Fighting Mind, Helen and her Pearls, Child Abuse In NZ.

Varo, Birds.

Such a fight of thoughts these days. I wake up and they’re all there, gloves off, ready to take me down before I can even get up. I have to find ways to deal with the brutes gently. Fighting on their terms doesn’t work. Instead, I think of Helen Rutledge. I met Helen by mistake on Monday morning as I sipped an overpriced coffee in Henderson. Yes, Henderson has a Columbus coffee and I’m afraid it’s pretty damn good. The large flat white was almost soup bowl in proportion, and as I sipped it, an old lady of eccentric design walked past my table.

“Hello” I smiled.

“Hello!” she smiled back, her face immediately alight, and she lurched over to continue the conversation. Oh, I thought, I don’t think I’ll be drinking this alone. For about one second I wondered if I should guard against my solitude, but it was a very fast second. She was a wonderful blend of naiveté and high intelligence and was delighted when I complimented her long string of creamy pearls.

“Oh yes!,” she said “aren’t they BEE OOT IFUL? They cost $3000!”

I laughed “you might not want to go around telling everyone that”

“Oh no,” she said “they’re all rich around here anyway, they don’t care. And I didn’t pay it all at once. Paid them off on time payment plan! But I love jewellery. I LOVE it. Do you want to see my ring? It’s brand new! I just got it.”

Yes, of course I wanted to see her ring. She told me she was so excited about it that she woke up at 4.30am that morning and couldn’t sleep. She had to get up and look at it. Her whole face was glowing with the pleasure of it.

Because the top half of each digit was very swollen, the ring could only be pushed a short way up one of her fingers. We admired it together, and she pointed out the tiny diamonds surrounding the amethyst. I said “so when you look at the ring, do you feel like that beauty is inside you?”

“Oh yes!” she said “that is just how I feel”.

She complimented my eye shadow, wanted to know how I’d applied it and what sort it was. She said something about ancestry regarding the Scottish and the French, making claims to something vaguely royal. I said “oh yes, I’ve got a good whack of Scottish in me”, and then, upon observing the way I drank my coffee, said I was obviously of this Scottish French persuasion.

 I should have told her that according to my family tree, the Italian line goes back to the Garibaldi’s. I didn’t think of it at that moment, but I’m sure she would have loved it. She was already convinced that I was special due to the way I held my coffee cup, and that was enough for me. We spoke briefly of love (of course she was sitting down with me by this time) and she told me how she loved one man and always would ‘but we’ve never even kissed’. I heard about her cats, and she asked me things like “can you knit? Can you sew?” (she can!) and I would have to confess I could not.

 “I do like to draw and paint though”

 “Oh! You’re an ARTIST”.  

She was just the most adorable lady ever. She looked 70 and said she was 61. She was big but claimed she’d lost 7 stone. The skin under her neck was loose and yet fat at the same time, and her eyes were bright and pretty. She asked what I thought of her handbag. I loved it. She really did have great taste. She was wearing a cloche hat, and around her shoulders a sand coloured knitted number that looked more like a mini cloak than a shawl. I complimented this too, part of the design involved intermittent strands of wool coming out of the main fabric. I said it made me think of a Maori cloak and she replied “Oh yes, the Maoris love it and so do the Indians”.

She told me how much she loved bags as well as jewellery, reminding me of the cost of the pearls. A fruit fly buzzed around for a moment and I shooed it away. She smiled and said she liked them, and so I didn’t kill it. In the end her brother came in to get her. He looked like a man in his 60’s who is either on his way to or from the RSA for the day. He mumbled so much when he spoke that I had to sort of nod and smile because I didn’t want to keep saying ‘pardon?’.

I hugged Helen good bye, and when I think about her I feel really peaceful. I think of her eyes, and of her pearls. I can hear her saying in our broad, flat Kiwi accent ‘they cost $3000!’ and for some reason this really soothes me and relaxes any tension in my heart. I liked the look on her face when she observed the fruit fly, or the way she described the big black cat that sat on her chest and “put his arms around my neck and his face on my chin”.

The gangs of fighting thoughts want me to pay attention to everything, but something that has haunted me this week is the topic of child welfare. What should you do if you know of a child being neglected or possibly abused?

Margaret Shanahan writes ‘According to the Ministry of Social Development’s 2005 Social Report there are at least twenty confirmed cases of child abuse and/or neglect in New Zealand every day, resulting in an average of seven deaths due to child abuse every year.’
Read more: http://www.3news.co.nz/Child-abuse-stats-make-sobering-reading/tabid/423/articleID/223052/Default.aspx#ixzz24JQVtLfH

What frightens me is that a lot of Kiwi ‘she’ll be right mate’ attitude also embraces ‘aw, what can ya do?’. I’ve also heard ‘well it’s not your child’, and ‘well if it’s not severe abuse’. I do think it is up to all of us to keep an eye out for children, even if they don’t issue forth from our own bodies. I don’t think abuse needs to reach a severe level before its intercepted. That’s insane. To think we’d be in agreement – it’s okay to verbally abuse a child as long as you’re not raping her or stomping on his head? Come on New Zealand. We can do better than that. Let’s get a Gold in something that matters more than a physical race. A ‘Gold’ in child care. Oh sure, you can’t hang it on the mantelpiece – but it might save some lives.

How can you reach out to someone and get help without blowing their whole family apart? If you involve the NZ agency CPS (Child Protections Services) they often create problems in the process of trying to solve them. Children can be shuffled around from home to home and still feel unloved or unwanted. Taking a look at their website helps me feel at ease – they seem to have other options that could be useful to a family:

People who can help (New Zealand)

Barnados

for family counselling             0800 4 PARENT

 ( 0800 472 7368)

Plunketline

For 24 hour help with anything to do with parenting and children under five
 0800 933 922

Relationships Aotearoa (Formerly Relationship Services)

For help with family or relationship problems
0800 RELATE ( 0800 735 283)

Go to the Barnados website

Go to the Plunket website

Go to the Relationships Aotearoa website (formerly Relationship Services)

I liked reading about young people (in care) who won William Wallace awards that support their tertiary, vocational or leadership training. It makes me seriously consider fostering a child when I’m in the position to do so. That’s also on the CYPS website.

And so the fighting in my mind ceases for now. Peachy Toscat Poscat Pie is purring and trying to get as close to me as she can. She resents my laptop.

“Are you a baby?” I ask her in a the saccharine voice reserved for babies and animals.

“Are you a bay-bee or a cake?”

She purrs. She’s a baby cake.

x

More Landy bullshit.The Washing Machine Debacle.

Supercilious? I shall try to live up to it.

Having a nagging, nit picking land lady who lives directly above you is possibly like having a spouse you wish you didn’t have to speak to at all, one you married for the wrong reasons.

She was doing quite well for awhile. She’s said things that indicate she no longer completely blames me for the plumbing issues, and of late she has taken to calling me darling.  I did wonder how long this darling state could last. It turns out it lasts exactly as long as I keep my mouth completely shut and nod up and down like one of those toys on a car dashboard. To make comment, question anything or indicate that you understood something after hearing it repeated shrilly for the tenth time just won’t do. I love this place, but boy, her vibe really feels like a dark cloud of urine at times.

To her credit, she has let me use her washing machine sometimes (or it’s off to the Laundromat) but I should have known this would be fraught with issues. She came downstairs to check my power meter (and no doubt judge me for the mess in my place) and then the Washing Machine Debacle unfolded. About two weeks ago she accused me of spilling some washing powder on the floor of her wash house. Actually, it might not have been me, it could have been her boarder, but I took it like a man, right up the arse. I pretended to be intensely interested in how terrible it was that I’d spilled it. I apologised, agreed, nodded (repeat process about six to ten more times as she blathers on).  Don’t say anything I whisper inside my own head, just keep nodding.

At 10am I was in bed reading about ADHD when she knocked.  I was really tired after cleaning the yoga studio last night. I can’t seem to do it in less than two hours, or I probably could if I didn’t polish every stainless steel surface with mirror cleaner. God it looks good.

So this morning she launches into some problem regarding the filter in the washing machine, and I offer to come and have a look. I imagine this will take a minute as she’s already told me it’s a filter that needs to be emptied. Sure enough, she pulls it up and it’s chocka full of grit and the tummy fluff of monsters.

“When I use machine, I only empty this one once a year, but I go away, I come back after you use, and it like this.”

“Okay, so if I use the machine I’ll make sure I empty that each time.”

But no, this isn’t the point of it. I’m not allowed to make this logical conclusion and leave, I must LISTEN. Her voice gets increasingly shrill with every word, her eyes fix me like a dying fish.

“I go away, I come back, and it like this. I only empty once a year. But I come back and it like this.”
“Yes, yes …”

“SO,” over riding my agreement,

“What happen when I away in China visiting my mother and you use, and it break down, you take responsibility. You say ‘ohh no it not me’. I only empty once year, but I come back this week after away last week, and it full. Look. ”

Er, yes, I can see it and I’ve already agreed, apologised and nodded. So I say “Yes, so I need to empty the filter if I use the washing machine each time. It might be like that because I had to wash all the towels I used to mop up the water that comes out of my shower when it floods during heavy rain.”

“What?! You don’t use machine for this! You clean in here (indicates the wash house sink) not use machine!”

Her voice is becoming so shrill that I actually put my hands over my ears at this point; I can’t seem to help myself. So I sort of nod and wince and hope she’ll shut up really soon.

“Okay, okay, yes, I do understand, I need to empty the filter and not wash towels in there that I’ve used to mop up water.”

“Can-deee, I go away, I come back, and it like this after you use. I only empty once a year. I come back, it like THIS, so what happen I go away China and you use, and then it break down and you say ‘ooohhh it not me’? Will you take responsibility?”

The bit where she says ‘oooh, it not me’ is quite bitchy. I have noticed she has no female friends. All her friends are men in their sixties. Men who visit with flowers or plants for her garden. Men who do things for her. I’ve joked that she might be a high class hooker, but it’s looking like I might have nudged the truth there. Ongoing faithful clients.

“Are you saying that if the washing machine breaks down while you’re away that you want me to take responsibility for it?”

“Nooo, but I only empty once year, I go away, I come back, it like this …”

I felt really overwhelmed. I just couldn’t take another second of this bullshit.

“Look, I’m quite an intelligent woman. You told me what’s wrong, I can see that I need to empty the filter, I do understand, but I feel like you’re yelling at me.”

Her face suddenly hardened, a smile sweet as Hitler’s moustache complimenting her flat black eyes.

“You also say you are grown woman and I don’t need remind you about paper, but then you forget, forget, and it messy, it look bad!”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“Forgetting to put out the paper rubbish isn’t hurting anyone though, and I remembered this week, so no problem.

“It okay, you not use washing machine. You go. It FINE.”

“So are you angry with me now?”

“Nooo (looking fucking angry in that calm way) I not angry, you make ME feel bad, and you say I shouting, so you go. You not use washing machine.”

“Oh, okay then.”

The Laundromat is looking really good.

Sadly, this put a shitty spin (ha) on my day, but looking on the bright side … the whiner is soon off to China for two months and her urine cloud aura won’t be hanging over my head. Hurrah!

Also, how upset can I be? I’m having a pretty good life. If all I can moan about is my control freak Landy, then that’s not too bad at all.

Post note: The following day she was on my porch yelling instructions at one of her men friends as he fed a hose into the drain that's causing all the problems with my shower overflowing. I was on the phone to mum, having a coffee and trying to eat some left over tiramisu from dinner with Rob and Suzanne. I popped my head out the door and when I saw her face, I clicked. Oh, I thought, she's just a really anxious woman. I went up to her and her face was soft. I said "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings yesterday, I really don't mind using the laundromat." I mean, I did actually put my hands over my ears to block out her voice when she was talking. Not very nice is it? I hugged her, and honestly, she melted into the hug so easily, with great relief it seemed. She said "I just no want worry for me or for you when I gone China." She then waffled on about the cost of things, and the fact that she's had to ring the council about the sewage again this year (that one's the neighbours fault for putting tampons down the loo), but she probably just wants to be understood, and I was feeling patient. I went back inside to resume chatting with mum, and then the Landy came to my ranch slider and was talking at me with fast insistence. She could see I was on the phone, but I remembered the cultural differences. It was the same in Korea; things we consider extremely bad manners in the West seem to be fine in Asia. I said to mum I'd call her back, and then I ended up helping them with the hose pumpery; all sorts of old fat and crap came up.

Oh, I also offended some uptight actor guy in a review I did this week. It was quite a fun debate really, and his level of pompous was such as I had never before encountered. I tried to use a bit of humour when I retaliated, but he thought I was being supercilious. Oh wait a minute … he was looking in a mirror.

Supercilious:

Adjective:	Behaving or looking as though one thinks one is superior to others.
Synonyms:	haughty - arrogant - proud - lofty - uppish - snooty

Have a gorgeous weekend, chill out like a trout and make like a snake.

Also, I’m going to work on being supercilious, sounds like loads of fun.

xxx

Oh the Mystery. Adult ADD/Ritalin update.

August 5th 2012

 I've now been taking Ritalin since the end of May 2012. Here’s a bit of an update on what I’m experiencing, and I’m sure it varies widely according to each person. 

Eye Spy

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed." - Albert Einstein

The Mystery of Ritalin/ADD

·        A ‘flat’ feeling at times, but now this is rare. I am used to non stop thought and emotion. When this ‘flatness’ occurred, I decided to appreciate it. I think of it as ‘turnaround time’ like a computer down loading a lot of information. This flatness can be a small holiday from hyperactive/confused thinking. It doesn’t happen now unless I’m really trying to do too much or leave too big a gap between my first and second pill of the day.

·        Food: for awhile there I thought I might go a bit mental with food as it was tasting so, so good. I love food anyway, but this was intense,  as if you’d want to fill a bath with food and wriggle in it, turning to lick, chew and swallow mouthfuls as you writhe. This level of intensity has passed, and now I’m so interested in doing things that I have to remember to eat.

This is almost erotic to me: a runny egg with wasabi, butter and lots of salt and pepper

  Eating: I am craving more protein. I want to eat eggs every day, preferably with cheese or more protein. I am eating significantly less wheat and problems with digestion and bloating are clearing up.

·        Weight/Exercise: Without specifically trying, I have lost 4kg. I did want to lose weight, but instead focused on what I wanted to do, not what I wanted to lose. I aimed to go for a decent walk, or bike rides, every day. I usually go every second day, but combined with less wheat and more small protein based portions, I’m getting slimmer. I didn’t know I’d lost weight until I noticed that a pair of jeans looked a bit baggy around my waist.

·        So is Ritalin a wonder drug for weight loss?

Of course it is a listed side effect, everyone knows that Ritalin is a form of speed, it increases dopamine production, yet I don't like crediting that alone with my weight loss. I suppose I'd like to think "I" did it, that it wasn't a drug. 

I read some excellent notes by a guy called Timothy Sexton. He said people taking Ritalin often lose weight 'rapidly'. I don't think I did, it seemed gradual, as did the change in my appetite and tastes: http://voices.yahoo.com/ritalin-methylphenidate-side-effects-adult-5684320.html
Added note: I tried to find out a bit more in regards to food/weight loss and gain, and some people on Ritalin actually GAIN weight. Today I wanted something sweet and grilled a whole tin of peaches, half a can of pears, spooned brown sugar all over it, grilled it and then ate it with yoghurt, jam and cinnamon. Mmm. After that, I then felt like something savoury - soba noodles with tinned tomatoes and spinach, lots of butter, salt and pepper.( I did end up going for a two hour walk though.)

   Focus:  The increased focus is helping me to complete tasks, and I’m so interested in a variety of things and getting them done that it reminds me of what I was like in my early 20’s. I used to forget to eat back then too, but always loved food and enjoyed it when I ate. I remember I used to have my tea and toast, buy six ‘buzz bars’ from the dairy every morning before cycling to tech and eat them all before 11am. Sometimes I couldn't wait and I'd eat them all on the bike ride into town.

Sex/Creativity:  I think there are differences, but to be honest, I don’t know if they’re consistent enough to document. It’s a bit like food. I sometimes feel like all I am is a nerve ending, a writhing filament of light and heat, but I’m not constantly obsessed. The thing is, I believe my sex drive/libido was fairly healthy anyway, but now it might be an energy I can choose to expend in a variety of ways. Sex is creative and so any creative pursuit, for me, has an underlying passion or sexual energy. Then, when you break that down, almost everything in life is somehow creative, and therefore I find I am having the most wonderful love affair with life itself. The way of thinking and being is a form of foreplay. I am seducing myself most of the time.

Doing Stuff: This I am still struggling with. It’s 1.10 on a Sunday and I promised myself I would leave the house and go for a long walk before 12 today. Instead I started to play online Scrabble, then I looked at Facebook (Painter and his friend are currently in Germany, ooh, I think it’s going to be a transformative journey for him), and then I had more coffee, and then I read some articles online, and then … oh time, you fickle beast.

So there’s a bit of an update for y’all.

I was bummed the other day. I got a $200 ticket because my car rego had expired. I had no idea. I got all emotional and felt like a big loser, cried all the way home. Andrew came over that night as he knew I was feeling down. I had already worked myself back into a good state of mind, but as you know, a lovely visit from someone who cares certainly makes a big difference.

Everyone seems to be travelling or planning to do so. I wanna go to New York and visit Becky, and I’d like to do that early next year. Wish me luck ducks, all I need is money.

xxx

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.