Vomiting at Bikram Yoga, Old Nudes at the Hotpools ...

30^th July 2012

I barely hairly knowly nearly wherely to start! So much is going on. Had an uh-maze-ing weekend. You know how I was doing the integration of the male aspect of myself when I went to Tracey (Beyond The Veil)?  Okay, fo’ shizzle on my dizzle, but I think it’s really HAPPENING. 

This integration (done as a visual meditation/healing session) meant finding the parts of myself that can, plainly speaking, get my shit sorted. I have a fully developed Poet and Sage (according to Tracey, and seeing as I’m so in love with myself these days, I see no reason to argue it). It’s the Visionary and Manager/Director aspects of myself that have been missing. Since I fell in love with Me the other week, I’ve noticed that these aspects of myself have increased in presence and strength. I’ve been making decisions about what I want to do, and within one week or a day, it’s falling into place. Sometimes within a minute.

I did experience a massive wave of stress about a week ago when I decided I really wanted to do the Hypnotherapy Training, then realised I was going to have to make money for it to happen. By 5.45am I’d applied for a job that should fit in with doing another contract for SETAC when that starts up again in October. It’s likely I’d still need benefit assistance with accommodation costs etc, but the main thing is that I’d be able to pay for the Hypnotherapy course.

On Friday I was in so much pain (my left shoulder and neck) that I could barely function.  I’m used to being in pain, but when I was doing Bikram Yoga (yes, say what you will of the man, but the yoga is great) pain issues were resolved within two to four sessions. I figured that one $20 class was more economical that getting a massage. The only other way I’ve successfully dealt with pain to the same degree was when I used to go swimming twice a week, hatha yoga twice a week and walking about an hour four times a week, and it took about three weeks to get good relief. Economically and time wise, Bikram or Hot Yoga is much more sensible.

So off I trotted, and because I’ve lost four kilos I noticed it was a lot easier to do than last year. I thought I’d find it really hard, being in pain and all, but instead I kept up quite well, stopping and resting if it felt too intense. It was when we’d done Camel Pose that I suddenly felt a bit squiffy and weird. 

This is roughly as far as I can go when it comes to Camel. This photo is from Bikram Yoga, Richmond Hill.

Edited note: I think I'm confusing camel and something else ... but it's the one above as well as the pose below that really bought it on.

Picture is by Andrew Woodburn.

I stood up and looked in the mirror (I was right at the front by the stage, it’s an unforgiving place to be). I thought ‘oh, am I feeling sick?’ and then my head felt all cottony. I lay down and looked up at the instructor and pointed at my mouth. This was my way of saying “I do believe I may chunder in the class”.

She nodded ‘leave the class if you have to’.

I wanted to. Oh god. I really did. But suddenly I was loose and numb. I tried to pull the towel further out as I realised what was coming, but I couldn’t even move my hand. Paralysed by nausea, weighted with lead cotton, the watery oat-filled vomit gushed forth and pooled across the towel on my yoga mat, and then slightly beyond. It was very fortunate that there was no one immediately to the right of me, the direction in which I spewed.

Wave after wave heaved out of me. The most beautiful woman in the room, another Bikram instructor, came to my aid. She got another towel (pristine, white) and shored up the area as I continued to gurgle and groan. After about the fourth wave  (mostly water it seemed) she tentatively asked if I could move.

“Nghahhh. Can’t move. Sorry. So. Sorry” I replied, feeling like my eyes were rolling back in my head. I had a sense of regret for all the people in the class, but one of my main thoughts was ‘please do not let me also shit myself’.  Fainting is kind of adorable, vomiting is gross, but shitting yourself in yoga class? Priceless. I knew if that happened I might never return. Fortunately for me, after about six more loud and lively chunder blusses, I was done. Suddenly I felt so light and clean. The lovely instructor  helped me up, not seeming to mind assisting a sweaty, vomitty woman at all. I sat on the cool floor outside the room and she got my drink bottle and replenished it with electrolytes and more water. She went into the room and gathered up my delightful towel and yoga mat and put them in a well sealed plastic bag for me to take home. She said that if you’re in a lot of pain, that can cause you to vomit. This made sense, and I also think it’s that particular pose, Camel, that really gets me. Last year, when I was depressed, I could not do it at all. If I tried, I would get overwhelmed with emotion, and I’d end up lying on the mat crying quietly.

I went and had a shower, got dressed, ready to go and meet a man for a drink. There’s this thing on Facepooh that I joined which is a bit like internet dating, but I'm not sure I have time for it these days.


 While I was getting ready, the instructor came into the changing room and asked if I was okay. I was all ‘oh yeah, I feel great now!’. She said she hoped it wouldn’t put me off coming back, and I said ‘oh not at all, I just can’t afford the classes at the moment’. She said ‘well we have a cleaning job going … one night a week and you get free yoga’.  Well smell, who’d have thought that spewing in yoga class would lead to such great rewards? So now I’m going to clean one night a week and go to yoga three or four times a week.

Feed me, or I'll scratch your couch, piss on your bed and vomit on  your favourite rug.

The drinks date was okay. The guy wasn’t bad looking, but he was an accountant. It’s like meeting another breed of animal or something. I immediately told him I’d just been sick, and he didn’t laugh, he looked a bit grossed out, so I knew this wouldn't be a match made in Heaven. He was flirty though, kept trying to find ways to touch me, but he also flirted awkwardly with the young waitress which I found a bit sad. She had fantastic tattoos of feathers on the inside of one arm which made me think of my old work friend from Sadlers, the one I called Feather. I asked if I could look at it more closely, and then chatted to her for a minute and then Accountant says

“So you must have a feathery touch?” and smiled in a way that he must have thought was charming. We both looked at him like ‘what?’ and he repeated it. Oh, ha ha ha we politely smiled.

Now don’t get me wrong, an awkward or try hard flirtation isn’t the worst thing in the world at all. It’s nice if people give it a go, and I’ve done far worse. I called a hot waiter boy ‘sweetie’ awhile ago, and promptly slapped my hand over my mouth and apologised.  Sexism or even a hint of condescension, especially to waiting staff, is just not cool. Yes, they’re serving you.  Yes, they might be hot and more stylish than you. This doesn’t mean they want you to imagine their feathery touch. They’re probably finishing their PHD in Something Mind Blowing, or doing a yoga course, or possibly have their own business making mosaics.

I didn’t dislike the Accountant at all, but I must admit, he wasn’t very exciting. He didn’t challenge any of my ideas, and the fact that he was squeamish about vomit annoyed me. I like my friends to be quite sturdy about these things.  When I related the vomit story to any other friend, their eyes lit up with delight, just as one would hope. It’s always fun to share your humiliations with someone who cares. What's a little vomit among friends?

On Saturday I recovered from yoga and spewing, then went to the hotpools with The Painter. God he makes me laugh! When we got there, we were surprised to find it was Nude Night. You know what that means. Lots of old people who have reached the point in life where they just don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks of them and they’re gonna let it ALL hang out baby. 

The least pervy picture I could find of Little Annie Fanny.

Painter was alarmed at the possibility that it would be compulsory to get our kit off, but of course we were welcome to remain clad. I personally love getting naked, but preferably in nature and not within jizzing distance of a stranger. Yes, perhaps I’m a prude or making assumptions that just aren’t fair, but most of the men reminded me of the cartoons in ‘Little Annie Fanny’, it was a strip in the back of playboys back in the 70’s. Even at five these pictures had an amazing impact on me. Often the cartoons depicted Fanny in a see through baby doll nightie being chased by old men grabbing her breasts. From what I could gather all anyone wanted from her was her body. 


No one wanted to draw pictures with her, or just sit and talk with her. I would look at the pictures and wonder why all the men were old (mustaches featured heavily), and why didn’t Fannie put some clothes on and get out of that situation. I thought ‘well she must want to be there’ but I couldn’t fathom why. Of course I couldn’t ask mum because she would have told me off for reading her adult magazines.

By the time I was 10 I’d found mum’s Penthouses and studied the stories closely trying to figure out what men wanted, if it really was just big breasts and a see through nightie, or if there was room for girls with glasses, red hair and freckles who liked to read, draw and go to the beach.


 By the time I was 11 I knew that  I would one day be expected to give good blow jobs, but I hoped I wouldn’t have someone put their penis up my bum at the horse races.

One story that stayed in my head was told by a young guy who informed the reader that he was really good looking and a ‘jock’ (a term not used in New Zealand), but that he loved obese women. He shared his story about living next door to a really big lady, and how he fantasised that she also had a really hairy pussy. I think I read this story about four times in one sitting. It didn’t turn me on at all, but I was very interested in what the guy said, how he couldn’t admit to his friends that he liked big women, that he maintained a popular façade by going out with ‘hot chicks’. I thought ‘well, maybe someone secretly likes me then. Maybe someone will like a girl with white skin who can't run very fast.' That was all that mattered at Whangamata School in the early 80's, you had to be brown and good at running.

In the story, the Jock helps the woman with her groceries one day, but as he takes them from her, they slip and spill on the floor. They bend down to pick them up and he is overcome with lust and ends up doing her in the hallway, absolutely creaming it when he removes her giant pants to find a luxuriant bush of pubic hair. All he’d ever hoped for.  I found the whole thing a bit sad. He doesn’t go and hang out with her and get to know her, he keeps it as his fat, hard little secret. He continues to go out with skinny girls, thinking of the big woman’s folds of fat and plush pubis as he pumps away at some cheerleader. Even at 11 or 12 I felt sorry for this guy. He cared more about what other people thought than what would have made him really happy. I also thought it was just as strange as only wanting a woman because she has great big boobs and blonde hair. Was Anne of Green Gables wrong? Was Pippi Longstocking wrong? Did an inquiring mind and a pocket of talent not matter? Of course, all these characters were only that. Characters.

I was to eventually find out that there were boys who did appreciate me, but of course it coincided with gaining confidence in the way I looked. I had a feeling I would be late to the party, and I was correct.  This had many benefits, but that of course, is another long story.

What was I talking about? The hotpools. Lots of older, naked people. Big ladies, men with tiny dicks or big dicks, weathered skin, beautiful pale fat flesh shining in mineral water. The Painter noted correctly ‘you don’t even notice it after awhile’. It was only when someone walked past with their graying pubes at eye level that I’d wonder if it was rude to look away.  I wanted to remove my bikini top, but I just didn’t feel relaxed enough. If there were more spaces in our togetherness (ha ha)  I think I’d have gone for it, but this was way too intimate. I noticed that other younger (under 50) people kept their togs on too. There were about four exceptions.

As I say, getting nude is great, but I’m looking forward to doing it on a hot day at the beach where there’s a good 20 metres between me and other nudies. I don’t really want to be seen in that particular context. I just want to feel.

Afterwards I made Painter put on one of those face masks that cost a dollar in Korea, the ones that are like a cloth soaked in moisturizers. He agreed to this weakly, being completely shattered from working all day and then half sleeping in a hot pool full of pre come and flakes of skin.  We couldn’t stop laughing as the mask itself is absurd and doesn’t fit the face properly at all.

Dropped the Painter home and wished him well on his journey. He’s off to Europe, the lucky bitch. He’s got a friend/ex lover who lives over there and so they’re travelling around for about five weeks. I expect he shall have a lot of fun. Trains! Frankfurt, Paris, Berlin! Art! Stuff! He’s bound to come back saying ‘oh you should see the light in Berlin, it’s completely different from New Zealand. Paris? Some might say it’s overrated, but I felt right at home there. You must go one day!’

On Sunday I met up with a guy regarding nannying for his son, then parked in Ponsonby, walked into town, got tickets for ‘The Eye Has To Travel’ at the film festival, walked back to Ponsonby and took at look in this industrial/antique design shop. A hot girl was making coffee instore, and god it was good! I felt a bit high on everything, went to Grey Lynn and picked Tienke up from her work and then swooped back into town. Snarfled around looking for a free park, then decided to just suck it up and pay for the parking in front of the Silo Theatre (or Basement as it’s now known).  As I pondered the fact that it was coins only for the parking,  a guys was leaving and handed me his ticket (valid till the following day!). I yelled ‘I love you’ at him as he handed it to me.

The movie was good. I wish I could imitate Diana Vreeland, she was one amazing stick. The opening line was so funny, something like ‘First of all, one must arrange to be born in Paris …’.

Of course it was a completely different kind of satisfaction from seeing Beasts of The Southern Wild, but still really enjoyable and quite moving too.

Beasts was just incredible. I had to put my hand over my mouth to stifle sobs now and then, it was that good. After the movie, I dropped T back at her work, then drove into New Market and met up with Handsome Rob at Archie’s Pizza. He shouted (again) and it was divine. Such good pizza.

Then it was home again, home again, jiggity jig. It’s pouring with rain. I’ve decided to change Tosca’s name to Peachy. She’s never really been a Tosca, that was changed upon the ex boyfriend’s insistence once we found out she was a girl. I said a girl could still be called Oscar, since she’s, you know, a cat. It wasn’t to be, and so Tosca has been thus named for about 11 or 12 years. Time for a change. She is now dubbed ‘Peachy’.

Today I am going to clean my dressing table,  go to the Laundromat, then get to Yoga!

It’s a good life. I can barely keep up with it.

Love to you all!

Falling In Love, Healing/Counselling, Freedom.

There's cloud hanging over the native bush that I look into everyday from inside this little box I live in. Actually, hang isn't the right word. It's more like I am living on the edge of a world about to sink or break off into a nothing sky. Like the 'nothing' in 'Never Ending Story'.

Taken when the sun decided to come out.

Shall I tell you how I fell in love on Saturday? I could tease you about it. It's someone I've known for a long time, someone funny and kind. I realised that when  I started saying 'she' you'd think I might have taken up residence on the island of Lesbos. In one sense that would be true, for the great Love I've found is indeed a woman. Yes folks. I found the Love of my Life. I found The One. And it's Me. 


Sounds Narcissistic? Well, I guess that depends on how you're treating those around you, it will give you a clue as to weather your self love is massively Ego or not. If you're running around trampling people in the name of self love, then it might be time to review the kind of self love one indulges in. 


I have always wanted to 'love myself' as we are ALL advised to do. We have heard this so often that it's almost meaningless. It's like 'being yourself'. Sure, it's a lovely sentiment, but truly being there for, and loving, yourself ... well fuck, that's a big call.


I interviewed myself about this sudden change of heart. Why now? What had 'she' done to suddenly 'deserve' this love?
The reply was that it was just a feeling. That there 'she' (Me) was ... helping her mum clean up the courtyard in the pouring rain on Saturday, and I knew I'd been overlooking the person I'd searched for all my life. It's a useful tool, this 'self interview'. I'll call the interviewer aspect 'the Watcher'. The 'me' being interviewed is the part that has not been terribly engaged with my life up till this point. Perhaps it's the male energy that Tracey Burns of Beyond The Veil helped me to integrate. We'll call him Horsey.


Watcher: So, it was a feeling. Tell me about that feeling.
Horsey: Well, it was a thought first. I thought 'that's the kind of person I want to be with. Someone who helps their mum. Someone patient. Someone kind.'
Watcher: And what was it like, compared to falling in love with someone else?
Horsey: It was the same. I was suddenly infatuated and liked everything about her. Even annoying things became cute. I suddenly found the things I wasn't sure about didn't matter.
Watcher: How did you feel about her before?
Horsey: I thought she was really nice. Good to talk to. Funny and kind. But I wasn't in love with her. It was a bit like how people describe a marriage with someone they care for but are no longer in love with. I wouldn't have left her, but I didn't want her with great passion, and I was reluctant to support her dreams. I felt she was a bit behind the eight ball when it came to a career and societies' ideas of success. I liked hanging out with her, but it's not like I was hanging out to be with her.
Watcher: Okay, so what do you think about her being 'behind the eight ball' now?
Horsey: Oh, I know I can help her with that. I'm really excited about supporting her. 


You get the idea.


I was feeling pretty high on Sunday. Helped mum do more of the courtyard. It continued to pour with rain and we got heaps done. I went home, got ready, went out on a date with a guy who was great to talk to. Didn't fancy him, but he had a good insight about the Sexy Ex.
I'd told him how we would 'try' not to see each other, and his comment was
'well if you're trying, then you're still attached'.


It was just the added zest I required. The last time I wrote my blog I was so very sure of myself, claiming I'd be keeping my legs crossed ... and then didn't the following day (!).
Fortunately I was on my way to see Tracey Burns at Beyond the Veil, and she helped me tremendously. As I drove to see her I questioned myself about sex with the ex.
I realised that it was the motivation/intention behind the thing, not the thing itself. The point isn't even a moral one. It's this ... that if I am emotionally and spiritually too tied into someone, can I make myself truly available to love someone else? The answer is Yes, but paradoxically, as I fall more deeply in love with me, it's likely that keeping TSE  as my lover will not be necessary.


The piece of the puzzle was the dude's comment on Sunday. If I forbid myself, I make it too exciting. It will be what it is. There's no need to put a big red cross on it and call it taboo. That's the sort of thing that leads Japanese business men to buy stained girl's knickers from vending machines. Scratch and sniff.


I do believe I might just have something akin to unconditional love. For myself and for people in my life. Or, I'm getting pretty damn close.


The main issue addressed with Tracey last week was Freedom. What is freedom to you? For me, I imagined running naked on the beach, the sun sinking into the sea. The light was blinding and golden white. I run and run, and I'm a child, and I'm almost flying.


I'm almost flying. I'm already free in so many ways. I rarely mind what others think of me. I usually stand up for myself, I take pleasure in small things. Now I'm ready for bigger things. I need money in order to travel, learn and help others. I'm ready for it. It's on.

Pancakes, Meat, A Man List (nice dick) and More!

15^th July 2012

The cat and the tarantula!

I like how you can change anal into banal or canal in scrabble.

One of my opponents appears to be an old lady so I refrained from putting ‘cunt’ on the board. Now that’s respect. David (The Painter) continues to be one of the Scrabble Lords, one of those people who work it like a chess player. I’m also playing someone who talks about masturbating. She appears to be a hot young blonde, but I bet it’s a dirty old man with a fake profile trying to get women to describe their wanking habits (oh, how many times a day do you do it?).

Look at how scary this is

16^th July 2012

 Pancakes:

It’s been a massive weekend. Not massive in a get drunk and create a scene sort of way, but quite full nonetheless.  Mum came over on Thursday  and on Saturday morning  I’d invited Rob and Suzanne to join us for pancakes and happy bacon. I once referred to cage free pigs as happy bacon to a staunch vegan and she said ‘yes, I’m sure they’re happy being murdered’.

There’s no point even getting into a discussion when someone says that, you know that it’s like debating with a fundamentalist Christian or a Nazi. It’s better to just nod and agree that you are a terrible, terrible person. I wouldn’t get silly about it the way some people do though; start describing the meat and blood in order to upset someone. I usually make a feeble comment about really appreciating it when I do eat it. That’s just more fuel for an angry person to use against you though ‘oh,’ they can retort sarcastically ‘I’m so glad you appreciate how that animal died needlessly to appease your choice to ingest intestine clogging flesh’.

The outfit you would not wear to a party with too many vegans present.

 But I do. I always stand and think really hard before I buy meat. I pick up the packet quite reverently. I think of the fact that this was a living, breathing being, just like me. Not for long though, cos that would put me right off …

I find it difficult to cook for more than two people. I felt quite anxious on Saturday. I’d taken my Ritalin of course, but even with that, it felt like I was in some kind of race in which coming last meant serving cold pancakes with burnt bacon. Mum was great, she helped me (which I usually find really stressful too) in a way that worked. The only hard thing was if she expected me to speak when I was trying to do something, and I could feel her offended vibe radiating off her little frame. It’s as if my words actually get stuck coming out.

 I cannot shift course. I am pouring this mixture into this pan. If you ask me about plates right now I can’t actually speak intelligently. I might say ‘ungh … I can’t speak’. This isn’t something I’m doing to be rude or shut you out, it’s just that I can’t multi task, or if I do, I might not do any of the tasks very well.

I’ve explained this to mum. I don’t know if I get the ADHD from her or my bio father, in all likelihood, probably both. All my life I’ve been telling mum to keep away from me in the kitchen (if I’m at her place or mine she likes to come up and LOOK at what I’m doing and offer helpful advice or tell me to do something that I’m just about to do). I can’t even tell you how fucking annoying I find it, and how angry it can make me. Unreasonably so.

Right, that was a bit of a diversion. What I was trying to say is that mum really was genuinely helpful and seemed to refrain from giving excess advice. Once piece she did offer and that I think is worth sharing: cook the pancakes in two pans so that they don’t go cold. Genius.

You can't see meeeee, well that makes a change. 

 I’d put Rob and Suzanne on the deck, given them coffee and tea and invited them back in once brekkie was ready. Afterwards we all then went for a walk half way along the pipeline track. I took photos of shit with amazing hair like fungus growing on it.

To the tune of 'Sensitive to a Smile'' by the Herbs, you sing 'beautiful fungus'. Beautiful fungus, has come into my liiiiffffe, ....

 Speaking of shit, I do believe there is a correlation between clearing up your immediate environment and the state of your own bowels.  Sort of makes sense doesn't it? Living in a mess is stressful, so one might end up getting physically blocked. Clear the mess, un-block the bung hole. Ta da!

The cat and the horse

On Saturday night Lou and Johnny invited me to a friend’s deck warming party. It was an animal theme, so of course I went as a cat. Going as a cat is easy, you just paint your nose and whiskers and turn your hair into ears. Lou was a tarantula and Johnny was also a cat. There was a really funny, crazy girl there who did the best horse impression I think I’ve ever seen, and I had at least three meaningful conversations about all sorts of crap. I like that; funny people and conversations that go straight to the deep end. The host was one of those women you feel like you’ve already known all your life. She also had a cat that looked uncannily like Tosca!

Getting into cat mode.

Oh, I also ‘spoke to the angels’ (prayed, whatever) about my situation with the Sexy Ex. Really need to leave it alone, no making of tantric arrangements. It would just get in the way of what I actually want, which is a funny, kind boyfriend. You know how you write a list of what you want? This was mine from a few months ago .

•   Available to love me unconditionally
• Mentally stable  = resolved/resolving any issues, ready to be present and communicate honestly.
• Happy. Likes himself! Kind.
• Confident with money, generous and doing fine.
•   Emotionally mature (or working on it and mostly succeeding)
•   Feels comfortable in his body – has a nice dick, and is fit.
•   Spiritually aware and active.

Since then I've realized I really want someone who can be silly. I look at all my best friends and that is something I LOVE so much about them. Silliness, giddiness, childish carry on. I also forgot to say they must have a reasonable sex drive.  A boyfriend I mean, I'm not going to dabble with my friends, even if some of them are hot.

 What I like about this kind of list is what it says about ME. That’s meant to be a clue isn’t it? What you want in a romantic partner is what you really want of yourself.

I can genuinely say I don’t actually want to have my own nice dick. One of the main reasons I’d like that in a partner is because it can be such a confidence issue for a man if he doesn’t like his penis, and then he puts it all onto you. Not his penis, his self loathing.  God knows people have enough self loathing as it is.  So really, it’s not the penis, it’s the self loathing that’s the issue. I've struck men with lovely dicks in recent years, so any self loathing and fear of commitment stems from something else, and I find that comforting (ha ha ha!).

I’m proud of myself for deciding to keep my legs crossed regarding the Sexy Ex; not in a ‘don’t be easy’ way, but in a ‘choose wisely’ kind of way.

Yesterday I visited Corneilius (old friend) and we talked and talked and talked. I tried to do some drawing, and I’m completely out of practice, but it was fun.

It’s raining again and water has come up through the shower plug hole. Last night I put a plastic basin in the shower so that I didn’t have to stand in dodgy water that’s come up from worm knows where. Worked fine. I showered and when the basin was full of ‘it’s only been on me’ water, tipped it down the sink. The water already in the shower couldn’t drain away, so it quietly leaked onto the lino, a small rivulet wending its way to my very own hole by the pole.  This morning the shower is once more full of mystery water, but it’s completely clear and clean looking. Rain water. I can’t seem to bring myself to complain about it. I’d rather stand in a basin.

Poor Tosca was attacked by some stinky cat last night. I felt like a real asshole that I hadn’t let her in sooner, she came in completely shaken and soaked through. She has a cut on the inside of one ear, the poor baby. I hope to god there aren’t any mystery bites on her … it’s so hard to find that sort of thing on a fluffy wuffy cat.

I’m going to visit Lisa up North in a few more weeks, ooh, I love going to hang out with her. She makes me laugh so much. When we skyped the other day we got way too much mileage out of my plastic Mary statue. 

Right, love to you all, may your dick stand strong and your labia puff proudly! May little children smile as you walk by, and rainbows appear just as you decide to go for a walk. May your heart be lightened. xxx

Warming the deck. One of the few occasions where I can wear my $3 fur cape.

Okay. I'm weak and I don't feel guilty about it.

A good kiss with the one who isn’t the one

What’s going on with the taste of your tongue?

   It’s so good

It tastes like something I need

Let’s make arrangements then

   You are not the one

No

You are not the one

I say laughing

  but the taste of you is good

and death can happen any time

Taste

and see

the only way I ever stop kissing you

Is if

I’m kissing someone else

That’s why you cut me off / cos you know we aren’t meant to live our lives together, we aren’t meant to have babies, we aren’t meant to fight over the bills, the housework, the way you eat your food, how pedantic I get over blankets

You said

I’m not the one for you

and

I agree

You are not the one

And we laugh

And laugh

And keep kissing

   We say ‘not many people kiss very well’ and marvel at how we never stop finding out more in each other’s mouths.  You go out with a couple of girls in the right age bracket and are not moved. I go out with a man in the right age bracket and am not moved. I notice stupid things and wonder if I'm shallow.
He says some really interesting thing and I try to notice what’s good about him.

You tell me you did the same. Tried to notice the good, but boredom crept in. 

I’m still somewhat annoyed with you, but you don’t mind. You quite like it when I’m just a little bit mean to you. No wonder it won’t work, I’m far too kind for the likes of you. When you read this you’ll laugh.

Our kisses are better than the sex most people are having (a bold claim!)

So forgive me my weakness

but the taste

the taste

the taste!

By Candice.

Me n Toscat.

Haircut, More EFT, More Wanking (sorry), Life.

8th July 2012

My enthusiasm for 'tapping' (EFT) means I shall be subject you to my very own inventions. Hee hee! This one is for anxiety, I hope it's useful for one or two of you. 

Me n my Mum: she is so cute (stop looking at her  breasts!).

Today's been quite lovely. Went for a drive with Handsome Rob (he doesn't really like to be called that) as he had to get some stuff from his property near Matakana. I can't help but call him Handsome Rob. Not my fault that he's all handsome. Modest too. A modest Leo, who'd have thought?

Yesterday I saw mum, and on Friday night The Painter (should I start calling him David again?) came over and we watched Crumb. I can't stop thinking about Robert Crumb. His life and family were truly fascinating. I was pleased because David showed me how to use the manual setting on my camera. I will be sharing my experiments here! Aren't you excited?

Had a haircut. Don't worry, I won't maintain this level of control.

Was a bit depressed yesterday. Blamed being pre-menstrual, but it's more likely that I'm horribly frustrated. I really do not like going without good quality sex. Let's be clear about the good quality. No point fucking someone if they're horrid or crap in the sack. I've thought about it, because that guy Simon (who I haven't had sex with since December 2011) would suffice in terms of physical satisfaction, and he's quite awful, so I have no fantasies about him as someone I'd want to actually BE with. Not anymore. But I can't even go there for shallow fun times ... because ... I have increased in self respect (damnit!). He even sent me a text last week saying 'hello yummy honey bunny' and I nearly vomited. I texted back 'have you been drinking?'. 

So yeah, bloody self respect! I wonder what I'd be like if I were a man? I used to think about it a lot in my 20's. As a man I suppose I'd be even hornier, and I do wonder if that might have made me less ... kind. 

Bookish Me, doing a creepy move.
Yes folks, found a hairdresser who gave a shit and knew what she was doing. Her name is Samie, she works at Rodney Wayne in the New Lynn Mall. I love New Lynn Mall. I don't know why. I just do. Samie actually listened and when she cut my hair, I could feel care travel into me. I know that sounds a bit over the top, but I AM over the top. The top of what? Well, we can talk about that another time.

You know that myth about men thinking of sex every three seconds? Well it's a myth isn't it? You wouldn't get anything done if you were getting a semi all the time. I think of sex or something sexual at least 15 times a day. I don't even think my sex drive is very high either. When in a loving relationship I'm not demanding it everyday. That ex friend, The Fish, she was really sexually compulsive. She told me she wanked in her work loos every day (this was about 10 years ago).Wow. I've only done that a handful (no pun intended) of times and felt really scared of being caught. When I was 26, I lived in this excellent flat, number 4 Sussex Street in Grey Lynn. It was (in my mind) a LEGENDARY time. Oh my god. The people. The parties. The mental. We had one party that was fucking crazy. I aimed to kiss a lot of people, and I did. I even gave a sympathy kiss to a girl who confessed that she felt ugly and thought I was so sexy. I thought 'ah well then, what does it matter' and pushed her against the wall and gave her a good passionate kiss. She was all overcome and turned on, but that was my charity work done. Where was the next drink, the next kiss? It was a superhero theme, and so I'd done my best to look like The Red Sonja. The Fish was dressed in silver. I don't know what she was supposed to be. She approached Rose, who was dressed as Death from the Sandman comics. This other girl, who we'll call Boasty Face, was also lurking around. Boasty Face was a girl who had been very cool, but as time had gone on, she'd become more boasty and competitive and it was a real turn off. I'd once been enjoying this kiss with someone, and she came up and ... joined in. She kissed like a lizard.

So, where was I? Oh yes, The Fish sidled up to Rose and started to kiss her. Then Boasty Face crept up to them and tried to join in. I was so glad I wasn't in there. Rose later told me that The Fish wasn't a good kisser, that her tongue was actually COLD, and that she sort of poked it in and out like a surrogate cock.  Later, The Fish told me that Rose was an amazing kisser, but that they'd stopped kissing so that they didn't have to include Boasty Face. I never kissed The Fish, for even though I loved her greatly as a friend, she struck me as stilted and mechanical, tightly wound. She danced the way I imagined she fucked; hard, fast, jerky; without any subtlety, grace or attention to detail. 

So yeah, back then, when I drank too much and had a healthy bi-curious streak, I used to always think 'if I were a man ..' and it was always stuff like 'my personality would be more acceptable'. But probably not. That party ended with the toilet door being ripped off. I felt asleep on the toilet. I woke up and my friends were helping me off it. I went to bed and The Fish was sucking some guy in my room. I waited a bit and went in, and then she got upset because he wanted to kiss me. Fuck that, I wanted to sleep. Ah, the 90's.

It's so cold right now. I have the dehumidifier on, and the heater. It must be less than 5 degrees. 

                                                                 So, MY HAIRCUT.

pillow scar is visible (from sleeping on my face diligently)

She straightened it for me, something I'll probably never do with the degree of skill she displayed. It's fun having a different head of hair though. I have my own ideas about hair and control. I like to play with my appearance, always have. I remember this guy saying to me (in my last year of my Communication Studies degree) "you know why people don't get you?" and I'm all "ugh, no, why?" and he said "it's because you dress differently every day and no one can work you out."

Whaaaa?

Yeah. I might have mentioned this incident before, but it still amazes me. If you have your hair up, are wearing glasses and no makeup, someone will not recognise you later the same day with your hair down, contacts in and a bit of lippy. We recognise a disguise. How funny is that? So, who am I? Can you tell? Pick the Real Me. It's all invented isn't it? May as well enjoy it.

fragile thingie

hey ho, time for a wank, but first, enjoy my new found manual skill ... playing with light.

Ponderous Me

Ponderous Leaf.

God bless your little cotton socks, your fleshy bum hole, and all that.

Politics, Landy, Hole by the Pole, Empowerment!

Yes. I need a haircut.

5^th July 2012 

Politics (Oh Paula!), Happy Landy, Fog in the trees!

It’s spooky fog day! It’s like being in a cloud here in Titirangi. Lately I can hear kiwi screaming in the bush at night. Cool.

I tried to make chocolate raisins today … but I ended up pouring the melted chocolate straight onto a pile of raisins and so it just looks like a mess. Later, when it’s dry, I’ll just break it up and it’ll be organic raisin choccie.

NZ Politics!

I’m not really one for politics, but I hear that Paula Bennett (National) is suggesting single mothers receiving a benefit should be drug tested. If you’re going to do that, then you may as well go the whole fucking hog Paula. 

The charming Paula Bennett. Go the whole hog. Don't eat it.

If this drug testing idea was being introduced to help, encourage or offer hope to single mums who might be taking drugs, then there are surely positive ways to go about it? The cost of drug testing might be better used elsewhere. Focusing on what you want always seems to work better than dwelling on what you don’t want.  I want to be content, so I focus on what I’m grateful for every day. I don’t know what the answer is regarding drugs, beneficiaries or working people. Corporate people are more than welcome to their addictions it seems, as long as the nose doesn’t bleed at the board meeting? I suppose there are lots of corporations that also do drug testing.  It all just gets a bit freaky when you have to give your blood to your employer or your government.

Test them for alcohol too, perhaps you could send cops to their homes at about 10pm  on benefit day with a breathalyzer.  Oh, and what about a junk food ban? Junk food is addictive, overpriced, full of salt and sugar. It’s a drug. To be honest, Paula Bennett looks like she might want to deal with her own weight issue that possibly stems from a possible compulsive eating disorder.  When Paula is in the healthy BMI range, will she then start targeting overweight single mothers? Let me be clear: I don't actually care that Paula is slightly chubby, I am simply using this to make a point. If you're going to say it's fair to drug test people 'for their good', then it's also logical to demand receipts for everything they buy with their benefit money, to make sure they're not buying ciggies, alcohol, junk food ...


What the hell is her beef with single mums? She used to be one, yet strangely, instead of being compassionate she seems to have gone all ex-smoker or newborn Christian in her attitude. If I can do it, you can do it, and if you can’t, go to hell. Obesity is a growing (sorry for the pun) problem weighing (eek) heavily (oh!) on the healthcare system.  Perhaps people should be 'fat tested' for the benefit? To stop them buying big macs? For fuck's sake Paula. Think about it, for the good of the economy.

Anyway, my main thought on the topic was that it does seem a little odd that Paula is targeting solo mums. Unless a single mum can find a way to up-skill, she is going to probably end up in a low paying job, and if she has any kind of addiction issue it will persist unless she gets help for it, working or otherwise.

If I had to give Paula a solution off the top of my dome, it would be to create some kind of support network for single mothers with the aim of empowering them.

My simple Solution (it might even be cheaper and longer lasting than a drug test!)

·        Raising self esteem

·        Learning new skills

·        Having a vision for the future

·        Feeling useful

  

 Empowerment

This week I finished working with the amazing ‘ethnic’ women who have gone through domestic abuse. I taught English, but honestly, it was more than that. I have to write a short report on it and quote some students, so I got a few of them to write down what they honestly felt about it.

One of my young students wrote that before attending my classes she was ‘extremely sad and uncertain’ in her life and thought she’d lost herself. She said my classes empowered her. Another beautiful young woman said the class was healing and amazing, and that she feels stronger because of it.  One woman said she was so grateful to me last week that she hugged me and cried. Her English had improved to the point that she did not need an interpreter when she went to Work and Income, so they are putting her on a course. She said once she starts working she will then study (to get the qualification she’s already qualified for in Fiji) in the day and work at night. Wow.

What’s clear to me is how much I’ve increased in strength too. At first I was a bit freaked out when I realized that the pain was still so fresh. Seeing an older lady with her face so battered that it took close to a month before the bruising and swelling completely vanished. I’d assumed it was her husband, but it was her son in law. From what I could decipher, she’d tried to intercede when he was beating her daughter. The day this student told me, I couldn’t’ help it. I cried. Then she cried. I said sorry that I cried, but by this time all my students had learned from me

  “that’s okay” they said “crying’s healthy!”

We all hugged, sang a song and ended up laughing.

I am much lighter than I was three months ago. I know being diagnosed with ADHD and taking Ritalin has been hugely helpful, but I’d also credit the ‘Angels’ of my English Class. Thank you.

The fog has cleared and the sun has come out. How fitting.

 Landy and Plumbing update with invented idea of past sabotage.

Well paint me red and call me a stop sign, wonders shall never cease. As you know, I’ve had probbies with the plumbing in my charming abode. I had the foresight to plan ahead in case the shower decided to spew again. Just as well. There are big posts in my flat, ones that obviously hold the house in place. One of them goes through the bathroom and into the floor. I’d shown my Landy how you could lift up a bit of the lino near the post and the wood underneath was wet and unable to dry out.  Her response at the time was to shake her head slowly and wave her hand a little bit saying “that no matter, that okay”. This was in the midst of the coffee spew shower flood and I guess she was overwhelmed.

I took another look at this on Sunday and was able to lift up a section of lino, remove a small piece of wood (that is going to rot, as will the rest of the floor) and took a wee look. Underneath is dirt, so it goes straight to ground. The ground is so close that I can poke it. Strangely, a prior tenant had stuck plastic tampon wrappers in this hole, and there was also a plastic bag stuck down there. After removing the plastic rubbish,

I curved the lino into a little spout so that if the bathroom flooded again, it would (thanks to the slanting floor) drain into this hole. Now, I don’t remember my father that well, but he was a builder, and on every site I ever went to (which were legion) I remember the foundation being fucking concrete!  I’d be at my father’s for the weekend, and he’d be working, so he’d take me with him and tell me to go and amuse myself while he got on with building. He’d usually forget to bring anything for me to play with. I have a clear memory of wandering around on a massive pale concrete surface picking up pieces of really sharp metal and wishing I had my paper and pens. I think I was six. There were those big bits of metal sticking up from the concrete, the sort you see going rusty.

The Tampon Wrapper Bandit

I pondered the tampon wrapper bandit. It made me wonder what kind of people they were. What I know to be true is that a guy and his girlfriend lived here. He left ciggie butts in the garden and a really filthy stove, she probably flushed her tampons down the loo and stuffed the wrappers into hole by the pole because she couldn’t be bothered putting them in the bin.

I am told that he moved out as he found work up North. The following is purely my invention …

Cain and Lucy get really stoned, drink some Woodstock 8% and slip into the ravine with a spade, hand drill and a can of expanding foam polyfilla. They’ve been planning this; the Landy is away this weekend. She will never know what’s hit her until they’re long gone.

Lucy has dyed black hair that she parts in the middle, and even in gumboots and an old hoodie she looks cute. Cain isn’t very tall, but he’s muscular. He used to do a lot of P, but he’s been changing his life in the last year. One thing he can’t deal with is someone ripping him off, and he’s angry because the Landy said she won’t give him the bond back because there was damage done in the flat. Damage? He’ll show her damage. It takes a bit of time, and they keep giggling, but eventually they’ve drilled a few holes in the drain and squeezed in massive dollops of expanding foam polyfilla. They make sure the holes are near the underside, where the dirt is, so that you can’t see. Further up, they make some smaller holes and push the dirt back over them so that water and dirt will seep into the drain and try to push its way back up when it can’t get past the polyfilla traps. The great thing, says Cain with a smile, is that even if a plumber was really careful, it would be nearly impossible to find or remove their handiwork. They repeat the polyfilla trap a few more times, it’s going to be one of those things that won’t be noticeable until the small gaps left inside the drain are clogged with toilet paper. The plumber might find a section of the drain with craploads of toilet paper and think it was the problem. Lucy giggles too. She’s 23 and she thinks Cain is the funniest and sexiest guy she’s ever met. They’re leaving for the far North in three days. It’s warmer there.

Anyhoo, when I returned home on Tuesday I was a little nervous. There had been a truly torrential downpour; Albany on the North Shore seemed to get the worst of it with cars half submerged. Sewage systems were overflowing, and I couldn’t go to the Titirangi library as it was flooded. I pondered my bathroom and was relieved to find that my plan had worked. Yes, water and dirt (no coffee grounds, just dirt) had come up the shower drain, spilled over and poured onto the floor and down the hole by the pole. The towel I’d rolled up and placed on the inside of the bathroom door was completely wet.

Later, the Landy popped down to organize my rent payment. It was all very nice, kind and social too. She then asked if the plumbing was okay. Eek. I explained that it did flood up again, but wasn’t as bad this time. She took a look and I was surprised when she didn’t blame me. She said she would have to call a different plumber. She behaved like a normal land lady!  I just hope for her sake that there isn't polyfilla in the drains.

New Zealand native Kawa kawa leaves: good for if you have insomnia