"As the ivy climbs along the walls, so must the pen along the paper."
For to tell one's story, in prose or poetry, one must dissolve time of its weight and fly free through the syntax of memory.

Rain outside is travelling sideways. Loose branches have dropped from trees and scattered across the lawn, wires dangle from powerlines, and the cat remains hidden in some corner of protection where an old shed depletes its life amongst sawdust, old battens, and upturned concrete sinks. An entire tree has been felled by this cruel wind, relentless and bitter to it’s subjugating end. 

Here was summer . . . for a few days. And then it was the madness of autumn sprung upon us. Autumn without the colour. 

We wait for February now. Where December was once known to have sprouted beach umbrellas and backyard barbecues, it is February that brings the promise of sunshine in these years of climate changing seasons.

Zinger first came into my life as the “grey kitten” of the litter that my friend Sheree’s cat Zephyr had birthed in Riverton, New Zealand, around the end of 2006, or the start of 2007. It had only been a few weeks since my first cat, Hazel Nutbar with Nougat and Honey, had passed away after being hit by a car. My friend invited a group of us over to her place and explained that the owner of the property would only allow one pet to live in the house with the tenants. It was far too soon for me to take a kitten after the death of Hazel, I explained. But as each bundle of fur bounced around the room, climbing and clinging to sofa sides, playing with trouser ends, rolling and tumbling over one another, and chasing each other between friendly legs, the one and only grey kitten born from a tabby (see photo), started sniffing around my feet, and then tried attacking my toes, before jumping over my feet and swinging around my ankles. Sheree quickly quipped with a pointed finger, “That one’s yours.” My protests were useless as the other friends chimed in “She’s chosen you – you can’t reject her now, Warwick!” And so it was. I had a new cat enter my life. 

I was hardly serious with the naming of my previous cat, Hazel. My first pet since a child living on the farm, and one that had been born from a stray under the porch of the flat that I was living in at the time on Pomona Street. One day her brown tabby eyes looked up at me (and to be honest, in that pose, she kind of had a face like Darth Vader), and the name ‘Hazel’ came easily. But the rest of the name was both a symptom of her craziness as a kitten hiding behind a shower curtain and jumping out at you like a mini Godzilla, and my fondness for all things caramel. So Hazel Nutbar with Nougat was the result. 

With this new grey one in my life, I carried on the tradition:

• Zinger Burger Zephyrova Grey

Zinger Burgers weren’t even my favourite Burger King burgers, but I liked the feel of the name. And she came to really suit it.

I had already been at the flat on Pomona Street for a year or two, and relationships with my younger flatmates was a little strained. We moved onto Ythan Street with two other (very hippy) flatmates. These cold walls became our home for the next 2 or so years, and fond memories of the growing kitten include feeding Zinger one morning before leaving for class and returning home to a whining meow that revealed, when I opened my bedroom door, Zinger’s head stuck in the catfood can! I felt so stupid (for leaving the can in the room), and so sorry for her – I had no idea how long she had had her head stuck in the can: whether it was all day, or just half the day. But boy, did she look relieved when I pulled the can off her meaty-plastered head!

After deciding nothing could be done with a music degree except teach music, I left Invercargill in 2008 for 6 months to do 3 English papers at Massey University as a second subject to support the post-graduate teaching diploma I would pursue in 2009. I had given the care of Zinger to my new flatmate, who was very keen to put a bell around Zinger’s neck to warn the birds of her presence. “Please don’t put anything around her neck,” I asked. I absolutely hate collars on cats. And as much as I love birds and want them to live fulfilling lives circling the skies, I also accept that cats are predators, and that is just a part of their nature. I returned in the winter of 2008 to find Zinger with a collar around her neck. I took it off immediately. My flatmate rolled her eyes.

Once I decided to become a teacher, I no longer wanted to live in unclean and neglected student flats ('flats' in NZ are often the older large family houses that accommodate more bedrooms for students to rent out), and upon starting the diploma I quickly moved into the clean, tidy, and warm house of an already established teacher. Unfortunately, Zinger didn’t like the sudden change of environment and clawed her way out of my hands before I got her through the front door and bolted for the fence at the back of the property. Three days I was calling her name, morning and night, and eventually she peeked her head out from behind a bush and came to me. I carried her inside and fed her straight away. That year went by, and the owner was moving to a new job out of town. But he knew another teacher who had a room available and was happy to have a cat. We travelled there with Zinger in the car whining about moving again – something she just wasn’t keen on – but this time, she stayed in my arms as I took her inside. She was really a very polite cat who gave owners of houses no trouble at all. I, on the other hand...
 
Life in Invercargill hit a wall. Friendships dissolved, opportunities were scarce, and I needed to find my own feet again. So I packed up my belongings into my car, placed a litter tray on the floor of the front passenger seat, spread a top bed blanket over the stack of belongings in the back, and let poor, whining about moving again, Zinger have the freedom to move around as we travelled three days back to Gisborne, stopping in Christchurch for the night. When we got to Picton, the next available ferry wasn’t until after midnight, so I parked up at a sports field to bide the time as night descended. Legs felt a little cramped from driving all day, so I got out for a midnight stretch. But as I went to the passenger side to grab something in the front seat, Zinger bounced across from the back and jumped out the door and disappeared! I was in a panic. There were no sports field lights on, it was pitch black, and Zinger was never one for making lots of noises, in general, a pretty quiet cat all and all. I called out, found my phone, turned on the flashlight, and walked around the field calling out her name over and over. 5 minutes went by, and after panicking and cursing myself, Zinger sticks her head out from behind a power box that I had my flashlight on, and she walked (very casually) back to me. I think she just wanted a break from the car! Have a stretch of her legs and have a toilet break outside, just like me!

My all-time favourite memory of Zinger occurred after the ferry arrived in Wellington and I drove off the ramps, out of the shipping yard, and onto State Highway 2 at about 4 o’clock in the morning, and Zinger, who had been hiding under the front passenger seat (possibly for the entire sea voyage!), finally came out, sat up on the seat, looked about her, and then walked over onto my lap and under my arms while I was driving at 100km/hr up the motorway, and climbed her front paws up the driver side door to look out the window at all the bright lights passing us by. I felt her sense of quiet now. No more whining, just sad acceptance of travelling again.

We arrived in Gisborne at my Mum and Dad’s 7 hours later, and from there she become the permanent third household member of the home that I spent my latter teenager years in. While I began my teaching career in Gisborne, and lived with Mum and Dad off and on, I was also looking for jobs out of town, and I knew deep down that there was never going to be a guarantee that I would settle down, so I handed the reins of cat care over to my parents permanently. They did a great job of accepting her (though, initially, my father was a bit diffident, having been a farmer and more used to farm dogs and horses). But they all soon grew to enjoy each others company, and even my aunty Cilla found joy coming over and feeding her when Mum and Dad were away. 

I know she lived a wonderful 15 years in Gisborne, and met many of my parents’ friends and relatives, caught the regular mouse and occasional sparrow, ran for her life down to the backyard to hide when my sister turned up with her non-stop yapping chihuahua, and also accompanied Mum up to the end of the drive to make sure she got off to her morning walk safe and sound. And every time I came home for a visit, she was ready to have me sweep her up in my arms again. 

The last time I saw her was in February when I returned to Gisborne for a few days. She was looking older, moved slower, but she still came over and welcomed my attention as I scratched and rubbed under her chin, dribble happily falling from her lips. 

Thank you to Sheree for gifting this beautiful daughter of Zephyr to me.
And thank you to the flatmates who let Zinger into their lives and took care of her when I wasn't around. 
And thank you to Mum & Dad for their wonderful attention to Zinger, accepting her, buying her food, taking her to the vet, and giving her the best home any pet could ask for. 

Zinger B. Grey, 2007 - 2025

Are you a seeker for the next big thing? Do you go into bookshops looking for the current bestseller that all the bookshops are promoting? Do you hunt down the next Pulitzer/Orange/Booker Prizewinner? The current/past Nobel Prize winning authors (do you really like reading Hemingway?). 

Do you prefer your books to have a common theme? 

• Space travel
• WWII
• Historical
• Dragons and Elves
• Political

Or are you like me – always looking for something different to read; gliding past with ease all the display books on the display stands with stickers and banners advertising their importance and universal acclamations, and looking instead with curiosity for that one book that no one is giving any attention to. Maybe it’s only had one glowing review, one lukewarm review, or no reviews at all. Maybe that book you are looking for is the one that sits on it’s own, tucked in on the shelf between Patterson and Proust, a reserved confidence on its spine, winking at you with an enticing allure.

Maybe you just need a cover that doesn’t scream “BUY ME, BUY ME – I’M JUST LIKE ALL THE OTHERS!!!”, but quietly whispers “Hey you walking down the aisle, wanna come in and flip through my pages? See what you find?”

Books are wondrous things, filled with words that could delight, encourage, and inspire; or darken, disappoint, and dismiss. But they all deserve a place on shelves to be discovered, flicked through, and considered for a time in our lives to be read.

The hardest thing I've ever had to do, is continue living a life I did not want to live.

The easiest thing I've ever done, is to make a change so I could enjoy the life I was living.

I wrote a new journal entry today, the first in my green handwriting book since 1st June - a full four months ago. 21 days after that I started a job as a yardperson/forklift operator assisting builders with timber purchases, while also serving behind the counter when needed. The job requires filling out dockets detailing the yard products with the accompanying codes so the purchases can be invoiced to the company. I didn't like any of the pens I was using, so opted to use my writer's pen. It seems a little sacrilegious, but I had ordered the wrong pen inks - black instead of blue - and was loaded up with all these refills I was unlikely to use, since I'm such a stickler for using one specific pen and blue ink to write with. So my writer's pen with black ink became my job pen for writing out dockets and any specific notes on offcuts I needed to make. 

So, in this sense, yes, I have been writing, I guess. 

Outside of that, there have been a handful of Goodreads Reviews of the books I finished and was unsatisfied enough to have some words about. 

And my previous blog where I talked about music needing to be in every part of our lives, rather than letting it exist in its own space for special occasions: concerts. This subject I have more to say about, and today's handwritten journal entry was a case where I needed to express some more along those same lines. 

Right now, as I type this, I sit in the living room of the house I am looking after while the owners are on holiday, only the sound of my fingers hitting keys, a few tweets from birds, wind and tyres on the tarseal far below travelling through the valley, the plonk of the cat outside climbing over the railing and landing on the verandah, can be heard. I enjoy this quiet without music. 

I enjoy the red sky burning under grey clouds above without beats and melodies distracting me from the beauty of its glow.

The night grows dark, and I am at peace.

...because there is no room for peace and quiet in your life any more. There must be music on a big screen screaming at you while in the supermarket like you are at a concert venue instead of just quietly going about your business shopping for groceries; there must be music at your place of work repeating the exact same songs every day twice a day for the entirety of your working week for three months on end; there must be music blasting from a loud speaker at your job site annoying every co-worker and neighbour who doesn't like your music choices; there must be your own choice of music blasting at a volume to drown out somebody else's music; there must be music interrupting your ability to read in the bookshop you are trying to find a book to buy at; there must be music, there must be music, and it must keep playing so you can avoid that god-awful thing called silence, or peace and quiet, that you experienced once in your life and you were so traumatised by that you swore never to be subjected to that peace and quiet ever again. 

I walked into the New World supermarket at 279 Wakefield Street, Te Aro, Wellington, and was subjected to John Farnham on, not just one, but two big screens, as though I was invited to join in and chant "You're the voice, try and understand it, make a noise and make it cleaaaa-earrr-earrr..." when all I was there for was to buy groceries. 

• Dear New World: "Is there not already enough noise with the beeping of checkout counters, the clanging of trolleys, the voice on the loudspeaker?" 

Now every place I patronise has decided that it wants to create an atmosphere of noise, produced by music that does not suit my tastes, and often doesn't suit the actual decor of the retail outlet that plays it. Not music gently playing in the background, subtle, and soothing, but music loud and obnoxious without any care about how I feel as a paying customer. 

I get that the Customer Service Representatives want to be able to enjoy their work environment, but my question is: How can they enjoy having the exact same songs played over and over without getting insanely sick of it? The other question, is if they work with people who have different music tastes, is it acceptable that one person be allowed to enjoy their work environment while the other suffers? 

We all have different music tastes, and to be honest, even I wouldn't want to be subjected to the bands I love day in and day out on an eternal repeat mode. An experience I had last year subjected me to Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath in a Wellington cafe. Great! I thought, Music I love. But it was so loud that I couldn't hear my own mother talking to me. This is what I don't get. How does loud music encourage customers to walk into a store? 

• Is it just me that has overly sensitive hearing? 
• Is it just me that doesn't want loud music interrupting every moment?
• Is it just me that finds conversation difficult with loud music overlapping every sentence? 
• Is this just a generational thing? 
• Is this a consequence of growing up on farms vs. growing up in cities?
• Is this the result of children being subjected to an external noise source, like a TV, or music, being played all day in their home environment? 

In Wellington city, it is very hard, if not impossible, to find a retail outlet that doesn't play obnoxiously noisy music. Even libraries, those once-upon-a-time havens of peace and quiet, have become obsessively noisy in recent years. All I want is cafe to sit in and drink my cappuccino in peace. But no such luck.

The city is all just noise, noise, noise, and more noise. When it tries to add music as a contrast to the noise, as a way of creating a sound environment that attempts to relax or bring joy to the citizens lives, it only creates more noise. Because now the music is competing to rise above the noise, and it all joins together in a cacophony of irritating, trauma-inducing, pain. 
 
That is what I am left experiencing in the city: Pain.

Look, I may be anti-advertising, but every person has their limits: 

(Please contact me if you need me to promote this product! :-D )

My perfect cafe doesn't play easy-listening jazz endlessly like a malfunctioning public toilet. It allows a piece of music to be played, to end, and then to let the silences breathe and become a functioning part of the atmosphere.

And then, the customer might suddenly notice some strings playing out a tune, before an orchestral tutti bounces a response, and the Presto from Mozart's Linz Symphony brings a new dimension to the cafe experience.

Seven minutes later we sit with the sounds of the shop again: the customers coming and going, the patrons in gentle chatter, the barista banging, and perhaps some clanking from the kitchen. All normal and 'natural' sounds of the environment we have created. 

When life without background music starts to feel a little too weird, a little 'too' quiet, the opening brushes of Take Five breaks the perceived silence. Five minutes later, and for five minutes afterwards, we sit with the memory of Jazz's all-time biggest selling single caressing our minds.

Time passes, and you and the attendants are left with a clean slate to think through some thoughts, to not be aggravated by music you don't like, or don't want to hear. And you may go now, knowing that you can always come back and sit without music, and maybe hear some music along the path of sitting and sipping.

Maybe then, you might hear quietly in the background the opening buzz of 'Pushit' by Tool, or the electronic pulse of 'Electric Dream' by Shapeshifter, maybe Avril Lavigne, or even The Beach Boys.

The music does sit in the background, but it also does not intrude, and it doesn't niggle and upset continuously like an earworm in the back of your brain. The point is never to override the calm spaces, but to momentarily relieve the quiet and provide alternative listening, maybe a temporary mood resetting; but to always return to the quiet space that brings calm and relaxation that musical sounds can never do.

Cafes are already noisy. And the world we have created adds to all that noise. Music in the background, whether easy-listening or hard-listening just adds up to more noise. Sound on top of sound doesn't improve, or cancel out noise. Sound layered on top of sounds create noise.

There is never any true quiet, but non-musical moments help to cleanse the palette.