I picked up a hitch-hiker years ago. Turns out he was a young farm worker who was studying to be a farm manager. I was genuinely interested and asked him lots of questions about his work, how he felt about it, what he wanted to achieve and gave him positive feedback throughout.
We had just got to the top of Mount Messenger when he suddenly reached over and put his hand in my crotch. Surprised, my first thought was that he was giving me some money for petrol and looked down. When I realised it was more than that, I put my spare hand up and said assertively "Do Not do that again! Are we clear?" Then pulled over the car. He couldn't look at me and just mumbled that he was sorry and could I let him out as soon as we got down to the next village. I said that I was happy to keep driving him home as long as he didn't do anything else inappropriate but he was so ashamed that he insisted that I let him out. Which I did. Even before I'd dropped him off, I'd realised that he'd clearly never experienced role modeling from a male around appropriate behaviour with woman. His reaching between my legs was his naive and inexperienced way of showing me that he was feeling attracted to me and didn't know any other way of showing it. And of course, he wasn't attracted to me perse, he was responding to being 'noticed'. I tell you this because it taught me that appropriate behaviour is learned and not everyone has access to a good teacher. And that's on both sides. There are a lot of females who haven't learnt to read the signs that lead to unwanted male attention (obviously not including random attacks and situations where they can see where things are headed but have no way of escaping etc) and just as many men who haven't learnt how to interact with women. Before the haters start commenting, I'm not justifying anything, I'm merely saying that rather than look at the results and pointing fingers at who are to blame, that we look at the cause and ask at what can be done to avoid these situations in the first place. What do I know? I was bought up surrounded by patched members of a bike club who never once, even when I'd grown up, made any inappropriate advances toward me but I had strong and clear role models - both men and women. And from watching everything going on around me, I was also able to identify risky behaviours in women who weren't so aware and learn from them too. But not everyone has the benefit of this kind of classroom when they're growing up. Not every woman has been abused and not every male is an abuser so what can be learned from them?
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In 2002 I became a clairvoyant (that is another book!). I wasn't looking to be one, it was thrust upon me. I was in Queenstown at the time so I hitch-hiked back to Wellington to start giving readings. I still wasn't 100% sure whether I had what it took so I rang a clairvoyant. I cut straight to the chase, told her what had happened and asked if she could give me any insight. She said to me "There are so many spirits on the other side who have information to share that they're always thrilled when someone puts up their hand and says I'll be your channel". That was all I needed to hear so I created a free call 0800 number and put it in the Yellow Pages. Why 0800? Because years earlier when I was rolling around in a grimey slippery slick of depression, out of desperation I rang a number for a councillor from the Service ads of the newspaper. When I told her I didn't have any money right then, she refused to speak to me and I always said that if I was in that position, I would never turn anyone away. One night I was rearranging the furniture between rooms when the phone rang. I was prepared for it to be a wrong number or telemarketer but I scrabbled around to find the phone and answered it anyway. Nervously, the woman asked if I could give her a reading. It had been weeks since I put the ad in the phonebook so it took me a second to even realise what she was asking me. I'm sure she would have been able to hear the surprise in my voice as I said "Oh! I'd love to!" then frantically set about finding The Tablet (which I did the readings on) and clearing a surface to sit on.
I admitted that it was one of my first readings and that she might need to help me out a bit but the reading flowed easily and afterward she shared how significant it had been. As she was saying goodbye she said that she was going to tell all her friends. Within seconds the phone rang again and it didn't stop for months. In fact, I had to set it to go straight to answerphone. I ended up with over 300 clients, some of them quite high profile and from overseas and doing about 10 readings a day. I did over a thousand before my phone bill brought me to my knees and I had to shut down and move out of the flat or file for bankruptcy. I've always called that my 0800-Give-It-Away period. The same thing happened when, after a few years of posting graffiti images to what felt like a black hole, one very connected person stumbled on it then shared the link to the site and it went on to win an award. I've since learnt that, in business terms, these people are called Early Adopters and if they like something, they're not shy at saying so. The other night my dear friend Vikashni rang to check up on me. Because V's family has a knack for attracting miracles, she's always wanting to spread the love and help others too but I kept reassuring her that I was happy and, with the help of friends and food grants, fed so I didn't need anything and to give to someone who needed it more than me. I had only told my two children and mother about 'Little Peaces' and I knew from the traffic stats and lack of comments that nobody read the website so I felt safe admitting that I had submitted a book - mainly to help her understand that I was really truly doing OK, then, so that she could see for herself, I gave her the website address and we said goodbye. Now you can imagine my sense of deja vu when she rang the next day to say that she was really moved and had texted the address out to all her friends. I couldn't help laughing as I thanked her and knowing that she has a lot of wonderful, switched on friends, I checked the website stats and sure enough, where it usually gets around an average of 50 a day, probably mostly from crawlers and bots, it had skyrocketed to 125 in a few hours, peaking at 220 today. Then last night I got my first response from one of the NZ publishers which was both warm and encouraging. At the end he said "It potentially has a world-wide market, and it deserves the best start possible, better than what we, with our meagre and fast-diminishing resources, could give it" then went on to make a helpful suggestion. One of the aspects I had to come to terms with a few months ago is that whatever the next phase was, I would have to allow people to help me. Using sandpaper as a flannel to clean my face would have been preferable in the past but if this is the sort of help I'm being sent, then I welcome it humbly with a wide open and optimistic heart... Today I realised my external reality has finally become 100% congruent with my internal reality. It came to me like this... I've written and submitted a book of quotes called Little Peaces to three publishers. Two here and one in the US. After I sent the last one I suddenly thought What now?! It seemed that 17 years of writing and processing my mind had come to a head. To today. To this point. Knowing it could take months for any of the publishers to even get back to me, let alone accept the manuscript, I didn't know how I felt about being on hold so I went and had a shower to think about it. While I was listening to my Next Phase playlist, I was reviewing what the publishers might see if they were to Google my name or look through this site. It was then I had an overwhelming insight that what they would see, what anyone is now seeing, is who I am, sharing what I've always been. Any of the content on this site gives background and context to the quotes in that book. And this content is often generated through my journals. In other words - I am 100%, across all mediums, in all communications, and most of all, in my head, how I see myself and who I've always wanted to be. I no longer need to 'cleanse' my history for work because my history has become my work. I don't need to hide my skin because it's now my uniform. I can openly talk about my previous addictions and mental illness because overcoming them has become my skillset. And I won't edit my language to a more socially palatable, shallower level anymore because my words are my trade. There are no secrets and no delusions. Every single day, all I do is openly process and share my past in order to help others in the future. After writing for the day I watched a few TED talks. I saw that one of my favourite speakers, Andrew Solomon had a new talk and, as usual, I was struck by how relevant it was to my current focus. In it he shares his challenges as a child, teenager then man with the shame of being gay. Through self analysis and the love of a good man and later, his children, he has come to love the person he is and admits that if he hadn't been through the adversity, he's not sure he would love any other version of himself as much. His key message is to "forge meaning and build identity". If this is my job, then these have become my milestones. It took over 17 years of writing to forge meaning and submitting the manuscript is the first step of building identity. In the last nine months, I've checked the job ads every day but each time there has been that sense of a reverse bungy - that even just clicking on one to read further is pulling me away from something else. That bungy drags me back to my bed, or the couch - not because I'm lazy or depressed but because that's usually where my pen and journals are. I write and write then get a cup of tea, fill up my hot water bottle and write some more. I bathe, eat and sleep in my journal, often not turning off the light until well after midnight. What do I write about? Un-judged free thought that takes me to depths of exploration where I lose all sense of my self, often taking me hours to write back to the surface. Writing is what I'm drawn to do. Have always done. In fact, it's the only thing that has been a constant in my signpostless, uneducated, drifting life. As always, there is a point to this back story... Sometimes I feel the need to fuel up with external stimulation. I have more movies, tv shows and music than I know what to do with but I always have the same books. I call them my reference books because every few years, when I feel the urge to forage, they always feed me and set me off in directions I hadn't noticed before. In one of these books, "SQ - The Ultimate Intelligence" by Danah Zohar and Ian Marshall, an excerpt I've dined out on a few times jumped out again. Using our SQ stretches the human imagination. It means transforming our consciousness. It means discovering deeper layers of ourselves than we are used to living. It requires us to find some grounding in the self for meaning that transcends the self. When I first read this my chest wanted to explode. Could this be the permission I didn't know I needed to dive deeper - as deep as my limited sight could take me? I almost had the sense of needing to look over my shoulder to see who might be wagging their finger or shaking their head. As I re-read it, I realised they were not only encouraging me but alluding to my sights ability to adjust in order to go deeper still. Then, if I needed any more proof or encouragement, of the six paths toward greater spiritual intelligence, I found Path 4: The Path of Personal Transformation. This is when my chest finally gave way, tumbling into a sea of tears. There were words, on a page, for anyone to read, that were saying this thing I had been doing quietly in secret was a thing, that it wasn't self indulgence and that it could have structure and purpose, and most importantly, that it could benefit others. The last paragraph of this chapter changed my life forever... The most spiritually intelligent of all journeys on this path is the journey to the centre. It is a journey of incredible terror requiring remarkable faith. And it requires a willingness that the ego might be sacrificed, that nothing of it might be left but the treasure that one finds in the healing that it might bring to others. This in turn requires overcoming the deepest of all conflicts, the fear of death. I've been meticulously researching my ego for over 10 years now and even if I won't know if it's under control until it feels the lure of attention, I feel like we understand each other. I don't fear death - one of the rewards that comes from laying one's life at its doorstep. And lastly, ever since I was six years old and became aware of my self and the voices within, all I've ever been driven to do is help people. I've wailed and sobbed at the frustration of the overwhelming mass of compassion, trapped inside with nowhere to go. Danah Zohar drew back the curtains and opened the window and Caroline Myss Ph.D has taken my hand and is leading me over the threashold. I now see that Ground Zero was never the bottom, it was, in fact, the beginning and every word I read, write or speak is a step out and up. I've found my workplace and have faith in the numerous mentors that are always available to me. So, two days ago I committed to sharing this path of Self Transformation that has already guided me from the darkness of addictions, self loathing and suicide to the brilliance, warmth and comfort of love and respect for my self and everyone else. Only 24 hours later, I had $2,700 in my bank account and these poignant words of advice from Jiro Ono... Once you decide on your occupation, you must immerse yourself in your work You have to fall in love with your work Never complain about your job You must dedicate your life to mastering your skill After such a heady time of discoveries, I touched base with this song and this timeless Zen proverb to keep ego in its place... Before enlightenment Chopping wood Carrying water After enlightenment Chopping wood Carrying water I may have found the keys to the Matrix but, in the meantime, those dishes aren't going to do themselves... Years ago, weighed down by the heavy musty blanket of depression, I started a role where I lived with an older friend and it was my job to prepare our meals. My friend was extremely health conscious and fortunately wealthy enough to be able to afford it so after eating nothing but fat free, protein rich, abundantly green meals, I noticed my constant state of blackness muting to mere grey and that I even had brief moments of feeling happy.
I went on to rid depression altogether but I've always thought that the change in my diet started the process and this is always the first place I start when needing to get some focus back into my life. After my last post the first thing I did was get the remainder of a tub of ice-cream out of the freezer and put the contents down the gurgler. I then took some chicken pieces out of the freezer to make stir fry for dinner. These two actions had an instant impact and I was feeling lighter by the minute. I then bought out the next tool on list. My journal helped me download a lot of thoughts that had been rolling around unattended in my mind and gave me some perspective. The next day, after finding out that WINZ were unable to help me with any emergency grant, the only option left was to ask my landlady if I could miss paying one weeks rent - which she happily allowed. So I've dug myself out of Ground Zero but the quest to put down foundations and build something of substance that keeps my feet out of the dirt and pain is the next item on the agenda. To be honest, this has been on the agenda for the past forever but now that I have nothing left to lose, I'm going to sneak behind prides back and start applying to editors to write something. I may have an empty cupboard, fridge, wardrobe and bank account and nothing left to sell online but I've been hoarding stories for years. Why haven't I bought them out sooner? Like all hoarders, I've got so many that I've never known where to start but I'm optimistic I might land on a publisher that has a department dedicated to just that... This is me trying to work out what to write to you. How to explain how I got to this point without reeking of drama.
There's nothing more devoid of anything than bullet points, so I'll start there... (This playlist is what I'm listening to, just in case you want to play it as you read...) 2012
I rang to find out why my benefit hadn't been paid. The person who fixed up the short payment didn't tell me the extra amount was actually this weeks benefit payment and I had spent it on food and bathroom and cleaning groceries that I had run out of. I tried to keep my shit together but just couldn't stop sobbing. I then had to ring the bank to beg them to give me 24 hours to find the money for the overdraft. That's when I took the pics above. I don't know what to do. I don't know who to go to. I've discovered that it might be admirable to cheerfully manage existing but the reality is it's always only 24 hours from being homeless. But here's where the good stuff kicks in... It took me 10 years to overcome depression and many other addictions. If I was going to get depression again, it would have been over the last 9 months so I take comfort and credit that it is possible to overcome depression fully. Of course I've had down days, like today, but each time my self-training kicks in and I allow myself a good sob, make a cuppa and move toward any crack of light I can perceive. Todays light was a Duty Manager role at a hotel and more hours at my voluntary job and I have another role as a Trainer to apply for at the end of the week. And the Good News Network always helps me put my life into perspective not to mention the kindness and support of my adoring family and few close friends. But all of this is just to give you a (very uncreative or poetic) background because what I really want to do is write and speak. I wrote this to dip my toe in. It was received well. But I haven't known what to do since then, so just to start something, anything, I'm going to try to document my climb out of Ground Zero... Dearest Olive As I was wandering along the waterfront, surrounded by sun and smiles, I noticed a crowd at the end of the bridge. I already knew it would be people watching whoever was diving off the post that’s out over the water. As I got closer I saw that it was you, trembling, your hands holding each other over your heart as if praying that the dark water below would come just a bit closer. Then, Just as I nestled in amongst the hopeful crowd, you shuffled slowly and carefully like a crab back to safety and the reassuring arms of your father. By now the scene was already 2 dimensional for me. I was intently watching you as I relived an almost identical experience at a similar age. At that moment, I imagined taking you aside and telling you how I couldn’t jump and that I always regretted it, but you were already following you father back out over the water. He jumped. Then as you moved to his vacant spot at the end, everyone watching stopped. They held their breaths for you. Some didn’t even realise they were holding their hands up to their hearts for you. But everyone was willing you as your family shouted out encouragement. And you jumped. Only a few people clapped but it seemed that everyone was moved. We all looked around proudly as if to say That's our girl!! You were our courage that day and when I watched you jump, I saw myself jump. Then you came out of the water and straight into your father’s proud arms. I could only imagine how that must have felt. I lingered as the crowd started moving on then, as you turned toward me, reaching down for your towel and wrapping it around you, I recognised that inconsolable smile of achievement that you couldn’t hide. I had felt that. When had I felt that? Suddenly I remembered that I had jumped after all. Years after I gave up on jumping (and, without realising it at the time, my self), our family was on holiday in the South Island. On the last day I arranged to do a tandem skydive. There were not going to be any regrets this time and as I easily drifted out of the plane, a current of courage slammed into me and like the sky wide smile it thrust upon my face, it stayed with me for the rest of the day. And it was still there, holding my hand in the following weeks as I made some decisions that saved my life. As your family gathered their things to leave, I left too. I continued walking, holding that image of your secret smile in my mind as I turned up the volume on this days soundtrack playing in my ears. Suddenly tears lunged forward as Leann Rimes sang “I once was lost but now I’m found. Was blind, but now I see”. I saw that even though I didn’t jump off my diving board, I had never given up hope that courage would stick around till I was ready to call on it. Then I had to take deep breaths as I heard “... How precious did that Grace appear, the hour I first believed” and felt nauseous with the privilege of having just witnessed the hour you first believed. When I was a kid, my parents let me do, go, wear, read, listen to, hang out with whoever or whatever I felt drawn to with very few rules so when I got married, I hadn't realised how suffocated I'd become with having to work with restrictions. When I made the decision to survive, I left my family and moved into a an old character home I bought with my settlement money. It felt like being let out of prison and I went crazy. I bought what I wanted, redecorated and surrounded my self with anything that inspired me. And just before I painted my bedroom bright yellow, I wrote these affirmations on the wall behind the door that my bed faced and even though they didn't feel true, I read them over and over until I wanted them to be. After a few years of having other people tell me what was wrong with me and what I needed to do about it, I realised that the issue was what I told myself and I had to change the soundtrack in my head so I stopped any medical intervention and went it alone. Over the 10 years it took me to overcome the obsessive compulsive disorder I'd had since a toddler, the suicidal depression I battled everyday from the age of 14, the addictions to drugs, alcohol and gambling I developed later, the debt and being a mother who left her children, the most effective technique was flooding my senses with positivity and inspiration. Any environment that I had control over had pictures, books, clothes, movies, music and people that mirrored love and strength, even if I didn't always feel it at the time, and eventually the soundtrack in my head became a remix of potential I could grow into.
This is my father in his early 40's outside our old family home. He contracted polio in his right arm when he was 8 and had to spend a year in an iron lung then learn to do everything with his left hand, including writing. Because Father rode motorbikes, fixed vehicles, put down hangi's etc and always lived by the motto "There's no such thing as can't" I never saw him as 'disabled' and it was only when I got this photo developed when I was 18 that it really hit me - that I actually saw his arm for the first time. He always called me Daughter and my brother Number One Son and when we were younger he'd yell out for us to come help him. He'd tell us what he wanted us to do and patiently watch as we fumbled away for him. After we left home, he always made the most of anyone with arms who could do something for him and a few of us used to mockingly call them Fathers Slaves. In a few weeks he'll be 70 and over the past 10 years his left shoulder had been deteriorating until a few years ago when he had to have an operation on it to repair the ligaments. Can you imagine what that was like? An independent man like my father having no arms? It doesn't take much imagination to think of all the things he couldn't do for himself because that would be zero. Worse yet, that procedure didn't work for very long so he had to have another operation to have a titanium shoulder put in. My brother and I were completely out of our depth and were just so thankful he was entitled to live-in carers while he healed. Over the past few months a niggling pain in my right shoulder got to the point where I couldn't ignore it anymore so I went to the doctor. An ultra-sound confirmed that it was a frozen shoulder and although they can heal by themselves, it takes a long time so a procedure to push it back to where it can work again is often the recommendation. I knew straight away where I got it from. I had an intense period of working online with two screens that required so much mouse work that my arm would just stop functioning altogether toward the end of the night. It started off being inconvenient but now it's got so bad I can barely brush my teeth or wash my hair and now I find myself storing up a list of jobs I can get help with if someone comes around. Over the past week I've been beating myself with feelings of shame. Shame that I could have been more helpful to my father, but more-so that I should have been more respectful to those who did, but despite those feelings, I'm just so grateful that I've had this experience because it's made me really, and I mean really appreciate what my father has been through for the past 55 years and I feel closer to him than ever before because of it. Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · May 22
My son telling me about #restingbitchface helped my meditation skills upward of negative 97% Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · May 15 My need to conform has thankfully become less of a priority. E Trevor S @trevso_electric · 8 Sep 2012 Just find someone who's dumb enough to put up with your shit and love them back. Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 6 Sep 2012 The highchair, covered in SpagettiOs, yet again, looks wistfully over at the Chaise and thinks FML Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 1 Sep 2012 I think I might be the Cat Lady of plants. Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 31 Aug 2012 Surely if they were having sex, it should have been called Sleeping With The Frenemy?! Bridger Winegar @bridger_w · 30 Aug 2012 Call me picky, but I refuse to marry someone who doesn't have gang affiliations Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 29 Aug 2012 For those of you coming to New Zealand anytime soon, note that Panties is a dirty word, and not in a fun way. Don't say I didn't warn you. Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 29 Aug 2012 The three worst sites for those with OCD tendencies - FB, Twitter and Track and Trace. Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 29 Aug 2012 This weeks realisation: I play Bejeweled because it's the only time I get to hear a strong manly voice tell me I'm Awesome and Excellent. Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 29 Aug 2012 I can pretty much guarantee that if I haven't tweeted for 5 mins, I'm either in the bathroom, asleep or dead. Either way, I'll be right back Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 29 Aug 2012 So, when I write on my artist statement that I'm "Currently working on a large body of work", No one needs to know it's on Twitter right? Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 29 Aug 2012 Gollum wonders why he's not getting any action. Who's going to tell him he needs a new pick up line. Come to me my Precious is just creepy! Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 29 Aug 2012 What did Sir Edmond Hillary and Timothy Leary have in common? Both new that what goes up, must come down. Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 29 Aug 2012 The only part of the 80s I wish we could relive now is the part where Hipsters were out of fashion. Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 29 Aug 2012 So the Hobbits & Orcs have all gone & the only thing missing around here is the tumble weed. Oh that's right. The props dept have gone too. Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 29 Aug 2012 There are plusses for living alone and plusses for living with someone. In both cases it depends on the sanity of the other person. Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 29 Aug 2012 No, I didn't buy an automatic car because I'm lazy. My family has a history of losing limbs so I like to think of it as future proofing... Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 28 Aug 2012 I'd better turn down the heat, I'm pretty sure my poached egg shouldn't resemble something Kate Bush would wear. Eleanor Lefever @pimpmyattitude · 27 Aug 2012 Cleaned the wall behind the toilet yesterday. It was growth! And I don't mean that with a lisp. There was literally foliage. Last week I started work as the Assistant Paymaster on The Hobbit. Most people have their payslips emailed to them but some still like to get a hard copy. So one of my jobs is to go around handing them out on payday but because I'm extremely shy, this is the only part of my job I find really challenging. I've already made a fool of myself in front of Orlando Bloom! As I was handing out payslips this week I noticed a corner way down the back of the costume department that looked like a library, but as well as the few books, the shelves were covered in crafty tools, needles and skeins of wool in various shades of Hobbit. As I got closer I saw a woman knitting amongst the pile of over-sized mittens and socks and witnessing her effortlessly manouvre four needles at once made me intrigued enough to barge through my shyness and talk to her. I found out that Beverly had a lot of talents but I was fascinated to learn that she got this role when The Hobbit contacted the knitters guild she was fortunate enough to belong to for a recommendation (I didn't know there was such a thing!) Later I lay in bed thinking about all the different departments and marveling at how lucky I was to have such a stimulating job. Suddenly I realised that a lot of these people were living the dream. Literally what they possibly might have dreamed of being or doing when they were young. There were the jewelers designing and creating intricate pieces to adorn the costumes and other props. The armour and weapons people making swords and shields. The seamstresses cutting out and sewing dwarves, elves and hobbit clothes. The calligrapher writing maps and books. The greens-people developing Hobbiton landscapes. There were metal-smiths, leather workers, mold makers, animal wranglers, prosthetic, hair and make-up artists, even boat builders. Not only is the list endless, but there were no gender stereotypes. There were male hair and make-up artists and female steel workers, painters and carpenters. And although not all of them were necessarily happy or felt they had 'made it', this revelation taught me that no matter how obscure the dream or passion, if you feel strongly enough about it, it's almost inevitable you'll find a way to do it for a living. I was lured out of my daydream on the train today by the D.I.Y peroxide of the high-school girl in front of me and I would understand if my smirk was mistaken for contempt. As I affectionately relived my first peroxide experience the rails transitioned from the white noise of the suburbs to the coastline and mine and DIYs' eyes simultaneously turned to the fraught and mesmerising sea. Immediately I became aware that I was next to a pillar so her condensated view was the best we had. Recognising our momentary link, I wasn't surprised when she created a small peep-hole for us with her index finger. At that moment, that passive peep hole became the metaphor for my life. I'm aware there is a bigger more panoramic view, even if it's unclear, but I confine myself to a safe (blinkered) space. No challenges. No surprises. I felt neither sad nor disappointed. I felt forewarned... A few times a year I'm lucky enough to have a dream about The Man and The Feeling.
And this morning was one of those. I won't go into the dream itself - not because it was saucy in any way, but because a dream is usually only fascinating or meaningful to the person who had it. I will say, however, that it re-reminded me of The Feeling. That feeling of my body slotting in beside someone elses as naturally as a puzzle piece and of us being into each other without the need for words. I'm so lucky to have these dreams because even if I never meet The Man in real life, I get to feel the warmth and intensity of The Feelings, however brief they may be. Something I've found out that very few people, even married ones, have been fortunate enough to experience... Today I had to check my bank balance to see if I had enough money to get some milk yet I don't feel poor or destitute, as I have done and dwelled on in the past. "What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real." "Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit. "Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt." "Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?" "It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." The Velveteen Rabbit Margery Williams An extract from the diary of Lieutenant Colonel Mervin Willett Gonin DSO who was among the first British soldiers to liberate Bergen-Belsen in 1945.
I can give no adequate description of the Horror Camp in which my men and myself were to spend the next month of our lives. It was just a barren wilderness, as bare as a chicken run. Corpses lay everywhere, some in huge piles. Sometimes they lay singly or in pairs where they had fallen. It took a little time to get used to seeing men women and children collapse as you walked by them and to restrain oneself from going to their assistance. One had to get used early to the idea that the individual just did not count. One knew that five hundred a day were dying and that five hundred a day were going on dying for weeks before anything we could do would have the slightest effect. It was, however, not easy to watch a child choking to death from diphtheria when you knew a tracheotomy and nursing would save it. One saw women drowning in their own vomit because they were too weak to turn over and men eating worms as they clutched a half loaf of bread purely because they had to eat worms to live and now could scarcely tell the difference. Piles of corpses, naked and obscene, with a woman too weak to stand propping herself against them as she cooked the food we had given her over an open fire. Men and women crouching down just anywhere in the open relieving themselves of the dysentery which was scouring their bowels. A woman standing stark naked washing herself with some issue soap in water from a tank in which the remains of a child floated. It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived, though it may have no connection, that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived. This was not at all what we men wanted! We were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don't know who asked for lipstick. I wish so much that I could discover who did it because it was the action of genius - sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips. You saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick. At last someone had done something to make them individuals again. They were someone - no longer merely the number tatooed on the arm. At last they could take an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity. Source: Imperial War museum ________________________________________________________________________ Bansky Manifesto What makes my boss and dear friend so humbling is that, knowing that I had no money or food, he found a flimsy excuse to give me an extra $235 in my paycheck today. It's not the $235 - it's the flimsy excuse. He has a way of making me feel like I'm doing him a favour by letting him give me his money. And what makes him the gracious Philanthropist he is, is that my dignity never feels compromised when I accept his charity... As I was logging on, I was daydreaming as I listened to Joss Stone and watching the guy down on the field below my window doing his usual Tai Chi routine. Suddenly I woke up when I realised they were in perfect sync and his grace and form weaved itself around the song, bringing both mesmerising beauty. I love this world where the Universe can create such random yet exquisite synchronicity. It reminds me that everything is as it's meant to be... |
Pimp My Attitude
You need to know, right now, this is all about me. I'm not educated. I don't have any (non-driving related) qualifications therefore, I'm not about to tell you what you should do - I know my place.
And here you are. At my place. So - welcome. If you're here for 10 seconds, I won't even know so I won't be offended that you left early. If you're here for hours and keep coming back, I will consider you a friend because the only thing my diverse yet loyal friends have in common, and what I appreciate most about them, is that they just keep coming back.. Archives
September 2020
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