Category Archives: WRITE TO RECOVER

Write to recover.

I’m the woman who feels her mind unravel every single day. I’m that woman who will drop (almost ) anything to be loved, liked and to try and be there for people. I am that woman who thinks I am one step away from insanity. One meal away from sitting with others -in the cafeteria suffocating with all the beldam and discourse of those who have held all their pain and confusion inside for too long.

I am terrified I am losing my mind. I have panic attacks, social anxiety, Chronic Anorexia and Bipolar. I’m am that woman who sees every one I love (or now)know that I do love get sick or die around me. Drop-dead.

The black sheep. I forget what I want to say. I doubt my self. I think too much. My biggest secret is I want to be grounded. I do! I seem to be caught up in the cycle of escapism. Escapism not in the form of writing, dancing or talking or being cool with me, but I feel myself inching closer towards ‘the dark soul of the night’.

I want to be saved. I question my faith. Did I ever have faith in anything other than toxins that would take me away from my current emotions?

Yet… even though I am the girl shunned by family and friends, I seem to reel it back in. I wind my mind and wrap it into a neat little bow. Always a different colour. I survive. I don’t know how or why.

Well.. I do. I am a mother, woman, daughter, friend and I have a purpose to fulfil. In my most delirious moments, I find myself inching towards praying to my own mother’s version of God. That biblical character. It frightens me to conform. I don’t want to be brainwashed by society and religion and politics. I don’t want to fit in. I want to be accepted.

I find joy in music and dancing. I find sense in writing. I write to recover.

Did I do a Faustus? I did. A long time ago, in between going to a catholic nun run a school, having Jehovaha’s witness lessons after school and then going to get “drunk” in the Lord’s spirit with, my mates, in the evening. I sought out Satanism. I asked it to take me and I lost my way.

That sounds crazy. I’m running empty on spirituality. Mortality is harsh and fleeting. I cry every day for me, my family, even those who hate me so.

I have to move on and let go. Many say I’m too hard on myself. Do we all feel like a fraud?

Knocking on doors for help. What’s the worst that could happen? I end up alone? Forced to be content with this body, this mind, this personality.

I can’t go back. It’s easy to want to go back when the future is so uncertain. In the distance it reveals that is is not benign. It is a vast tumour. There is no way to stop time. It’s an entity independent of reality.

I’m told I need to look within. look after me. Find my place in this world. I’m still here.

I wanted to die. I nearly did.No bright lights.No memory of the ambulance, the police smashing down my door, the room in Intensive Care.

I’m still here. Every time I think I can’t get through with my day or be with myself, time passes and I’ve survived. I’m reminded of Alan Watts famous clip’ What do you desire?’

Be happy or die trying.

To be continued…

Self Expression is creativity

When Words are few

Allow music to:

  • Connect
  • Create.
  • Collaborate

With other Creativists.

creativists

Noun — (1) To be a creative activist. (2) To challenge conventionality using art and expressionismas your tools. (3) To creatively enactchange.

Someone who is attuned creatively to their surroundings; a person who understands and expresses their lifethrough creativeworksor motifs.

URBAN DICTIONARY

When I don’t feel able to talk to anyone my thoughts are scattered and strewn about;

I’ve always woken from a sleepwalking slumber with the help of writing and Music. Music allows me to put displaced emotions into a feeling of organized chaos. It can help with placing my emotions and -words may result in that means I break the negative cycle I’m in, and I can re-engage with people (even if on a small level) and feel passionate about life and my goals again.

I believe that we are all creativists — We don’t need to sing well, play an instrument or be a DJ, professional dancer to express our emotions through music. Personally I enjoy combining my passion of writing about and listening to music to get what I need from music.

We don’t need to have a degree in Music and Arts to feel or write about it. Although thats cool too.

Google, a couple of books, communicating with people who are into music,and your soul-should be enough to make whatever it is that you get out/want out of the music industry- happen. Oh, and passion and focus helps too 😉

Self expression is creative.

When we find a medium to feel ,it can help us feel that we’ve been heard-we are being creative.

I’m more than passionate about Mental health and anti stigma.I know the Music industry is in need of more help to help artists channel their energy productively,but like any industry as big as the music industry-there is a lot of pressure and stress attached to achieving our goals.

On the flip side of the coin , there are the obvious benefits being creative in any medium can have on improving mental health.

One massive stumbling block to ahem..blocking creativity is not connecting with people who allow us to create something with another person. It could start out as a simple conversation, comment,idea,compliment,dream, or career.

This decision to connect with a person/group creates.

We are all creativists.Technology and social media help to communicate. So ,even a person who doesn’t or who can’t get out and “connect” often- can still be super dope in their creative outlets.

Self- Doubt and listening too much to other people’s negative opinion can wreak havoc on your confidence and ability to express yourself. This is intensified for people who are suffering with their mental health issues.

Of course ,feedback is a good thing. Pick your mentors wisely, if (like me )you want to write about music or work in the Music industry.

Find someone who doesn’t rip you to shreds. Constructive criticism and being a blunt asshole can seem like the same thing coming from an “expert” but it’s not.

Constructive criticism is taking into account the overall work and presentation and breaking that feedback into sections. It should be honest and tactful. There is no one way to write a review, or compose a piece of music, or run a music label.

When you connect you have an opportunity to create something with another individual who has a whole different system of thoughts, beliefs ,ideas and experiences to contribute.

You don’t know what the result is going to be and that can be the best part of the creative process: The not knowing. We often surprise ourselves with what we can do when we just-DO IT!

The collaboration process doesn’t have to be a huge gig,

Or it can be.

It can be anything.

I’ve uploaded on social media spoken word/music oddities that I’ve made on garage band!

My favorite recorded spoke word project is one I did with a mate. It was fun.

I’m not too precious about what people think. Creativists should take risks and often end up surprising themselves.

Don’t let other peoples talents or your own self doubt, or a lack of knowledge of music theory for example, stop you from expressing yourself. If you want to learn to play an instrument well.… Then you have to put in the effort. Technology makes it so much easier to connect and learn.

I’ve also started writing song reviews on my blog. Not everyone gets it or likes it but its something I’m passionate about doing. Blogs should evolve if we are to change,surely? They need work and I need to I’m prove. We all have to start somewhere.

NWA all the way.

EXPRESS YOURSELF!

Grace full of distate

I’m not always distasteful

Some bluds might call me graceful

No more graceful than dying hair red

Taking a bath

thinks

A pic of fake Menstruation on social media seems needed as its relatable.

Those who don’t know how it feels when your daughter whispers sweet nothings in your ear

Until you can’t deny she is you blood.

Veins pumping genetics down to her very veneers.

Unlike a gangster with a knife

She can disarm me with one word.

Fallen tears
More tears to fall.

She is my life and I feel shame to be told I am a failure according to ‘the perfect mothers’ bible.

Secret whispers in the night with my Bee and our cat

I’m elated by delight of their sight.

Clandestine

I pretend I’m tired

all I want to do is listen to an 8-year old tell me about her life

Virual is alright.

Her self made granny

The architect homes she designed

The way she does things back to front

Kisses her cat before wiping her face

Is it so bad

she has character?

She is a person with grace revelling in her precious nature.

I love her

Forget the love me not.

She heard me say that her dad needs a shaggy cut.

She screamed out in jest that his Mario sweater is replaceble.

Cut and dry

Wife with a belly full of fire.

She lived with an advisor

Who clouted her with words

She holds herself like a raw diamond.

Blonde

Blue-eyed eyes

Diane

Shy girl.

With all my strength I wish I could embrace her with my words

Take away the miscommunication.

She is my blood

She gave birth to me

How could I truly hate her?

She gives advice and tips

Tells me: I’m wiser I’m wiser I’m wiser!

Tell her: I know I know I know!

Indulge her fear to check her memory

Alzheimer’s runs in the family it may not happen to my maternal

Mom and I disconnect because she thinks I’ve misplaced her mind with my mind chasing speedballs

With out thought

Impulse

Nor thoughts of a future.

Denounced my victories
Declared I should be recovered nor heeded her advise

Disrespected her pain

Her growth

Her pain

Know

Her life

She pays

She laughs.

I wish she could put her life onto paper

For now, I see she wants recondition me to remember where I come from.

I hadn’t forgotten.

Save my daughter who will never forget her cumbersome roots

No respect

No Respect for a mothers love

When the child has not lived an age of daughter & mom with 38 years and odd some

Living apart.

Not for the grace of any God did we want the same for outcome for my child of surprise.

She is the one who has become our saviour.

Breaking up the pieces of our past.

How can I tell her to choose between mother or grandmother?

Who’s life is already unstable

20 years from now perhaps she will be a disorderly

Drunk or solicitor with letters after her name.

I’ve has enough of her being held at ransom by the past, ifs and buts

all the songs screeched from

The rabid rats

The stray cats

We once loved them.

I live in a place that’s to become my home again.

Ive sinned in mothers eyes

Because neither being clean off coke, weed & MDMA nor alcohol is enough to placate her that I’m enjoying recovery after waking up from a 5-day coma.

I believe I’m trying my damn hardest to get better.

She doesn’t care when I explain the recovery process.

You have too many issues.
Time to find a semi used snot filled tissue

We powwow with our words

Resulting in bad art titled ‘the splatter’.

I’m not trying to berate her.

My heart breaks.

She falls apart into pieces of bloody flotsam

Salty droplets of water flick her face at high tide.

In another room

A child washes her hair
Cuts out the words she doesn’t think she wants to hear.

She doesn’t understand the possible dynamics of life that awaits.

I hope life and fate won’t degrade her.

My child’s soul is pure.

Please, higher power embalm the one I call my graceful dancer

For I do I love her.

My mom too.
I love her

More than the blank stares and words that are hidden in my mind riddled with bedlam made cancer.

Pushing up Daisy

“… It’s passed on! This parrot is no more! It has ceased to be! It’s expired and gone to meet it’s maker! This is a late parrot! It’s a stiff! Bereft of life, it rests in peace! If you hadn’t nailed it to the perch, it would be pushing up the daisies! It’s rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. This is an ex-parrot!”

Monty Python

In my darkest moments when air extinguishes all light

Hopelessness hangs heavy above me

It hovers

Spongy , dense

A Cloud with a fierce clout.

I scramble around seeking for a match

I hear the mirthful giggle of a child

The purrs of a blissed-out cat.

My senses are aroused -Suddenly

The rain pelts down, the wind whips, lashing my face, arms- my entire mortal skin.

Eyes filled with tears of rain

Eyes filled with tears of despair

I’m reminded to look up.

I see a glimpse of a silver lining

My soul is weary

yet

 form of hope crystallizes.

Sealed into my thoughts for this second

I’m the Daisy that keeps pushing up

I’m the Daisy that proves that Life must go on.

My soul is renewed with a melancholic joy

I’m not dead

still,

I’m rejuvenated once again.

Over the Bridge

 

Sometimes I feel like why do I bother.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve used up all my bear care

The cities I lived in .

The people I’ve engaged with.

started to stick two fingers up.

But only to the dickheads.

I dance to these beats cos I rise to the funk masters compilation.

I run for the hills , soul in arms, cos I’m scared of bereaving one beat closer to my final end.

Wasted kindness on friendships. One person knows what goes in my head.

Anxiety takes grip, and I turn on my only friend.

I don’t wanna feel like an unwanted graze.

Take me to a place I love.

Where people don’t talk in haze .

I don’t ever wanna feel like maple honey stuck to a face.

Take me to a place where I can finally come out from the virginal lace.

 

It’s hard to see the evil in people.

Harder to believe especially those covered treacle.

Atleast, I have a built in shit detector-

this city knows notof me.

My mask falls when the prison doors close.

 

I don’t ever wanna feel ignored by tramps with tongues for shoes.

Just get me out of this space where my compassion reduces me to tears,

Ignored,

Singing the wrong type of blues.

Under suicide bridge, another man lands face down on the ground.

Blood glitters all in an outline and I’ve got scared.

I’ve got to be prepared.

I won’t throw this body away for another

no show.

*song inspired by Red hot Chilli Peppers ‘ under the bridge’

 

Sheep on suicide

Where is my mind?

The weed who has every right to declaim — life’s not fair.

I’m back , I’m here . And a round of applause for me.

I’m reclaiming my life!

Life is like tax credits. We have to keep on reclaiming it to make sure we get it.

For one reason only:

This is my life and I care.

separated from the one I thought I loved needed.

 woke up

  saw my life for what it really is

If that makes  me a hard bitch, emotionless or selfish.

I’ll take every adjective and I’ll mix it in with my next meal.

Add an extra portion of muscles and plenty of shellfish.

One life to choose.

Mine or another?

I choose me and my daughter.

Every. Single. Time.

I’m a cheater, I’m a druggie.  I’m crazy. I’m a …what? 

I ain’t got time for your nonsense,

Pack your shit up and get out;

so I can raise my family

to understand

people are human.

Some people keep on building the same rickety, useless fence over and over and over.

And then die.

If my vices-when activated

render me a misfit of society?

Bah j’en fiche!

Translation –

Whatever!  I don’t value your opinion.

I’m not suicidal.

I’m not a sheep.

I’ve been swimming since I was living in an amniotic sac.

Water baby.

Born and bred.

The water life chose me.

Life is not fair — don’t be patronizing. 

Boy ( you’ll be a man soon)

 Listen. I don’t need you or you  type.

I sure as hell, don’t want you.

What about all I’ve done for you.

I  literally picked you off the street.

Must I go into detail ….

Nah! Bro.

My issues.

My mind.

I’m dealing with it.

I can’t hit a button and go on the rewind.

My daughter.

My daughter. 

Her bond to me- is first and foremost.

She’s already living a lie.

I have to explain to her  who her biological father is.

Parents walk away every day from their children.

Others do step  up

and do good by them.

Until… abuse and disrespect start again.

Back off deal with your emotions.

Cut the strings. Grow a ..ahem

Pair of wings.

Fly – be ambitious — live your life.

You want to be role model?

Live your life.

Make something.

Anything.

That is the greatest show of love you can bestow on a child.

Show them –

yes, life is unfair.

No one ever said it was easy.

Nobody wins a prize for it.

Depending on your religion.

 If you want a prize

go pick one and go with it.

We just  gotta keep going on,

Don’t lose sight of that lighthouse.

It will bring us back to shore.

I can’t carry another dead weight.

I need to save myself and my child.

I was drowning in all of your shit.

BLAH!

BLAH!

BLAH!

The ones I chose to sleep with, and play a game of common whores.

We can all do  chores

We can all be whores.

We can all be bores.

Genderize it. Put it into context.

I look around me and everyone with ‘a stick to throw’ has disappeared.

I’m on my knees.

 

A new dawn, a new day.

New gossip to come —  Lodi Dodi  -there’s some tussle or gossip to come from some other party.

(Slick Rick reference)

Fodder for the foraging masses.

Self brainwashing

I don’t owe you an explanation

time,

money,

me!

If  being busy is a sign of vindictiveness

If saying no- is a sign of vindictiveness-

Throw  that hoop on me.

And I’ll hula hoop my way into ‘the vindictive dance award’s category.

What else can you/people  throw at me?

It hurts more when I’m unstable, high – not using my resources.

When I’m me. I can take it.

It doesn’t hurt.

big heart

Increasingly

Selective.

my journey,

my life —its where I’m at

Live for yourself.

miserable human lives for someone else’s approval.

Trust me, I’ve tried, never lied, nothing to hide.

Everything to gain

 lose my sanity, possibly my child?

My Biggest gamble.

 willing to take my own life.

You’re stood there  crying like you are’ the shook one.’

I’ve stepped into reality.

Scraping dog shit off my shoes every day.

 willingly believe dog shit is a sign I’m going to receive good news.

willingly believe that  I have what it takes to make it — Again.

 gasped my first breath in years.

lookup,

see beauty,

the stars,

see promise.

Not willing to let you cripple me

see another way-

see another route never said I cared about you or him or that.

probably did.

probably did

probably do. This is where I am at.

I do not answer to you.

Or you –

maybe you.

I know who I have to answer to.

Pass me more tissues

aware of my issues.

My life or yours?

I’d be certifiable insane if I  allow me to take more attempts on my life.

On a final note

‘I am an artist and I’m sensitive  about my shit ‘

TECH N9NE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKs5OsT4dIY

 

 

 

  • Photo credit Francesca  Woodman

Nefarious dove

I’m searching inside for something to help define me
All that populates is the emotion –
Weak –
inside me.


Over and over – the word like a strained bacteria multiplying in a temperate simmering heat.
Don’t want to speak -move my feet.
Feel like a caricature of a human being.


Falling,
Let me fall into some black abysmal seeing.
You are the strongest person I know, says he.
You mad fool!
what has love done for you,
To be so possessed by the voodoo in me?
Stop.
Stop.
I want to stop feeling.
Yellow, blue, red little pills rally around me.
These little friends have mastered their great skill to feed me and confound me.
Blister packets pop festive like its the fourth of July.
Muted slumber please come and blind me – let me just lie
Still
Waters.
Values made of plastic.
Bottled up emotions.
Swallow.
there is no nectar sweet song in my voice that follows.
Anxiety pervades. I have to shout out – GO THE FUCK AWAY!
Petrified
Timid


A creature crawling out the woodworks.
the first sign of stress and sorrow.
A trail of slime leaves evidence that this creature has no courage to face life’s cruel, sooty smirks.
To hell with it all
Horror.
Take me down — let me fall.
Sleep?
make sure the crash comes from somewhere steep.
Don’t let me wake up -covered in wet rags.
The apology of my life will be over when I wake up and grab for my fags.
Smokescreen.
It’s the best way I know how to protect my own self-esteem.
Selfish.
shellfish.
Lost my nerve.
Caught and quartered in the nets of the absurd.
Find myself served up as a delicacy dish.
Eat me
Drink me
Consume me -if you must.
Just don’t make me face this reality
for my soul has gone and inanely combust.
A Letdown.
Shaking out Scraggley hair
This is all I have to show for the one I claim I hold in my heart – dear and fair.
Slumber come and give me my due.
Infiltrate my blood with the toxin.
That takes my body and locks in.
Show the true colour of my heart –
a dismal, manic smudge of dark blues.
Singing.
I’m sorry my love
I am that nefarious dove.
Aces.
hearts.
we are meant to be the best pair.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
Tomorrows’s bells will awake me to a harrowing carnival fair.
A Rendezvous.
no time to be fashionably late.
My dearest,
if I let you down and forget to close the gate-
may I languish in my putrid stench of cowardice?
Have no fear. Please rest.
May I never truly fully awake from this hell I have made my home state paradise.

Mrs Thought bubble

This is a surreal piece  I wrote during a surreal time.

It’s about the cruelty of life and how the elderly are treated in Britain. It was inspired by the time I spent with my grandmother in her care home when she had Dementia and Alzheimers.

It’s a stream of consciousness  Short Borderline script.

 

 MRS BRUISED:  “I’m tired”

                                 “I’m tired”

 CARD SHUFFLER: (throws his voice from a table on the left)

                                      “I’m tired too.”

MRS BRUISED:          (sits upright)

                                         “I’m tired”

CARD SHUFFLER:     “Aye? Go to sleep then.”

 (The room fans out into a full house of insidious laughter)

MISS CARDIGAN:   excuse me, Dear, can you tell me where the toilets  

                                    I’ve only just  popped by/

THE WEED: ( Looks around for a sign indicating the Mangers office)

                                         Of course, just follow me.

(THE WEED walks back from the toilets  and goes to crouch down to hold MRS THOUGHT BUBBLES  hand).

THE WEED:             She’s pissed herself. Can someone change her?

THE ROSE:             No, she hasn’t.

GINGER:                (enters) Here you go. Open your mouth?

(GINGER shovels a hefty spoonful of what looks like boiled bagged food) 

THE WEED: (aside) Lost in thought……The smell of piss can’t be worse than death’s kiss…

GINGER:               Here- wah-la!  open your mouth.

  Mrs Thought Bubble’s inner thoughts

 

THE WEED:           Tu es Pleine?

(aside)                 Like an old coffin opening for the first time in a          century;

 MRS THOUGHT BUBBLE:   Pleine.

THE ROSE:               You   are thirsty today.

( Comes back from the kitchen with another full beaker of  red diluted kids juice)

                                     So so thirsty.

THE WEED: (aside) Three empty beakers all lined up in a row – My eyes rest and are ready to aim – trigger happy and ready to blow.

 

                               She has pissed herself, look!

THE ROSE:          Oh you have made a pee-pee Mamie- a pee-pee!

 REGRESSION SOUNDS

 

(chorus) A Nod. A skeleton- face grins

Bright light beams from  Mrs Thought Bubbles eyes.

An Image.

A carved pumpkin with a toothy grin.

Burning away in a dark room within.

More strained laughter churns out lactic acid.

MRS BRUISED : (on a loop)

                              Oh, I am tired. 

BRUNETTE:      Fiddler!  Stop putting your hands down your pants.

THE WEED:     Maybe that is the only way she gets to feel something.

(Legs splayed-  FIDDLER’S fingers explores her vagina hungrily)

MRS BRUISED:       I’m tired.

CARD SHUFFLER:  Yeah me too! Shut up.

(Eyes veer to the table on the left).

 

THE WEED:  Dying flowers  in a glass vase.

                   If I had to throw it would reality become what I once knew it to be?

Jeer me on why don’t you? 

Throw the fucking vase.

Throw it!

How long have those silver wrapped chocolates been  stood there. This is not some fancy New York hotel. 

If they are going to start leaving chocolates make sure you get Hershey’s kisses.

Brown as the shit under neath Mrs Thought bubble’s  nails.

 

THE WEED:  She has pissed herself!

GINGER:      I will go get dessert.

THE WEED: (aside) Does it come in different sex positions? 

                                     Sweet Silence.

                                  One of the toughest spells to break.

                                  No one dares look at the other.

                                Carers go  a drift.

                                Congregate to conflate into  gossip office politics.

THE ROSE:            Go and tell them to change her.

(THE WEED creeps along the  floor until it has found the right door).

THE WEED:               Can someone change Mrs Thought bubble!  She is in her own piss.

MRS HEGEMONY:  Wheres nondescript and the other one too?

Great big sighs. A room full of eyes wondering if the pay they get is worth the time.

The time finally has a stroke and then another and another.

The hoist in all its bluesy hues comes for Mrs Thought-bubble.

 

GINGER:               I’m sorry I got called into the office.

THE WEED:       Look it’s not you. Its just… I am sitting watching Mrs                                           Thought bubble over here, shout out….  and                                                            “she is wading in her own  piss!

THE ROSE:           Let’s go outside

THE ROSE: ( turns to BRUNETTE)

                             Can we take her outside?

BRUNETTE: ( a voice rolls out  like a plush  red carpet)

                         Of course.

 ( BRUNETTE rolls out the wheelchair –)

CHORUS: She hasn’t been outside in over a year.

                    She shouts and protests.

                   Vintage sunglasses are placed on her  to  help process her eyes.

                  Flowers.Bees.Sunshine.Colours.

(More shouts and protests).

MAINTENANCE:  Do you want me to take a picture?

(THE WEED and THE ROSE in unison) Oh yes please.

(Chorus) CLICK !

                  CLICK!

                     Mature cheddar smiles captured against the vines.

THE WEED:  I love you Mrs Thought-bubble.

(Muffled sounds.)

                         I’ll settle for that as an good enough au revoir.

                         Four doors.

                          Four Windows.

                          Four wheels.

                         Taxi takes us very fucking far away from here, please.

THE WEED: (to THE ROSE)     Did you notice that nobody came to clean the chair?

THE ROSE:      Don’t tell me this.

                       Every night I cry myself to sleep 

                          If we move her again she will die.                           

                         Please let her die.

                           Why? 

                            Why?

                             It is beyond my understanding.

Petals start to turn inwards – it’s a crying shame to see rose a  start to wilt.

RED CAP:       There was a sticker attached saying ‘TO CLEAN’

THE WEED:    Oh.

                        I’m sorry.

                         I love you, Rose.

                         I can’t imagine what you are going through.

THE ROSE: (Wilts that tiny bit more)

                         She doesn’t even know who I am anymore.

THE WEED:   I know who you are.

                         You know who I  am.

THE WEED: (aside)

It doesn’t matter if the sun is shining- water will always ignore the air around it. If it wants to pour so it shall.

Tears pour.

Tears break.

 The weed reaches and creeps until it has a secure grip  around The Roses stem.

Hands entwined.

The Weed .

The Rose.

Both look out their own private window.

                            Bee would have loved to see that cow…..

THE ROSE:     ( watered and ready to pose)

                         So tomorrow is a busy day. We have to sort out the cake

THE WEED:   The cake?

THE ROSE:       …the wedding cake?   And We need to find Mr Thought bubble an outfit  for the wedding.

THE WEED:    Is she actually allowed to come?

THE ROSE:        Madam  Hegemony, says it is fine.

THE WEED:    (flat)Oh, Cool. I wonder did we tell the cake makers that we changed the theme from sunflowers to yellow roses?

THE ROSE:     Yes! We are just having yellow icing on normal    flowers..

 THE WEED:     Oh… like the colour on our invitations? 

(Stationary).

THE ROSE:      See you tomorrow.

THE WEED: Mint, Yes.. tomorrow… (as an after thought)

THE ROSE:   10:30, Don’t be late.  We are getting threaded first.

                        Have you got the Bee’s shoes?

THE WEED:  Yes Mam.

THE ROSE:    I swear if you had loads of money in this town you still                                           wouldn’t be able to spend it.

                        It’s all bullshit

(from) THE HORSES MOUTH:

                    And so the earth continues to travel around the sun.

                    The sun goes down.

                  The moon is full-faced and all fluttering eyelashes.

                  And  I still have a long face.

                 Nothing but everything changes.

Nay,

Neigh!

Horses don’t talk.

Neither do flowers

Horse manure.

Bullshit.

Jut another day in ‘I wonder what the fuck  next land?

Just an average day in an average Care home.

 

Image Francecsa Woodman 

 

 

Daisy -the Dissident

The song I’m sharing today is by New Zealand’s very own Bjork-Kimbra. & a blogging associate turned me on to her.

This is  #goatbahs for today because it makes my heart soar & I feel a great adrenaline kick from it.

Mother Nature does discriminate.  Why?

Yesterday, I found out a badger is loose in our garden. I think it’s looking for a place to nest. I decided to google ‘how to get rid of a badger’. The number one solution is:

Human male urine.

Yes, or a hot Scottish bonnet or 8th on the list is Lion’s wee. Even if I was still living in South Africa that would be hard to get.

Mother Nature!

What do single woman/parents do if they are being “urbanised” by a pregnant badger?

Just a thought.

My passion has always been for causes that fight oppression in its many guises. Poverty, discrimination from Mental Health to Homelessness & inequality, clique groups, media censorship.

This is a  huge problem globally,  including places like  Nigeria. It’s devastating to know what is happening in Nigeria. Check the United Nations website out.

If we want to be seen as cultured or considered cultured, we should strive to educate ourselves. This is what I try to do for myself.

 We are so quick to judge people by what country they come from.

There are a lot of folks who I’ve realised do scam you ( if you let them). We all need an income, right?

It’s about ethics, inherent morals we are born with and choosing who you decide to associate with.

This is why I am honoured to  call myself

Daisy-the Dissident Goat.

My vision

  • Connect (with people)

  • Create ( with people or on your own)

  • Collaborate

  • Communicate

Check out What is with the whole GOAT thing?  for more information.

It’s a learning process. We learn & re-learn every day in our lives.

I’ve experienced (and still do experience) prejudice & stigma.

I was mentally and physically in a terrible place for 2 years.

And  (now) I’m “woke”.

I almost lost myself, my family and self-respect to   scum of society. I allowed myself to be taken for a ride by people who disgust me. Drug dealers

Losers with a driver’s licences/bullies & I’ve told them what I think. I’ve also told them I’m not afraid of them either.

Make of that what you will.

Love is a two-way street…

So is business.

I have realised by using my wellness recovery tools that self-medicating and making plans to end my life was because I felt so little worth about myself & I thought people ( even wannabe kingpin drug dealers have feelings) had the same integrity & values that I do.

Or, at the very least if a person compromises their values then tries to consolidate the problem.

I’m back in place where I see my worth again. I see where my energy, time & money is better used.

I’m not a girl for NA  or that kind of set up. I  have my family, friends & support around me.

I’m going to get back into volunteering again.

I’m grateful for Hope Street Calderdale recovery college for seeing the potential in me & giving me the chance to do my own 12-week WRAP  (2015)& then fund for a 5-day course to co-facilitate WRAP  (promo video link)  to give other people as many different tools to navigate and deal with life ups & downs (so to speak).

I still intend to use my skills when I’m well and unwell to helping other people.

I’ve bonded more with my daughter properly for the first time. I feel focused again. I feel happy when I’m not making myself ill.

I already have diagnosed ‘illnesses-Chronic Anorexia & Bipolar.’ I  have the responsibility to make sure I don’t fall back & do serious damage to myself (in the future) that I cannot undo.

I’m never going to be perfect & that is where I always go wrong. I aim for perfection when there is no such thing.

Even Mother Nature is flawed in all her complexity & beauty.

If you’ve read this far…

Thank you for indulging me.

And Then there are the days

And then there are the days when the rain has stopped.
sunshine will follow the rain.

By all accounts I should feel the warmth.
My smile aches.
My heart

breaks.

 My cheeks are strewn not by rain this time but more tears.

I feel a part of me dying I think of all the tears I’ve overcome, the one I’ve mopped up.

I think about how other people struggle, and see them get up again and again until, one day they don’t.

In these twisted moments of my melancholy; my heart beats even faster- than when I’m even tempered.

I realise I won’t die from heart ache or an abundance of leaked tears.

I won’t dehydrate.

I won’t become the next corpse poised in fledgling flight to arouse its soul.

So many words and questions I wish to ask.

I answer them myself-in moments of cowardice . In these moments of despair, I search for strength.

I love to see people I care about prosper.

I cry because
.. I shouldn’t have regrets.. but I’m beginning to wonder if I should….