Pi is Magpie SOLVED

to find pi the cir­cum­fer­ence of a cir­cle you need to find the radius
to find the radius of a cir­cle you need the diam­e­ter
to find the diam­e­ter of a cir­cle you need the cir­cum­fer­ence
to find the cir­cum­fer­ence of a cir­cle you need to find the radius .. rinse repeat
to find the radius of a cir­cle you need the diam­e­ter
“feed­back loop”

a cir­cle is a two dimen­sion­al round line that has no begin­ning and no end.

and the piece of the pie has been swal­lowed ouroboros

Google says ouroboros is

1. : a cir­cu­lar sym­bol that depicts a snake or drag­on devour­ing its own tail and that is used espe­cial­ly to rep­re­sent the eter­nal cycle of destruc­tion and rebirth. 2. usu­al­ly ouroboros or less com­mon­ly uroboros : some­thing (such as a nev­er-end­ing cycle) that is likened to or sug­ges­tive of the Ouroboros sym­bol.

How to solve pi

Eat it .. AKA to solve pi take it out of the equa­tion because any equa­tion using pi will fail even if the equa­tion sneak­i­ly tells you to add pi and then sub­tract pi you still lost that miss­ing bit you put in in the first place..

four and twen­ty black birds baked in a pi
Pi lit­er­al­ly means Mag­pie
Pi . Pie Mag­pie     My first real nick­name that reflect me..

Pi in numbers using herbrew

Pi =  LAMA  Knowl­edge of the light man­i­fest­ed and dark..
3141
L 30 A 1 M 40 A 1
Pie = 72 = Which evolves
She­ma /Shimmer and she is not a pie to be con­sumed
LMNS 30–49-50–60 I80 degrees and back again SNML 180 degrees 360
360 divid­ed by 72 is 5 the five days of thoth the star
LAMA is pi 3.141 LAMA 3141 72: but beyond that is LMNS l SNML I ate that pie..as mag­gi­ty as it was ..
it called like a mag­pie and that will be 180 degrees and back again with pearl and her mir­ror Mar­garet swan SNML San­i­mal spells Zeus .. LMNS lumi­nou­sand your book is closed . What ever else ask me .. it’s all in your nour­ish­ment .. remem­ber .. all in the name of me drink of both botl­now to see that lie in action in your whole “soci­etal con­struct” lets ask google

Pi is an abbre­vi­a­tion of the Greek periph­ereia, “periph­ery.” Def­i­n­i­tions of pi. noun. the ratio of the cir­cum­fer­ence to the diam­e­ter of a cir­cle; approx­i­mate­ly equal to 3.14159265358979323846… tran­scen­den­tal num­ber.
False

 

Mean­ing of the word PIE

The word “pie” comes from the Latin word pica, which means “mag­pie”Before it was used to describe a pas­try, “pie” was used to describe the bird. The word first appeared in Eng­lish man­u­scripts in the 13th cen­tu­ry.

 

mag­pies with their black and white con­trasts and there habit of pick­ing ran­dom items up and tak­ing them back to their nest is one rea­son that mag­pie is asso­ci­at­ed with pie.. a pie is some­ht­ing that has ran­dom items browned baked in a pas­try

The word “pie” may have come to be asso­ci­at­ed with mag­pies because the fill­ing of a pie may have remind­ed din­ers of the black and white birds. For exam­ple, a mince pie is typ­i­cal­ly filled with raisins, sug­ar, and spices.

what is PI
a. : the sym­bol π denot­ing the ratio of the cir­cum­fer­ence of a cir­cle to its diam­e­ter. b. : the ratio itself : a tran­scen­den­tal num­ber hav­ing a val­ue round­ed to eight dec­i­mal places of 3.14159265.8 Dec 2024

 
Suc­cinct­ly, pi—which is writ­ten as the Greek let­ter for p, or π—is the ratio of the cir­cum­fer­ence of any cir­cle to the diam­e­ter of that cir­cle. Regard­less of the cir­cle’s size, this ratio will always equal pi.

Recificando

The Span­ish word rec­ti­ficar trans­lates to “to rec­ti­fy” or “to cor­rect” in Eng­lish. It can also mean “to change” or “to reform” in the con­text of con­duct, “to straight­en” or “to straight­en out” in gen­er­al, or “to add” in cook­ing. 
Here are some oth­er trans­la­tions for rec­ti­ficar: amend, rem­e­dy, put right, and put straight.
    Adjust­ment of the bal­ance
May’s word play
Rect  — Wrecked
Rect —  behind

S Samekh — The Divine Spark of Creation AKA the secret

 

 

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

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”.

Chromosomes Reveal Truth

Which came first, the X or the Y chro­mo­some?

the X chromosome

 the X chro­mo­some came first, 3 mil­lion years before a muta­tion lost part of the shape and y was cre­at­ed . The Y chro­mo­some evolved prob­a­bly as a short­ened copy of the X chro­mo­some; there are more genes on the X chro­mo­some than the Y. The Y chro­mo­some main­ly deter­mines the sex (it has a SRY region which makes the embryo a male).

The Y chro­mo­some is impor­tant in deter­min­ing a per­son­’s bio­log­i­cal gen­der. But it has much less of a say in some­one’s genet­ic make­up, since the X chro­mo­some like­ly has more than 1,000 genes where­as the Y chro­mo­some has few­er than 80.

X           Y

Woman                     Man

XX                       XY

A few inter­est­ing notes, I shall note as we begin ( yet again).

a pearl of Truth behind the look­ing glass, look­ing back on a mas­ter illu­sion  called the mon­key­ma­trix and it’s matrix­mon­keys.

1, alpha­bet­i­cal­ly X comes before Y
Aleph Bet A and B in Hebrew Aleph and her house  Bet. (Beth)

2,  Woman con­tains all of Man but man does not con­tain all of woman. thou­sands of genes ‑80 genes ..no won­der women like to buy heaps of jeans they have many to put them on.

3, Y can­not make X. It came after X, it is a fur­ther devel­op­ment of X and not the prime.

4, The Prime con­tains all of the prod­uct but the prod­uct does not con­tain all of the prime.

5, Woman can pro­duce man but man can­not pro­duce woman  XXY  XY. The two pieces do not even mir­ror each oth­er. There is no jig­saw fit and con­nec­tion able to be made.

6,   Man is miss­ing the third defin­er to anchor and mul­ti­ply.
eg; XXY  1 2 3    XY 1 2

7,  Man Y is miss­ing Limbs from X  = Mankind con­struct of a WORLD with the L tak­en out (The Light spark of cre­ation) MOTHER.

8, The Jew­ish Tribes “appar­ent­ly” despised women so much there is no X in the hebrew alpha­bet. The Kabala or Hebrew Alpha­bet is a 22 dig­it sys­tem that enclos­es both let­ter and num­ber asso­ci­a­tions. (K Kaph 20 is used instead of the miss­ing Female X but that is a loose asso­ci­a­tion.)

com­ment” .. well !! Jesus, or did I mean ISIS.

The Lost Word Of Manyone

Manyone have heard talk of the lost word.

 Many­one speaks for it’s self even if it has been “lost” from out vocab

Many­one do already “know” that word.

It is logos, it is truth cre­at­ed to repair a lie

no — any — some — many — every

Noone Any­one Some­one Many­one Every­one

Nobody Any­body Some­body Many­body Every­body

Think back to when you are describ­ing a sit­u­a­tion

where there is a gen­er­al con­scen­sus of opin­ion ..

for exam­ple a new flavour drink that tastes hor­rid to most.

you would state
every­one says it tastes like crap”

GOTCHA

You have just opened a can of worms because there is always some­one that will of like the drink so they will dis­agree and start fight club because you said “every­one” and they are not every­one.

The root of how many argue­ments through­out time

“every­one says” “every­one thinks”

but not every­one does.. DIVISION begins.

Had you of said
“many­one thinks it tastes like shit”

the answer would of been “yeah nah not me” and we move on from it.

You did not direct­ly chal­lenge them.
You did not direct­ly accuse them of some­thing.

You did not put them in a bas­ket that they did not fit in.

“We are one we are many”

Manyone

The Word

use it!!!!

it is here to stay to fix that errot of every­one’s Many­one will be hap­py with the self explana­to­ry cor­rec­tion to our lan­guage

Manyone not Everyone
because there will always be Someone that doesn’t

I Am Aus­tralian
(1987 — Bruce Wood­ley, The Seek­ers and Dobe New­ton, The Bushwack­ers)
I came from the dream­time from the dusty red soil plains
I am the ancient heart, the keep­er of the flame
I stood upon the rocky shore
I watched the tall ships come
For forty thou­sand years I’d been the first Aus­tralian.
I came upon the prison ship bowed down by iron chains.
I cleared the land, endured the lash and wait­ed for the rains.
I’m a set­tler.
I’m a farmer’s wife on a dry and bar­ren run
A con­vict then a free man I became Aus­tralian.
I’m the daugh­ter of a dig­ger who sought the moth­er lode
The girl became a woman on the long and dusty road
I’m a child of the depres­sion
I saw the good times come
I’m a bushy, I’m a bat­tler
I am Aus­tralian
[cho­rus]
We are one, but we are many
And from all the lands on earth we come
We share a dream and sing with one voice:
I am, you are, we are Aus­tralian
I am, you are, we are Aus­tralian.
I’m a teller of sto­ries
I’m a singer of songs
I am Albert Namatji­ra
I paint the ghost­ly gums
I am Clan­cy on his horse
I’m Ned Kel­ly on the run
I’m the one who waltzed Matil­da
I am Aus­tralian
I’m the hot wind from the desert
I’m the black soil of the plains
I’m the moun­tains and the val­leys
I’m the drought and flood­ing rains
I am the rock, I am the sky
The rivers when they run
The spir­it of this great land
I am Aus­tralian
[cho­rus]
We are one, but we are many
And from all the lands on earth we come
We share a dream and sing with one voice:
I am, you are, we are Aus­tralian
I am, you are, we are Aus­tralian.

The Way of Lama

Lama
when no-one helped me I learned how to speak
By refus­ing to show me I learned how to teach
By your decep­tion I learned why you lie
By fire you forged me so I learned how to Fly
By crush­ing me down I now soar like a dove
By hat­ing on me I learned how to love
By all the divi­sion I learned all your ploy
by giv­ing me heartache now I spread joy
By tread­ing on me I learned to stand up
by steal­ing my strength I built myself back­up
By hid­ing from me I learned you con­ceal
By pain that you gave I learned how to heal
By destroy­ing what’s mine I learned how to pro­tect
By steal­ing my home I learned how just you wreck
by try­ing to stop me I streak through the skye
by silenc­ing my words I have opened my eye
ALMA — LAMA
MAAL — LAAM
LAMA
3.141
Pi
Word of world of word.

Margaret — Aleister Crowley’s Take

The moon spans Heav­en’s archi­trave;
Stars in the deep are set;
Writ­ten in gold on the day’s grave,
“To love, and to for­get:”
And sea-winds whis­per o’er the wave
The name of Mar­garet.

A heart of gold, a flower of white.
A blush­ing flame of snow,
She moves like lat­ticed moons of light–
And O! her voice is low
Shell-mur­murs born to Amphitrite,
Exult­ing as they go.

Her stature waves, as if a flower
For­got the evening breeze,
But heard the char­i­ot­ed hour
Sweep from the far­ther seas,
And kept sweet time with­in her bow­er,
And hushed mild melodies.

So grave and del­i­cate and tall–
Shall laugh­ter nev­er sweep
Like a moss-guard­ed water­fall
Across her ivory sleep?
A ten­der laugh most musi­cal?
A sigh serene­ly deep?

She laughs in word­less swift desire
A soft Tha­lass­ian tune;
Here eye­lids glim­mer with the fire
That ani­mates the moon;
Her chaste lips flame, as flames aspire
Of pop­pies in mid-june.

She lifts the eye­lid-amethyst,
And looks from half-shut eyes,
Gleam­ing with mir­a­cles of mist,
Gray shad­ows on blue skies:
And on her whole face sun­rise-kissed,
Child won­der­ment most wise.

The whitest arms in all the earth
Blush from the lilac bed
Like a young star even at its birth
Shines out the gold­en head
Sad vio­lets are the maid­en mirth
Pale flames night-canopied.

O gen­tlest lady! Lift those eyes,
And curl those lips to kiss!
Melt my young boy­hood in thy sighs.
A sub­tler Salmacis!
Hide, in that peace, these ecstasies
In that fair foun­tain, this!

She fades as starlight on the stream,
As dew­fall in the dell;
All life and love, one rav­ish­ing gleam
Stolen from sleep­’s cru­cible;
That kiss, that vision is a dream:–
And I–most mis­er­able!

Still Echo wails upon the steep,
“To love–and to for­get!”
Still som­bre whis­pers from the deep
Sob through Night’s gold­en net,
And waft upon the wings of sleep
The name of Mar­garet.

I Was Born in a Morgue

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

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.

 

To Endure — The Life of

This is the first time I am pub­lish­ing this piece pub­licly.

It was writ­ten in 2009/2010  and placed on pri­vate jour­nal entry.

On the 14th of Feb­ru­ary 2010, I answered a knock at my back door. Stand­ing there was 3 fed­er­al police offi­cers, two on the sides point­ing tasers at me and the one in the mid­dle point­ing a loaded gun at me.  My heart dropped. It was the last time I saw my youngest three babies for two years.

Almost two years lat­er my legal aid was stripped from me, with the gov­ern­ment excuse that I had “used to many resources” I was then forced to rep­re­sent myself in mul­ti­ple juris­dic­tions to fight for my chil­dren.
lat­er a Judge apol­o­gised to me, say­ing, we are sor­ry Mrs Swan, a judge can only made deci­sions based on the evi­dence we have in front of us. We now know from your cross exam­i­na­tion of the appli­cant today that we were not in pos­ses­sion of the facts.

moment of hi five, Yay I stood there with­out a lawyer and crushed him with truth. ..  It was too late though,  it was torn, the dam­age was irre­pairable and I have been pick­ing up scat­tered feath­ers ever since. There was no hi five, but there was the burn of injus­tice in my heart.

no, it was the burn if injus­tice.

At the time I could not share my pain. I couldn’t share any­thing. i could only wrap myself with­in myself and scream inside.

Today in some ways i am still scream­ing inside

I have learned one thing. one very impor­tant thing

to endure

 

it is a deep despair inside, a rest­less­ness borne of not know­ing but a the same time hav­ing to bear the con­tem­pla­tive thoughts of what will be and even worse what can be.

It is the real­iza­tion that noth­ing, not even your chil­dren are tru­ly yours, they belong to the state to ban­ter and pass around like mar­ketable goods.

These are my chil­dren, I chose to be a mum, I chose all that came with being a mum. I am not per­fect and per­haps in the God’s eyes I have failed, or found to be lack­ing but to be judged by a stranger?

to have soci­ety and some one far away from the real­i­ties of our fam­i­ly, sit­ting in such high judg­ment of us who holds the abil­i­ty in his hands to take all from under us, to take from us all we have , all we have built, and all we have planned and all we are is I guess to feel the ulti­mate loss. The loss of life, the loss of free­dom, the loss of hat should be

The pain is unbear­able, every minute I stop and heave a deep sigh, as if some­thing is trapped and held with­in my very soul,  burst­ing to tear it’s way out to cause the ulti­mate pain a moth­er can bear. The loss of a child or the threat of the loss of a child.

I just tucked Kahleah into bed …I do feel my heart break­ing with every breath. I watch their angel­ic faces as they begin to bloom again, only to face that it all might be ripped from us again. The tran­quil­i­ty and heal­ing shat­tered, our fam­i­ly frag­ment­ed and for­got­ten.

My babies.  The pain is too much too keep writ­ing, my tears beg annoy­ing­ly to be wiped away as they run in a con­stant stream down my cheeks unheed­ed. My vision is blurred. my heart is so heavy. I can’t  stop the waves of pain that rip through my soul.

it is the worse, it is rock bot­tom, it is the dev­as­ta­tion that only a par­ent could dread. The mem­o­ries flash like replay in full Tech­ni­col­or wind­screen through my mind of our life togeth­er, of our dreams, our hopes, and of our fear, of our night­mare.

Yet that night­mare, it was noth­ing, it had noth­ing  on this night­mare. This is the ulti­mate pain, the ulti­mate sequel to end the saga. The final con­trol, the final cut.  and yes, it is the deep­est, far deep­er than I have evr endured from him before. Far worse than too much, it hurts so bad.

what reg­is­ters is my babies, of my bond with them

of B as he says, “I hope you bought a hug with you mum” or “I know what you bought me home from the shop mum­my, you bought me a kiss”.

Of lis­ten­ing to S’s oper­at­ic tones pierce my head in per­fect pitch as she mer­ri­ly dances around the house and her smiles at

me the love the bond between us as moth­er and daugh­ter. Of K, my lit­tle sun­shine, Her earnest blue eyes look­ing deeply into mine as she tells me one of her sto­ries.

We are just now only begin­ning to find each oth­er again. We are just begin­ning to mend and learn­ing to walk all over again and now it is threat­ened with a destruc­tion that i am pow­er­less to stop.

and it hurts ………. bad….

I’m sor­ry i just need an out­let for this pain and I can’t pub­lish this pub­licly….. I hurt

Alone in the dark, alone with your thoughts
over­come with deep feel­ings of dread.
all of your hopes and all of your fears
are flow­ing ran­dom­ly around in your head.

search­ing for courage, the spark that’s inside
to stand up and face what the fates bring,
sup­press­ing inside you the need to be free,
as slow­ly the voice stops to sing

when you final­ly stand up and step on to the future,
from the tears that are all done and all cried,
fac­ing the fears of all that is unknown,
that takes courage born of blood and of pride.

the torch­es of knowl­edge which light up the way
will help guide you to take one step more
the light may grow dim and flick­er about
but the spir­it comes from deep in the core

The book of today has already been writ­ten
the pages are num­bered from the days of your life
it’s signed in your blood and then sealed with the laws
ready to cut through your soul like a knife

Look deep in the mir­ror at you star­ing back
you see time etched and marked on your face
inno­cence gone from those eyes which now turn away
a know­ing deep far­away look in its place

Anoth­er day old­er there is no going back
no chang­ing the past with a pen
the les­son is learned reac­tion to action
it is time for the deep wounds to mend

A red dawn breaks out from under the dark­ness
as nature waits for the new day to begin
Con­scious­ness wak­ens and stirs from it’s sleep
the world has turned on it’s axis again
Mayet

Emotional Rescue

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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.