Meditations for the budget

Everything sucks and it’s Budget Day. Today, for many of us we are going to find out how we will be personally paying for landlords and the rich to get tax breaks while we struggle. We’ll also find out what front line services will be even further underfunded and have to read through endless spin like ‘we’re funding all children with autism! Labour never did that! Only us! They said we hate disabled kids but would a government that hates disabled kids cut almost all funding to them and take away most forms of respite from their carers and then fund just 50 families only in one small area in a pilot programme that will in all likelihood lose funding immediately after those families are supported?????

So - what was I saying. Oh yes, relaxing into the horror. Shall we have some meditations? Why not. I hope these bring you some calm or at least turn your homicidal rage at the world into just generalised rage.

Breathe. You are an eight-month-old Pomeranian slash chihuahua sitting on your human mother’s lap as she drives her car. She’s not the best driver, but the sun is shining on your fur and your little nose is tucked under her arm. You feel safe and warm and loved. Then you stop at a traffic light. You peak out from under your mum’s arm where you have been blissfully sleeping. What do you see? Another car? With a person in it? You unleash a mania that is unparalleled. You bark and bark and bark and bark as the person looks at your mum and mouths ‘what the fuck?’ and she mouths back ‘I don’t know man she’s just like this’. You know you are just like this. You are an independent woman who is full of passion and verbal violence. The car drives away and you rest back into your mother’s loving arms. All is good. You are safe. Being furious at absolutely nothing is your art and today you’ve been able to express it all day.

You are a canvas bag in a boot. There are dozens of canvas bags around you. Your owner forgets to bring the canvas bags back to the car every time they do the grocery shopping. Then they swear a lot as they buy more canvas bags. There are so many canvas bags. But you are not red like the Warehouse bags, you are not green like the Countdown bags, you are not black with insulated lining. You are a gold bag from Lorna Jane. Someone gave your new owner some hand-me-downs nestled inside you and your new owner was delighted by you. ‘What a cool bag’ they said. Now when there are dozens of canvas bags you’re always picked. You stand out. You’ve been everywhere - Pak N Save, New World, The Warehouse, Warehouse Stationary, The Chemist Warehouse - probably every warehouse in existence. The other bags don’t get nearly the attention you do. You bask in the heady glow of always being the One. The chosen. The popular one. This is the life.

You are standing in a huddle outside Liquor King. You have on your denim mini from House of G, your eyebrows are plucked to within an inch of their lives and your pulp pleather platforms? They’re knee high baby. You are wearing a backless top and it’s 8 degrees. It’s 2002 and you’re 16 years-old. Your friend’s older boyfriend who is 19 and is so cool because he’s a skater (but his skateboard is broken that’s why he doesn’t skate at the moment) and can play Ben Harper’s Burn One Down on the bongo drum is going to buy you a bottle of Bernadino. He comes out holding the bottle high and you and your girls squeal in delight. You take swigs of the bottle in the alley off Cuba Street. It tastes delicious and so sweet. It tastes like freedom. You spray half a bottle of Impulse Vanilla Kisses directly onto your chest. Tonight you’re going to pash Greg from Classics Studies you just know it.

Breathe. You are Komodo dragon in Indonesia's East Nusa Tenggara province. You are powerful, awe-inspiring. Some people might say you’re ugly but they can go get bent. Today is a biting day. Today you’re biting. Any tourist that gets close enough is going to get it. You have 60 serrated teeth that measure about 2.5 cm. The tour guide tells the tourists to keep their distance from you. They turn and try to take selfies with you. They are listening to the guide but guess what? It’s biting day. You lunge at one and they all scream. You bite. Bite. Bite. Later the guide will say they got too close, but they didn’t. The guide will say you were hungry. But you weren’t really. You just wanted to bite. And what of it? You’re an apex predator you can do what you please and nobody can stop you.

Breathe. You are the bouncing DVD logo. You are an animated screensaver for a DVD player. You bounce from different parts of the screen to other parts of the screen. You change colour. Bounce. Boing. Bounce. Boing. Bounce. Boing. Bounce. Boing. Bounce. Boing. No thoughts just bounce. No worries just boing.

You are a junior reporter at The Post. It’s your first job and you are covering the budget. It’s a dream come true. You tell your editor that you’re heading to Parliament and they stop you. “We have already written the Budget story - we are just putting your name on it”. You ask how they have written it when they haven’t seen it. The editor chuckles. He hands you a mock-up for the front page. In giant block letters it says “Tory Whanau to blame for service cuts?”. A smaller byline reads: “Did Tory Whanau’s dog end education funding?”. Your name is under these headlines. You realise your editor has left. You rush to find them. They’re in their office vomiting violently. You ask a fellow reporter what happened. They explain that the editor heard someone say ‘Te Whanganui a Tara’ instead of Wellington. You pause. Take a deep breath. Is this what you went into journalism for? No. You grab a sharpie and write ‘I quit’ on the mock-up of the front page. You have integrity. You can be proud of yourself. You are resisting and that’s what counts.

You are Pedro Pascal’s stylist. You look at the array of clothing in front of you. What will you put him in for the Cannes Film Festival? He comes into your room and he smells sensational. His cheeky grin is the first thing you see and suddenly you know what he will be wearing tonight. ‘I have this slutty sleeveless tank top for tonight, it’s a bit of a risk but-’. Pedro grins, I’ll take it. You dress him. Taking your time. After he leaves you pack up your things and make your way out of the hotel. You hear cheering. You step outside and there are thousands of women chanting your name. They are holding up signs with your name on it. A mum of five drops to her knees crying in front of you ‘thank you! thank you! You don’t know how much I needed to see Pedro Pascal in a slutty sleeveless tank top!’. Your phone rings. You have won the Nobel Peace Prize.

You are twelve years’ old. You wake up after a full ten hours sleep in a bed made lovingly by your mum. You rush into her room. She is asleep. You can see for the first time that her face is so calm. You yell directly in her ear ‘MUM WHERE IS MY POLAR FLEECE MUM?!’ She wakes with a start so you decide the best thing to do is yell louder. ‘MY POLAR FLEECE MUM DO YOU HAVE IT?’. She says something stupid like ‘you wore it to school yesterday, did you wear it home?’. You didn’t wear it home. ‘DO YOU HAVE ANOTHER ONE?’ you yell even louder. She looks at you with a blank stare. Then she says ‘Are you asking me if I have another one of your school uniform polar fleeces?’. Why would she ask that? That’s obviously what you’re asking. You yell ‘WHATEVER BRO’ and then slam her door. You leap into the ear to touch the top of the door and fart at the same time. “CHICKEN JOCKEY!” you scream for no reason. You run from her as she offers up other polar fleeces for you to wear. You leave the door wide open. You have never had to care about a single thing in your life and shit it feels good. You remember something and race back. ‘I forgot my kiss’ you say. And your mum kisses you on the forehead while trying to hand you a polar fleece. You run. You hear her yell ‘did you shower?’. You definitely did not. You fart on your hand ready to make your best friend smell it.

You work in Parliamentary security. A new door has been installed. It is a glass revolving door. It was installed last week. Every day you have watched David Seymour become stuck in the door unsure how to get out. He keeps stepping backwards then forwards then backwards. Eventually he calls Chrisopher Luxon who comes over and helps him navigate the doors. Today he is stuck again. He is trying to make eye contact with you. He is trying to do charades to get you to help him with the door. You pretend you are very busy looking at the security camera. He is the only person who has ever been stuck in the door. Soon Christopher Luxon comes and helps him out. You watch as Luxon kisses Seymour’s hand tenderly. They both walk directly into the glass window they thought was a door. The woman who cleans smirks as she watches them. They have left imprints of their foreheads and noses on the window. They have red marks and when they fall on the floor they cry like kittens. Luxon picks up Seymour and carries him like a baby. He has shit his pants and the smell is terrible. But you don’t have to clean it up. You smile at the woman who cleaned the window. She gives you a thumbs up.

You open your inbox. There are no emails. Nobody is asking you for anything. Nobody wants you to do anything. You haven’t forgotten anything. You’re not needed for anything. You have a piece of cheesecake as big as your head next to your laptop. You close your laptop and pick up the tiny fork.

Happy Budget Day. Hopefully it’s not as bad as we are all thinking it’s going to be. No matter what we have each other. They can’t save us, only we can save us. Love ya!

Breathe and become a paid subscriber because then I’ll be at peace ya know?