I sensed the presence of something else.
The inside room of the Pit was a very strange room. With only one window - opening to the inside of our flat, and no view of the outside - it possessed a mood of staleness and abandonment. Mould was still creeping up the walls, a problem which had driven Tommy to live in the lounge instead of this cramped box; a problem the landlord still hadn’t resolved. It was a miserable prism. And now, the floor was a chaos of feathers. My amazement at just how many feathers are stuffed into a pillow was quickly squashed under the eerie sense that there was someone else in the room. I shivered.
The Pit itself had grown a lot darker. Haunted, I was sure of it. Things had become strange and eery outside the feather room even; unsettling. I didn’t like to think what had happened in this flat before our coming, or what was at the bottom of the gaping hole to nothing that was caged just outside our front door. Whatever it was, it had stolen itself into our home, the one sacred refuge that should not be tampered with. Were there perhaps other reasons my life seemed to be spiralling downward, beyond my own incompetence, beyond my lack of motivation? Was there something messing with my livelihood? It certainly felt like it. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was beginning to feel the beginnings of depression sink into me, the likes of which I had only felt once in my life before. My Quest had resulted in outright disaster.
But I did have something that could help.
I left the feather room, and snuck out the back window and through the secret garden. The afternoon sun was shining right down upon the outside tables of Dog with Two Tails. It was perfect. I ordered my coffee and tucked into the corner, retrieving the red journal from bag. And then I let the pen do the talking.
‘Otago, two letter short
Octagon, withholding a secret rapport
King Robert, I stand by your side, and adore
I am proud of what’s more, unseen by the masses’
I smiled down at my opened journal. I had never considered the power of poetry before this past week. I had never pondered what it was, really. I had never contemplated why it was, and sitting there on one of the outside tables of Dog with Two Tails, I didn’t even know if I was doing it right. But it felt right. With each poem I scrawled onto those pages, another chunk of the darkness that had been accumulating in the corners of my soul was torn off and spread through the words.
‘Oh King Robert
How did you do it?
Burn a path, Socrates wielding an ink scratcher.
Make a mark, live on and inspire.
Set in stone, a secret tome.
Worshipped as a King, your sovereignty not seen.
But I see it.
Thank you, King Robert’
King Robert. Perhaps I was being a bit dramatic. I was referring to Robert Burns of course, the man semi-immortalised as a statue at the head of Dunedin’s Octagon. I had always held the Octagon in high regard; had always believed that it was a place of vastly unseen significance and mystery. An 8-sided centre to one of New Zealand most curious cities definitely raised some questions in my mind ever since I arrived to live in Dunedin. Even before that, in fact. I never stopped wondering about the place. It was only recently that I discovered its secret - Robbie Burns himself, and the adjacent ‘Writer’s Walk’. Unbeknownst to me, I had walked through the Octagon for months without ever knowing that I treated over the words of Dunedin Writers and Poets alike. Their words are ornaments in the Octagon, detailing their own unique experiences of Dunedin. And now I shared some commonalities with those Writers - one being that my own understanding of Dunedin had matured enough for me to want to share it.
And it was Robbie Burns that all of this revolved around. Although clearly not legitimate, after my own experience of the matter, I regarded him as the centrepiece of Dunedin, a figure who represented the power of literature, the power of art. After my discovery, of course, I had to find out more about the legacy of this man. Sources said that he was once poor, but found his way as a poet and a bard. I was somewhat of a bard. I wanted to know how he did it.
‘Poetry, who would have thought?
A release of this mind crunch.
A paper mate companion,
Words loaded like a juicy tambourine.
October, blip of my heart
Here contains the spaces between the silence’
I had spent the good part of two months, maybe three, searching for answers to my situation. I had found an answer - not a definite one, to solve my career situation - but certainly one to mend some of the wounds I had suffered along the road I had failed to walk. And it was indeed poetry. It really was an outlet for my frustrations, a weapon against my own self pity. It was a way to make sense of things, with a unique twist that my journalling couldn’t offer. There was more creative flair, with no limits. I found myself being completely absurd, not caring an inch about if it made sense or not. It made sense as a kind of healing mechanism. It made brilliant sense. Who knew that all it took was a pen and some paper to clear out those cobwebs from the corners of my psyche?
The pillars are rusty.
What colosseum is this?
It looks like it will shatter soon.
Too much chatter in the chambers
It was crafted with intelligence,
And wit.
Not for the squabble of the fiends.
The disastrous minds…
“Go away you fools,
This is a place for connection!
I demand silence!”
Says the lord.
I needed to know the root cause of this darkness that had snuck through the back door and accumulated in my life. I never thought it was an issue before, and I didn’t deal with it. It grew, and before I knew it, it had grown too big. And now I had to deal with it, like shovelling piles and piles of mud to open a door. What had caused it? Where had it come from? I couldn’t just blame the haunts in the Pit…
After a moment, it was clear. I felt like an utter failure. I had set out to achieve my own purpose, to follow my passion. To be a Writer, a Pianist, a Composer. An Artist. And I wasn’t met with fruits for my efforts. I wasn’t met with satisfaction for doing what I loved to do, what I believed I was born to do. I had such a grand vision, and plugged away at it day after day, forsaking an ordinary life to achieve that goal. But with each proceeding publication of work, my hope died a little more, when nothing happened. My work was going nowhere. Scant few people were reading my stories, listening to my music, or watching my videos. All my efforts had resulted in nothing but failure and disappointment. It was as if I was standing behind a glass wall, and I could see clearly what I was trying to achieve, but my efforts were like throwing balls of paper at the glass wall. Nothing would shatter it. Nothing…
What will it take to shatter the glass wall?
It is paper thin…
Perhaps the hair on my chin will do the trick.
Apparently not - wisdom yet to be born.
It is thick like chewed milk, this glass pane.
Perhaps the ribbons of my brain?
Nope.
It is thicker than a gambler’s tragedy.
Perhaps I should sit back for a bit and charge.
Plug in my heart, apply for Godly strength.
So, I wait for the download.
It looks like fun on the other side.
I see laughter, but I can’t hear it.
I hear silence, but I see a family parade.
Torches are passed from soft hands to cute cubs
I turn to my left, my fire ablaze, keen.
Oh how I wish to share the heat!
It is so warm, so active
Can you guys see it over there? Is it bright enough?
Or is this glass tinted…
My head tilts, faith restored, my heart ready to flurry.
Standing, ready to burst through, a hero.
*bump*
Not even a scratch, on the concrete panel.
It felt good to finally pinpoint the source of my misery. Writing a poem about it made me feel a little lighter. It was a bit of a revelation, really, that my ‘goal’ or ‘vision’ that I believed was all in the mind, and that I needed to focus more on reality. In truth, I had so many things I should have gratitude for.
So many things…
Why are we seduced by our own folly?
Coins have 2 sides
So why sniff the tails?
Crouching in holes that we dug…
Flip the coin, chip the silver
A head is smiling at you
Why would you ignore it?
I ran in the rain today, and slipped.
My pouch flung, coins chunking the skies.
Heads, happy as lilypads, invite me back to joy.
Friends,
The Fa,
What more do I need?
With that, I smacked my red journal closed. I was smiling broadly. I couldn't believe how much better I felt! Just by stringing random words together. It was remarkable. Before heading back up to the Pit, I decided to go to the Octagon and read the Writer’s Walk plaque one more time. Maybe there was still a revelation there I hadn’t quite discovered yet.
In the receding afternoon glow, I stepped between the plaques, reading the words of the various writers of Dunedin. And indeed, the words of one such plaque sent me down a train of thought.
It read,
“Hurrah for Otago for we’re now on our way,
Where’s there’s plenty of work and plenty of pay
Hurrah for Otago, our friends are before
But the land of the Heather we’ll never see more”
-John Barr, Dunedin’s first poet
I stood there, at first trying to decipher the words and how they related to me and my life journey. Otago… plenty of work, plenty of pay… I looked up at Robbie Burns. But Robert, how? I’m an Artist. How? My puzzlement was transmuted into awe and astonishment, when at last, I figured it out. I knew what I needed to do to escape my situation. I knew what I needed to do to break free, to shatter that glass wall, to solve all the problems that had mounted on my shoulders over the past 6 months. Otago stretches further than just Dunedin...
“Queenstown,” I uttered, bursting into a run for the Pit.
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