Tongue twister.

Like a child, yet always me, I´m trapped. My words twist, tumble in my mind, they choke. About to leave the fortress hidden behind towers white, kept in by defences-against what?

Like a tongue twister:
"Where she sits she shines, and where she shines she sits".
Through the smell of coffee that fills the air, the glimmer of the sun is a background, touching her hair. The glitter in her eyes a sign? A reflection of what I want to see? Eyes the lake in winter´s wake, And I?, I wait... I wait for wake and flee.

Impossible to know how to talk, though talk I do each day.
Why when I see you, can I not free you from our chats in this small cafe.
Again always afraid, in my head my words are made,
as I look up, your eyes and nose and lips I smile, to yours,
the rumble and buzz, the words they bubble
- I hiccup-
they fade.
And when they return its late.

Natura non pensa sin homo sapiens.

As I see my world fall apart, this child of mine, I'm his!
A tantrum after another then a third ad infinitum.
It cries, it shouts. In its own little way.
It cannot think the way I think but who can?
It still traps me, I'm his!
Are we not all controlled by our children, our projects,
do we not want a better for them?

A better what?, a world.
My child is my planet,
it is my project and my playground.
So wise I think I am, so vain.
It is no more mine than my imagination's.
It is my reality. My reality is what I see
and to me it is no more.

Reality is subjective. It is mine,
like this world. But
this world is not. I own it not,
I play like a cat plays with the mouse.
Tough love? Torture.

Do i respect it or tease it must.

I use it, my child. For his 'benefit',
just mine..,
I control it and...
It dies.

When a fly is in a jar it dies.
Is it out of boredom- trapped?
Does it stop because it can no longer envisage future, or life?
Does it die because of suffocation or just from inattention, a lack of opportunity.

My world, my child, I'm his!
The lid well screwed now,
for time it has been trapped.
Will it suffocate or will it open?

Pandora. A world of beauty now, destroyed.
I'm not talking space but myth.
But does it open itself, is it open?
Its power immense, its beauty- skin tense. All skins.
Yours and mine but not those of death, but dying?
Diseased, increasingly wrinkly, its tone of death.
But who's?

Rakiura.

The land of the glowing skies in Maori and Stewart Island deserves its name. Although we were in the wrong season to see the southern lights, Stewart Island was an amazing escape- one which not many people in New Zealand, let alone the world see.

We woke up early on Monday, at 6 the car was practically frozen solid. Was this just the first frost of the trip? we wondered. We took the Southern Scenic route down, we knew we had to show Bec! The Catlins was nice, not great though. Too many farms and cows, I almost drove the car into a sinkhole of muck. Nugget Point though was beautyful. It looks out to the vast horizon, the next land too far and possibly unknown. It was sunny by now and we were glad! The walk up to the light house and then the drive through the township are well worth it, with seals in spring and summer time. We showed Bec the cities towns of Southland. Needless to say she wasn't too impressed. Big expanses of land with nothing, no landmarks or special features, no hills, just cows. She wasn't too impressed with Invercargill either. We took a stroll through the southernmost city in New Zealand to buy some utensils and plates... We had forgotten them and throughout the trip I'd remember even more essentials forgotten, later to be found on top of my bed waiting to be packed. We were going to grab a coffee but the place looked unappealing and rather dear, so we decided we'd make it to Bluff, where the ferry leaves from, book in and have one there.

Bluff is a much nicer town, looks like Port Chalmers, it has the portside feel of course, but it lacks the art. Shop windows bare, Bluff is obviously in its dying years, a shame... It is reputedly New Zealand´s first town. After the coffee we decided we´d leave the car on the lean mean streets of Bluff, when asked if safe a worker laughed ´safe here?´ as if saying 'from what?'!
The sun was setting on the West, the sky had exploded with colours. The orange and pink with purple, an exciting magic sense filled the air for us, draped in the most beautyful clothes. The lingering lights floated above the horizon. With them, the lights of this glowing sky, we were transported into Rakiura.
___________
I wake up to music, to the reverberations of the wooden planks struck by the boots of hikers like a xylophone to my ears. I can feel the music in my bones. We've come to prove our noble savage nature, which according to Russeau should make us happier than ever. We came to be awoken by the choir-like call of birds, for now it is the percussion of backpackers; different but equally exciting.
So keen I am to holiday I turned my phone off. I don't need it, not even for the time. I do not need to be controlled by the constraints of a routinely tick. I imagine it's early, there's light but it's just a floodlight beaming into our room.

Through the thin walls I can hear the laughs, and excitable conversation of groups, a murmur. I imagine the adventures I will face and I can project an excitement on those strides that woke me. I figure it must be just before dawn, I try to wake up the other two. I clear my voice, no reply. I can hear Bec's quiet breathing, is she awake- just snoozing? Joe is fast asleep. I rustle, leave bed and walk out. Neither twitch.
Someone is brushing their teeth and the kitchen lights are on. I notice my muscles do not feel rested... I deliberate whether going to bed or seeing dawn in Stewart Island, will I see the Australis? It's pitch dark but they always say it's darkest before dawn don't they?
I take a wander in the crisp air with my boots cracking on the gravel, no birds, no people, odd. I succumb to the force of time, I manage to spot a clock through the curtains of the reception, between the bars of soap and guides probably available only at exaggerated prices. It must be wrong... I feel quite confused, 11.20? No way! I take a second glance... have I really just had two hours sleep? It may take a bit longer to hit dawn! The laughing my ears can pick up on again must actually be the reaction to a drunken tale, that stretch by that person may just be a shuffle to re-balance, he's improvising as he's noticed I'm watching him.
My muscles do need rest, and I a clock... Maybe my body-clock runs too quick, too slow or not at all due to my unhealthy balance between the late work and early uni, as well as a lot of running around in stress. As I start to doze I hear a watch beep, it's 12 at night, now morning.

>>
The chirping of birds indicate it is now morning, and that yes is the sunlight- not the beam of a floodlight. After a quick breakfast we take a walk to the Department of Conservation's office, we fill in the form and less than an hour later we are looking down on Oban from a small hill. It is a windy road out of the township, following the coast. We walk past houses that have some of the most scenic beaches as front yards. Through the white soft sand runs a small stream. Its waters come from the forests above and give to a see in which there is a postcard reflection of the sun leaving horizon for the day. We already encounter wildlife, paradise ducks and we see signs warning us of kiwis. Our bags are heavy, we have kilos of wood to keep us warm in the huts, we've been warned. As we each hide our initial aches there is a phone attached to an electricity pole. Goodness knows how long it's been there, and it's too early to take the ear piece and talk into the  cone-like speaker. If we wanted to, there was no beep.
Stewart Island is much warmer than we expected, the sun is shining on our cutlery as we eat lunch on the beech. The breeze is a marked contrast to the humid forest we've just been walking through. This forest is said to have changed little since the prehistoric ages of dinosaurs and meteorites. There are ferns in many colours, they resemble palms in their size. There are also a million different types of trees competing to get fresh air. The path we now walk through has been cleared of all the debris on the forest floor, where moss and lichen cover the fallen, hit by the particles of light that float down, uncaught by the leaves above. Our backs still hurt from the weight of the wood. As darkness starts to fall we all become quiet, we are feeling tired of walking and sometimes we are separated by our different paces. When we finally get there our backs become freed, it feels as if I'm growing wings! A sense of relief and pain all at once along my shoulder blades. We tell each other that tomorrow there will be less weight, as we burn some of the wood today. But entering the living quarters we find a glowing fire, with wood, an axe and more to cut.