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When I was Eight

Yesterday I spoke of dreams, in particular one of mine and that was to fly. I’m not the first, and I definitely won’t be the last boy to dream of such a lofty ideal. Today, I’m going to share a story about the ignition point of that dream. This story was written yonks (a very long time) ago; it was published on my original personal blog, hosted by Blogspot. Then Google disappeared my account, 14 Blogs, 7 years of work, irreplaceable photos, all gone. That was about 2009/10.

I recomenced my blogging, giving BlogSpot a wide berth, and trusting Google NOT.

Hence we have “Labyrinth”.

The Long Way Home

circa 1959

The year is a bit foggy, you lose so much in the course of 60 years. It was a time when kids played on suburban streets, came home late, and parnets didn’t panic. It was also just a dozen years after WWII, the memory of which still permeated through society. Kids were on the periphery of these memories, but still they descended to the echelons of kids our age. And, like many boys everywhere, we played “war.”

Sometimes I would go the long way home; turning right from the school gates instead of left. Together with my friend Stephan we’d head of, pats Martin’s place and into the cemetery with its sombre concrete graves and Gothic statues. Great things for irreverent boys to scramble over and climb.

After dallying there for a bit, we left by the northern gate. It was there on the way to Stephan’s place that we discovered an old plane hidden amongst the trees. The plane wasn’t a whole plane, it was just the fuselage lying hidden just waiting for two boys and their fertile imaginations.

We had no idea but the memory and later adult familiarity determined that we had discovered an Avro Anson, or some such. The RNZAF had various similar that eventually became war surplus fated to become toolsheds or chicken coops. Once through the trees we scambled aboard squeezed throught the narrow doo and into the cockpit, drommped our school satchels on the seats devoid of their original upholstery.

Void of instruments

The control yoke still moved imaginery ailerons and elevators, although we had absolutely no notion of what they were. Gaping holes in the instrument panel like the eyes of the blind, there remained buttons to push and swithes to switch. All this added to the realism as we prepared for take off.

How we knew, I have no idea because at this age I had’t flown before. But, we took off with engines howling fit to bust and decrepit airframe vibrating ready to pop rivets. Off, into the wild blue yonder in search of the enemy. I dont recall just who the enemy were.

This how we imagined ourselves

Nevertheless, the enemy we found, dog fights ensued, we emerged victorious, always victorious, regardless of their number. Machine guns hot and smoking, the acrid smell of iomaginary cordite filled the cockpit; two battle-worn boys returned to base, sweat on our brows faces smudged with the grime of ages in that forgotten hulk readily rubbed off on us.

We lkanded, sometimes on fire, other times minus an engine, but skill always saved us.

How we knew all this I’ll never know.

Our adventure over, late home. There was never an inquisition; just a casual where had I been, and an equally casual at Stephan’s with out any elaboration. Maybe an admonishment for the grime or a tear in my school clothes… old fuselages are so unfriendly to school clothes. Ushered into the bathroom, a flannel and soap to wash away my battle scars. My secrets safe from the prying world of grown-ups.

I lived to fly another day.

Abridged to save you from boredom.

Oh no! An Oboe!

Beautiful Oboe
Beautiful Oboe

The instrument of my dreams. Reacquainted with classical music, I drew near to the melancholic sound of the oboe. For some years I harboured the urge to play this harbinger of the orchestra. Not as sweet as the clarinet, not so down in the boots like a bassoon.

Then, it was – SHOCK, HORROR! I discovered the price of my dream; between $3,000 and $6,000.

So it was a case of – on to he next dream.

So, no more oboe. But I still love the sound.

We all have dreams. I am approaching 70 faster than I would like to; in less than two months, I’ll be there. In some ways that is a dream, arrive at 70. But then so it was a dream to fly, initiated when I was eight. I did. Oh, I flew in commercial airliners when my mother dragged me and my brother and sister off to Auckland for the school holidays. But I was 13 and I realised my dream to fly. It was in this…

A Harvard – A Dream

A 20-minute flight over the suburbs and over our house, I watched Dad working in the garden from above. But, it was a dream realised. I flew, my sweaty hands on the control column following the movements of the pilot in the back seat.

Yes, throughout one’s life one has many dreams. I still have some on my “List of Things to do”…

Generational amnesia:

The memory loss that harms the planet…

Sounds all rather bizzare. But here I sit with a demi-sec Chilean white wine in hand, actually it’s on the table because I need both fingers to type with.

Friday evening, facing the weekend.

I have long pondered the phrases “When I was a kid it was different” and “Kids these days…” and I still do. Ponder, that is. Yes, a lot of pondering.

And then I read an article that reactivates the “Ponder Button”

Here I go off on a tangent, careful, no brakes!

BBC News

As each new generation inherits the world, vital knowledge is forgotten. In the latest in our Wise Words series, Richard Fisher explores the language that has emerged to describe that phenomenon.

Click here if you think I have dithered a bit and you’ll get the article smack in the face as it were. Like I’ve said this is not the first time this idea has grasped me by the “short and curlies” and twisted.

For me this phenomenum is real. See if it doesn’t strike a chord with you.

Jasmine Tea

No, it’s not Jasmine’s tea; it is tea made from the remains of what was a jasmine plant/flower all dried up, I presume hygienically, wrapped transported to one of the supermarkets that I now frequent where it was put on display with the remains of various other members of our planets flora in such a cunning manner as to catch my eye.

Which it did efectively.

In such a manner that behooved me to buy two packets, with scant regard to the price. So much behooving and disregard sent me searching for the ticker-tape that was spewed out by the cashier to in fact discover what the financial damage was done.

R$5.99 each! Gadzooks, I gasped in an imitation of my final moments. That’s R$11.98 of my hard earned cash gone into some other lacky’s pocket. Bugger me! Figuratively speaking, of course. Well, that little speel did one trick, it made me remember how to bold type.

Next time I’ll check on the price before galantly tossing things into my shopping cart.

Now, just why did I commit such an act of foolhardiness? Yes, burning question.

Many moons ago,

when Adam was a cowboy and Moses played fullback for the Arabs… yes, that long ago. I lived in Bolivia; Santa Cruz de la Sierra, in fact. I had befriended a woman called Melissa, for I believe that was her name; who ran spiritual awakening weekends for those who had nothing better to do with their money other than to give it to Melissa in return for a vegetarian diet and jasmine tea. Some of that filthy luchre she gave to me for preparing hot dead vegetables and brewing jasmine tea, of which I grew fond.

Hence my folly today.

All this is brought to you via a cup of hot, sweet, red jasmine tea. The cost of which is roughly R$2.99 +/_. A trip down memory lane, actually it was down the spices aisle of the super market.

Five days have passed since I pestered you with my earthly prattle, and I am still no closer to a decision in regard to my destiny.

Having got this far today, having made a decision with regard to lunch; cubed pork, grated ginger root, pineapple chopped up with some green pepper and broccoli simmered in beer, why beer, you may well ask. Simply because I was too lazy to turn on the tap or get the coconut juice out of the fridge, and the fact that I had to can in my hand.

I’ll go for now and cogitate some more.

I am still undecided. Should I stay, or should I go? I will be 70 in a couple of months, and I’m not going to eat insects for the good of the planet. Nor am I going to try and alter my cats (read ‘pets’ becuase I don’t do dogs) evolutionary developed canine teeth for those vegetable grinding (pulverising) molars of brontosauri origins.

I truly think it is laudible to give Fido or Tibs developed food of insect origin. The fact that your average insect takes up less of the planet’s green open spaces that does one of the bovine, ovine, or porcine animals.

Look at what happened when we gave them dried pet food. Hair fell out, lost its gloss, some animals became lethargic and other symptoms. Who said that was good for them? The vets, they all cried in unison. Yes who told the vets it was good? The professors and the universities. Why because the manufacturers of the ‘healthy’ dried pet food supplied the universities with the funds to teach the vets. And, the universities didn’t want to loose all that lovely money, so they taught what the dried pet food manufacturers wanted them to teach.

Moving right along…

I have swapped my meat laden lunch and beer of the early afternoon for dried sesame seed biscuits and Philadelphia cheese washed down with peach flavoured iced tea. Nothing elegant; break a cracker in half drag it through the cream cheese and wash it down with iced tea.

Still can’t figure out how to insert an image.

No poem today, I’m already exhausted.

I still have to think, and that’sbad enough.

I feel ancient

Yes, I do. It must be the rain. Go to the supermarket or stay at home. Risk going to the furtherest supermarket of the nearer one. Has the nearer on got peach flavoured iced tea yet, or go to the further one that has it. So many options. I’m not sure that I am up to this on a rainy Sunday.

I sat back last night, not yet having TV to watch the news, and visited a few blogs that I knew and enjoyed. I found that many of them had upped and flit, yes gone, went disappeared. With messages like ‘we’ve done our bit’ and the like.

I would like to put an image here, but I’ve forgotten how. I found the image, but how… Hmmm, that seems to have done it. Yes, my ancient debris, I guess that’s how you would describe it, my blog (fool!).

I also took the time to peruse some of what I had written over the past years and the advice I had dispensed and I came to the conclusion that perhaps I shouldn’t rise from the ashes like the proverbial phoenix (or is it pheonix). God the ravages of time dims the memory.

I’m going to further bore you with a poem. Yes, it’s mine; I wrote it about two years ago.


I wake

No bed

No body

No aches oe pains

No age

Just me

My mind


It dawns on me

I woke up dead

I’m not in Hell

Nor heaven

I just am

Once again

Part of the cosmos

I am home

Bathed in cosmic energy

I am the essence

I can see the whole human experience

So limited



But now

I am safe

Galactic arms embrace me

I seek more

I am ready

A spirit is always ready

The thirst for knowledge burns inside

The need

To know more

Hear the sun and wonder

Smell the rain full of hope

See, the music of life and tremble

Taste eternity and feel the power

To take the next quantum leap

Over the continuum

Into the surreal

Fettered not by the physical plane

Overcome barriers that impede

Mortal man

For I am the cosmos

The cosmos is me

I exist


Philosophers of yore

Argued the pointsore

Essence or existance

Existance or essence

A moot point realy




One and the same

They float in separtate worlds

The aether

Above and below

Heaven and Hell


Man misconstrues so much

Fails to grasp

Just doesn’t understand

He is so limited

Shackled by chains of rusting stupidity

That he alone has forged

He cannot see

That he

And he alone

Is the fool on the hill.

Well, are you out of breath, I am. I didn’t say it was a short poem. Meanderings of the mind don’t tend to the shortest route. I hope you enjoyed your visit amongst my synapses.

Until tomorrow. I have much to think about… and the rain seems to have suspended activities for the present.


The Page was BLANK

I came to post the day after, and the page was blank, terribly, terribly blank. Likewise my mind was suffering from the same affliction; Blankitis. So I desisted, and have procrastinated since. I felt guilty about my procrastinations and so I am here today, instead of the other day.

My blankitis was assuaged by the fact that I am setting up a new home. My last one went… I’m not sure yet went , but it went all the same. My lawyer had a lot to do with the ‘wenting’. At present I am of the opinion that he is a thief, and his day of reckoning will come. Meanwhile I am trying to figure out what sort of Svengali (I think that’s the right word) he pulled.

Because when I returned totake up my rightful home, bloody thing wasn’t there, no furniture, no clothes, and ,bugger me no wine! I slept on the garage floor for four nights, then the sods kicked me out and the next night was on the street. The night after a neighbour whom I knew some years back (13 or so) recognised me and put me up for a night in a small flat. That was all I needed, because from the bus I spotted a lawyer sign, and my intention was to go there in the morning. She arrived in style on a motorbike, no Roller for this girl. She was appalled at the idea of a 70 year old sleeping on the street like a vagabond. But there it is, I’m a vagabond.

The trail led to where I am at present, with a mini laptop on a wardrobe side, balanced on a chair. I have a table, it arrived about half an hour ago and I haven’t yet decided how to utilise it.

I’m not broke or anything, I just didn’t have access to my means. That’s where my motorcycling lawyer came into play.

You see, it’s all part of how you fall through the LABYRINTH.

Now I am going to ponder. I have two lime-green splotches on my toilet bowl. I know for a fact that my poo isn’t that colour, so they must be removed.

I’ll try not to procrastinate too long this time.

It’s beer o’clock.


I am in the middle of breakfast. Bacon and eggs, if you must know. I am driving slowly, because after six and a half years I should be wearing “L” plates.

I’m not going to explain my absence; if I ever do.

Damned machine isn’t doing as its told, and then it does it slowly. It’s a mini-laptop, I’d spank it but you can’t do that to children these days. Didn’t hurt me (backside excluded) when I was a kid; and I didn’t need a psychiatrist to help me get over the trauma of good spanking. God help us we are raising a pack of ninnies.

No piccies, just words.

See you tomorrow. Tchauzinhos (little goodye)

Watch this space, no time for Nap-fu practice yet and this tablet is far too small…


I am here just. I amusing a smRtpjone rhat O am totallyunfamiliar wirh and full of misyakes. I cannot realy wriye apost just leave a message that i am here. AV

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