my piece.
I reconsidered the whole ‘following the magic’ thing. I supposed that sometimes I just got lucky. And other times, not so much…
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