Drugs.

My lungs fill, and the smile returns. Miracles in zip-lock bags. But don’t be fooled, its not always this good. The smile is amplified, but so is everything else. Its not an RPG, you don’t get to control your destiny. So strap yourself in and make sure you’re ready for the ride. The trip is well worth it, believe this grin.

Drove through Earthquakes to get here.

Christmas meltdown. It swept me away as good as any swollen river could. Scattered problems, snowballing into a fucking brick wall. But only in my head. Tis the season to be jolly, but I’m not playing that game. Ignorance can only be an excuse for so long… eventually you must blink and scan your horizons. Evaluate whether you like it or not. Make a decision. The high road, or the chasm at your feet.

Music has been the savior. It always is for me. Built to Spill and Secret Knives are on high rotate. Casual Flying Lotus, and a sprinkle of Death Cab. Lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of buds and the best bass within St Albans, or so it seems in my fortress. The earth lets out the occasional violent shudder, and everything returns to normal, minus the distant sirens, angrily announcing their presence. Its been exactly what I needed. Sam time. With sporadic appearances from other characters I allow on my stage.

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.

Shakespeare knew how it was. I can relate. Just make sure you choose your parts wisely. As the new year approaches, that’s more and more on my mind, my internal parchment.

Road trippin' with my two favourite allies.

Hard day at the office. Fake smiles and confident sales pitches in the rural wilderness. Frequenting towns you would only glance at sympathetically or use as a well-earned toilet stop. Convincing the locals of your job title, camera at the ready. The photo is the reward. Overpowering hay fever, a constant splutter. Resorting to a costly remedy. Running on borrowed energy and driving erratically. Debating the relevance of Nirvana while traversing shingle roads to nowhere. The truck is a haven from the punishing norwester. Kaikoura provides late arrivals, swift beers, amateur photography and casual road rage. Just another day in the sun.

In search of sleep.

The heat is blinding, and sleep is a distant luxury. My bed crackles uncomfortably as thoughts twist and turn. Agonising over superior play lists, while letting shuffle have the last laugh. Nervously checking technology. Craving a cigarette in the heat, and being amused by the irony. Perplexing financial situations, as Christmas looms like a tidal wave of drama. I welcome the New Year with open arms, and all of my misguided optimism. Not fully comprehending how much I will miss my friend, until after she is gone, and goodbyes are brief. Night time promises so much, but fails miserably. A metaphorical middle finger to a lack of time, and a lack of sleep. Whispering lyrics to a dark room, and meaning every syllable.

Town.

The wicked witches guard the entrance way, so enter at your peril. Dancing is a minimal requirement, in the land of drunken smiles. Bring your buddies, and see who can laugh the loudest. Billows of smoke usher from a collection of semi circles. The highest heels, the shortest dress, wins the war of affections in this meat market. The music is playing, but its only a noisy distraction as the horde swagger in time. Beautiful people saying ugly words. The illusion fades as sobriety hits. Quick! Quick! Like Cinderella at the ball, we must flee this scene, burger in hand. Until we drink some more.

December, Already.

Contemplating a not so distant future. Evaluating the past, while dismissing the present. Reinforcing my trust in the wisdom of gravy. Casual magic tricks in a cluttered kitchen. Weeds, weeds and more weed. Laughing with conviction. A downloading bonanza, co-in-siding with a stereo that understands bass. Conflicting ideology, and a production line of venues. Flee this ugly scene of drunken abundance. Medals for remembering my name, behind a mask of insufferable indifference. The beard says yes, while the mustache is a deal-breaker. Finding comedy in sadness, for all the right reasons. Gaining confidence from yr smile. Trying and failing. Too drunk to be underwhelmed. Observing different forms of dealing with loss. Restless dreams of intimidating lists. Coming to terms with contentment. Lavish spending to maintain the status-quo. A family afternoon that tested my patience, but ultimately provided a smile that reached my eyes. A coffee of magnitude and a longing for a dreamless sleep.

Sharing is caring.

Now that’s a philosophy i can relate to. Forget the hype, socialism isn’t all snow and slavery, vodka and bad cars. It’s just a poorly executed good idea. Sometimes titles ruin the best ideas. Like you and me. And sometimes ideas are merely dreams you don’t want to end. The reality is harsh, but I would rather suffer the truth than stumble blindly through the lies. A prequel that leads into nothing. A scrunched up piece of paper, lying in a forgotten corner of the room. I’m going to appreciate the present and the future will be what it is. Fucking swell.

Wash away the drunk, one sip at a time. The cup is your friend, until its empty. Then you disregard it like the rest. Get in line, march around a little, and feel that unnecessary sense of pride you don’t deserve. Add it to your ego, and now you’re the real deal. But you’re not, and no one is deceived. Expensive wrapping hiding a blank canvas.

9 to 5.

Initial fear and alarm, thinly veiled behind a mask of calm. Poor attempts at decision-making. Understanding you're fighting a losing battle, and there are question marks about the war. Cultivating a climate of motivation. Digging the newbies. Frightful time management. Endless chatter gives way to rad tunes. A hatred for A2s, balanced by a healthy dose of spontaneous flirtation. Frequenting Office Max. Polite exchanges of goods and services with unnatural vigilance. Paid routine and a love of Thursdays. Money is elusive, while time is everything. Corflutes can fuck right off. Livin' the dream, one pay check at a time.

My own personal 'Bay of Pigs'

Life is a constantly updating list of responsibilities, in an eternal struggle with apathy. Where apathy once held an impenetrable monopoly, the harsh reality of adulthood has made crucial gains, like a creeping revolution. The worst kind of revolution. I want to crush the movement, but apathy strays my hand. The comfort of distraction. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’. A bullshit term masking ignorance. The Kennedy curse.

"In this crowded room, with an empty view.
 Save your goodbyes, cause we all know it's not the end".

Vanna - Dead Language.

Tuesday routine.

Assemble the uniform and worry about weak ankles. Poor attempts at stretching. Don't be late. Assume some sort of authority and watch the dollars roll in. Casual small talk, while counting the minutes down. Fake confidence and exchange pleasantries. First touch, lungs already bursting. Initial frustration turns into elation when the ball hits the back of the ol' onion bag. Breathing remains a luxury, but carving up defenses is prime motivation. Intense final moments, followed by relief and a strange sense of pride. Handshakes, vivid commentary, brief goodbyes and a final cigarette. Until next week.

Walking home.

A neon glow masks the sea of taxis. An endless flow of economic might. Twenty-first century tumbleweed. Cascading lights and sounds. And then nothing, except the dense silence of night and my lonely thoughts.

So I said last weekend...

The memories fade, and the smile slowly returns. One step backwards, and three forward. A healthy distrust of alcohol consumption. Fleeting ideas of glory and mayhem. Unlocking facades, and the disappointment that swallows you. Impending rumbles of flat inspections. Witnessing afternoon arguments in the sun. Blazing 'n' lazing. Perfecting playlists. Confirming my appreciation of gravy. Die! x3. Insomnia eats away my brain. Feeding an addiction, one death stick at a time. 'Get rich quick' schemes or a desperate dislike of garden activities. Short sentence and full stop.

The beach, the beach, the beach.

For me, nature always seems to provide a calming escape from the stresses of reality. "Where dirt meets water"... the simple beauty somehow makes all the petty bullshit wash away. Nature doesn't judge you. It doesn't hate. This is the work of people. The worst thing about going to the beach, aside from sand managing to infiltrate everywhere, is having to share nature with other people. It's not nature if you're playing terrible music and general douchiness.

But then again, neither is a car park and an entrance fee. Capitalism, in all of its infinite wisdom, has grabbed hold of nature and shaken every cent out of it. You can't bleed a stone, but you can put a price tag on it. Fuck that.

I want to experience nature for what it is, not wondering whether it was worth the admission fee, or cost of petrol. It's supposed to be a personal experience, not a product. There's no GST involved in the cool water swirling around my toes. Happiness doesn't require a price tag.

Ode to optimism.

I'm looking out at the crossroads, a meeting place of ancient roads. My train of thought pauses at this most important of stations. A casual joke, a final cigarette... this is how I want to deal with such a scenario. In reality, this world is on hold, paused, until I find the right way to progress. The worst form of writer's block.

The fear of choosing one of the many paths open to me restricts my actions to that of an anxious spectator. I want to play, but don't know the rules. And yet I'm quietly optimistic, knowing one day the clouds will part, the sun will shine, and the welcome mat will be rolled out in anticipation of my arrival. The details of this happy ending are so far blank, but one day they shall be written in a permanent marker. I promise you.

Music is my radar.

Seriously, I can’t imagine life without music.

Music has the ability to make even the dullest moments amazing. Especially at work.

Selling my soul for minimum wage is that much more bearable with good tunes.

I’m addicted to making playlists, constructing a soundtrack for my life.

One great song/album/artist at a time.

 Worship and Tribute.

The third day, the frost.

My flat can be so bone-achingly cold. Every time I leave my room it feels like I’m leaving my warm cocoon for the depths of winter. The impending frost mocks me from every window. It renders me useless.

Heaters and hoodies provide a remedy of sorts, a short term fix. But in the end, even making a cape out of blankets wont help keep the cold at bay. It’s like trying to fight off cancer with panadol, it just doesn’t work.
Being poor sucks. But being poor and cold is worse. A middle class nightmare. These are the thoughts that consume me when I wake up to yet another heavy Christchurch frost.

But sometimes I think about people in my situation around the world. And it gives me a wry smile, as I contend that it must be better to be in my situation in Christchurch, rather than in Eastern Europe or Russia. I can imagine post-communist frosts would not be kind to the poor student. Therefore, although my flat can be painfully cold, its still a hell of a lot better than a Russian gulag.

My addiction.

I’m writing about you, as I joyfully consume you.
One of my biggest regrets in life thus far is how much I enjoy you.
I know society dictates that I should feel like this about you, but even the deep-seeded ‘rebel’ in me understands your perils.
I don’t feel healthy, and it scares me. I feel your effects lingering everyday.
And yet, you fulfill me like the richest of foods could never do. You are my dessert.
I’ve come to realise that a cigarette is the dessert of the poor, and right now I’m broke as fuck.
I guess/hope that in the future, as I gain wealth, you will lose your monopoly over me, and become just another memory of my youth.
But I can’t give you up right now. You provide the light at the end of my tunnel. One day I will leave it, and you, behind.

Reflections.

The last week has been a kaleidoscope of fun, with the best of people. Auckland/Band of Horses/drinking/great company. Despite not feeling 100% for most of the trip to Auckland, it still provided the refreshing interlude to Christchurch that I craved. Even the flight, an exercise in routine, excites me, like a children with their favorite toy. I guess i just really enjoy traveling. Its a definite case of the ‘travel bug’ as my mum likes to call it.

Band of Horses provided the excuse for this latest endeavor, and they were the highlight. I’ve seen my fair share of live bands before, but these guys know how to play. The set encompassed highlights from all three albums, and they played pretty much every song I wanted including my favorite ‘Monsters’. The first song of their encore, ‘Evening Kitchen’, was hauntingly beautiful and the highlight of the night. Sharing exhausted smiles with my friends after the show, I knew we all felt the same.

Like all good trips, Auckland was filled with drinking, laughing, smoking and spending money we didn’t have. While these can be done in Christchurch, its never as satisfying as in another city, where responsibilities can’t find you.



The reality check of returning to Christchurch was delayed by a fun filled weekend. Especially Ellen’s 21st. Wearing a face full of zombie makeup, I had a quarter tab, some champagne and plenty of greens to create one hell of a night.

I feel like my life is heading in an upward direction, and I’m not used to it. Guess all i can do is try not to fuck it up. If I can manage that, then I think I’ll be happy.

Post rock + birthday = An epic night.

Twenty-two is arguably one of the most overlooked of all birthdays, especially considering that it follows the infamous twenty-first, which is celebrated almost religiously within Western culture. The pressure to celebrate your twenty-first has become such a 'tradition' within our society that all other birthdays pale in comparison. So with this knowledge in mind, I was rather content to spend my twenty-second birthday going to my good friend Emma's twenty-first birthday, and then visit Al's Bar in order to be serenaded by the aural exploits of two incredible New Zealand examples of post rock - Mountaineater and Jakob.

After 'getting in touch with nature' and paying my $20 (which says something about the lack of awareness/support for non-mainstream music in this country) I found my way to the front of the expectant crowd, just in time to see Mountaineater. I was as excited to see them as I was to see Jakob. Having seen Mountaineater previously at GBM and on the local stage at this years Big Day Out, I knew I was in for a brutally heavy show. They did not disappoint. How three guys can produce such a ferocious wall of noise is beyond me. Each song is a beautiful assault, a mesmerizing journey that leaves you utterly exhausted, but in the most rewarding way. Mountaineater's frontman Tristan Dingemans, armed with an array of effects pedals and a menacing voice,  personifies the raw power and passion of Mountaineater's sound. I am eagerly awaiting their forthcoming album, and I think it will be interesting to hear how they manage to reproduce the sheer force of their live set into recording environment. The only distraction from Mountaineater came in the form of drunken douchebag that felt the need to scream "WOOOOO" at every opportunity.It would have been hilarious, if he wasn't standing next to me the whole time. Despite his doucheiness, I have to thank him for providing me with the means to win a beer from Ayla, based on the ridiculous amount of times he yelled "WOOOOO".

A quick cigarette break allowed me to return to a state of excited anticipation about finally getting to experience Jakob live again. I hadn't seen them live since watching them open for Thrice in Auckland in 2007. A Jakob live show is an intense journey, with each song a meandering beast, a concentrated and deliberate attack on your senses. While Jakob haven't produced any new recordings since 2006's Solace, they played a wide variety of their discography, including my personal favorite 'The Collar Sets Well' from their first album Subsets of Sets. Watching Jakob live, it is easy to see why they have such a loyal following and why they remain New Zealand's premier representation of post rock. They are so tight, it is a joy to watch how each member compliments each other. While post rock can sometimes lack direction and focus, Jakob never stray off course, each moment building and exploding into a wall of noise. It was a shame that Al's Bar had to close at Midnight due to ANZAC day, as I'm sure Jakob would have extended their set, but even so, it was fully worth the money and effort, and I can't wait for them to come back to Christchurch.

I came away from the gig mentally and physically exhausted, but completely happy that I had spent my twenty-second birthday watching two of this countries best examples of post rock in fine form.

Check out the pics: http://www.alsbar.co.nz/galleries/gallery.php?gallery=g76 (Mountaineater)

And: http://www.alsbar.co.nz/galleries/gallery.php?gallery=g78 (Jakob)

A few snapshots of the Cranford.

The Flat crawl vol.3/ or how I ruined myself with the drink.

Misery and carnage. That has been my worldview in the weeks since the third annual St Albans (SACKS YO) flat crawl rolled through your local. Having been present during the prior two 'experiences', I was confidently convinced that I had the measure of the event, and began drinking... early. Far too early it seems. I guess when you're struggling to remember exactly what hour in the afternoon that you became drunk then you must be prepared for more than the usual nights antics. Alas, my preparation consisted solely of drinking and I clearly ignored all warning signs.

The night started in with afternoon drinking in my room, listening to a plethora of great music. I continued to drink into the night, counting the albums down, impatiently awaiting my flatmates to be ready. This didn't happen until after the first two flats had already felt the wrath of the illustrious St Albans crowd. Finally we set off in search of partying, drunken swagger and all.

We managed to make it to the Log Cabin, officially the third stop, and the festivitalies commenced. Once again for me, this meant more drunk, this time with an agreeable crowd in tow. The next few flats passed in a drunken blur of shouting, chain smoking and nonsensical conversations.

By the time the flat crawl made it to our Cranford fortress, I was well gone. Moving from gin, beer, vodka and back to gin had taken its toll. I know our flat hosted food and drink but I didn't notice any of that. The last stop of the flat crawl was the Cranford Castle, and this is where my night took an abrupt end too. Feeling dizzy I quietly moved to the back of the garden to clear my head... which ended in a cycle of passing out and vomiting. This continued for quite some time until people managed to get me inside and onto a bed (thanks John), with a bucket at my disposal.

I awoke suddenly at 4am, and spent the next 5mins vomiting heartily into the strategically placed bucket. After vomiting, I staggered down Cranford St and back to my flat. I had a hugely restless sleep and woke up to more vomit, which became a common theme for my Sunday. The whole day I had intense pains in my stomach and kept vomiting. That night I went to the after hours surgery and had to get an injection to stop the vomiting. I spent the next three days unable to move or eat, with intense pains in my stomach. I moved back to my parents house for the week so they could look after me. The pain got so bad that I had to take sleeping pills. I can't even describe how shit those few days were. Basically, I got alcohol poisoning and had developed gastritis due to the vomiting. My internal organs were bruised and swollen, hence the intense pain in my stomach. The pain and lack of eating lasted until Thursday, in which I finally began to feel better. I returned to my flat on Saturday, a whole week since the trouble began. I'm not entirely sure how it happened, but its safe to say that I'm going to lay off the drinking for a while. Because fuck going through that again.

Cranford cottage > Everything.

Welcome to the introverted ramblings from some of St Albans finest. This week Sam, Adrian, Che and Chris made the Cranford their new home.This blog will be an outlet for some of the Cranford cottage's finer moments, and we will use this virtual quill to shake up the St Albans hierarchy/waste heaps of "quality" time on the internets.