Wednesday

Delphi



The Delphic Oracle


"still busy accumulating influences"
- Lawrence Durrell


Aesthetically there is nothing much to see

except itself

a place of rich transgressions, tears

& insanity

It is built on two enigmas

neither decipherable

a sort of mute challenge



For once the sea

seems diminished

a light wheezy creaking

like a man rowing across water

Apollo killed the Dragon

& left the corpse

of the gigantic dead beast to rot



The atmosphere is so pure

one hears the stroke of his great wings

all other considerations seem confused

Once again the historians

begin to stammer

Is not truth two-sided?

While one is uneasy



it is not with a sense of fear

so much as a sense of premonition

One has sudden moments of panic

What is here, one feels

is intact in its purity

The long winding roads leading away

coil like the sacred serpent


towards the centre of the earth


[after Lawrence Durrell, Spirit of Place. Ed. Alan G. Thomas (1969)]



Tuesday

Coral Burrows


Coral Burrows (1997-2003)


6-year-old Coral Burrows went missing at around 9am, Tuesday 9th September 2003. She was found ten days later in a bush area a few miles from her home. Her stepfather, Steven Williams, was arrested and charged with her murder - he'd beaten her to death in his car while driving her to school.

I didn't particularly follow this case at the time, though I remember the interviews with the distraught family, including Coral's father, before the shock arrest of her step-father for the murder.

I must have been thinking about it quite a lot, though, as it's started to appear in my dreams. Last night, for instance, I dreamed that I was watching TV when a documentary about the case came on. It was the usual sort of thing: some wiseacre psychologist "explaining" the whole thing in terms of upbringing and family influences. Talk about rushing in where angels fear to tread! Clearly for this guy there were no mysteries in heaven above or earth below.

Then came the thing that makes me sure it was a dream. They'd done some interviews with relatives, friends of the family, and so on, but then it came time to talk to the local cop. I don't know if he quite understood that he was being filmed, that all this was on the record, but he just started skiting away as if to some buddies in the pub.

From time to time, he said, someone would move into Featherston who thought that he could sell dope there, or commit petty crime, or do any of the other things he'd been used to doing where he came from. Such people usually 'took the hint' after a while and moved on of their own accord. Except for Steven Williams. He just stayed. It was almost as if he liked it.

I suddenly had this vision of how you "hint" to someone that it's time to move on: the drive-bys, the anonymous threats, the cold shoulder in the shops - a lovely vision of a community united against the stranger. It's not that I doubt that it's so, it's just that I still can't quite believe that any policeman would admit that that's how things are done, that the law's insufficient sometimes, that one needs to rely on a bit of vigilantism, a bit of mob mentality.

Maybe I'm wrong, though, maybe it wasn't a dream. Certainly the psychologist kept bleating on, unperturbed by the implications of what had been said. I don't want to sound like a conspiracy theorist, but I suddenly felt the chill of those grim dark fields, the distance between houses, the ease with which anything can be done, anything hidden in surroundings like those.

But you have to want to - that's the point. No matter how cruelly you've been brought up, no matter how much of a hairtrigger temper you've got, you have to be ready to go through with it - to hide the body, even take part in the search, keep on lying to everyone else in the family until it comes out.

I don't think there's any doubt that Williams did it. But then who knows? There's still something like a blip, a kind of timewarp, between heading off for school and the discovery of the body more than a week later.

What really happened during that short drive? What was said to set him off? That's if anything at all was said ... Perhaps he just cracked. But then what causes a man to break like that when others continue to stand upright, to go about their business? Drugs? No doubt that's part of it. In my dream there was something blacker there, something more like a mindstorm, a sense of horror that grew and grew and grew ...


19th September 2003 – Coral’s body recovered and stepfather charged

As police cordoned off a 30 to 40 metres square area in bush near Lake Onoke (Ferry), Coral’s family learnt of the death of the six year old and the arrest of Steven Roger Williams (Coral’s step-father).

The police waited until daylight to begin their search of the area. Coral’s body was discovered at 9.15am and recovered early in the afternoon. A preliminary post mortem was started and is expected to be complete later in the weekend. Meantime the police and forensic expects will remain at the discovery site to conduct a “thorough and meticulous examination of the scene”.

29 year old Steven Roger Williams appeared in Masterton District Court charged with the murder of his stepdaughter. Coral’s family stood quietly during the hearing but others outside hurled abuse and food as Williams left. He will be held on remand until October 17.

The family came out to make a public plea for time and space to mourn their daughter’s death. In a statement issued through the police, parents Jeanna, Ron and extended family want to thank the police, volunteers and public for the support given in the search for Coral. “Our plea to all New Zealander is to treasure your children and help keep safe”



Friday

Life in the Tararuas



The colder weather is bringing the beasts down from
the heights. I heard both wolves and the mountain lion as I
crossed to my cabin last night.

I am still here, helping in the kitchen, driving cattle, and
riding four or five times a day.



You would be amused if you could see our cabin just now.
There are nine men in the room and three women.

For want of
seats most of the men are lying on the floor; all are smoking,
and the blithe young French Canadian who plays so
beautifully and catches about fifty speckled trout for each
meal, is playing the harmonica with a pipe in his mouth.



All the hilarity of the house has returned with Evans.

He claps people on the back,
shouts at them, will do anything for them, and makes
perpetual breeze.

A little case of
suspicious appearance was smuggled into the cabin from the
wagon, and heightens the hilarity a little, I fear.



Evans flatters me by
saying that I am “as much use as a man;” more than one
of our party, I hope, who always avoided the “ugly” cows.


[after Isabella Bird, A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains (1879)]



Wednesday

Trans-Tasman Relations


“Kye-wye, are you? Spotted you from the accent.
Yeah, we get a lot of youse fellas over here … Ya last
name’s not Thomson, I hope? No relation to that
mongrel in the Parliament? You musta heard about
heem? Nah? The one’s who’s been screwing all those
sheilas and charging it to the union? Union of ratbags
and scroungers, eef you ask me? Whatsa matter? Cat
got your tongue? I tell ya, you Kye-wyes have got a
cheek coming over here, getting elected to Canberra,
then rorting the system for all it’s worth! You’re not
one of them? I bet you’re not! But that’s what all of
youse say, isn’t it? Innocent as little lambs till you’re
caught with your hand in the till? Whassa matter?
Don’t youse have any sheilas worth screwing in New
Zealand? Not that our P.M.’s much chop in that
department – leathery old bitch she is … Perhaps
that’s how young Craig got round her in the first place
– administering some comfort in the bedroom
department, was it? Getting out here? Ya miles from
anywhere mate! If it’s a brothel ya looking for, my
cousin runs one down in the Cross. Nah? Well, fuck
ya then .. Ta very much. I’ll keep the change.”


Monday

Feb 4. Disappointment


For nine days they struggled
sometimes hungrysometimes fed
often they were thirsty
always thirsty

In the harshness of the winds
they sought the sun
his stars had been favourable
his ponderings jerked off into dreams

My throat was bleeding from over-smoking
amongst hummocks of ice
that looked like tombstones to me
I hope we don’t sink during the night

The uncivilised brain is confused
by the civilised
his guns and rifles were to them
a sore temptation

under a drift of snow


[after Violet Clifton, The Book of Talbot (1933)]



Sunday

Cairo the Victorious




"Going to see the pyramids was never supposed to be like this!

"I’d booked the hotel months in advance, the boat-trip on the Nile (“pretty basic,” they told me – make sure you bring your own toilet paper). Things looked a little tense when I arrived – lots of guards with guns – but then don’t you expect those things in a Middle-Eastern airport?

"It wasn’t till five minutes into my ‘stroll around the town’ that I began to realise what was really going on. It wasn’t so much that I got lost as that I got swept up – in the excitement, the crowd pressure. They all seemed to be flowing in one direction –– as I learned later, to Tahir Square, the City Centre. They were chanting. There were women in full burqa, men with long white beards. Then the bricks started to fly!

"After that came the water cannon, the tear gas and the bullets – in that order. We couldn’t even run for cover – there was such a pressure of people. “Peaceful, Peaceful!” the crowd was chanting. Fat hope of anyone hearing that! They were dropping like flies. I saw a man get his head stove in by a brick, women and children screaming!

"I got off with a soaking and some red and stingy eyes, though – surprise, surprise! – there were no flights out the next day, and no way of getting a refund on the river trip. I ended up cowering inside my hotel room for a week, watching CNN, and trying to live on peanuts and bottled water.

"The next time the fellaheen decide to march downtown to defy Pharaoh, I think I’ll plan on being on the other side of the TV screen!"