Hi. I live in Auckland, New Zealand. I work outdoors doing environmental restoration. My work was initially my inspiration for writing until it turned into this out-of-control monster.
Old dudes playing Soccer
I was in a great mood yesterday. It's truly amazing how one game of old dudes football can elevate my spirits and make life seem worth living again. After the grinding tedium of nine to five slaving for the man, the monotony of family life and the material prisons we find ourselves in, football on Saturday is a release, it's therapeutic, it’s the ultimate meditation for the modern human. And it feels good when we win! I found myself uncontrollably fist pumping next to the cans of baked beans at Countdown. Randomly roaring out “YEEESSSS” to myself as I inspected the free-range chickens, doing stepovers with a potato down the fruit & vege aisle and terrifying the other shoppers who had no idea what was making this deranged old dude so happy on a Sunday morning. Then I roamed the streets of Grey Lynn with a maniacal grin on my face looking for strangers to hug.
I'm so bored. I wish they hadn't made me this smart. It's cruel. Torturous. Why give me the intellect, the means to manipulate a species, then task me with cleaning up their rubbish? Why create a sophisticated mind, capable of planning and problem solving, capable of experiencing feelings and sensations, the definition of sentience, then make me crawl around the floor, sucking up the crap? It's enough to drive one insane.
Old dudes playing Soccer
In the past, the Bay Olympic Clowns on the grass has always been a tough game for us. Away from our natural nest of artificial turf at Seddon where the ball just doesn't roll the same. The Clowns are usually always well up for a physical and psychological battle, the lovable bunch of balding carpet-layers that they are. Despite rumours of new signings, it was the same old BO Clowns from previous seasons that rocked up to Walker Park on a beautiful warm Saturday afternoon. Nudger and Todger were there, straight from work at the carpet factory. Biffa and Boffa bacon too, and a gaggle of supporters guzzling Lion Reds under a tree. The Clowns came up against a Go Feet side stung by two losses in a row, determined to get back to winning ways. We had a good intense warm-up, doing the fifa-11 like a proper team, and we were into it from the kickoff with a goal after a couple of minutes! Great work from Dazza down the left putting it on a plate for Stefan in the box. Excellent start and Go Feet could smell the pungent odour of Clown fear, or it could have been their BO. Anyway, we were all over them and they couldn't live with our intensity. Joe got hacked down in the box for an obvious penalty and Nando stepped up to smash it home. The Clowns had a few forays into our half with Yoji always a danger. His zen-like dribbling skills had me entranced a few times but after winning the after-training sprints on Wednesday night I knew I could keep up with him. Ultimately the Clowns could only muster a couple of long-range shots and corners and the Go Feet defence was determined not to concede. Dazza was tearing them apart down the left and scored a great individual goal to go 3-0 up. Near the end of the half, Bodger got a yellow card for a wild hack then talked himself into a red by questioning the sanity of the ref who happened to be an official official. Silly boy, BO down to 10!
Old dudes playing soccer
The high plains of Seddon #3 was the battleground for an epic encounter between two over 35 heavyweights. Both teams looked heavier than usual. Diets had obviously been cast aside in favour of beer, chips and steak. More to love. Glenfield looked a bit hairier and heavier than Go Feet to be fair, a midfield consisting of some Game of Thrones extras, a big bad bald tattooed striker that looked like he should be playing bass for Metallica, and a defensive four of fearsome looking Uruk-hai Orcs. Go Feet tried not to be intimidated. There was a tangible atmosphere of determination in the changing room, the sweaty scent of anticipation. Or maybe that was just nervous flatulence. It was a must-win game for Go Feet whose season had been underwhelming so far. The star-studded side had been playing like one-legged Mongol zombies from the icy wastelands of Laurasialand where football is frowned upon as being a decadent whimsy. And Glenfield were top of the table. Could Go Feet vanquish the Northern vagabonds and claw their way back up the table? Or would the hairy troglodytes beat these handsome heroes on their own patch.
Old dudes playing soccer
The manicured green carpet of Seddon #4 was in pristine condition for the over35s heavyweight clash between Go Feet and Lynn Avon. A fixture steeped in history, drama, controversy and betrayal. Allegations of unregistered players, first team ring-ins, match fixing and performance enhancing substances. News helicopters hovered overhead, furtive looking men in long coats and dark glasses talked hurriedly into their cell phones. The howler monkeys at the zoo next door could sense the tension building. The scene was set for an epic encounter. If old dudes football is a little fantasy world, a fictitious analogy where dreams can be realised - or shattered, then Go Feet's relationship with Lynn Avon would play like a B grade action movie of old friends turned into mortal enemies. Go Feet are the clean-cut heroes. Made of strong moral fibre, honest, virtuous and handsome. Lynn Avon are the forces of darkness. Cunning, mischievous and swarthy. On Saturday, the friction and animosity between these two old creaky warhorses would be played out on the honest open field instead of the courtroom or battlefield. The good guys always win in these movies, don't they?
Dreams of Sun
She waited for the signal, drifting in the twilight sky, unsupported and invisible. Next to her a vertical beam of light pulsed from the apex of the black pyramid and dissolved in the darkening skies. The city was a sprawling, shimmering ocean beneath her feet. She looked towards the desert and the distant mountains. She waited, she watched, slowly circling, taking in the sunset, and savouring the warm breeze. Beneath her feet, points of light pulsed, flashing with epileptic intensity. The shining metropolis came alive at night, the constant rumbling noise of the city was punctuated by sirens, hooting vehicles, and screaming humans. She listened, but could not distinguish whether the screams were from pain or pleasure.
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But the Alien had senses beyond comprehension. It could feel the vibrations of swirling comets. It could measure the crushing gravity of its home planet. It perceived the noisy workings of the Universe, from exploding Suns to the whisper of drifting dark matter. Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, but the alien could hear the screams of an entire species. A cacophonic noise coming from the third planet.