The Indifference of Rain
WORD festival, which took place two weeks ago, was wonderful. When the least interesting session you go to is fashion historians discussing the extraordinary collection of Central Otago farmer Eden Hore, you know that's a high fucking bar.
Even though I attended a sensible and energy-conserving six events, I was still intellectually bereft by Monday morning, which is supposed to be a writing day. It was instead a "stare at the wall, maybe finish some hems" day. At some point I did think, "I want to go for a walk" but the wanting did not effect the walking.
A shame, because the world is currently exploding into spring. Giant arcs of yellow pollen mark high tide at the edge of every puddle, and the cherry trees along Harper Avenue are vying with one another for the most impressive display. Yesterday I braked on Lake Terrace Road for ducks, who milled around a bit, and then waddled off, quacking indignantly. Fair enough, I thought. There were ducks there long before there was a road.
For me, the best session at WORD was Indigi-joy, where I listened with rapt attention to Dominic Guerrera (Kaurna, Ngarrindjeri), Ariana Tikao (Ngāi Tahu), Tina Makereti (Te Ātiawa, Ngāti Tūwharetoa, Ngāti Rangatahi-Matakore, Pākehā) and irrepressible facilitator Juanita Hepi (Ngāi Tahu, Ngāti Kahungunu, Ngātiwai, Ngāpuhi). There was laughter, there were tears, there was a plush whai (Tina), there were some of the worst puns I have ever heard (Juanita) and I felt grateful and privileged to be welcomed into that space.
One thing Juanita said that really struck me is that she loves visiting the ngahere because, and I'm paraphrasing, the trees don't care about us at all. They are just getting on with it, living their massive tree lives, indifferent to our mammalian strangeness.
I love to use pathetic fallacy in my work, but I am well aware that is my conceit as author; I am making up the character's mood and the weather both. In reality, the rain doesn't care if I'm sad. The river doesn't care if I'm angry. Like Juanita, I find this deeply reassuring. There is nothing quite as good as reminding me of my own fortunate insignificance than a clear night full of distant stars.
(I do occasionally wonder if the indifference of the natural world is why a certain type of techbro acolyte is so disdainful of it. Here they are, throwing boring tantrums on social media, producing hateful podcasts with eye-rollingly stupid takes, adoring the energy-guzzling AI that tells them they are such special, big-brain deep thinkers, and desperately begging for everyone's attention. But nature can't and won't give a single shit about them. Sometimes, you actually do have to touch grass, and I think these guys resent it.)
I am not much of a poet, but while I was looking through my folders for my latest bonus content Patreon drop, I came across this half-worked piece:
Alms
The world hasn’t asked for another poem about spring.
The world hasn’t asked for similes comparing daylight to stitches, Tiger Balm, or cough medicine.
The world hasn’t asked for a description of my wisteria budding for the first time, uncurling each long green middle finger.
The world has not requested lines about my students, punching and pashing, bursting into class with norwester bluster.
The world has not opened submissions to ode or panegyric.
The world has not called for papers on the inner adult leaping.
The world has never asked me for anything.
I will close my laptop and walk under cherry bloom in moonlight, considering offerings to the undeserving.
Good advice, Past Karen. This time, I'll follow it.
SPEAKING OF PATREON, last week I dropped an early reader copy of Olympus Inc: The Olympians - the first three collected books of Olympus Inc, plus Penelope Pops the Question! It is available to all patrons at the $5/month Early Bird eARC tier, and will remain so for two more weeks only, before I publish the collection for general sale.
This collection is also available to Patrons who join in that two weeks, so if you've been thinking about signing up, now's the time!