Category: Reflections of Mayet

Smoking Mirrors: And Down Will Come Baby, Cradle and All. (2006)

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This was writ­ten by me in 2006, and now read­ing it back, I can see why I was giv­en hell for the next 18 years of decep­tion, I was wak­ing up then.

Smok­ing Mir­rors: And Down Will Come Baby, Cra­dle and All.

Smok­ing Mir­rors: And Down Will Come Baby, Cra­dle and All.

Don’t ever give up on free­dom. Today our soci­ety is giv­en the impres­sion we are feee. Free of speech and free of thought. We are not free. We are the tar­get of those who rule, those who must be obeyed and those that are the rich in our cap­i­tal­is­tic soci­ety. We the peo­ple have been reduced to slave­dom but as we earn a smal wage, a token of free­dom we the peo­ple do not under­stand the chains of our bondage.

The Inter­net was seen by we the peo­ple as free­dom of expres­sion, as a way of express­ing our thoughts, express­ing our ideas and express­ing our con­cerns with the shap­ing of our world but cyber­space has become a sin­is­ter bas­tion of con­trol.

In the last few years our eyes have been opened to the devi­ous­ness of cyber­space. Of the new term coined in sin and lies, “coin­tel­pro”, the Counter Intel­li­gence Pro­gram. How deep does it go.

Where once we believed that there pos­si­bly may be a few coin­tel­pro agents scat­tered here and there watch­ing and lis­ten­ing, it has­n’t been until now that the depths of such pro­grams and the devi­ous­ness of oper­a­tives has been revealed.

No it’s not just Chi­na that is con­trolled with such tight bonds, it is us, “we the peo­ple” that are also chained to the walls of cyber­space and our every thought and writ­ing con­trolled. Con­trolled by name­less, face­less oppo­si­tion, shapeshifters, name chang­ers and dis­in­for­ma­tion agents who do reign supreme. So sub­tle­ly that 95 per­cent of peo­ple wan­der­ing around in cyber­space do not even know the face­less oppo­si­tion exists. Silent­ly plant­i­ng mis­in­for­ma­tion, qui­et­ly weed­ing out oppo­si­tion to offi­cial lines and sneak­i­ly destroy­ing those who do wake up. Those that do find out and those that realise they have been a fool for so long.

But is it so bad to be a fool and place trust, no it is far worse to deceive and to break trust. To take a truth and cre­ate a lie.

The Pyra­mid

YOU opened up the door­way
AND risked a look inside.
YOU could­n’t share the vision
AND the truth you had to hide.

YOU did­n’t build the pyra­mid
AND struc­ture things just right.
YOU went and split the atom
AND were blind­ed by sun­light.

YOU for­got to use a mir­ror
AND bounce it all around.
YOU turned away, closed the eye
AND did­n’t speak a sound.

YOU did­n’t see me watch­ing
AND know­ing all the lie.
YOU kept on chain­ing spir­it
AND did­n’t hear it’s sigh.

YOU lust­ed for more pow­er
AND greed went hand in hand.
YOU acquired gold and dia­monds
AND built cas­tles in the sand.

YOU built up debt to Moth­er Earth
AND that will nev­er be repaid.
YOU reaped the crop that you sowed
AND lay in the bed you made.

YOU have asked for nature’s fury
AND that is exact­ly what you’ll get.
YOU know nature is the bal­ance
AND at dawn the sun will set.

Live by Ma’et. Live for truth. Live by Truth.

The Truth can always see a lie but a lie can­not always see the Truth.

2009 Logos

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and Now for the First of Logos.

Poet­ry through time

Down through time mankind has worked life­times to record their day to day strug­gles and life for the gen­er­a­tions to come. Not all the lit­er­a­ture writ­ten, paint­ed, or sculp­tured sur­vives the test of time and of that which does sur­vive in record­ed form, bare­ly any of it is known to the peo­ple of today.

What makes a piece of work sur­vive that test of time? What makes a piece turn from a work of art into a clas­sic that is held in rev­er­ence still today, pos­si­bly hun­dreds of years since it’s cre­ation.

What makes the Mona Lisa one of the most viewed pieces of art in the world still today. What makes clas­sic poet­ry still recitable by mem­o­ry for the gen­er­a­tions of today, many years after the author first penned the prose.

The answer is sim­ple.

and that was the answer.

Sim­ple.

Sim­plic­i­ty. The abil­i­ty of the artist to cap­ture their sur­round­ings, what their eyes see, what their soul feels, what they touch, taste, hear and think about and then turn it to paper and repro­duce that “moment” for eter­ni­ty in a sim­plis­tic form that trans­lates and is relat­able to by the mass­es.

The Mona Lisa is a clas­sic because of it’s stun­ning sim­plic­i­ty. The painter has sim­ply cap­tured a moment in time an trans­lat­ed it to can­vas in a lan­guage that is appeal­ing and under­stand­able by the mass­es.

If Da Vin­ci had put a bowl of fruit in her hands, jew­els around her neck, flow­ers in the field, the sun in the sky, a house or barn in the back­ground, what would we be look­ing at? What sto­ry would he be telling? What would be the focus and mean­ing behind what he had to say?

It gets lost in trans­la­tion. The more “wax­ing lyri­cal” or “wax­ing poet­ic” a piece has, the more the base mes­sage is obscured. I am sure you can see the anal­o­gy by now to writ­ing sto­ries and espe­cial­ly poet­ry.

Clas­sic pieces of poet­ry sur­vive because of their sim­plic­i­ty and the abil­i­ty of the author to relate a “moment” in form that every­one will under­stand. When you look at clas­sic poet­ry that has sur­vived you will see it is musi­cal and for the most part, bril­liant in it’s sim­plic­i­ty.

I will keep this blog sim­ple today. Today for the first time I am going to intro­duce you one such sim­plis­tic writer who’s work has sur­vived that test of time and has been trans­lat­ed into ever lan­guage known to man.

 

That Poet and bril­liant mind would be none oth­er than Nos­tradamus him­self.

 

 

He is per­haps arguably the best poet through­out his­to­ry and his work com­bines my great­est loves in the poet­ic world.

Sim­plic­i­ty, qua­trains and eso­te­ria.

 

I know his work was in French so it makes that bit more dif­fi­cult to show­case Nos­trad­maus but what I want to show­case is the sheer bril­liance that is the man. He used his gift in such a closed mind­ed time to last many life­times and reached out to many minds. Nos­tradamus was born in a time of closed reli­gion and polit­i­cal thoughts. He was a bril­liant man and saw the world as the great bril­liant artists have through­out time. A left of cen­tre, from the out­side look­ing in, curi­ous vista.

Because of the abil­i­ty to look at the world from dif­fer­ent eyes, he was able to take it one step fur­ther and to actu­al see and project where things would lead. It was com­mon sense real­ly. Pure log­ic or logos.

If some­one gets mar­ried to some­one I know to be dis­trust­wor­thy and a sleep around then I could pret­ty much guar­entee a bro­ken heart qua­trains for the gen­tle­man con­cerned will be a case of life imi­tates art with­in a few short years.

But because of the time he lived, he could not blog his thoughts on the world at large. So he used his gift of the word, the gift of Logos to share his visions and drems and views of times ahead. He used sim­ple poet­ry or qua­trains. A sim­ple four lined stan­za, rhyming it to tell a sto­ry in a way that left the view­er guess­ing and sur­mis­ing what he was talk­ing about.

At the time his mean­ing was not clear. That became clear in time. What is clear is that this man had a gift and he used that gift to share with us today a piece of mag­ic that was Nos­trad­mus­es world.

Ryh­ming Poet­ry with sim­plic­i­ty

Poet­ry is bal­ance. It must have a flow and form that is pleas­ing to the mind in order for the read­er to feel the emo­tion behind the writ­ten word. It is not just a mat­ter of ryh­ming the last words of the sec­ond and fourth lines. All oth­er mate­r­i­al must fit. There must be a sto­ry or feel­ing con­veyed by the words and there must be a musi­cal sound or lilt to the pat­tern of words as they are said. There are rules in the poet­ry world. Once again. I don’t do rules so I will share my own per­son­al poet­ic rules.

It will not work it the sen­tence struc­ture is flat.

dum dum dum dum dum
— is flat

da da da da da
— is flat

but it will work with

dee dum dee dum dee dum dee dum.
— is musi­cal

It will not work if the sto­ry does not make sense or if it con­tains a waxed poet­ic fluff­ball of out­side influ­ences.

Keep it sim­ple.

The Chal­lenge
What I would like to see today is for every­one to use their gifts and real­ly step out­side their com­fort zone. Not just their gifts of the word but their gifts of the dream. I would like you to sit a minute and to think how it could be in the future and if you were nos­tradamus today, what would you write, What would be your qua­trains for tomorrow’s world.

Share them here. Here is two exam­ples of qua­trains I have writ­ten today. The dif­fer­ence between them is sim­ple. One is good and one isn’t. Although they both tell the sto­ry I wish to tell, One has max­i­mized the use of words and feel­ings and the ohter is just a bunch of words put togeth­er that hap­pen to rhyme but not flow. I don’t want a dis­cus­sion or argu­ment over what I wrote, the actu­al sub­ject mat­ter. I am just using it as an exam­ple.

 

A cow­boy heads towards set­ting suns
with gold­en rains and rag­ing beasts
of fools sand and mighty ter­rors
they will wish the wheel rolled east

if oba­ma wins pre­s­e­lec­tion
there is one path you know
there will be an assas­si­na­tion
into the white house a clin­ton will go

Which one works for you?

 

 

I hope I didn’t lose you halfway through all that.

So

What do you think?

Resources for Fur­ther Read­ing

Nos­trad­maus Wikipedia

Nostradmaus.org — All Qua­trains List­ed

What is a Qua­train — Wikipedia

LMNS — The light spark

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LMNS

 

Lamed
Mem
Nun
Samehk

30,40,50,60

180 degrees

Lamp lights the spark
Mem Moth­er incu­bates nour­ish­es births and rais­es her child
Pro­tect­ed by the hid­den crone Baba Grand­moth­er  “Lama”
Child is reborn as an adult with the Keys of all before which sparks the begin­ning of a new cre­ation

which is a reflec­tion

Samekh
Nun
Mem
Lamed
180 degrees

it gath­ers the first on way back with it so 61, 51, 41, 31 184 plus the cre­ator and the “zeus” spark 1 +? = 365+?

Secret Mona Lisa codes Keys — visible Temple Door

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truth of the GOD con­struct is in art .. the mir­ror of the eye. and behind that, is the reflec­tion and in that is the piece of GOD that is the heart of cre­ation. All cre­ation

You can only see the truth trap visu­al­ly in the flip ..the image appears in your brains flipped up and flipped across .. your brain reads the mes­sage back­wards and upside down and THEN con­verts it right way up and across so this is what your brains sees..

Mona Lisa was/is the door to the red drag­on’s tem­ple (mason­ic) for cen­turies.

Every time you look at it you get drawn into the illu­sion.

How­ev­er, if you look at the  paint­ing from the hori­zon, at the reflec­tion, you see the pure truth behind the illu­sion­ary “catch­net” light in the cen­tre.

Is God to live in a Dog, no but the high­est of us are,

you will see the cute crit­ter under the even cuter dog if you look deep

now this is how sub­lim­i­nal adver­tis­ing works.. grab a pic of a gam­bling ad or alco­hol or any sleek image it will be already horver’ed hor­i­zon­tal and ver­ti­cal flip and past­ed. I have seen inno­cent look­ing pics and flip­ping the  the dupli­cate images meld­ing them and they flip into girls or guys hav­ing sex or a bit of hawk tua, you don’t see it but your eye and mind does.. it con­trols you

 

note the ser­pent eye in the cen­tre eye and note the tem­ple the arch on her fore­head and the tem­ple pills are the noses. The more you see. note the two con­structs in the mid­dle at sides of image , like a winged crit­ter with 8 legs the globe con­struct of per­fect ion in mid­dle, the angel bow tying it all in

 

The Hawk and The Dog
You will see these images often in Logos art and cre­ation

as it is linked in the col­lec­tive con­scious­ness

 

S Samekh — The Divine Spark of Creation AKA the secret

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The Rev­e­la­tion of Samek — The Divine Spark of Cre­ation

 

 as revealed by the right hand of GOD Michae­lan­ge­lo in his paint­ing Adam

The only thing that reached through the fir­ma­nent was the hand of GOD “elec­tric­i­ty” and if you observe, the gap between. They did not touch.

Michelan­ge­lo, Like Crow­ley, could not paint or wirte what they saw and knew, but the truth behind the lies he was tasked to paint are under­neath, you just have to look from the periph­er­als or fold the paper

Logos

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Logos = WORD

Logos is not the“word of god”

Logos became a tech­ni­cal term in West­ern phi­los­o­phy
begin­ning with Her­a­cli­tus (c. 535 – c.  475 BC), (aka Before Christ)

Logos became part of the ver­nac­u­lar By Aris­to­tle times 384 BC (aka Before Christ)
it was adopt­ed by She­brews in 40 bc
Chris­t­ian con­struct start­ed 200 ad
bible writ­ten 600ad

Logos is an ancient greek word for word.

logos is word

word is logos

your mind has been con­di­tioned to attach GOD to the word, logos.

The More the Illu­sion is seen through from periph­er­al, from the hori­zon eyes will open
light goes in col­or comes out

of TheDark!!

Logos

Meaning

he Greek word logos (λόγος) means “word, dis­course, or rea­son”. It’s the root of the word “log­ic” and is used in rhetoric to describe a method of per­sua­sion that uses rea­son and log­ic. 

The word logos comes from the Pro­to-Indo-Euro­pean root leǵ‑, which means “I put in order, arrange, gath­er, choose, count, reck­on, dis­cern, say, speak”. It’s relat­ed to the Ancient Greek word légō, which means “I say”.

I Was Born in a Morgue

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Born Into Death

I am repost­ing this sto­ry from 2008

 

This is the sto­ry of my birth and how I felt as a child. I feel it will give read­ers an idea of who I am and where I came from…..Well yeah .. a morgue…

 

I have over 350 new read­ers sub­scribed since I first post­ed this sto­ry and while it is buried in my archives I thought I would dust it all off for you to read and get a bit of insight of the per­son behind my blogs.

It is rather a mam­moth read.. but as with all my work.. it may be long but nev­er bor­ing. I hope you enjoy this sto­ry.. of how I came to be

======================================================

Post­ing.

After being asked by an edi­tor today about my unusu­al birth in a morgue, I decid­ed to revist “Tales of An adoptee” and rewrite it and pub­lish it on Orato.com
the sto­ry which is avail­able in full at the fol­low­ing link.
Born in a Morgue

Valentine’s Day 1966, the day Dec­i­mal cur­ren­cy was intro­duced to Aus­tralia dawned a love­ly day for me. Far in the out­back of NSW on the banks of the Mac­quar­ie riv­er at Dub­bo, I was con­ceived in cir­cum­stances that vary depend­ing on which par­tic­i­pat­ing par­ent one is speak­ing to at the time.

My moth­er was young and sin­gle, strong-willed and curi­ous. My father was also young with a wild and rest­less Irish streak, and togeth­er, the com­bi­na­tion did not bode well for me.

Del­la was the only daugh­ter of the six off­spring of Grand Mas­ter Mason, Ambrose Angus and the fact that his daugh­ter pre­sent­ed her­self to him preg­nant and sin­gle caused him much con­ster­na­tion.

I don’t know whether the deci­sions he made on behalf of his fam­i­ly at the time ever came back to haunt him as they did me; I nev­er met him to ask him why. Strange as it sounds, the man that had the most pro­found effect on my life and upbring­ing nev­er set eyes on me.

My grand­fa­ther soon sent his sons away to work in Queens­land for a year or so and set about hid­ing my moth­er from soci­ety when he found out about my exis­tence. It would not have been too dif­fi­cult to hide her as the fam­i­ly lived in a coun­try town and with­out the lads at the house bring­ing vis­i­tors he was able to iso­late my moth­er suc­cess­ful­ly.

As my moth­er grew in size, so did the lies and deceit, cul­mi­nat­ing with my grand­fa­ther tak­ing my moth­er down to the cap­i­tal city to await my birth. The last thing my moth­er remem­bers is walk­ing off leav­ing my grand­fa­ther sob­bing behind on a bus stop seat hold­ing his head in his hands.

I often won­der what was going through his head at the time. Was he think­ing of the shame I had bought upon his good mason­ic fam­i­ly? Was he sob­bing for the lost smiles and laugh­ter, was he sob­bing for my mother’s lost inno­cence?

 

Did he miss his “Gypsy’s” child at all…ever?

My moth­er was tak­en to a sin­gle mother’s home and made to work hard dur­ing the preg­nan­cy, scrub­bing floors and being told dai­ly by nuns what a sin it was to be sin­gle and preg­nant. Not an hour past where she would not be told how evil she was. The young women were fed food not fit for a dog and were dressed in rags. They ere con­tin­u­al­ly stood over and told how sin­ful they were and that God had for­sak­en them and they now belonged to the dev­il for sin­ning. They were hit, whipped and treat­ed appalling­ly.

Med­ical aid to them was scant, they were just cow breed­ers for oth­er child­less Chris­t­ian fam­i­lies. My moth­er was con­tin­u­al­ly told I was born into evil and the least she could do was to pass me to a good kind Chris­t­ian fam­i­ly to raise and hope that her sins would not wash off to me.

Time past and so did my time in the womb, and my moth­er went into labour with me. She was not allowed any pain relief and had no help or assis­tance and when the time came for my birth she was whipped down to the morgue and cov­ered by a sheet. The sin­gle moth­ers were kept away from the oth­er mar­ried mother’s they were sin they were shame and they wern’t allowed to con­t­a­m­i­nate the labour wards or the oth­er moth­ers. So they were tak­en down to the mogue for deliv­ery, where they could scream from lack of med­ica­tion and prop­er care with no one to hear them but the dead.

So sur­round­ed by death, where oth­ers die, I was born just after 4 a.m. on the 21st of Novem­ber 1966 and whisked away from my moth­er with­out her ever touch­ing me. She nev­er held me or stroked my baby soft skin. She nev­er nuz­zled me and nev­er told me how beau­ti­ful I was or how loved and want­ed I was.

The chance for me to search out and find the nour­ish­ment I so des­per­ate­ly need­ed was robbed from me in an instant, nev­er to be replaced.

21st of Novem­ber 1966 was a spe­cial day, the cusp of fire and water in the year of the only mutat­able Chi­nese sign, The Fire Water Horse. The fire water horse com­bi­na­tion is the rarest in the Chi­nese Zodi­ac and only hap­pens once every 60 years. A scor­pi­on no less, with enough of Sagit­tar­i­an fire in my tail to nev­er stag­nate.

My moth­er is a black Scot. A throw­back if you like to the times of Black invaders rap­ing and pil­lag­ing through the high­lands of Scot­land and the isles. She is a direct descend of Olaf The Black, King Of Man (isle of Man) and of the Torquil Macleod Linage. They say my great, great, great grand­fa­ther was heir to the Macleods of Ras­say and Lewis and that he sold his lands and immi­grat­ed to Aus­tralia hun­dreds of years ago.

My father was an Irish Rogue, Syd­ney Leo or as his name trans­lates, “the fire in the heart of the ser­pent”. He was short with typ­i­cal red hair and green Irish Eyes. He once told me that his grand­moth­er was kid­napped as a child in Ire­land, for what rea­son I nev­er did find out.

So here was me, a tiny bun­dle of sev­en pounds nine ounces, with brown hair and brown eyes, a true mix­ture of both my par­ents. I looked like them, I cried for them…I need­ed them, but they nev­er came.

Del­la was tak­en to an iso­lat­ed room where she had nuns and work­ers with her 24 hours a day.

She was not giv­en any med­ica­tion and noth­ing to dry up her milk sup­ply, Every­time a baby cried she would pour milk down her front, milk that could have nour­ished me was washed away and wast­ed.

The nuns con­tin­u­al­ly talked to her, per­suad­ing her to sign the papers to adopt me out. She refused for two days, demand­ing to see me. Stronger tac­tics were used – threats to lock her away in a men­tal insti­tu­tion and worse. After the sec­ond day nurs­es came with papers for her to sign, she was told they were papers to sign for her care in the hos­pi­tal. They were not; they were adop­tion papers.

When she demand­ed again to see me the next day, she was told it was too late and that she had will­ing­ly signed the papers the day before. She was then heav­i­ly med­icat­ed and brain­washed some more before being sent home.

Over the next few months she heard I was in Wol­lon­gong and left home to find me but she was caught by the police and tak­en back and locked away in a men­tal hos­pi­tal. By that time it was too late, the final adop­tion papers had be signed and sealed by the courts.

Mean­while in Wol­lon­gong NSW lived anoth­er fam­i­ly. Frances and Gra­ham. Frances had been sick most of her life and was the moth­er to still­born twins, who were sad­ly born at sev­en months of con­cep­tion in a toi­let.

Short­ly after, in 1963 she fell preg­nant again but unfor­tu­nate­ly in the six­ties not much was known about the rhe­sus fac­tor. Frances had neg­a­tive blood while Gra­ham had pos­i­tive blood, so when their daugh­ter Cather­ine was born on the 31st of July they both near­ly died, moth­er and baby.

Cather­ine had emer­gency blood trans­fu­sions direct­ly into her head and Frances under­went post natal surgery.

Frances was then told she had can­cer of the uterus and would be unable to have anoth­er child ever. She under­went a total hys­terec­to­my and sub­se­quent­ly a dou­ble par­tial mas­tec­to­my. This news and result broke Frances heart, as she had always want­ed and dreamed of a pigeon pair of lit­tle girls to dress up. After much dis­cus­sion they put their names on an adop­tion wait­ing list, co inci­den­tal­ly around the day of my con­cep­tion.

On the 24th of Novem­ber 1966 came the phone call came that changed their life. Three days after my birth, not straight away like most adop­tive par­ents. They were told a lit­tle girl had been born and matched with them both and were asked if they would like to come and col­lect her.

Over the moon, they rushed to Syd­ney and the first glimpse they had of me was a pair of huge hands pok­ing out through a pink bun­ny rug. I was sleep­ing, as usu­al. I was hand­ed to them, still sleep­ing and they filled out more paper­work until final­ly it was time to take me on the long ride home, still sleep­ing. They named me Mar­garet Ruth. ‘Mar­garet’ means pearl and ‘Ruth’ means vision or mir­ror. I was named after the street the adop­tion agency was in, Mar­garet Street……I do not give them any points for orig­i­nal­i­ty.

I arrived home in Wol­lon­gong, to my new home on the slopes of Mt. Keira, still sleep­ing and I was intro­duced to my big sis­ter Cather­ine. It was a time of love, I was now sur­round­ed by the love that I had lost.

For six months I was a noth­ing; I lived in no man’s land. I slept a lot

Mum often tells me of her fear every time the front door­bell went, think­ing it was the agency say­ing she had to give me back. I was nobody’s child until final­ly my birth was reg­is­tered in the next April. I am offi­cial­ly record num­ber 888 of 1967. I final­ly had par­ents and a fam­i­ly to call my own.

I was told from an ear­ly age that I was adopt­ed. I don’t ever remem­ber sit­ting down and being told one day, I just always knew. I know I always remem­bered what it meant to be adopt­ed. I had often over­heard dad’s mum com­ment­ing how they had dis­graced the fam­i­ly by bring­ing me into it with com­ments such as, “You nev­er know what gut­ter she came from.”

 

My new grand­moth­er on my father’s side was always stand­off­ish towards me. I could feel it com­ing from her in waves as I was grow­ing up that I was an extra, unwant­ed intru­sion. My grand­moth­er was a class above the rest as such. She was pres­i­dent of the state rose soci­ety, the state deaf soci­ety and the moth­er union at her church. She was knight­ed by the Queen lat­er in life for her ser­vices to soci­ety. (OAM) Grand­ma was of the firm belief that lit­tle chil­dren should be seen and not heard, in fact she often remind­ed me of that very detail.

It was dif­fer­ent with my mum’s mum – she was a sweet­heart and was anoth­er source of affec­tion for me as a child, which helped me get through some rough times grow­ing up.

Who knows the rea­sons why, but I was one wild child. I was always in trou­ble and I couldn’t under­stand why. Why couldn’t I climb that tree? Why couldn’t I play in that deli­cious look­ing mud pud­dle?

Why did I have to wear these hor­rid frilly dress­es? Why the heck do you dress me in white when you know its going to turn mud col­ored by the end of the day? I loved life and I loved explor­ing. I loved wak­ing up each day to see what nature had to offer.

As I grew I start­ed to under­stand more about what being adopt­ed meant. I start­ed won­der­ing from an ear­ly age just who I was. In some ways it’s a great tool for the imag­i­na­tion, I was a princess, kept hid­den to claim my roy­al­ty when prince charm­ing came to sweep me off my feet back to my king­dom on a shiny white horse.

Well, no knights and no hors­es, as I grew I found I was aller­gic to the crit­ters. I had a mil­lion sce­nar­ios to dream of but no truth. I asked but received no answers. I remem­ber climb­ing onto the roof of my house and wait­ing, just wait­ing for the aliens to come and get me as soon as they real­ized they had dropped me off on the wrong plan­et.

They didn’t come, either they didn’t real­ize or I was the brunt of a huge cos­mic joke.

I start­ed school at five, already sen­si­tive to the dif­fer­ences between me and oth­ers. My best friend looked just like her moth­er but had her dad’s eyes. I went and looked in the mir­ror, who did I look like? I went and searched out my sis­ter who was as usu­al ruf­fled by my appear­ance. I looked at her long and hard, there was dad’s face but mums eyes and dads shape but mum’s hair. Back to the mir­ror, noth­ing, just who was I?

At school things became more dif­fi­cult, I didn’t fit the mould.

I found myself get­ting into trou­ble for all sorts of things, I was just bored with the whole event and announced on the sec­ond day that I wasn’t going back. Imag­ine my dis­plea­sure about being told I had to endure 12 more years of it at least and then there was col­lege to think about. I climbed the figtree that after­noon to pon­der that one. From that day on I count­ed my school­ing days down.

Mum was part of a social set at the school, the typ­i­cal fete knit­ter, cook­ie bak­er and can­teen helper. She belonged. I was the out­cast, the one on the side of the group. I don’t remem­ber being awk­ward but do remem­ber every­one mak­ing it awk­ward for me.

I was “Nigel no friends.” I was the fat kid that said the wrong thing at the wrong time. I was bru­tal­ly honest…I hadn’t been taught tact at that time. One of the oth­er kids mums, Mrs. Walk­er pushed me in the pool once on hol­i­days at a Queens­land resort, so I got out and pushed her in.

No one had said it was ok for her to push me in, but not for me to do it to her. Now just because she had just got­ten all dressed in a love­ly frock and make­up all ready to go out that night doesn’t mean a thing. She did it first.

I spent my child­hood pon­der­ing, many hours spent climb­ing moun­tains, catch­ing tad­poles and adven­tur­ing around the neigh­bor­hood at my leisure. I was always alone, as the oth­er girls want­ed to play mum­mies and dad­dies which I found to be repi­ti­tous­ly bor­ing.

Why play dolls when I knew of a tree that was full of plumb mul­ber­ries and silk­worms to catch to pop into a shoe­box?

I was a read­er and devoured any­thing full of writ­ten words. I cut my teeth on Enid Bly­ton and quick­ly pro­gressed to Aleis­ter Maclean in ear­ly teens.

I was sur­round­ed by a lov­ing fam­i­ly but always felt that some­thing was missing…me. I didn’t real­ly belong here. I belonged some­where else, with some­one who looked like me and thought like me and did things I liked to do.

Dad saved my child­hood and sens­ing the wan­der­lust with­in me, he took me around Aus­tralia trav­el­ing with him as often as he could. Dad was a coach cap­tain and toured the out­back year in and year out. It was noth­ing to him to pull me out of school and take me to Ayers Rock for a few months, or a back state tour of Vic­to­ria and Queens­land.

I loved trav­el­ing with him and the trav­el may have had some­thing to do with the rea­son on why I couldn’t set­tle at school. How could I, when the week before I was shar­ing an aboriginal’s camp fire watch­ing him mak­ing song sticks at Ayers Rock? I was nine when I jour­neyed on that trip and didn’t real­ize at the time of the impact it would have on me.

It was the first time I real­ly remem­ber my eyes being opened to real­i­ty. We arrived at Ayers Rock after trav­el­ing through west­ern Queens­land for a week and pitched our camp. I helped dad with the chores then set off to explore on my own. Trav­el­ing away from the camp I came to the abo­rig­i­nal set­tle­ments. It was amaz­ing, kids with dirty blonde hair and black skin with snot­ty noses and no clothes. WOW….

here was me for years try­ing to rip my clothes off and be free and here was these kids as free as I want­ed to be. I sat down at the camp­fire of one such fam­i­ly. I could sense even way back then of much that was unspo­ken.

The man radi­at­ed strength and pur­pose and yet to what I had been brought up to believe, there was no pur­pose and no strength in liv­ing so poor­ly. His wife had a tat­ty old torn dress on with one ten­nis shoe. She was so proud of that one shoe, she showed it off to me smil­ing and chat­ter­ing in her own lan­guage.

I watched the kids play­ing, so hap­py so free and then I sat at the fire to watch him carve the sticks. He had one eye only but seemed not to miss the oth­er one. We both sat in silence as he carved a set of song sticks, when he was fin­ished he looked up and looked me straight in the eye. Two dol­lars, was all he said and he hand­ed me the sticks. I cau­tious­ly reached out for them…mine?

Wow, it was so spe­cial, I trea­sured those sticks as if they were gold. They were mine, carved for me and me only. The man kept look­ing at me as I hand­ed him the two dol­lar note. He then opened his arm out wide and spread it around the whole area as if to say what you see.

It was unspo­ken, but it was as if he was wel­com­ing me to his home­lands. I felt for once in my life that I wasn’t the extra leg, that this was my time and my place and it was spe­cial there for me.

I smiled at him and nod­ded, still to this day it is as clear as a bell ring­ing. I under­stood him and he under­stood me. He was the first being i ever came across that did under­stand.

We were both out­casts, him and me, both not quite fit­ting the box­es soci­ety had set for it’s peo­ple to be in.

The trip we were on with dad was a book­ing from Girl Guides, Dad was a very pop­u­lar tour oper­a­tor who had kind­ness, good morals and a take charge and do aura. It was a safari, so the camp­site was sprin­kled with the thick heavy can­vas bedouin look­ing tents. I was used to camp­ing in them, by then it was sec­ond nature, the stars were my hol­i­day home.

I would pitch my tent and then go and help the oth­er tour­ers pitch theirs. It was hilar­i­ous at times, some city peo­ple had no clue and would ham­mer furi­ous­ly away at sol­id rock for ages before storm­ing off in frus­tra­tion. Even after I showed them the next time we pitched camp they would still try beat moth­er nature and hit the rock areas with­out fail.

I helped around the camp in exchange for pock­et mon­ey. I was an avid play­ing card col­lec­tor and had bought a deck from every place I vis­it­ed. Of a morn­ing my favorite job which made me feel real­ly big, impor­tant and grown up would be to start dad’s coach up and keep it idling on low revs to warm the airbag sus­pen­sion up.

Dad pret­ty much let me do what I want­ed, he trust­ed me by then and I would wan­der every­where we went and explore by myself.

I wan­dered in and out of dif­fer­ent places and scenes at will and sucked up every­thing I saw and expe­ri­enced like a vac­u­um. To watch the sun­rise over dev­ils mar­bles with not a per­son in site on a crisp clear win­ter morn­ing in the desert was the ulti­mate expe­ri­ence, I felt so alive and so hap­py and free.

The Girl Guide leader on the rock trip would often try and make me stand at atten­tion and fol­low the group around but I found it all hor­rid­ly con­strain­ing. Don’t touch this don’t touch that, line up here, no way. Dad told her to leave me be after I had com­plained to him in a foot stamp­ing huff.

The day every­one was to climb the rock dawned a tad over­cast. It wasn’t rain­ing but there was no blue sky vis­i­ble. The leader, Pam, sat every­one down and had the morn­ing lec­ture. Because it wasn’t sun­ny she wasn’t going to let any­one climb the rock all the way, every­one had to stop at the end of the sec­ond chain and come back down. She looked straight at me, “and that includes you”.

I was cranky and went to see dad, noth­ing I can do about it, was his reply to me. She had com­plained about safe­ty and that was that. I wan­dered off and found mum and my a friend I had on the trip. They could tell I was cranky so kept silent as we walked to the foot of Ayers Rock. It was a long and steep climb. The begin­ning sec­tion has chains run­ning down the mid­dle to pull your­self up on.

In no time I had passed every­one else includ­ing the rather large Pam and I kept on climb­ing.

Final­ly I reached the top of the sec­ond chain and sat down to enjoy the view. Wow to this day noth­ing has come close to the feel­ing expe­ri­enced up there. Here was this rock, and I knew from my lessons that two thirds of it was still under­ground. It was in the mid­dle of the flat flat desert and in the dis­tance, 18 kilo­me­tres away sat the Olga’s, a small­er for­ma­tions of egg like rocks that i could see in the dis­tance on the plain.

I grinned to myself and got up from sit­ting down. With­out a back­ward glance I kept climb­ing, up and up. By now the chains had stopped and turned into white lines paint­ed on the rock to fol­low. I knew not to ven­ture away from them, many a per­son had made that fatal mis­take and were now remem­bered by a sim­ple gold­en inscribed plague at the foot of the rock. It didn’t seem long before I was at the very top, I looked around the full cir­cle, I felt like I was at the top of the world. Just me and nature and what she had cre­at­ed, but why?

The cre­ation of the rock intrigued me, why was it there, just popped up smack in the mid­dle of Aus­tralia? There was noth­ing around it, not even a hill or ridge, not count­ing the anthill mounds sprin­kling the desert scrub land­scape. I sat and took my sur­round­ings in for a while, but realised I had to race back down. I skipped back down the path to the top of the sec­ond chain.

Mum was sit­ting there all red-faced and tired.

She laughed when I told her that I had gone to the top; she had expect­ed that and appar­ent­ly when every­one met up at the sec­ond chain Pam had gone off her rock­er to find me miss­ing.

I didn’t care – what­ev­er pun­ish­ment I got for dis­obey­ing was well worth the expe­ri­ence. I helped mum down and we were the last ones back. The Coach was run­ning and dad winked at me as I got on silent­ly. Mum and I sat down and Pam start­ed.

She ground­ed me, I nev­er knew you could be ground­ed on hol­i­days but she did and then came time to hand out the cer­tifi­cates of the day’s achieve­ments. The cer­tifi­cates were gen­uine “Ayers Rock” with options under.

I came saw and….

1, I Climbed Ayers Rock
2, I Climbed Three Quar­ters of Ayers Rock,
3, I Climbed One Half of Ayers Rock
4, I Climbed a quar­ter of Ayers Rock
5, I Saw Ayers Rock

All the cer­tifi­cates were passed out with ticks vary­ing from three quar­ters and half down to a quar­ter and I saw. Final­ly she came to mine and called my name, I accept­ed my cer­tifi­cate and glanced down at it.

I climbed Ayers rock, it said, all signed, wit­nessed and stamped. The only one on the tour. I grinned to myself as I returned to my seat, nobody and noth­ing could ever take that away. It was an expe­ri­ence that I often drew on lat­er in life.

My life as a clown

Post Views: 102

My life as a clown

You ever hear the one about the clown that wasn’t hap­py?

I see you nod there.

I’ve heard it myself ………They say that Clowns are sad fucks.

Well I’m here today to tell you it’s true. We are.

Oh don’t wor­ry I AM A clown, just ask any­one that knows me in real life. My kids call me a clown dai­ly. I am always pulling faces and doing tricks for them and pulling pranks on them to make them laugh. When I go out with my friends I keep them in hys­ter­ics all night with my antics. The drunk­er THEY get, the fun­nier I get. For­got to add, I don’t drink, my Brava­do is not found by using beer gog­gles….

has peo­ple need LOL’s

Even though in many ways I am an incred­i­bly shy, self reflec­tive qui­et per­son, put me in com­pa­ny that needs a gig­gle to bright­en up their lives and I will have them wet­ting my pants…. and if there is anoth­er clown in the room with me….. well we just bounce… cre­ativ­i­ty sparks to life……

Well the amaz­ing thing I have dis­cov­ered is that when I am at my low­est and sad­dest, a sur­vival mech­a­nism kicks in, I cre­ate LOL’s and smiles and all things fun and then I use that to draw ener­gy into me and use it, to sur­vive anoth­er day, to stand up and breathe and to take a step fur­ther into the dark cave I am jour­ney­ing.

As fast as my cup gets emp­tied by life’s pain, I do my utmost to keep ener­gy flow­ing back in. Some times that cup is long dry and then a spark, an acknowl­edg­ment, a laugh from some­one comes to me and that tiny drop revives life and restores me to a con­di­tion that I can keep going on… it gives me the air to breathe.

It is almost like a spir­it orgasm.. I get off on mak­ing peo­ple smile and see­ing them laugh and be hap­py… it warms the cock­les of my wid­dle heart that late­ly has been grow­ing cold­er by the day… noth­ing will make me smile. I have noth­ing to smile about oth­er than to see oth­ers smile…  thats not a pity me request either… it is a truth­ful state­ment of “clown­ship” the secret code of a true clown…..

I find at this moment for as deep a my pain cuts, as low I have sunk in the quag­mire we call life, my cre­ative ener­gy and pos­i­tive out­put actu­al­ly equals the depths. My ris­es are just as high as the low points are low. The work I cre­ate at these times stuns me when I look back at it lat­er.. Did I do that? Did I cre­ate that? and that gives me more ener­gy to work with..

and its those pos­i­tives in my life that then make me real­ize how well off I tru­ly am .. I CAN cre­ate.. it is a gift I trea­sure.. because that very act of cre­ation bal­ances up all the destruc­tion.

I have a new admi­ra­tion for clowns today.. a deep­er appre­ci­a­tion of who they real­ly are inside…. they still scare me though….. but then I have a deep­er under­stand­ing of that fear too.. it is once again a gen­uine admi­ra­tion of all things clown and a healthy respect for the dark­er mind of a clown………don’t ever fuck with a clown…  and don’t ever fuck with his LOL’s ……….please see ALL of the above for expla­na­tion…

 

San­ta Claus is the ulti­mate clown you just nev­er saw it until then. His wears a clown suit com­plete with bells, he has the rud­dy red face and the wig with sil­ly hat.. and well just sub­sti­tute the new age white paint for the old fash­ioned white beard and …

San­ta… The King Clown,
the orig­i­nal clown

Ho Ho Ho…..and just as the clowns of today like to make chil­dren smile and laugh…well damn isn’t that Santa’s job descrip­tion and he is real­ly the king of the Clowns because while every oth­er clown in the world has their cir­cus, San­ta get to show his “clown­ship” to all the chil­dren in the world… and lets face it San­ta haz can­dy.. Clown haz can­dy…

Now you know who san­ta real­ly is…

The orig­i­nal Clown that every oth­er clown in the world has mold­ed and shaped their work on.

 

Emotional Rescue

Post Views: 74

first pub­lished 2009

Ever had a hissy fit?
Ever blown your stack?
Ever been really hurt and cried for days?
Ever ranted and raved and carried on?

If so then you have emo­tion….

(bet you felt bet­ter after­wards)

and that brings me to the sub­ject on my wid­dle mind today …

Emo­tions.

Do we hide them or do we leave them open to be as they are?

as we grow we are taught to refrain, to con­trol and to ignore our emo­tions.

In today’s soci­ety we even have lit­tle hap­py pills that take care of our emo­tions for us and damp­en them so that we do not feel emo­tion. We are taught as we grow to con­trol oursleves. Not to feel or to even think too deeply.

Yeah I get it.. emo­tion hurts. The easy way out is to take one of those pills and dull the sens­es from that emo­tion.

How­ev­er I’m not like that. I have nev­er hid my emo­tions.

Because I tru­ly believe that emo­tion = heart = pas­sion

and I am a pas­sion­ate per­son. With­out pas­sion life is bland and bor­ing and I feel that to exist as opposed to liv­ing life ful­ly is not what I wish to become in life.

We are often told not to cry, not to yell or not to be upset. Let it go, be the bet­ter per­on and ignore it… ah YES ignore it. Ignore yourslf and what your body spir­it and mind is try­ing to tell you.

how often do you ignore your­self?

How often do you hide from your emo­tions?

I read an inter­est­ing let­ter from one of my so called sup­port agen­cies the oth­er day which basi­cal­ly stat­ed that I am very artic­u­late but emo­tion­al.

I’m proud of that. I guess it wasn’t writ­ten in a pos­i­tive light but who cares. I am emo­tion­al. I am proud of my emo­tions because my emo­tions real­ly tell me what is going on around me.

Is it ratio­nal to con­trol ones feel­ings or is it more ratio­nal to be nat­ur­al and to feel and expe­ri­ence ALL there is to expe­ri­ence.

How can you hide your emo­tion and yet love freely?

How can you damp­en your feel­ings and still feel freely?

How can you tru­ly know your­self if you hide from what you feel?

You can’t You become a lit­tle less human and a lit­tle more robot­ic. You lose indi­vid­u­al­i­ty. You lose your sense of self. You become some­thing a lit­tle less than your­self. You, the inner you becomes hid­den behind an emo­tion­less mask.

I cry I laugh I love I hate but most of all I live and I live to my utmost. I see I think I touch I taste I hear but most of all I feel through life.

I won’t hide my emo­tion. I will feel what there is to feel whether it be joy or sad­ness melan­choly or despair.

and by doing that I will go on… I will move for­ward and not be kept stag­nant, I will not be trapped or held hostage by those very emo­tions kept tight­ly locked with­in my mind, slow­ly dam­ag­ing my soul until I too become that robot­ic emo­tion­less thing.

I love my life. I love it all. I take it all and accept it all.

It hurts
It sux some­times

But it rocks too

Fate & Destiny

Post Views: 69
Life is like a huge fer­ris wheel… you go up and down and round and round.. some­times it seems like you are for­ev­er at the bot­tom.. but the wheel turns.. from the bot­tom, you climb, high­er and high­er and as you get high­er and high­er, the view gets bet­ter.. life gets bet­ter.. some­times you have to stop and wait for oth­ers to get on or off the ride…. but it always begins again.. it doesn’t stay stag­nate for­ev­er.. it moves up again……

Life goes on.. the sun will shine tomor­row… The sun­shine may be cloud­ed … but it’s still there… and soon­er or lat­er, those clouds are going to rain out.. bring­ing back the sun­shine and rain­bows….

On my 100th birth­day.. as I blow the can­dles out with a blow dri­er…. I want to be able to reflect back and real­ly be hap­py and proud of my accom­plish­ments.

 

I want to look aaround at my huge fam­i­ly and friends and be able to tru­ly say.. my life rocked.. it was the best

 

I want to grow old with­out regrets..

with no
“Oh i real­ly wish i had done that after all”…….

as I wile away the hours in my lit­tle farm cot­tage over­look­ing the ocean and moun­tain I want to be able to replay the movies of my life in my mind over and over….and enjoy those high­lights time after time.

Fate?
Des­tiny?

.. you make it your­self…

if you want some­thing.. then go out and get it….. take the reins….take con­trol.. dri­ve on and steer the wagon…..don’t let life pass you by..and when you do get to obsta­cles.. they are just speed bumps on the road….designed to slow you down and make you think before any dam­age is done to your vehicle….that would be….

YOU

If you are unhap­py.. make changes.. be hap­py.. you have that right……This is your life.. Yours and yours only.. make it good….

Cos this one is about you and only you.

Life.. live it

How do you live your life?

Do you treat it as if life is pre­cious…..?

Do you think each day is a gift and not a giv­en right………………?

Hypocrisy

Post Views: 77
First Pub­lished 2009
Some­times I just have to laugh at the hypocrisy of hoomans…. 

If I wore a fur coat.. I would be looked down upon and crit­i­cized. I would have PETA on my ass for wear­ing a dead ani­mal. If I wore fur and I was pho­tographed by the paparazzi for wear­ing such said fur, I would suf­fer pub­lic shame and Naked PETA protests out­side my abode. I might even make nation­al news head­lines.

 

Many celebri­ties have joined the PETA cause over the years includ­ing Pamela Ander­son “Oh No I could nev­er wear fur”. Celebri­ties hold news con­fer­ences, Char­i­ty doo’s and are at the fore­front of ani­mal rights march­es and protests in their effort to stop peo­ple wear­ing dead ani­mals……

No celebri­ty who wants to keep their career and pub­lic pop­u­lar­i­ty would be caught dead in a fox fur coat or a mink stole and most are vocal in their anti fur stance.

Can you say “Join­ing caus­es because it is trendy”.

Even Anne Win­tour the edi­tor of Vogue mag­a­zine wears fake fur instead of the real Mc Coy…. It is con­sid­ered a huge blun­der for stars to wear real fur…..

So Ok we know from all this that wear­ing fur is bad. Wear­ing dead ani­mals is bad.

 

That is where I laugh at the hypocrisy. 

Because at the same time this “Anti Fur” celebri­ty stance is on the rise, so is anoth­er trend…..

 

The good Old Aussie Ugg Boot.

Ugg boots are not new to us Aussies. I remem­ber hav­ing them as a kid. Most Aus­tralians wear them hap­pi­ly around dur­ing the cold­er months and some even in sum­mer.

 

Just late­ly over the past cou­ple of years UGG Boots have grown into a multi­na­tion­al rage across the world. Stores spe­cial­iz­ing in UGG boot sales are spring­ing up every­where from Hol­ly­wood to London’s trendi­er sub­urbs.

 

Every­one who is any­one is now wear­ing UGG Boots and attend­ing store open­ing of UGG boot shops across the world..

 

So how is that hyp­o­crit­i­cal

Well I don’t know what rock all these hyp­o­crit­i­cal peo­ple were born under.. because UGG Boots are made of Sheep­skin.. yup a poor ole sheep had to die a nasty death to get those boots that are so com­fy and warm….You are still wear­ing a dead ani­mal……

 

 

 

So I per­son­al­ly can’t see the dif­fer­ence between killing a fox for his fur or a sheep for his skin…. can you? 

I Did Not Say That!

Post Views: 82

Do you want your voice to be heard?

Have you ever found your­self say­ing some­thing to some­one only to have it twist­ed and mis­rep­re­sent­ed at a lat­er date?

 

Have you ever played Chi­nese Whis­pers? Have you ever been the vic­tim of Chi­nese Whis­pers? Sil­ly ques­tion because I think we have all been the vic­tim of whis­pered rumors and twist­ed words before.

“That is not what I said”

“I Did Not Say That!”

When deal­ing with rumors or com­plaints, do you speak out loud­ly and oral­ly cor­rect the mis­takes made?

uh uh bad bad.


That is Not What you Said

Ok how can you prove what I said then?

ahh that is the point. Unless we have proof of the con­ver­sa­tion con­tents via a stenog­ra­ph­er or a taped record­ing then we can’t prove what we said.

Even some­one tak­ing notes of a con­ver­sa­tion can make errors.
Words tran­scribed, trans­lat­ed, orat­ed or dic­tat­ed can be tak­en out of con­text and changed. Just like Chi­nese Whis­pers too.

“That is not what I said”

I found myself scream­ing that state­ment many times late­ly.

In deal­ing with every­thing I am deal­ing with offline at the moment I have learned one valu­able les­son. Well many but the biggest les­son I learned is to

Write it the fuck down!!

Because

 

 

“That is what I said”

 

I think I have become the most pro­lif­ic let­ter writer in Aus­tralia. After hear­ing state­ments from peo­ple I am deal­ing with such as “We have nev­er been told that before” “you nev­er told us that before” and “That is not what you said” I decid­ed that the only way I could back myself up and to prove it indeed is exact­ly “That was what I said” is by writ­ing it down and send­ing it off in print..

So either way, to prove my point or to prove their point I could eas­i­ly ref­er­ence and refer to exactly“What I Said”

“well sir if you refer to my let­ter dat­ed 16th of Octo­ber, page 2 line 16 then you can see 

THAT IT IS EXACTLY WHAT I SAID“.

I have become silent.

My voice is no longer heard. I no longer spend an hour on the phone to cus­tomer com­plaints. Instead I spend five min­utes on hold and find out a fax num­ber, email address or snail mail address of the per­son I real­ly need to be talk­ing to and can help me.

Speak­ing of which, don’t you get tired of the riga­ma­role of phone depart­ments you talk to about any sort of com­plaint. First you orate your issue to the recep­tion­ist and then shes says “hold on please trans­fer­ring you now”. You wait on hold anoth­er fif­teen min­utes and then relate your tale again to a new dude who sounds like he just got out of high school only to find out that it is not dudes depart­ment that you need and he needs to trans­fer you again. In one phone con­ver­sa­tion to Tel­stra regard­ing a mis­take on my phone bill I usu­al­ly talk to peo­ple In India, Perth, Mel­bourne, Syd­ney Bris­bane and the per­son that usu­al­ly even­tu­al­ly helps me is in down­town Dune­doo, in out­back New South Wales with a total pop­u­la­tion 26.

Time of phone call = One hour forty min­utes.
Result of Phone call= Was told to put it in writ­ing and was giv­en an address to send it to.

So yeah..don’t wor­ry or both­er about using your voice..
some peo­ple just don’t lis­ten hear or com­pre­hend
just write it down..
pre­serve it for pos­ter­i­ty..
keep the records..

AKA PAPERTRAIL

because

“This is what I said”

Have you ever wished you had writ­ten it down?

Two Sides

Post Views: 73
Pub­lished 2009

 

Wars, gang fights, school yard bul­ly­ing, assaults, pub brawls and Inter­net fights even are all con­flicts between groups of peo­ple.

A con­flict­ing world we live in..

offline and on…..

We are taught con­flict from Birth. Our lives are mod­eled on con­flict.

From our very sys­tem of Gov­ern­ment..

We have
One Gov­ern­ment leader and Team…
One OPPOSITION Leader and team
Con­flict .. two sides.. teams ….war .. fight….
always an oppo­si­tion .. while I am on that point.. why have an Oppo­si­tion.. why not just have one gov­ern­ment all sit around and nut things out togeth­er..
unit­ed for the greater good…

 

 

 

 

Why do you think the LEGENDS talk of King Arthurs Round Table ?
There was no oppo­si­tion cre­at­ed…

 

today it becomes Sport to take down the oppo­si­tion

To Destroy them at all costs

Through our very sys­tem of sport we are taught con­flict….

we have peo­ple and teams COMPETING …

in con­flict……

Sport emu­lates the age old sys­tem of war­riors .. and once again..

WAR

Sport can be a great thing… but the neg­a­tive side of the coin of sport is the effect it has on a person’s psy­che in rea­gards to RESOLVING CONFLICT .. what­ev­er conflict….our sys­tem has ingrained that need to compete…To get one up.. to score one blow hard­er..
Humans hero wor­ship the win­ners … cheer­ing and egg on the par­tic­i­pants to get the self in a state of excite­ment and the com­pet­i­tive adren­a­lin going. Humans get off on that con­flict… To the vic­tor the spoils
and then turn away from the los­ing team with a com­plete lack of empa­thy..
after all its just fun.???

But really… Ya Know !!!!

noth­ing will ever be solved with con­flict or oppo­si­tion…

Only by res­o­lu­tion

Com­pas­sion
Under­stand­ing
Accep­tance
Dis­cus­sion
Empa­thy
Rea­son­ing
Sym­pa­thy
Com­pre­hen­sion
Matu­ri­ty
Knowl­edge
Intel­li­gence
Per­cep­tivenes
Ratio­nal­i­ty
Rec­on­cile

Resolution

or

Retaliation

 

You decide

 

Hatred Breeds Hatred
Hatred Incites more Hatred
Hatred Attracts Hatred

Hatred Mul­ti­plies Hatred

When does it become fun to get that one up in a bit­ter bat­tle of vin­dic­tive­ness

when is it fun to cheer on at train­wrecks

Mayet’s Moon Mystery Oct 2005

Post Views: 114

Extra Moon In Pho­to’s ? Pic­ture Weird­ness

I take a lot of shots of sun­sets and sun­ris­es and last night I was out tak­ing pho­tos just on sun­set of the moon and pink clouds.

I was amazed when after one shot I had an image that was not there and then when I came inside to stick the images on my com­put­er I was shocked and flab­ber­gast­ed at the image.

These shots are of the moon. The moon is ris­ing in the East. I was tak­ing the pho­to point­ing due east.

Then I turned around to cap­ture some nice clouds on the moun­tain­top fac­ing due west and then I took the below image stand­ing in the same spot as I took the east­ern moon images but now fac­ing due north north­west. This is the first one I took. Noth­ing unusu­al. I was­n’t going to take any more from this angle because I was­n’t hap­py with the pic­tures but then decid­ed to take a cou­ple more

Now for the amaz­ing shot that still has me shak­ing my head. I know my cam­era. I know how to take pic­tures I know what a smudge on the cam­era looks like, I know what ris­ing smoke looks like and I know what reflec­tions look like.

But this is the moon.….…..In my shot tak­en fac­ing north north west and yet the moon was behind me to the back­side of my head ris­ing in the east? How is this so. Check the cloud for­ma­tions in this pic and the one before.…

I have just shak­en my head and put it down to “the unex­plain­able”.

I took more images, in fact when I saw that come up in the lcd pre­vew screen I went snap mad and point­ed the cam­era all over the sky try­ing to repro­duce the effect…but I could­n’t

 

I will put Pichere for your perusal with kind Mayet’s per­mis­sion.
This has been cropped very close­ly, no col­or cor­rec­tion, gam­ma nor con­trast has been done..Raw crop only.

 

Wonder Woman

Post Views: 84

Today I am going to do some­thing a lit­tle dif­fer­ent

but then that is me. Mrs Dif­fer­ent.

When I was a lit­tle kid I loved watch­ing two shows on Sat­ur­days. I had to watch these shows and my fam­i­ly soon real­ized that to allow me to watch them was the best for their peace, tran­quil­i­ty and health. I real­ly looked for­ward to Sat­ur­days because of these two shows. Oh plus hav­ing no school and a full day to explore my world helped.

On Sat­ur­day morn­ings, in amongst my week­ly car­toon dose and fill-up was a show I loved, called “The Secret of ISIS”.

And on Sat­ur­day nights, well there was WONDER WOMAN.

Won­der Woman rocked. Espe­cial­ly the way she would casu­al­ly toss her shiny Brunette mane of hair at the same time as her lit­tle thin gold­en rope and with a secret lit­tle coy smile on her face she would trap and entwine her das­tard­ly tar­gets.

To a kids eyes, she ruled. She showed and taught me so much. I learned that it was ok to be strong, vir­tu­ous and coura­geous and it was ok at the same time to be a lady. That was what was best about her to me. Her fem­i­nin­i­ty. Xena War­rior Princess came well after Won­der Woman as an Ama­zon­ian War­rior female but some­how I just can­not imag­ine Xena show­ing up for her lat­est beau­ti­cian’s appoint­ment after just slay­ing the giants. Or admir­ing the lat­est por­trai­ture at the local gallery fol­lowed by din­ner at a French restau­rant and washed down with soft music and drinks after a busy day sword fight­ing with Mars. I liked Xena well enough, I had to as I had an Ex hus­band that Wood­ied over her as well as a child who idol­ized her but to me, she just was­n’t Won­der Woman.

Won­der Woman was refined and cul­tured. She was dig­ni­fied and hum­ble. Won­der Woman was always on the side of truth, jus­tice, the weak and pow­er­less and all things good in the world. She was strong and intu­itive. She was gra­cious and charm­ing. Every­thing that embod­ies and encom­pass­es WOMAN was with­in WONDER WOMAN. She was woman and is woman. All women have a lit­tle of Won­der Woman deep down inside them. She was every­thing that I admired as a small child and every­thing that I want­ed to be when I grew up.

Oh except the red blue and gold suit dis­as­ter.. sor­ry hun, not my col­ors.. some­thing flow­ing and pur­ple, with some blues and pinks through it may­haps. And real­ly, a tiny skirt would have helped.. yes you have love­ly child bear­ing hips but there is some­things that should be del­i­cate­ly hid­den. SEE ISIS – Her lit­tle pleat­ed skirt num­ber rocked.

.and those boots.. what hap­pened to a sim­ple nice pair of Black CFM boots.

Kids need Heroes and Super­heroes to idol­ize and wor­ship who are always humbly fight­ing the bad and sin­gle hand­ed­ly sav­ing the world in their mild man­nered way so that as those kids grow up they will try to be that hero­ic good per­son, qui­et­ly off sav­ing the world from evil and harm.

 

Polygamy and Raids

Post Views: 79

April 2008

May has some­thing to say and her fin­gers did the walk­ing.…. *grins

Last week I touched on the sto­ry of the polyg­a­mist com­pound raid in texas that has seem­ing­ly polar­ized the nation.

I found I have more to say on this mat­ter. SO I decid­ed to blog it today and open some dis­cus­sion.

These bad men were caught and stopped from vio­lent­ly rap­ing and beat­ing their many wives. Chil­dren were being raped and impreg­nat­ed and held against their will. The author­i­ties did a great job in bring­ing these freaks down.

Is that how you saw it?

Yes that is the way it has been pre­sent­ed but after watch­ing it all over the past week some ques­tions are start­ing to raise in my head. Lots of them. main­ly about the wrongs and rights of the whole she­moz­zle.

On the sur­face, in the eyes of men and women in Amer­i­ca today, these women and chil­dren are supressed and abused and liv­ing an attr­cious life.

But are they? Or are we judg­ing these peo­ple to our own social stan­dards?

There is some “issues” I have with the whole debar­cle.

In the 90’s there was anoth­er Tex­an cult. The name David Koresch still to this day sends fear into the hearts of peo­ple around the world and the whis­pered word “cult” soon gets bandied around. In 1996 tanks, armed gun­men, heli­copters and army all invad­ed the Waco com­pound and with­in 30 min­utes there was over 100 dead. At first every­one bought the jus­ti­fi­ca­tion for the raid but soon things emerged that were not quite right. Mis­takes were made. fatal ones.

Now we have the armed com­man­do raid on this polygamy com­pound.

Polygamy right or wrong.

Today as a species we have moved that far from all that is nat­ur­al that WE HAVE FORGOTTEN what is nat­ur­al to us. We have for­got­ten instinct and what is right.

I am not say­ing that polygamy is the way to go for the human race but lets look at nat­ur­al selec­tion for a minute here. It is all around you in nature. The sur­vival of the fittest, only the strongest genes car­ry through. The fight for alpha sta­tus in the tribe and the right to “have the women”. In the kan­ga­roo pop­u­la­tion and I know the same goes for lions in Africa, there are large amounts of juve­nile rogue wan­der­ers. The alpha male gets his pride of females and the juve­nile males are cast out to fight amongst them­selves for supre­me­cy and they wan­der, to find an even­tu­al mate.

Humans used to do this too but then some­thing hap­pened. Oh yes I can hear you say­ing it now. Humans became “civ­i­lized”. Cit­i­zen, civil­ian, servi­tude, ser­vant slave. Oh that right. yes we became con­trolled.

So when we look at nature we can see that polygamy is a nat­ur­al occur­ance to ensure the sur­vival of the fittest. Ok then, so who told us this was wrong, Oh thats right, the bible, the same book that tells us to treat women as chat­tels (Chris­tian­i­ty is the ulti­mate patri­archial reli­gion and sun/son fire male wor­ship­per), it also tells us that homo­sex­u­als should be killed and I could go on with the crap that was writ­ten because of that con­trol. So I should lis­ten to this book that incites hatred should I or should I lis­ten to the birds and the bees and the flow­ers and the trees.. and a lit­tle thing called LOVE.

Who are we to judge how these peo­ple live their lives? Who are we to take their chil­dren. Who are we to tell them the way they are liv­ing is wrong.

Can you say glasshouse and humungous rocks.. boul­ders in fact.….….

Lets look at the dirty side of the coin. These peo­ple work hard, they “slave” away in gar­den to acheive self suf­fi­cien­cy for their fam­i­lies. Their chil­dren are along­side them. We slave away in con­crete office block, work­ing our lives for the man and ignor­ing our chil­dren, leav­ing them to school and day cen­tres to raise.

They pro­duce their own food. Pure and nat­ur­al and not a drain on sys­tem. We pro­duce GM tox­in enriched foods that are slow­ly or fast­ly destroy­ing our plan­et and food chain. We buy hor­mon­al chick­en and feed on madon­alds and oth­er assort­ed fast foods. They live in a qui­et peace­ful soci­ety, rel­a­tive free of crime. We live in a greedy 7 dead­ly sins soci­ety of any­thing goes that is full of dan­gers to us and chil­dren.

They have great access to health care. Many have glass­es and braces on teeth. They are warm and sur­round­ed by love.

These peo­ple have seen the evils in soci­ety today and cho­sen to live apart form it. They see that mankind has sown the seeds for his own destruc­tion and so they have pre­pared them­selves to be an enclosed unit. If this so called dred­ed bird flu sweeps our coun­tries. Who has more chance of sur­vival. Will you have a bet­ter chance in the mid­dle of a big city or town fight­ing for med­ical help, fight­ing for food and water, sur­round­ed by greed. Or these peo­ple who have lov­ing­ly pre­pared them­selves for such an even­tu­al­i­ty. And don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a far fetched anal­o­gy. in 22 arti­cle I pulled up on the bird flu in 2006, every sin­gle one of them had the exact same line in it. Sci­en­tist have FEARS and WARN that the bird flu will mutate into a DEADLY PANDEMIC. wow all thsoe fears.. can you image the chaos when it starts.

These peple wear fun­ny dress­es. Have you seen a goth or an emo late­ly? I actu­al­ly admired the pas­tel col­ors and the neat clean and tidy appear­ance of the fam­i­lies.

 

They share a hus­band. Well lets get down to this. I’ve spo­ken to polyg­a­mists and read and watched many things over the years in my efforts to under­stand. From a wom­ans point of view. She shares chores, instead of her­self doing every­thing, those house­hold tasks are shared, in com­pa­ny, the child mind­ing is shared. Then there is the com­pa­ny and the sup­port. Women need to have their “girls”, some­one to talk to, share fears, com­fort them and to sup­port them in areas that men’s brains are just not wired for. The sup­port and friend­ship between polyg­a­mist wives is incred­i­ble. They are clos­er than sis­ters. They care only about the fam­i­ly. The whole fam­i­ly. That is their gig in life. Their fam­i­ly.

and lets face it girls… you know those nights that you have a headache? ..No such wor­ry.. no pes­ter­ing with the wood­peck­er in the back all night..

In any cul­ture you have rogue ele­ments. Espe­cial­ly ones that can infil­trate such an oga­ni­za­tion and use or be used by oth­ers. Our own chaot­ic and deviant soci­ety full of crimes drugs and abusers infects the very air these peo­ple breathe. So even if they choose o live away from soci­ety, they have no choice but to face soci­eties con­se­quences. They will get freaks and odd­balls try­ing to join for their own agen­da.

It brings me to mind the witch tri­als and reli­gious per­se­cu­tion of the ear­ly cen­turies. Burn them. Kill them, they are dif­fer­ent.

Are we going to raid nud­ist camps next and take their kids?

So every­one cries out “but there was an alle­ga­tion of abuse”

When an orga­ni­za­tion becomes to big and inde­pen­dant for their boots and starts hav­ing peo­ple lis­ten to them and achieve some inde­pen­dance from the sys­tem a cam­paign is start­ed, to desto­ry cred­i­bil­i­ty and to give a ‘rea­son” for the takeover and bring­ing down of inde­pen­dance. How easy would it be, to slip some­one next to a known sex offend­er and have him whis­per in his ear about this mag­ic place where he could have 4 or 5 young women all at once. Zap, dude would­n’t even ask ques­tions except for direc­tions before he would be off like a shot. Done deed, let nature take its course and two years lat­er a whis­pered phone call alleg­ing abuse of a girl who has since not been found, is all the excuse you need.

Until 1830 or so the legal age of con­sent in Eng­land was 13. There are still many nations where the age of con­sent is that low. Do we run in with com­man­do raids to those coun­tries and take over with guns and take the chil­dren oh wait we used mis­sion­ar­ies for that.. cos the bible told us so.…do we march in and tell them they are liv­ing wrong, they should live like us in con­crete jun­gles, with arti­fi­cial food, shit­ty health ser­vices, crimes, drugs, divorce, abuse and *sigh.….…. yeah.…..

50 years ago in Aus­tralia we had the stolen gen­er­a­tion of Aus­tralians. A whole gen­er­a­tion of abo­rig­i­nal babies tak­en from their moth­ers and placed with white fam­i­lies because they had a bit of white in them. (well hey, I have a bit of black in me, does it make it right for abo­rig­i­nals to take my chil­dren and return them to the tribe? tit for tat). It was done because soci­ety said it was wrong for those chil­dren to live with their fam­i­lies, it was wrong for white chil­dren to live with black fam­i­lies. It destroyed a gen­er­a­tion.

Today the gov­ern­ment says sor­ry it was wrong.. small peace of mind for the stolen ones

40 years ago babies were tak­en from sin­gle moth­ers and adopt­ed out. The moth­ers were told it was wrong, that it was a sin, that it was a crime. Anoth­er gen­er­a­tion destroyed. Those chil­dren did­n’t get an apol­o­gy.. unlike­ly they ever will.. they just see the con­fu­sion of a soci­ety that accepts and con­dones and encour­ages in some areas what they were cast out for at birth.

You see as many read­ers know I was one of those chil­dren, tak­en from my moth­er who was 18. SHe was told it was a sin to have me and not be mar­ried. I was tak­en from her arms and adopt­ed into a nice chris­t­ian fam­i­ly and led to believe all my live as a child that my moth­er had sinned. I was that much of a shame­ful sin that i was­n’t even afford­ed the lux­u­ry of a labour ward and mater­ni­ty ward. No I was born behind a sheet to hide me from the sur­round­ing dead bod­ies, in a morgue. The shame of my birth was that great that I was bought into life in the bow­els of death. Can you imag­ine how I felt as a sin­gle moth­er of 19 hold­ing my fuzzball of a baby daugh­ter in my arms for the first time? The first ever touch and bond with any­thing of my blood? The thoughts of how some­one could have their baby tak­en away.….

I grew up ask­ing why. Why was I so bad and so sin­ful that no one want­ed me. I grew up to find out I was stolen so in turn their was some­one else out there ask­ing why was I tak­en from them. My broth­er is a won­der­ful per­son. He has a great job, a beau­ti­ful fiancee, a baby on the way, a new home and a gen­tle nature.… he is loved and adored by his moth­er, they are very close, they talk every­day and the bond betwen them is incred­i­ble.… his moth­er, our moth­er should be proud of him and she is. Don’t get me wrong. I adore my adop­tive par­ents and wor­ship the gorund they walk on, they have done so much for me.

I was judged before I was born and have been ever since. My life’s choic­es have nev­er been conventional..they nev­er were, how could they be when con­ven­tion­al­i­ty was ripped from my grasp with my first breath of air. It has giv­en me some­thing I am hap­py with. A per­spec­tive of look­ing at things form all sides.… not just the one that is being fed to me.. I can feed myself and pre­fer a fork to a spoon.

I guess what I am say­ing is .. you have lis­tened to the media blitz on these 400 or so chil­dren and yes the tri­al will be the best cir­cus I’ve watched for many years. You have seen that nice lady say­ing how she had tak­en cus­tody of all those chil­dren to fos­ter them out and go to court. Those chil­dren were tak­en from their par­ents by the gov­ern­ment because they were dif­fer­ent. What was wrong with going in and work­ing with these peo­ple. Oh we have heard that there is some­thing going on here.. ra ra…

No we had to have the “phonecall” the “excuse” the “media cir­cus” and jus­ti­fi­ca­tion. This sends a mes­sage to the peo­ple .. hmm is it a good one or is it fear? I hope you have looked at the pho­tos I have put here and I hope you have looked at the oth­er side of this coin and the impli­ca­tions of the loss of free­dom. No I do not con­done abuse. There is abuse every­where. If one child is abused in a day­care cen­tre are all the chil­dren tak­en from their moth­ers?

This is abuse.

This sure looks like love to me.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/YFZ_Ranch

 

The Key to Bill (BILLS)

Post Views: 83

I am going through my true “Mid Life Cri­sis” at present.

It is the time of my life when I am fil­ing away the past and wash­ing it all away so I can step for­ward into the future into a “new” life with­out any bag­gage. (edit note 11 Novem­ber 2024 I am still going through that midlife cri­sis)

So it is a very reflec­tive time as my reg­u­lar read­ers may have guessed by the tone of some of my recent “Pieces.” So I do apol­o­gize if the blogs are a lit­tle weird.

The Con­tes­sa bought up a point yes­ter­day in my Melan­cholic 1984 Blog about peo­ple stand­ing on their soap­box­es com­plain­ing about the drugs and youth, not actu­al­ly look­ing around and see­ing the alco­holism around them.

Years ago, I was speak­ing to a big drug deal­er (lit­er­al­ly he weighed 400 pounds) «Obvi­ous­ly did­n’t par­take of his prod­ucts.

We were talk­ing about peo­ple and addic­tions. In the small fish­ing vil­lage I lived in at the time, I was sur­round­ed by alco­hol and drugs. Our lit­tle town was a dis­tri­b­u­tion point for the entire cor­ner of the state. And the guy I was talk­ing to was THE dis­trib­u­tor.

He was a “mate” of my ex, who he met through one of the abalone fish­er­man and this par­tic­u­lar day he “need­ed” me to help him on a pick up as I was the only one in the group that had a license. So we drove along with me try­ing to keep the car, which was lean­ing rather dan­ger­ous­ly heavy down on the left hand side, con­trolled and dri­ving straight on the road.

Every now and then in life some­one says some­thing to you that makes you sit up and lis­ten. And you car­ry that con­ver­sa­tion through in life. You learn some­thing from it. Scar­i­ly as it seems, Bill taught me a lot about peo­ple.
He turned to me and said “Mar­garet, every­one has a crutch in life. You find out what it is and that per­son is yours, they will do any­thing for that crutch.”

So sim­ple but yet so pro­found. That one lit­tle phi­los­o­phy is what I call to this day

“The Key To Bill.”

That sen­tence turned around in my head and around again. I began to open my eyes and real­ly look at what was going on around me. Bill was the “Can­dy­man” and I watched as his pock­ets seemed always to be filled with every­one’s favorite type of can­dy. I watched as his car boot was laden with box­es of black mar­ket abalone, the fresh­est buck­ets of sil­ver bream, bas­kets of still crawl­ing lake prawns and box­es and box­es of fresh gar­den veg­eta­bles and fruit. It was amaz­ing that with­out word or com­mand, he had an army of troops, run­ning around doing his bid­ding.

I began to watch oth­er peo­ple. I watched the group matri­arch sit upstairs of an evening with her earplug in her ear, eaves­drop­ping on the con­ver­sa­tion at the table in the den below, sip­ping away at bot­tle after bot­tle of white wine. Every now and then she would get up and go to a cup­board and take a pill from a box. (She is a whole sto­ry in her­self).

I would watch the fish­er­men jump off the boat after a few days at sea, get paid cash off the skip­per then lit­er­al­ly run to the Bay Hotel. Once they got there, that mon­ey would sit on the bar until it was all most­ly gone. The land­lords and wives would be wait­ing at the bar when the boats got in, ready to grab their share before that was gone too.

I watched as Trevor, the crew­man on Ray’s trawler, sat at the bar’s pok­er machines for hour upon hour, push­ing but­tons, smok­ing cig­a­rettes and drink­ing beer until his hand was to shaky to find the but­ton and his voice was that of a tod­dler.

I would watch the oth­er crew­man spend­ing it all on hors­es, or the dog races and foot­ball.

And I would watch Bill at the end of the bar, watch­ing them and watch­ing me watch­ing them, with a glass of lemon­ade in one hand and a meat pie in the oth­er. This was his busiest time but he did noth­ing but watch. No one both­ered him or came near him, yet every minute his pock­ets were fill­ing with hun­dreds of hun­dreds of dol­lars. He had “the broth­ers”, who were two of his lap­dog junkies, run­ning around the bar doing his dirty work in exchange for a piece of can­dy at the end of the night.

He was right. I have watched the world for the 15 years since he said that to me and he was right.

Whether it be an addic­tion crutch or base need.. .…

Every­one has some­thing that they rely on to get through. crWhether it is speak­ing to their best friend on the phone every day, a dozen cups of cof­fee, a game on the Wii, a beer at the pub, a gam­ble, a work­out at the gym, sex, love, Coke a cola, sug­ar, Tv, drugs and the list goes on.

If you take that away, the per­son will wal­low to get it back.

Con­trolled through addic­tions and base needs.

And it is used by soci­ety. Our addic­tions cost more. The gov­ern­ment uses our addic­tion to gain more tax mon­ey through gam­bling tax­es and alco­hol and cig­a­rette tax­es. Instead of the Gov­ern­ment fix­ing the prob­lem, they actu­al­ly aid to “water it” or make it grow. These addic­tions are used to con­trol peo­ple.

A note to the Gov­ern­ment here.

If Cig­a­rettes are as tox­ic as you make the com­pa­nies put on their labels then you have a duty of care to your peo­ple to ban the sale of this tox­ic sub­stance to be con­sumed by the peo­ple. After all you banned pot. As cig­a­rettes in “your own words” are HIGHLY ADDICTIVE, you have the respon­si­bil­i­ty as our cho­sen lead­ers to stop pro­duc­ing and mak­ing such mas­sive amounts od dol­lars off this prac­tice of addic­tion, mis­ery, poi­son and death.

These addic­tions are fod­der for peo­ple with bad intent. The teens of today are con­stant­ly being tar­get­ed through their “crutch­es” by mas­sive mar­ket­ing cam­paigns. The can­dy­man is con­stant­ly dan­gling a bag of good­ies in front of soci­ety all over.

Addic­tions to tech­nol­o­gy, keep­ing up with the Jones’s, the lat­est and great­est in Video Games and week­end play toys, are played on and pushed towards peo­ple on a mas­sive degree. It is one big mar­ket­ing machines tar­get­ing your weak­ness­es.

If some­thing proves to be a “must have” addic­tion, the price goes up. Mat­ters not because peo­ple “want it” and they will buy it. They may com­plain a lit­tle but still put their hands in their pock­ets.

Basic needs can be the tar­get…

The price of fuel ris­es, you need it, you have to have it, so you pay for it but noth­ing extra is com­ing into your pock­et to cov­er it. The price of tobac­co or wine ris­es, you pay it. Elec­tric­i­ty even, yes can you do with­out it? The price ris­es by 17 per­cent in six months but you don’t blink, you pay it.

Imag­ine if you were told one morn­ing no more phones, no more com­put­er, or no more elec­tric­i­ty, no more cof­fee.. and you were cut off from that one thing.. How would you feel?
The Plug Pulled?

Peo­ple feed off oth­er peo­ples needs and weak­ness­es. The com­pa­nies and drug deal­ers get rich­er and rich­er and the peo­ple get more and more reliant on them to dish out the can­dy.

 

My Birth Snapshot

Post Views: 20
Mar­garet Ruth Boyle
MAr­garET  Maet Ma’et Mayet (pearl)
Mar­garetruth
21 Novem­ber 1966 - 04:11  (AEST)
Uni­ver­sal Time (UT/GMT):
20 Novem­ber 1966 — 18:11
Local Side­re­al Time (LST):
08:13:01
House sys­tem:
Placidus sys­tem
Lat­i­tude, Lon­gi­tude:
33°52’S, 151°12’E
City:
Syd­ney
Coun­try:
Australia Aus­tralia (AU)
Place of Birth  Annan­dale Morgue (Queen Vic­to­ria Hos­pi­tal)

Syd­ney ‑Heart of the ser­pent Land of the rain­bow ser­pent

Arrived by my moth­er who was cov­ered over with screens block­ing her from see­ing me with hor­ri­ble Nuns, dead bod­ies draped in sheets,

My arrival was hid­den in the dis­grace I was.

Name my moth­er was going to call me Kat­ri­na McLeod 

My moth­er was dragged to a pres­by­ter­ian wom­en’s home where she was made to scrub floors and walls with a tooth­brush all day with nuns stand­ing over her telling her how evil she was and she was for­sak­en by God, She was des­tined to hell where she would spend eter­ni­ty pay­ing for her sin of lust.
Note January 5th 2025 7 31 pm: I do not know whether they will ever come a time that I can relive, revisit and replay this even without having to stop, breathe, walk around and count to a million or so before I scream.

Adopt­ed out at 3 days old.

Adop­tive Moth­er : Frances Fay Twiss                  ‑water Can­cer
Adop­tive father : Gra­ham Edward Boyle GEB  ‑Earth Vir­go
Birth Moth­er Del­la Kris­tine McLeod                    —  Air Libra
Birth father Syd­ney Leo Hartin                              — Fire Sag­i­tar­ius

Cusp of Rev­o­lu­tion
sun in first house

Ascen­dant Scor­pio
Moon Pisces
Mer­cury cusp Scor­pio Sag­i­tar­ius
Venus
Mars
Jupiter — Sta­tionery
Jupiter ret­ro­grade begin date