A whimsical story referencing a piece of Kiwiana that we all know. Figure out which one before you get to the end!
It starts with a bass figure, then a strum, then two different views of a separation. There’s snatches of a story, echoes of pain and a question that almost sounds like a celebration.
I can see now that things would always have gone badly. When I kissed Jackie under those glowering hills I was playful. So was she. Soon after, I was focussed, fixated. Obsessive, even. Now, the emptiness is almost a delight.
Times were good for a while. We riffed together and enjoyed bars and beats. I looked up to her: she tried to cleanse me of all the things I felt were wrong with my life before I met her. She washed me in my own personal River Jordan.
Luck we had in abundance, flying all round the country to follow my rugby team in the year it won the championship. And fun, doing everything from playing I-Spy to giving each other hickeys. My desire for her increased exponentially in the months we were together.
But it could never have worked. I see that now. I don’t know how, but she must have realised that I was always thinking about someone else. She ended it, quite suddenly – none of the gradual fade that marked my other experiences. One day we were together, the next day she went away. Cut-up and broken? You bet.
And now here I am, feeding my own sense of passivity. Pretending to be pushed around by emotion. But, though I don’t understand why, I’m cheerful about the whole affair. In my heart, I’m celebrating the experience loudly and joyfully, again and again. I’m wondering what the reason is that I am so helpless in the face of affection and desire.
Or, in other words…