I got up at 6.15am because I thought I would do some yoga, but I did school work instead.

Yoga is something I enjoy but seem to be unable to find the time for.  When I do yoga it is not only good for me physically but it seems to settle me mentally as well.  There is something about spending time with your body in that way that is very centering.  I’ve been to gyms (a long time ago) and I hated them.  I felt like I was a bit of meat flagellating myself on a variety of machines.  Yoga is very human, and there is always a start/end point that is still: an eye in the gentle hurricane of stretch and flex.

I had thought that Eleanor was through the Santa phase, but she wrote a letter for him that – in addition to some present requests – included some interesting questions.  The most interesting question was: “Are you the first Santa, or have there been many Santas?”  Is Santa like the Pope, a position which is filled when the current Santa dies (plausible), or is Santa immortal (much less likely)?

I don’t think I believed in Santa when I was 10.  We moved out of Indira Place when I was 8.  That was the house my dad died in when I was 5.  I can remember asking my mother if the Easter Bunny was real when we were at Indira Place.  I asked her fully aware that the Tooth Fairy and Santa were not real, but sure – for some reason – that the Easter Bunny was.  When my mother told me that the Easter Bunny was not real I broke down in tears.  I’m 43 and I still remember that.  I still feel angry about it to be honest.  Not with my mother, but that the Easter Bunny doesn’t exist.  The fact that he doesn’t is kind of like hearing that Bowie/Rickman/Prince/Cohen died.  I mean, what’s the f*cking point any more?

I read that letter Eleanor wrote Santa in the morning after I failed to do yoga.  After that I weeded a bit of the garden, and then I went to work to talk to the Principal about a girl (a terrific girl) who didn’t get a prefect role, and then I had an appraisal, met a new teacher, and checked my email.  In my inbox was a message from a fellow teacher.  She said she had been reading my blog, and I thought “I should reply” but I ran out of time.

Here is my reply:


Don’t worry, reading my blog is like stalking me – I’m very personal, I can’t really write another way, and people who read what I write accept that.  I only started listening to Sun Kil Moon last week, and the first two times I listened to Benji I didn’t like it (I hate country music and Americana as a rule), and then I suddenly “heard it” and it hit me in the heart.  Jim Wise is a good song to start with, then – maybe – Truck Driver.  So much grim beauty in his writing:

Jim Wise killed his wife out of love for her at her bedside
And then he put the gun to his head but he failed at suicide
His trial’s coming up in the fall and he sighed when we stepped out and we left
And I pointed out the pretty cardinal perched on the empty birdbath
The bright red cardinal, the empty birdbath

See you round,



I think I will spend the summer listening to Sun Kil Moon.  Some of his lyrics centre me.  An eye in the hurricane.

In 39 days I should go back to work (but I might not).

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I wrote a book called Kaitiaki o te Pō