Cloud Cover

A Sunday essay about carrying memories, distractions, and burdens, and realising we are all having to cover for something sometimes

I packed all of my things into my car early on a Friday morning. I had the seats down. A bag of clothes, of course. A TV too. A stereo, VCR and cabinet, boxes of tapes and CDs, VHS, records, loads of books. A hockey stick, a basketball, a pair of drumsticks. And a practice pad. A computer, a printer, monitor, paper.

This is everything I was back then.

Someone making that same trip now would have a phone.

There’d be a connection to the car’s stereo via Bluetooth. They’d have headphones too, maybe in their pocket. A wallet — located similarly. They might have a Bluetooth speaker, an extra pair of sneakers, maybe an iPad too, certainly a laptop. A Kobo or Kindle, and just a few favourite books for one shelf.

They would certainly walk up to their new rented room, with everything all in one load. Returning only to get a pot plant to put on the ledge.

I spent hours driving from Hawke’s Bay to Wellington. And then many more hours unpacking the car. It was a whole day. And that night I bought a poster of Reservoir Dogs to hang on my wall. And the soundtrack to Pulp Fiction to blast down the hall. I met a friend straight away. We bonded over Miles Davis, Tarantino, and hockey.

My parents visited immediately. They wanted to see I’d made it. They needed to be in the new room with me to see how it all fitted, and say their goodbyes once again. We went to dinner, and after they dropped me home I ran straight back down the hill to visit a bar. To be in the new city. To see how far I could take it straight away.

Then when Monday first came, it was a history lecture at 9am, a politics class a couple of hours after. And later that day, English.

I cannot tell you I made a fist of it. I let those classes completely slip through my fingers. But the beer did not escape. I chased that down, with one more, and then also another.

I spent that year hosting parties in my room, writing essays for people for beer money — often for subjects I never took. And I wrote all the essays for my classes on a strict regime where I started the day it was due, and only ever read the back cover.

That year in the hostel — all of my distractions that had filled an entire car and killed my entire routine — still holds a lease in my mind.

That’s probably why I keep trying to tell my parents I’ve nearly made it.

The worst thing about first year is that I passed every subject.

It only meant that when the fall came it was much greater. And it took a lot longer to get back up.

Some days I wonder if I collected all the pieces.

Other days I realise the back cover of the book back then is just the AI-assisted essay now. The distractions are lighter to carry now too — a phone in a back pocket. But maybe it just means we don’t see the heaviness of the load

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