A Mundane Life, At peace with The Painter, Seeing Lisa.

My Glamorous Life

I drag myself to the kitchen and put on the jug (or boil the kettle as you might say in the USA). I stand there in bare feet and notice all the little bits of cheese on the kitchen floor. My flatmate's son eats a lot of cheese. Or at least, drops a lot on the floor. I sweep the cheese, but I don't want to clean the shit off the back inside of the toilet bowl. I may change my mind after I've had coffee. I've thought about living alone again, but if you work out the cost, you'd have to earn at least $600 a week in the hand to do it. I love my flatmate and her son, but you know how it is. The longing for silence. I'm sure there are things I do that are annoying. Maybe worse than shit stains in the bowl and urine on the toilet seat. It's all give and take.

The jug comes to the boil. I spoon in a massive mound of coffee for the plunger (press in USA speak) and I hold the jug up quite high as I pour in the scalding water. I believe this gives the coffee a bit more punch, and it tends to have that thicker taste that I like.

As I pour I silently count to five, as that is exactly the right measure of water. As I wait for it to do it's thing, I lift my arms up in the air for a bit of Yoga stretching. Not too much of course. My body doesn't quite believe it's out of bed yet. I really do want to go back to Bikram Yoga. I know Birkram is the Magpie Pimp of Yoga, but the fact is, it really works.

I push down the plunger and then pour the coffee (also from a slight height) into a chipped cup I wouldn't usually use. I hate chips. Mum always said "bacteria gets into the chip and you can be poisoned', so if anything got chipped when I was growing up, mum used it for pot plants or pens. We had a lot of pens that didn't work, sitting around in old chipped cups. Lots of pot plants too.

Mum still keeps chipped and even completely broken crockery for when she does mosaics. She has never done a mosaic, but the dream lives on. I bought her a book on how to do them. It's probably under a box of broken crockery. Still. One day.

As I sit here (in bed, cat at my feet) I feel the body thirsting for more coffee. I'm thinking of Lisa, who I'm seeing today. She sometimes works near Auckland, and today she's able to meet up with me for a little while before returning to her client, and then back up North. I have a very late present for her. I can't remember if it was a birthday or Christmas gift now, but it's a metal garden fairy. It's actually really nice as far as garden ornaments go (shh, don't tell anyone I said that).

I am looking forward to hugging her tight. I want to squeeze love into her. I want to stop her pain. I want her sister Julie to come through the operation ok, to not be brain damaged or dead as a result. What are the chances of knowing someone with a brain tumour? In the 70's and 80's there were often tv movies about some kind of struggle with illness. A brain tumour would have been perfect. Sounds so dramatic. Actually, it really is dramatic when you look at how a person changes. How a woman can go from being able to work as a sharp tongued accountant, to not being able to do her own washing.

Speaking of changes, here is where you get to congratulate me! I don't know if you realised, but that awful depression I went through, well, it was triggered by shock and disappointment. The disappointment followed quite a long period of other stressful factors, and I suppose it might have been inevitable. Whatever the case, the symbol of this disappointment was The Painter. Lisa kept saying to me "but it's not really him. He's just a vessel."

Karen Reid, the amazing healer I went to, had said something similar, and also that he hadn't tried to hurt me, he just didn't know how to accept love. A lot of men don't evidently.

Whatever the case, I still had this sadness about it, even though I've healed from the depression. If I thought of him, I still felt humiliated. My mind would just turn in this never ending wheel of 'but why would someone do that?'. I came to realise that someone would do that if they lacked empathy and self love. I notice I have too much empathy for others most of the time, I soak up people's feelings like a human sponge. So it's up to me to find ways of stepping back. I find it really hard. I trust people so easily, and even when someone shits on me, I still look at them and think things like "well, they did have a hard child hood" or some such crap. Everyone has pain to deal with. Some are dealing, and some are in denial, but as long as we're human this is part of the process.

Now this is the hard part. Seeing the mirror or the the reason for why I would attract this kind of experience. How to be real about that without blaming anyone, without creating more guilt or fear. The only way I could really find any acceptance about being rejected in such a spectacular manner was to know that all my prayers were coming true. To know that the Super Soul, or God, or Higher Self was actually coming in to play this game. Perhaps angels were whispering "we're going to have to finish this one early, this is more than you can deal with".

What I perceived as rejection was quite likely a gift. With that in mind, on Saturday I had this clarity when I thought of The Painter. I wondered if he was ok. Yes, yes, I know, me and my empathy, where will it all end?

I texted hello, and the upshot is, we caught up with each other on Sunday. And this is the good part. I could see he was intelligent and funny, great to be around, but there was no 'krong'. Mum and I coined 'kronnggggg' as the term for when you really 'feel it' on an attraction level. If you did a cartoon, you might show the word 'krronngggggggg!' emanating from a person's genitalia to indicate a stirring of interest. I looked at him and pondered the fact that we'd had sex, yet it seemed like a lifetime ago.

So we had this perfectly lovely catch up, joyfully free of krong. I didn't feel the need to go on about how he'd hurt me, nor the need to know why his relationship had recently ended.

I remember writing in my diary that I'd give that one three months, maybe six at the most. I didn't laugh, but I wasn't surprised. I even imagine they might still give it another go.

It was just so good to see this person who I'd built up to some unreasonable level in my own mind, and then see him as he truly is. Just another piece of the limitless Love of the Universe expressing itself in Human Form. Stumbling along. Doing the best he can. Like we all are.

Must be time to put the jug on. ;)

To the brain. Look lively.

I am going to try and make myself not have a headache and look lively in the next half hour so that I can go to Mike and Jane's bbq.

A lot of the Old Crew will be there, good people I hardly ever see.

I went to this collective art project at Aotea square at 2pm, but of course it had been cancelled and I didn't know that. I was dressed quite nicely and so went to Smith and Caughey's, knowing I might be mistaken for someone with lots of money. I enjoy looking at horrible pieces of clothing that cost $800 and knowing that my chain store, op-shop, cobbled together glamour is actually not too bad at all. Also, if I paid $800 for a dress and then snagged it on a tree or something, I'd feel terrible, stressed, unable to relax. Obviously one might not be walking in the woods wearing an over priced dress in the first place, but stranger things have happened (at sea, in bars, in cars, on the road, shoot your load).

My face aches. My jaw hurts. This morning I was talking with Lisa, my friend who lives up North; she's got bronchitis and sounded really weighted down with sadness. I asked what's going on?

"Well, it's Julie, she's not very well. You know how she got worse?"

Julie is Lisa's older sister, and she has a brain tumor that is pressing into her frontal lobe (I think that's what it's called). It was diagnosed a year ago, but we never expected her to fall apart quite so ... heart breakingly fast. She's like a child. She can barely care for herself and frequently falls over as the tumor also affects her balance as well as her ability to control her emotions. Yeah, heavy stuff.

So yes, I reply, yes I know how she got worse.

"Well they found that she had fluid on the brain, that sometimes happens with head injuries too, and so they put a shunt in her brain ... and it drains the fluid out when she does wees."

This takes a second to comprehend. Oh my god. A shunt in the brain that drains fluid out through the bladder? Fuck me, that sounds hard core.

Lisa laughs nervously "like one of those dolls ... where you feed it water and it comes straight out the other end".

I sort of laugh too. But of course it's not funny. It's awful. It's intensely sad. So they did the operation in Wellington, but tests showed no improvements, and if anything her memory had deteriorated even further. They thought the shunt would help. It hasn't. So they shipped her back to Wanganui hospital and now she's waiting for another operation. The one they said couldn't be done. To remove the tumor.

As Lisa tells me we both start crying. This could be it. If she doesn't have the operation, she's going to die. If she has it, she may still die. She is 46 years old. She used to be this kick arse, sarcastic, attractive, Vegetarian, A-type personality who told me "you're so weird" from the time I was eight years old. Now she is morbidly obese, her big blue eyes stare at you like a three year old, and she is always exhausted. I haven't seen her for ages. I know when I last saw her there were still traces of the old Julie left. I am sad for Julie, but it is Lisa I am thinking of. Lisa is the most loving, kind, beautiful friend, and she has already lost Julie to illness. Now she may lose her to death. I said that if something goes down (I mean, of course, if she dies) then tell me right away and I will meet her in Wanganui. I cannot bear the thought of Lisa enduring this. I cannot bear it. But I will. Because what else do you do?

I didn't think about this in Smith and Caugheys. I commented on these amazing gold boxes sitting behind the Mimco counter, and the gorgeous shop assistant smiled at me openly and asked if I'd like some.

They're great for storing things in'.

Yes. Yes I would like some gold boxes to store things in. Store them in my room that looks like it's been hit by a clothing tornado. I try on sunglasses that cost $179. They look very good on me. I left my $10 sunnies at Lou and Johhnny's last night. They had me over for dinner and it was just lovely (Johnny is one amazing cook).

I caught the ferry over, Lou picked me up, they fed me and then deposited me back at the ferry so that I could meet up with another friend for drinks in town. I had half a bottle of wine left and took it into the bar, and when my friend finished her drink I used her glass and filled it with my own very nice Pinos Gris. I know, how incredibly cheap is that? Must do it more often. Anyway, what was I on about? Oh, the girl and the gold boxes.

I said

"Sorry I can't buy anything, I'm inbetween jobs" (I really should have applied for an unemployment benefit as soon as my contract ended, but of course I thought I'd get another contract quickly ...)Fortunately I'm on the dole now, just got it end of last week. Spent all my savings on survival. Won't do that again.

"Oh," said the gorgeous Taiwanese shop assistant,

"You should apply for a job at our branch in Ponsonby, it's a management role."

"Well I dont' really have retail experience .."

This isn't entirely true. When I was 19 I worked for Bar and Bartenders, a horrible novelty shop that sold 21st keys and a variety of things in the theme of Cock - chocolate cock, wind-up cock, soap on a rope cock. It was sort of embarrassing if one of my churchies showed up to say hello, for this was when I was a good Christian girl.

About five years ago I worked for these fuckwads who own a shop called Origins; they stocked furniture, lamps, candles, lots of quite lovely things. The owners were horrible people. They screwed everyone down. Evidently a lot of their staff stole things in retaliation for being treated like crap, and after only six weeks working for them my soul was almost broken. Their son went out with one of the shop girls, and even though she worked to a management level and had done so for three years, they had never raised her pay beyond $12. Nasty.

Anyway, I said I had no 'real retail experience', and the truth is, the prospect does scare me. Standing up on a hard concrete floor, that's torture. At the Origins job I had such sore hips at the end of the day that I was almost in tears. It was also stunningly boring.

I have often wondered why shop assistants can't have a dusky pink chaise lounge to relax on whilst customers browse. They could get up and casually ask if you need help, and if not, they return to the chaise to eat marsh mallows and look cute. I wouldn't mind that. Would you? Retail jobs would become sought after. There would be different levels of sitting. Hard wooden stools in places like The Warehouse. Soft covered stools in chainstores like Glassons. Velveteen couches in up market chain stores, and Chaise lounges in designer stores, or a red leather armchair. The seating itself would become part of the store image. I've thought about it. If this Management job in a nice accessories store in Ponsonby came with a cushy leather chair, the latest magazines, and a good quality coffee maker, I would already have applied for it by now.

I'm still thinking about it. I'm not even qualified, that's the funny part! I'd probably have to know how to use Excel spreadsheets. Ugh.

On my way back from Smith and Caugheys and the Collective Art project that didn't happen, I experienced a flame of road rage.

I was doing 50, which, as you may know, is the speed limit. There was a fair bit of traffic about. A dude in front of me indicated that he wanted to pull into the lane, just ahead of me, and of course I slowed slightly to allow him in. As I did so the white, fifty-something, grey haired, driving-a pretentious-vehicle fuck wit behind me tooted his horn loudly. I could see the guy in front of me look up into his rear view. He may have thought it was me.

I looked into my rearview and saw the old fuck wit going 'shoo, shoo, shoo' with his hands, as if I were a duck that he was hurrying along. I kept my face deadpan. I slowly and deliberately gave him a nice big middle finger in my rearview, knowing he could see it. I then made sure I continued to stick to the speed limit, sometimes slowing down to 40 just to piss him off.

'Pass me and die' I thought. Speed along to your death. I shall not miss you, you arrogant, condescending, ignorant piece of shit. Oh, I don't mean it of course. Well, not the death part anyway.

Ok, so I must have needed to unload all of this because I feel much better. The headache is lifting. I can get to Mike and Jane's for a few drinks, then head to New Market to see Otis playing tonight. I never usually make it, but tonight I fully intend to.

My room is a mess. Best get sorting. I have gold boxes to fill.

Update: I suddenly ran out of time. This happens to me a lot. Time goes nowhere. I don't know where, but it just evaporates. So I couldn't get to Mike and Jane's, but I hope they invite me another time as I'd love to have caught up with everyone. I think I needed to just decompress.

Went to see Otis play at the Lucha Lounge which was enjoyable, only I was so tired that I feared I might fall asleep at the table. Fortunately Otis got the audience up and dancing, so I leapt around like a real dick head and enjoyed that immensely.

Night night dickheads

love to you all. xxx

Snow White, Jesus and Racism.

I saw Snow White last Friday. At least, that’s what she looks like, if Snow White had let her hair grow longer, thrown on some shorts and got a tan.

Snow White is a friend of Church Time Past. Half a life time ago I called myself a Christian. That can mean a lot of things, but I was sincere. I was strangely devout, manic in my love of God, adoring of Jesus. I don’t quite understand how my non-Christian friends suffered it, but they have since said they didn’t take a lot of notice when I went on about it. It probably helped that most of those friends were stoned or drunk on occasions where we got into debates about such matters.

Recently I’ll admit to once again calling on Christ. For so long I would not. But why punish an ideal, an energy, a type of loving consciousness, just because a whole lot of people have used that name to inflict pain, guilt and torture? I don’t even mind if Jesus died or not, and I can’t exactly explain why, since that’s meant to be central to the whole Jesus + Cross = salvation recipe. Take one political activist/prophet and combine with a massive dollop of suffering, a resurrection, and I give you, the Christ Cake, bloody and broken for your mass consumption.

Is this what humanity really requires? If you’re to believe what ministers tell you, then this is the gift freely given by God’s son. But who ever wanted such a gift? It sounds like a guilt trip to me, and that’s why I question it. Whatever God may be, it is spirit, and spirit is beyond guilt tripping. Snow White said that’s why it’s such an amazing thing, that Jesus suffered so much, not because we wanted it, but because of his great love.

I like Jesus a lot. Obviously I don’t know him in a cup of tea or even wipe his feet with my hair and oil kind of way (erotic). I like and love the idea or essence of Christ because He has a sound view. He was unconventional. He shook shit up. He made a difference. Did he walk on water? Who cares! What impresses me was how he questioned authority, was kind and to those who were considered the lowest of the low, and was always trying to get people to see the bigger picture. I love Jesus because Jesus is short hand for unconditional Love . For me, unconditional love doesn’t require a sacrifice; if Jesus got off the cross and went on to live happily ever after, I’d like it! His message would be no less powerful to me, but I guess that’s easy to say from this point in time and space.

I don’t mind if Jesus died on the cross or not, because either way, he overcame ‘death’. If he died literally and rose again, fine. If he used yogic techniques to appear dead and then roused himself later, that’s also very cool. It isn’t so much his death as his life that makes me love what he stands for. I still feel like the cross is somehow a powerful symbol, but maybe it could mean something other than suffering? If he was doing the yoga thing and had gone into a deep meditation, then all that whipping and torture may not have even been felt. Like a yogi who can ly down on a bed of nails unharmed. That person has found a way to overcome suffering and death, but perhaps not in the way that we first assumed.

Anyway, seeing Snow White was wonderful. We had such a good catch up, but when discussing the nature of Illusion, she didn’t know what I was on about. I found it hard to explain. You know, the world is a dream we have all conspired to create, however unconsciously. How to live in a dream then? Well, that’s a rather big question, but one I’ve been trying to understand and live for quite a long time now. It makes you question the nature of suffering, guilt, fear, joy. Too many writers have explained this so very well. Perhaps I should tell Snow White to read The Power of Now, or even that intense little number A Course In Miracles.

I think what I get out of it, what helps me, is that it’s simply a way of being more present and observant. To dream, and to know that I dream, and therefore know that I am creating this experience; that feels authentically powerful. I can choose what to think. I can choose my reactions. I can choose to believe any ‘story’ I want.

When I speak of ‘story’, I’m referring to the whole weight of attachments dragging from something in the past, or even the imagined future. Someone will complain about having no money, and they have a glass of wine in one hand and a bag of Mcdonald’s in the other. Someone will say they don’t know what it is to love or be loved while a trail of broken hearts squelches beneath their heavy feet.

I watched this movie ‘Hesher’ last night. Hesher talks about losing one of his nuts in an accident, and how he was so devastated until he focused on having one nut left. His dick still works. So there you have it; focus on the good. You can always focus on how your dick actually works rather than lamenting the loss of a nut. You can turn yourself into some kind of hero rather than a victim.

Today this is my heroic act; I will make the bed. I will wash my hair. I will be nice to myself, and I will eat some fruit. I will smile at strangers, and if they don’t smile back (which is rare) I will not mutter ‘fuck you’ as I continue to walk by.

I have written my gratitude list for the morning. I have consumed my two cups of coffee.

Last week and yesterday I got a few hours nanny/slave work for a woman in Herne Bay. I enjoyed observing how the Other Half live. Some things are sort of surprising; fake flowers and no sign of filtered water or organic produce. A show home feeling, expensive decor and paintings obviously purchased with an increase in value in mind. I counted the husbands’ shoes. Thirty pairs. I liked looking at her shoes too; the nicest pair were from Topshop, and that’s comforting. I vacuumed the whole house, made their beds, did the washing, helped his Little Lordship with homework, tidied his room, put away his clothes ... and was made to feel grateful for the pay. I am grateful; but it’s a bit of a come down compared to what I was getting paid as a Literacy Coach. Let’s face it, money does buy a certain amount of happiness if we consider food and shelter major contributing factors. I’ve been miserable and poor and miserable with more, and the latter is preferable.

Last week as I walked her son home from school he pretended to hitch hike for a minute. I said I’ve picked up quite a lot of hitch hikers before, and the thing is, to trust your instinct about people. I said that it’s just a feeling you get, you know if the person will be ok to pick up, whereas some people just don’t have a good feeling.
“Like if they’re Maori?” he responded.
“Well, not really, I’m part Maori, not that you can see it cos I’m so white. Er, it’s not really to do with skin colour, it’s just a feeling.”

I was mellow. Who knows if it’s his parents who are racist, or if it’s the result of attending Ponsonby Primary school and not being familiar with a variety of cultures? Perhaps he overheard a bigoted grandparent, or he’s only ever seen the Maori beggar lady who sits on the pavement on Ponsonby Rd looking sullen?

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll go to my Marae. I’ve dreamt of it, and the dream was powerful, the message being that my value has nothing to do with my ethnicity or anything else defining the human condition. If I go back, I have to be completely at ease with this. With not being ‘Maori enough’. I can’t say I want to willingly enter into that atmosphere. It was hard enough working for an Iwi station years ago and being bullied and given shit for being white all the time. Racism sucks. I get it though; people are always looking for a point of difference to others, ways to continually separate. Yet at end of it all, we’ll likely see how much of an Illusion that separation is. Buddha, Christ, Goddess, these energies of love will be Us in a way that we can understand. And then, we’ll start again.

The Pain of Being A Misunderstood Man: a short story

written quickly and unedited:

I am a man who is entirely sure of about five things. I know how to look good in a pair of boots and skinny jeans,I can deliver lines convincingly in order to bed a variety of women, I do a good job of plastering houses, and I have a gift for music. Ok, make it four.

I am a man in my late thirties, but I cannot shake the feeling that I'm still 24, or even 14, and it hardly seems fair that I should be expected to grow up just yet. I'm kicking against it. All the growing. It's painful. I feel disconnected from myself most of the time, but I've a talent for saying things people find interesting or amusing, so I watch for your facial expression and sometimes tweak my delivery in order to get the best reaction. I sometimes forget to do this and blurt out what comes to mind, for despite caring about what people think of me, I forget to care about what they feel.

I don't mean to. It isn't like I'm going around purposely hacking into people's hearts with a machete. I'm not a cruel person, I promise you. I didn't mean to hurt Dorothy at all. Oh I can see you don't get me at all, but you have to understand that it was her sister that made the move on me. I would never have gone there otherwise. I'm quite depressed about the whole thing really. It's all taking a bit of a toll.

One of the problems is time. Dorothy just seemed to take up a lot of it. Then there was her sister Helen, she kept coming over, wearing impossible clothes and quoting Sartre. I do like a bit of existentialism, gets me quite hard. Not as hard as two women in the bed at once, but close. Helen had the added x factor. She also played music, like me. She got me. She really seemed to understand.

The problem is, Helen is now taking up too much of my time, yet I feel quite out of control if she decides to go home for an evening. Am I looking for an answer in another? Possibly. I want to be left alone, but as soon as I'm alone I feel somehow adrift. I enjoy the process of falling for someone. I like how it feels when I look deeply into a woman's eyes and see myself reflected there, it can't be helped.

Dorothy still cares for me. She told me just last night. I said I still care for her too, but I don't know if that's true. She's very nice of course, and I like her taste in decor, but Helen is a little better suited to my needs. Helen is younger too, which is always a bit of a bonus. Ah, dear Helen. I could possibly fall for her, and she's definitely fallen for me. That's the thing, as soon as I know I've got someone, really got them, I get uncomfortable. Someone told me that was fear getting in the way. I don't know, maybe they're right. All I know is that I'm quite down. I feel exhausted and could sleep for days, but still, Helen's a good sort and seems to think we're going to be fine.

We celebrated Valentine's Day two days after Dorothy found us having a sixty-niner in my bed. She'd popped over with a cake for me. It was a carrot cake with cream cheese icing. Really good actually. Helen and I ate it later, after we had more guilty sex and lamented the loss of the relationship. I know I might sound callous, but really, I'm a very good guy. People would tell you so. Even Dorothy.

End.

Valentines, Mr Advertising, and Mr No Listening.

Happy Valentine's Days darlings! I've had a lovely day, romanced my pants, and no, I'm not telling you what i mean by that.



Pic: one day when trying to tidy my room I started to draw on my face instead. Much more fun.

Weariness has come upon me again in regards to Internet Dating, but I'm sure you admire my pluck for continually going back and trying. I broke my own bloody rules didn't I? I said 'no sympathy dating' and promised myself I wouldn't respond to people who didn't appeal to me AT ALL. Most of the time I succeeded in the latter, but now and then someone would be so persistent that I'd think 'well ok, he's really quite old and unattractive, but who am I to judge?'. Who I am is Human. Damnit. So inconvenient sometimes.

So what's been the latest? On Saturday I went out to the beach with this guy we'll call Mr Advertising. He's a dry alcoholic (which I admire) yet still sported a beer gut. He was easy to get on with, but there was no chemistry. Despite this, I still felt like he took every opportunity to blather on about his high flying advertising jobbie life, and strangely, this made me feel further shut down about sharing too much about myself. I did mention that there is someone close to me who is an alcoholic, but I didn't go into any details. It feels like a betrayal, to say that about someone you love, especially if they still haven't done anything about it.

It was one of those situations where in order to make sure he didn't give me the 'wrong signals', it seemed like he could barely look at me. I felt like saying 'relax man, you're about as appealing as my Uncle Bruce'. I really do have an Uncle Bruce by the way.
Mr Advertising was cute in a really weathered way, but I got the feeling he might still be looking to snare someone who'd look the part in the 'advertising world'. Possibly a model. Even an ex model might do.

He dropped in that his ex wife was ten years younger than him. I didn't tell him my ex was 15 years younger than me. Maybe I should have.

We stopped at the hotpools on the way home. It actually was a beautiful day and he was quite good to talk to most of the time. A beautiful young Brazilian couple glided into the pool, and poor Mr Advertising's eyes were like a kite being yanked by a strong wind.

If you stood Mr A next to the Brazilian goddess, he'd look like her weatherbeaten father.Perhaps he got all the skinny young blondes back in the day and so he can't quite let go. She was extremely beautiful, and all of 18 or 19, as was her boyfriend, with his rippling abdominal muscles and dark hair.
Yes, they're pretty, but geeze, put your eyes back in your head. He wanted to stand and stare openly but instead had to painfully labour through his bright, forced conversation. He also smokes tailor mades. Disgusting.

No matter what he said after this, I was completely bored. His house. Blah blah. His job. Yawn. His ex. Blah fuckin' blahdee blah. At one point, when talking about AA, he said "quite a lot of famous people are alcoholics, you'd be quite surprised".
Gee, you don't say? Wow. I'd never have guessed. Oh wait, was I supposed to ask who they were because he's in the know? I hate that sort of thing. It really annoyed me. He wouldn't have guessed it, I just said "mm, oh right." Of course I could be judging him too harshly, but I doubt it. Just today Andrew said I need to be less tolerant. Isn't that lovely? I might start practicing. It's a new Intolerant Me!

Attraction is a funny old fish isn't it? I guess I've always rather liked slightly unusual men, preferably tall and a bit quirky in some way. Not the standard. Not a rugby player or too much of a bloke. What I like seems to be a little hard to come by, but I have the feeling I'm unlikely to find it on internet dating. It's just not happening.

The only person who came close to what I'm into ended up being unintentionally cruel (hope he's having a shitty valentine's day, that his girlfriend is boring and slack in bed!). Yeah yeah, I know there's no point harbouring bitterness towards those who have hurt me, it only destroys me. I know. I know. I just like to vent a little bit. Isn't it crazy how hurt can make you imagine all sorts of awful things? Like hoping that the person is having a miserable time and that they're realising how incredible you were, and what a dork they are. Who'd want to admit to feeling that way? That's right. No one. The truth is, I wish well for everyone. I don't want people to suffer. I do believe we're all one. I do. I'm not being sarcastic, I promise.

On Sunday I went to the beach again, this time to Piha with Mr No Listening. Mr No Listening was really nice, but he pretended to listen to me blathering on, and I could tell when he was pretending. I admit, I usually do talk a lot, but internet dating has given me really good practice in withholding more and more. I kept trying to be attracted to him. Have you ever done that?

You look at the person and think "well he's got lovely eyes, and he's kind", but really, you know it's just not there. He seemed prematurely old. Or perhaps I'm used to being around 'young' old people?

We still had a nice day, it was absolutely pouring with rain and I suggested we walk to the South, over the hill, in jandals. We did. Got to the bit where you have to sort of scramble down a bit of a clay bank before climbing down a big rock face. In the rain, the clay had become amazingly slick and I slipped and skidded about 15 metres, at first screaming in terror, then laughing as I realised I wasn't going to die.

My shorts, arms and backpack were coated in a thick, shitty layer of mud and clay. It looked grand. Got down the rock face fine, and then announced I was going for a swim.
"Got your togs?" I asked
"Oh, ah, no, I thought we were just walking on the beach..."
"Ah, so when I said to you 'I'm taking my togs with me for a swim when we get to the other side' you didn't hear me?"
"Ah, no, I didn't."
Ha! His pretending to listen thing had fucked it up. He'd even nodded at me and said 'yes' when I said I was going for a swim, so god knows where his little mind was.
I changed into my togs and had a lovely swim.
"You could swim in your undies if they're not too horrible!" I yelled at him from the tidal pool. He instead sat on a rock in his little red raincoat. Perhaps he was wearing big old whitey tighties? Perhaps he's ashamed of his body? Maybe he didn't even want to go for a swim.

I knew he was attracted to me, but I just couldn't go there. Not even out of morbid curiosity. He was far nicer than some of the men I dated last year (hello, The Wanker!), but perhaps my tolerance levels have just reached their limit. And that's ok. I'm fine with it.

I have another date tomorrow with a guy who drives a motorbike in Woodhill Forest. I doubt it's a match made in heaven, but hey, I'm sure it will be interesting. I've gone off site, but there might be a few left over dates to catch up on.

Oh, and yesterday Andrew came over and we hung out and had a really good laugh. I have two soft toys, this sort of pig one I call Pushkin (I've never read Pushkin, but it's a good name for a soft toy) and this wee golliwog (it's a 'new era' golli). We put them in all sorts of uncompromising positions and I laughed so much that my stomach hurt. I am very easily pleased.

Tieneke lasted approximately one week on the net dating. She said she found it exhausting, all the effort! She went out with this cocky fireman who informed her that he'd been on 217 dates, but he also stays home and drinks and gets stoned on a regular basis. That's what you want in a man who might be saving you from a burning building! Anyway, we think it sounded suspicious. A man with a small child who reckons he's been on that many dates (why even tell her, how odd!) and yet stays home shmokin' joints on his own? Surely not. How does he manage the time? How does he even stay sane? Maybe that's why he has to shmoke all the joints.

Whatever the case, we're both back out of that crazy little world. Well. For now at least. Who knows, I might be back into it in another three weeks. But I hope not.

Love to you
touch yourself there
big kiss
xxx

Crazy Grandads and Sunshine Days

Yesterday I had a really good time with my mum. Her Birthday, January 11th, had been a bit of a wash-out and I'd been feeling sort of guilty and helpless at the same time. I wanted to feel connected to her and to life itself, but instead it's like I was somewhat separated from my own body and unable to be what I think of as 'myself'.

Fortunately I felt Me come back yesterday ... I imagine it's like that part in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory where Mike TV gets scattered during the transmission ... little pieces flying everywhere. Some fairly big pieces slotted into place as I lay on the beach and went to sleep. I felt like I'd been out for an hour, but mum reckons it was only 15 minutes.

I just finished reading a book by a woman who was raised to be a prostitute by her father. His cruelty and insanity reminded me of the stories I've heard about my own long-dead grandfather and his legendary levels of violent abuse. He didn't rape his children or force them into prostitution, but the mind games and beatings were beyond anything I can imagine. He was severely mentally unwell and obviously went untreated for most of his life. He had Paranoid Schizophrenia. He eventually attempted to kill my Nanna when she left him. My mum was 15 when that happened, and my Nanna only barely escaped with her life. Amazing what a man can do with a crow-bar.

I talked to mum about it briefly yesterday. Maria Landon's book 'Daddy's Little Earner', isn't very well written, but it did help because it's almost like another 'witness'.

Now that mum's sister, Aunty Sandy, is dead, and so is Nanna, the last of her life witnesses are gone. It isn't that she wants to keep a 'victim story' alive, but in order to move on from it I think there has to be a person who remembers, who can say 'I get why it's hard' without trying to wallow in the pain. Mum does have a younger brother and sister, but they do not remember the violence. My younger Aunt was also exempted from it as she had almost died as a baby and this made her special in his eyes and kept her protected from her father's murderous rage.

So there we were, sitting on the beach at Murray's Bay, the sun is shining, and I have to bring up this heavy topic. Mum was in a really good frame of mind and doing a cross word. We talked a bit about it and she said that it does make her feel better to know that someone else understands what it's like.

Even at the end of Maria Landon's book, when she's in her 30's, her father comes to her and still doesn't understand why she had to tell anyone about his abuse. He never ever gets it. He cries, but it's for himself, not for her. Something in his brain cannot connect to empathy for others.

Sometimes you see that in little ways with people. Is it just the way they're wired? Probably. My Nanna went on to marry another super dodgy man after that, and how she adored him. I suppose a man who didn't beat you was a bit of a prize back in the day. He was truly creepy and abusive, but I was always nice to him and called him 'grandad' because, you know, I was raised to have good manners.



But you know darlings, we're not here to talk about abuse are we? No no, we're here to talk about the Love.
I switched topics with mum after we'd talked a little bit about child abuse and the apalling stats of child murder in NZ, deciding we'd give ourselves a 'message from the future'. We told ourselves something encouraging from the perspective of a future self. It felt good.

So what does your future self say? Mine was something like 'see, getting yourself all worked up about (insert any number of topics, but usually 'love/men and employment') and you really didn't need to. It all worked out. It always does.'

So I went for a swim in my polka dot bikini, the water was pretty warm and I always feel further returned to Me when I'm in the sea. Mum and I then went to this pub up the road from her, The British Isles, and got a really slap up feed. Mum's lamb shanks were glorious. I do not mean that my mum has lamb shanks. I mean that she ordered them and ate them. We went back to her flat and watched TV, something I rarely do. Had a cuppa tea and about four chocolates and then flew back over the Harbour Bridge in my lovely little car. I slept the sleep of the connected.

It's a sunshine day. Long may they continue! May your pieces be nicely returned to you if any have gone missing, and may a cool breeze stroke your brow, should your brow be exposed to the air.

Connected I slept
Turned and returned whole
A cool quartz stone on my brow

Haikus are Bloody Easy!

Scottish Sean, due to your wonderful haiku that ended with 'refrigerator' I decided to look up how to write a haiku, something I have avoided all my life. Turns out they're piss easy and quite satisfying to do. Pick a topic, any topic, and I'll write one. Send me comments, give me feedback, you wanna haiku on pooh? I will do it.

Here's my very first Haiku - all you have to do is write three lines. The first has five syllables, the second has seven, and the last is five again.

Internet dating
Cerebral masturbating
Or the chance to love?

Here's another:

Rinse and stack the dishes
otherwise flies gather
and this is no good

I think this is the thing, maybe writing Haiku's is addictive? What are the chances?
Have I misunderstood something along the way? Am I making a big Haiku mistake? If I am do tell me, but I doubt it will stop me writing these things.

A Haiku mistake
I pondered this for a time
Slide the mind sideways

Oh the endless fun we can have writing very annoying little Haikus. What else? What about Moon Time? (Having your period).

Bled in my underpants
and so took them off quick smart
and flung them skyward

Ok, so the quality of my haiku may not be the best, but at least I'm giving it a good go.

Mr Spanky

Speaking of a good go, T is on the dating site now and yesterday she met up with a guy she has coined Mr Spanky.

The signs were not positive. T does not like striped shirts. She's fit and thin, and though she wouldn't be Hitleresque about it, she would be best suited with a man who isn't dragging around too much extra weight and who possibly does Yoga. He also has to have a sweetly hedonistic streak without be an all out drug dealer.

Thing is, right from the outset, the quy she chatted to via the emaily thing on the dating site did have a picture of himself in a striped shirt. He's also from the North Shore, not that this has to be a deal breaker, but it is a cultural divide that has to be taken into consideration. He asked T "If you had a choice between being thrown over a shoulder, or a lap for a spanking, which would it be?". T chose the shoulder, but then after that, Mr Spanky kept on making comments about Piha and string bikinis, and she became increasingly anxious.
"Oh no Candice, he keeps going on about string bikninis!"
In addition to these factors was that he was a bit of a chubby bubby.

T bravely forged ahead, but when she got home I thought it might have gone ok because she did spend an hour and a half with him. No. She was being polite and didn't really know how to leave. Sadly, even on a Sunday, he was still wearing a striped shirt (shit, this really puts me off them too, and I've never minded them before) and after their coffee date he texted T and wanted to know if he could take her out to dinner and then give her a spanking.
"But I didn't even say I wanted a spanking" she lamented. His own fantasy ran away with him. His overblown chubby bubby striped Ego went AWOL.
"He's corporate, so he's probably had a sheltered life" said Tieneke. Yeah, all beer and skittles makes Spanky a dull boy. What's funny is that he might not be sheltered, but his idea of what's funny or interesting, or even sexy, when first meeting someone, differed so greatly from hers.

I am still in touch with The Lovely Man. He's got a few practical things to deal with, but it would be nice to see him again. No hurry though.

Oh, been right into the GARDEN lately! That brings on a haiku.

lettuces grow green
fingers stained with soil and sun
swan plants stretch to blue

Oh, I had a drinks date with Mr Thicky yesterday. I can't even tell you about it, it was too depressing. Here's a haihu about it instead:

Is ignorance bliss?
I feel like asking him this
but I am not cruel.

So folks, another day, another lack of the dollar. Feedback welcome.
I'd like to say thanks to everyone reading as I was amazed to see on the 'stats' that I've had 2,218 views of this blog to date. This isn't counting my own views, ha ha!

To the four people in the Netherlands, I thank you.

Lots of love to all, because that's my thing. The Love! Love love love.

The Queen of Fucking Everything, and man fishin' updated.

Years ago I gave Alice that mug: 'Queen of Fucking Everything' for her birthday, and then a few years later someone bought it for me. I get quite philosophical over that mug. Does it mean I'm the Queen of Fucking everything over or up, or that I'm simply the ruler of all situations, no matter how much evidence there may be to the contrary?

My Queenly little head is spinning today. Find work. Dating men. Avoiding dating men. All that and more.



So on Sunday T's friend Cat gave her free tickets to the Matakana Music Festival.
Thanks Cat, really enjoyed the journey as well as the destination. Even though it wasn't necessarily the kind of music I'd be pigeon holing as my absolute cup of tea, I still loved the atmosphere, location and laid back vibe.

Fly My Pretties did a few really good songs, but I liked the more rock and indie ones, the excessively souly stuff was a bit irritating and overdone. Drinks and food were limited in choice and of course over-priced. We connected well with a couple of lovely people - a guy who just came up and befriended us (fancied T I think!), and a girl who was sitting on our blanket. The blanket girl was so gorgeous and friendly; she had beautiful hands:


We left before the last band went on, exhausted but happy. See, some things in life are free.

Man Fishing Updated:

Well slap me with a fish head and call me a whore's breakfast, I sort of have broken my own rule about no 'sympathy' dates. Fortunately last night was an exemption. He was fine lookin', intelligent, all that and a bag of chips; a Lovely Man. The only thing is, he's just out of a ten year marriage. Eek. You know what happens. They need a 'bridge' back into women ... and I do not want to be the bridge. I'm the destination. Who knows if we'll catch up again, but that was his first date with a woman other than his wife in a decade. I'm not holding my breath.

We did have a six hour date, meandered around the art gallery which was really fun. He knew heaps about art, and we bantered easily. We went into this box thing in the optical illusions section: had to take off your shoes to go in. Had no idea what was inside, but once in, it's a room with a mirrored ceiling and floor. The walls are all black and white striped. It gives the impression of being in an endless skyscraper. I looked down and there was my sex barely concealed in lace knickers. As I realised this, so did he, but fortunately we just laughed about it. I had to sort of gather my skirt to the front of me so that I wasn't continually showing off my lady bits. Nothing I could really do about my bum, it was there in the mirror the whole time, an endless replication of it. Fortunately I'm not exactly shy when it comes to my body, it wasn't as if I blushed or anything. That would be a fun thing to do if you were at the point where you were ready to sleep with someone (relationship material) - go to the art gallery wearing no knickers, or suspenders and stockings, then go into that room and watch their face when they realise. Sigh.

A painting I particularly liked was 'Otira Gorge' by Petrus Van der Velden. Tumultuous and strong. The Lovely Man said I would like William Martin, so must have a look.

Went back to hot yoga on Wednesday and I'm still feeling it today.

Sympathy Dates

Ok, ok, I know ... what am I thinking? There was this Old Persistent Man and I felt mean saying no all the time, so agreed to coffee, and then today dreaded having to meet him. He isn't my bag of chips at all. He has 'old man humor' which I can only accept from the fathers of friends, or grandaddies. Now understand; anyone can have old man humor, not just old men. 'Wylie' had it, but I forgave it as I was blinded by lust.

I was a bit snippy with Old Persistent Man and he said I needed to get a sense of humor. Oh I do you old fuckwit, but mine is probably not on the same bandwidth, plus I am oversensitive and girly, so put that in your bum hole and smoke it.

Yes folks. I am oversensitive and girly. I admit it. I am the Queen of Fucking Everything in both senses. Join me. We're going to have a mighty fine year.