poi e ~ patea maori club

Poi e – Patea Maori Club, 1982



its a perception.

its a concept.

its an action.

#throwback Dec 8, 2015 @ 11:29

photography & art @kpm-artist 



Transsexuals, Sex Reassignment Surgeries & Prostitution In Barcelona — Edge of Humanity Magazine


Photographer Paola de Grenet is the Edge of Humanity Magazine contributor of this social documentary photography. From her project ‘Life as a Transsexual‘. To see Paola’s body of work click on any image. Barcelona is a liberal city with a vast community of gays, travesties and transsexuals. It is a […]

via Transsexuals, Sex Reassignment Surgeries & Prostitution In Barcelona — Edge of Humanity Magazine



photography .121

#beach_life #tangaroa #beautiful #nature #photography #photographer #kpm©

photography & art @kpm-artist 




reconciling the hormones #82

Savethey’re a brewing

*please goddesses: go easy ay*




step into a world ~ krs 1

Step Into A World ~ KRS One, 1997

being silenced.

produces a lump in my throat.

*current status*:

coughing that shit up.

thats all.




addiction cloud. 2010.

#throwback Aug 26, 2015 @ 15:24

The BPPV didn’t go away, it got worse. I saw a neurologist and had a CT scan which showed up nuddah. The neurologist suggested I had some kind of CHVS, Chronic Hyperventilation Syndrome, and sent me packing. I was having panic attacks 3-4 times a day, but at this stage they weren’t diagnosed as that. Brilliant doctors decided I had Major Depressive Disorder, and tried to medicate accordingly.

What was interesting about this turn of events is that I had spent about 10 years ‘clean’…not taking any mind altering substances; not drinking and maintaining a pretty descent diet. And their first thought was to pump me full of medication. By this time though, I was so wobbly on my feet, I think I would have kissed a frogs ass if they said it would help. I tried yoga and breathing exercises to help with the dizziness…aka undiagnosed anxiety! No one thought to look at my history and when I mentioned it…pointing to the obvious in my files…they all said it wouldn’t have anything to do with it.

I had numerous events throughout my life that made me question the ‘truth’ or ‘knowledge’ that doctors and specialists espouse. And this occasion was no different. But I was slowly loosing my will to fight which just solidified their original diagnosis of depression.

How much does that fuck me off now! If a woman is a little wobbly…teary…stressed…and they can’t find a cause…they must be fucking depressed! I was depressed…but not because I was sad…because I couldn’t fucking move and they wouldn’t fucking listen.

Which is a theme I’m beginning to recognise!

Anyways…I tried to manage myself…I stopped driving here, because every time I got behind the wheel I’d get dizzy and get to the verge of passing out…not exactly the best way to drive. But this took away some of the freedom that I had. And then when work became unbearable they medically discharged my ass…oh but not before they questioned the fuck out of me…crossed their tees and dotted their I’s. I got a minimal payout and was sent packing.

All this put a huge strain on our little fucked up blended family. And then to top that off my partner broke his ankle/leg in two places and then lost his job. As things got tense-er at home, my partner would flare up at anything and everything which made my jittery self even more jittery. We still hadn’t hit on any type of anxiety disorder at this stage…and all that was happening around me spun me further and further down.

Our relationship turned violent; I kicked him out and we ended up in court. I was reasonably heavily medicated at this time and the court process sucked ass and added to the…that’s right, undiagnosed anxiety.

I paid outstanding bills with my payout and thought I was covered with my Insurance…and being the thorn in the ass of humanity that they are…they saw fit not to pay out after I’d been medically discharged…something to do with pre-existing conditions…assholes. I fought that one and got my insurance money back that I had paid over the years previous, but they wouldn’t cover me for anything.

So, in a house I couldn’t afford, with a teenager who was struggling at school, and who I couldn’t afford to feed anymore…I applied for a benefit. DECLINED. Even though I had diligently paid for my bills with my payout from work, I wasn’t entitled to anything for 6 months. How fucked up is our system! So I sold what I could leaving us with the bare minimum…my landlord reduced my rent…which was completely awesome of them…and we barely lived on the remainder of the payout…just enough to pay rent and buy $40 worth of food.

So single, bruised, broken and poor…again…I retreated further into my safety shell. I thought I was going mad…maybe I was. I reckon a body and mind can only deal with so much stuff at any one time…without breaking. And as I re cap my life…its been continuous with brief moments of relief.

No wonder I’m a little fucked!

Toward the end of this year I think I had tried about 6 different anti depressants, all with pretty haywire side effects, for my body anyway. One being a weight gain of about 30kgs…up side was I wasn’t loosing weight anymore ;). I was continuously nauseous and achy, still wobbly and panicky. I was taking benzos as part of treatment for hyperventilation and insomnia. I loved those little blue pills…I was actually able to sleep without nightmares for once. I was also taking a concoction of what I call anti-wobble medication. Both of these also have dreadful side effects…addiction being one of them.

I would have tried the natural therapies again but, due to no insurance and no money I couldn’t afford it. A doctors visit was about $50 and the medications were $3. You can see how you end up rolling with the pharmaceutical route…its cheaper! Not so cheap in the long run though.

I tried to make plans and goals for the following year, hoping that would get me back on track. But I was pretty much sinking into a vegetative state. I partially embraced it…being numb was normal for me…and safe…being numb and fried out on legal medication…and sleeping like a new-born babe…totally awesome…

for the now anyways.

Not so great a couple of years down the track though.



not entirely sure why im here:

Says a part of Me, whilst the other part rolls its eyeballs and says … cos its your fucken blog yah dick!

Lol. Yes I even speak to myself in that tone.

I know it’s been abit of a rough week, for sure; and theres a lot going on at home (house selling), but I think after the tonsillitis and trip to the hospital I came home feeling ‘different’. Not sick different, just different.

What I didn’t get into detail about in that post (because I was trying to do the high five Me shit before I let anybody elses shit take up room in my world …), but vaguely touched on in this post:

was speaking or voicing our / my truth, and not remaining silent.

Before I took my trip to the hospital, two things happened in quick succession to each other. And I don’t believe its an accident … shit like this never is. But I’ve been having a hard time connecting the dots.

The first, was someone sent me a screen shot of a post my father had posted on his FB page, with a photo of me, my (deceased) sister and him.

Heres the statement he made:

When I read it, with the photo, I was immediately angry. Not raving angry … just wtf type angry.

Being sick, wouldn’t let Me get into the repost and reply rampage I wanted to inflict at that time.

So I put it aside.

Not more than 10 minutes later, the second incident happened. I had someone ring Me and demand (no shit!) that I do such-and-such for them, Now. And when I told them No, that I wasn’t feeling well, they went into a tirade of abuse aimed squarely at my lack of nurturing and caring abilities. Not once did they take note that I could hardly speak or was clearly sick. I was so astounded I responded with my go too, and in an extremely pained and raspy voice said ‘fuck you and go fuck yourself’.

I was pissed though.

Annoyed at not being heard, understood … but more than that … different than that. I was just pissed. How dare they!

And then I continued to choke and then we went to the hospital lol.

The following day, as shit as I felt, I knew I needed to respond to my fathers bullshit.

So I attached my comments to the screen shot I’d been sent and let rip.

Now I figured one of 2 things would happen … yes thats how I WAS analysing it before I started writing it, and then something else kicked in, which was … fuck this shit … and fuck it.

So thats how this post made its debut; with no fucks given, just a gnawing in my gutt that wouldn’t go away … which is the Need to Voice … to speak the truth.

Theres plenty of posts throughout this blog referring to the biological douche-pool that is my father so I won’t go into that here.

What surprised Me, was those who actually replied. They had seen my fathers original post and thought I was dead. Another person had messaged my daughter and thought she was dead as we look similar in the photo. And this has been going on for a couple of days.

So, I posted in my comments the following:

One of my cousins posted it on my fathers original post.

The feedback for Me was awesome. I had cousins, relieved I wasn’t dead … and an aunty sent her love. I had my niece, who i haven’t seen for years, thank me, because she was over how this dick has treated her mama (my step-sister) for years.

Now those connections were well worth the post.

But still I am perplexed. And I feel different.

I think it has something to do with how I have been treated most of my life and that somewhere in me at the moment I have an amazing almost righteous indignation to the whole fucking lot of it.

How fucking dare he? How dare he!

I have no other explanations or reasonings that I want to fill the air with.

Just … how dare he …

More specifically, how dare he do that to Me.


Him and all his kind, that have taken and shat on and not listened and bullied and beaten and raped and manipulated and Silenced for complaining about their behaviours or questioning their behaviours or wanting them to take their behaviours some other fucking place.

All of them!

Fuck them.

I think I am done.

And if I am done, then theres going to be some blood-shed. Possibly more figuratively speaking than literal, but whatever.

I think this is whats changing. This is what is different.

That I am important.

I’m important because I am alive and here and I deserve to take up space.

Now this is new for Me.

I’m still unsure of all the logistics.

But I’m cool with that for now.

Note: of great interest to Me, was I felt not one shred on anxiety as all this unfolded. Now isn’t that fucken something.

photography & art @kpm-artist 




let the music play ~ shannon

Let The Music Play ~ Shannon, 1983