The other day a friend and I walked up a mountain near my house, and we wrote my name out of rocks in the crater.

Sometimes its the simple things which make a day awesome. The random and spontaneous, brilliant company, and a gorgeous day.

What are you enjoying right now?

I wrote a snarky comment on facebook the other day. A friend mentioned that it’s been four weeks since he and his girlfriend broke up, and that it still hurt. Two of his friends jumped in to say not to worry, it’ll get easier. Times great like that.

For me, it’s been twelve weeks. And one phrase I’m really suck of hearing is how it will ‘get better with time’.

It is what people say when they don’t know what else to say. It’s the automatic phrase that people utter when someone tells you they are heartbroken. And it might be true, sure. Twelve weeks on and I’ve figured out that driving recklessly doesn’t help, I don’t have to hide in bathrooms because my eyes leak anymore and I can go at least part way through the day without thinking about how very single I am.

But it is the most useless phrase to hear while your hurting. It does not make you feel better. If time is the path to healing, then you know you’ve got months and months of pain ahead of you, and how can you look forward to that? You can’t speed up time. You can’t DO anything. You can’t help yourself, and for me, being helpless about moving forward was really difficult. Overwhelmingly so.

The worst thing about it was how every person who told me that it would get better in time wasn’t hurting. They didn’t understand how hearing that phrase made me feel like I was so, so far from happiness. From normalacy. I felt like I was on the wrong side of the fence, and nothing I could do (only time) would place me on the other side. I’d wake up every morning and really struggle with the concept of moving forward through another day. The idea of being heartbroken for weeks, months, before I felt something other than misery was positively dire.

And while perhaps it was never uttered with it, I always heard the phrase with a condesending tone. In my head I would sneer, and think how could they know my pain? How could they offer up so useless a solution while they live out their happy, happy lives? And in my head, I was ready to walk away from every person who told me that time was the way. After hearing it I often wouldn’t want to confide in them anymore, I felt distant. I know they meant it with love. I know they cared, and wanted only the best for me.

But hearing variations of the phrase ‘it will get easier with time’ was not helpful for me.

Distractions were helpful for me. Being given books to read, movies to watch, exhibitions to see. That was helpful for me. People meeting me for coffee, sending an email, getting me out and about. That was helpful for me. People taking the time to DO things with me, giving me other things to think about. That was helpful for me.

Telling me in a quick, swift, keep-on-trucking phrase that time was the only answer? Not helpful.

So if someone you know is hurting, is heartbroken and in pain. Please, do not tell them that it will get better with time. Really, just don’t. By them a coffee, tell them you’re sorry they are hurting. But please don’t pull out the phrase ‘it will get better with time’.

I went to an album launch, last night. It was the launch for Stroke, an album put together by some of New Zealand’s most brilliant musicians, most crazy people, and most fantastic. And it was put together for an amazing, amazing man.

Chris Knox had a stroke earlier this year. A stroke that removed his ability to speak, that hindered his quality of life, and put him and his family through impossible times.

And I’m so, so sad for them. Because they are such a brilliant family. Once, years and years ago, for a little while I got be part of their lives. Crash out in their fantastic and crazy home, and be part of their brilliant brilliant adventures. And they were amazing.

I guess I knew the Ward-Knox family, as just that, a family. I didn’t know the Chris who was part of Toy Love, or theTall Dwarves. The famous NZ musician who rocked the Punk Rock scene in the 80s, who did so much more than just the vogels ad. I didn’t know Barbara as the artist whose sculptures are hidden all over Auckland. They were just Chris and Barbara. Half of a crazy, brilliant family.

I remember a ridiculous amount of card games, and yelling at the tv when the cricket was on. I remember Barbara letting me down into her workshop through the hole in her bedroom floor. I remember sitting in the limestone dust hacking away at what I wanted to call a dragon, at what Chris called ‘a good first attempt’. At what John was so eager to keep because it was my first attempt at something wonderful.

I remember that it wasn’t uncommon to walk down the hall and discover Chris filming a tv segment while he sat on the toilet in his bathroom. I remember finding half eaten somethings that Leisha would leave in the fridge, and I remember sitting super still so John could draw me.

I remember making cookies in their kitchen, and finding all sorts of random things in the open pantry, and I remember the two mad cats, and I remember sweeping the carpet because it was easier than getting the vacuum cleaner out. I remember Barbara making us all hot chocolates from a pot on the stove, and the trips up to Pakiri and Chris hammering odd things onto their fence.

I remember my 21st, and Chris handing over a card he’d drawn up for me, and my cousin coming over all in a flush, asking how I ‘knew’ Chris Knox. I laughed at her, and said that it was just Chris. I remember berry smoothies in the mornings, and art on the walls, and eating vegetarian meals on the couch.

I remember being loved, and accepted and taken in by this family who were so wonderful, so amazing, so absolutely crazy that it completely blew my mind. These people who had so much love for their friends, for the people who were part of their lives. And they had many, there was never a shortage of people who were coming round to chat or say hello, or to discuss this project or that.

Last night it was amazing to see just how many people did love them, that last night at the Kings Arms there was a line outside. And that the bar manager was a bit concerned about the bar meeting it’s maximum capacity and should they go over it?

It was amazing to see so many people come together to celebrate this man, to support this family. And even better, the album, Stroke, is pretty amazing. The site says 33 artists from around the world came together to contribute, but I know there were more people who wanted to contribute too. I met at least two of them waiting in the line at the door.

Its times like this that make me feel better about the world. That in the face of some horrible horrible life changing event for a family, hundreds and hundreds of people can come together to say that they care. That they want to help, and support and be there.

Today I feel like the world is a less evil place.

If you are interesting in checking out the album, Stroke, visit chrisknox.co.nz. All proceeds go towards Chris’s recovery.

A couple weeks ago a friend I went to uni with mentioned he and his wife were going to Europe for a couple weeks in August. A couple days later and the word was out, and it appeared that half my social circle would be, at some point, in Europe between June to October next year.

AND I WANT TO GO:

I want to float in a little boat around Venice. I want to stand under the Eiffel Tower. I want to rock out hard in London, and use the few swear words I know in Italian in Italy, and the same again in Spainish in Spain. I want to see all the things my old flatmate told me about in Prague, and I want to drink coffee in Amsterdam.

I want to see how people live in these other places we hear about ALL THE TIME. I want to see the people I know and love who have moved to these places. And I want to be part of their adventures.

I’m not exactly a rich person. I have a crippling student loan that I have been putting money diligently aside for. Money that would, just about, cover the costs of a Europe trip. I’m torn between being responsible, and putting that ridiculous amount of money towards my student loan. Or, I could go to Europe, and have all those exciting adventures before I’m too old and settled to have them.

I’m sure I’ll change my mind back and forth between being responsible with my debt, or about having one of those life mind opening look-at-this-be-different experiences.

We’ll see. I have a good few months to decide before I commit to anything. I’ll let you know how it goes.

But fingers crossed, next year sometime I’ll be in Europe!

Over the weekend The Square + the amazing Foo went rockclimbing in a big warehouse out in one of the suburbs. It was alright, I guess. I enjoyed the scrambling up a wall, I did. I watched The Fourth Quarter zip up walls like a spider, and listened to The Second Quarter talk about his knee, and the physics of such things. The Third Quarter + Foo did lots of cheering, and there was a good time had by all, I think.

Well, mostly good. I dislike falling. I dislike swift downward motions, and I dislike them with a passion. I do not mind heights, it’s the falling part I don’t like. So, I climbed down every wall I climbed up. The instructor showed Foo how to belay my odd request, and part of the agreement of my climbing down was that only Foo would belay me. She was amazing, and agreed.

I enjoyed the climbing up. Reaching for the next handhold and pushing myself up with my legs. Going up was no problem. The climbing down was harder, holding myself to the wall with my arms as I slowly lowered myself to the ground. I was careful, too. If going up I could see I would have difficulties climbing down I’d stop. And that was fine. I didn’t make it to the top of some of the climbs but I was happy with that.

After a few hours of climbing I think I got a bit over-confident. And I climbed up a wall that I couldn’t climb down. The hand holds were awkwardly placed, and they weren’t overly generous. My hand slipped from one, and I got a fright. I knew at that point I wanted to get down, but after a moment of scrabbling around it became very clear that there was no easy way down. I was stuck, and I couldn’t see how to get myself down.

I hate panic attacks. Your heart beats so fast and hard it feels like it could beat itself out of your chest. You can’t breath, you can’t think (everything is happening so fast), you tense your muscles and everything just condenses down to pure panic.

Not exactly what you want to experience as your clinging to a climbing wall several metres above the ground.

What yanked me out of it was that the instructor guy came over and told me not to hang on the drawers (caribeenas attached to the wall). He asked if I was okay and I let out a small ‘no’. I was pretty impressed with myself that what didn’t come out of my mouth instead was the quick continuous string of four letter words that was running through my head on repeat, and I think it was that more than anything the allowed me to find the next hand hold down. And then the next one. And then the next one. And the next one, till I was safe on the ground.

Getting to the ground was almost as bad. Once I was down I wanted out of the belay system immediately. I wanted to cry and I was still panicking a little. Instead I bit my tongue, held on tight to the front of my harness and walked away from the wall. This was obviously written all over my face because the instructor told me that I had good composure. I walked away after that. I watched the other quarters clamber up walls and held onto tight to my harness safe on the ground.

These panic attacks aren’t a rational thing. I know that I was safe, attached to the harness system with the amazing Foo on the other end. I know that even if I had fallen, I wasn’t in any danger, that everything would have been fine. And that’s cool, but that’s all post the falling part. I don’t know why I don’t like falling. I don’t know why I don’t like it. Other than I don’t, and when something happens, a panic attack is likely. It’s not a rational thing, and I was pretty annoyed at myself afterwards (also probably not a rational thing).

Still, it was awesome to hang out with The Square + Foo, and even the climbing was awesome. It was only really the last climb that I had any issues with. Today my muscles hurt, the muscles in my arms and legs and even some of the small muscles in my hands. I think I’d go again. It was pretty cool, though I’m pretty sure I’d avoid the harder climbs. Panic attacks? They are not awesome. Rock-climbing though? Totally is. :)

Disclaimer: I’m posting about sex. So if you work with me, are my mother, or are any one of my ex boyfriends you should just skip this post. Okay? Awesome. Cute fuzzy feel-good posts with pretty pictures are back on Wednesday. Come back then.

It about comfort, I think. And as he wakes me all I can think of is how his shoulders aren’t quite like The Boys. The way his muscles sit and the way he lies next to me aren’t quite right.

He’s nice, in his own way. Hot enough to get me going, an all round dream for a girl not me. But he doesn’t smell like The Boy, or taste like him. And the quiet laugh he makes as he moves his tongue along my shoulder is not one The Boy would make. The way he nips my earlobes with his teeth, sliding his arm around the small of my back, yanking me to him . . . that’s not how The Boy would do it.

I remind myself it’s comfort, the rough sex we have, the way he bites my neck and grabs my hips. Cold comfort.

I don’t say his name, because it’s not his name I’m thinking of. I close my eyes for a moment. I hold The Boys image in my head and in a weak moment I pretend. It doesn’t last long, he pulls me back to reality with the things he’s doing with his fingers, and my eyes open with gasp, and I get that tingle that makes me arch my back.

It’s a different tingle than I’d wanted. A physical something that doesn’t start from butterflies in my stomach. The butterflies don’t fly anymore.

Still, you take what you can get, and I’m jolted back to here and now. I grab him, claw my fingers into his shoulders and wish him to move faster, and harder, for things to be more brutal, and urgent and NOWgodamit.

I live in the moment, because now it’s all about feeling what you can, grabbing on to it and not letting go, because right this second you feel a fleeting something. An anything.

It’s not love. It’s not tender, or sweet.

It’s rough, and meaningless. It’s comfort, but its empty. Still, I hold onto it, because it’s better than feeling alone, feeling nothing. It’s better than feeling the overwhelming emotional wave that exists in every other moment. Because it’s something that makes sense. It’s something I understand. It’s physical, and meaningless.

We cuddle, after. And before I drift back off to sleep, I know that I at least am thinking of other people, of other places and other times. We find comfort in each other, I think. But it’s empty, and it’s not really what I want. In the dark I hope that the next day might be just a little bit better, a little bit easier to live through. That perhaps tomorrow I’ll find my feet, and find some way to move forward.

This is what happens when you crash at the Kenwyn Flat. This is what happens when you discover that you’ve somehow magically left a bottle of cheap champagne in someone else’s fridge, and you decide to drink it. All of it. And this is what happens when someone decides to take their Day 11 Movember Photo.

There was cam-whoring and robes and tweets. There was posing and examinations of noses and places where mo’s would be at a pixel level on a High Def 47″ tv hooked up to a laptop. There was giggles and mockage and was The Second Quarter ACTUALLY hanging out?

This is what happens when you need somewhere to go, when you don’t want to be by yourself and you can’t bear the thought of going back to place that holds memories of time when you were part of a two.

This is what happens when you need friends, when you need someone to care, and they do (even if it’s shown by an unnecessary interrogation of your eating habits). They drink with you and laugh with you, and help the time pass.

This is what happens now. This is how you spend your weeknights. This is now your life.