artivism ~ resistance, response

art has a way of


what can’t be.

like a child’s.


art can describe

what may otherwise be;


to explain;


to understand;

too uncomfortable,

for the polite;

to raw for breakfast.



but art can capture

the emotion of a scene,

when nothing

else can.

*These are macro shots of a series of 3 paintings I created, that were part of the “TOO MUCH TRUTH – Women’s Global Resistance to Sexploitation” Exhibition.

The Exhibition finishes this Sunday. I’ll post full shots of these pieces, and their descriptions then.*

First Published: Sep 29, 2017 @ 00:08






how do I remember: 1975

Warning … this is a bit of an ‘all over the fucking place’ post … even the re-hashed version … and it was fucking hard to write … even for Me, the queen of sarcasm and reality ;)

Addendum: I don’t know if I fucked up the dates inadvertently or if it was just a deep old avoidance deal. 1976, should have been the 1975 post … I was 3. A friend had mentioned in the comments that she was 4 when it was 1976, and I merrily replied .. ‘Me too’ lol, and still it didn’t quite sink in that I had written 1976 at the top of the post. Maybe I’m just getting old lol OR maybe I am just avoiding the fact that the teeny tiny Me, was actually, really, teeny teeny tiny … not partially grown, or nearly grown, or ‘getting there’ grown … no. I was an infant when this shit started happening.

I was the age of my second youngest moko.

That is some severely fucked up shit and shit that I am dealing with.


When I wrote the poem at the bottom of this post, it was May 15 2015. Originally it was entitled ‘theres a separate god for children’, which is a line from the movie, “Fried Green Tomatoes”.

Then I rehashed it Dec 12, 2015, and still, it didn’t sit well with me.

Honestly, it still doesn’t.

But here I am again, browsing it, because it is the 1975 memory post, and of course, is supposed to be part of my shizz. And never let it be said I can’t complete something  *insert serious eyeball roll* !

Even though I am all kinds of ‘real’ when it comes to the sexual assault subject matter, I am always left quite breathless when it comes to telling this part of MY story. I don’t know if that will ever change, and like all my other shit, I’m learning that there is no wrong way to do life and no right way to do pts(d). It is what it fucking is … and I think I’d be a completely desensitized fuckwit if it didn’t make Me breathless.

Because seriously … it’s some fucked up shit.


My memory of being sexually assaulted have never Not been present. It has never been a memory that held its own in one time and place  …. it feels like a graduated process.

When I first did this recollection gig, I desperately wanted to remember the good stuff … and I did. There was plenty I had forgotten because it had been overshadowed by the dark shit.

A couple of years on though, and it’s still there. The good and the bad. It doesn’t disappear. I’ve just gotten a little better at recalibrating my reality and making peace with #mynormal.

It’s not a headache that gets banished by a painkiller. It’s not even busted up legs that adjust to braces or a wheelchair.

It isn’t a ‘physical’ impairment. Or deformity.

It holds its own form. Inside and Out. It’s darkness and light all in one breath.

The indignities done to my small body are still being carried on the inside and effect my daily living. One little piece at a time though, I let it go and make peace with it.

Recently … very recently … I saw the little Me again (aka flashback) … and she was on a bed, little legs spread, being asked if it felt alright and when little Me said No, that it hurt, I was offered an alternative. I big smelly dick to bounce around my little mouth.

Reality is, there was nowhere to go. And no one came to rescue my ass. I talked my way around and through it all; minimising what I could – side tracking the pedo cunt where I could so as to diminish my own pain and hopefully to minimise the damage done to my insides.

Did I understand in all reality what I was doing at the time?

I’m not sure.

But now, I marvel at the resilience I had. The survival instinct that I maintained.

And have maintained … and have trouble switching off now.

But again, it is what it is … I am the way I am. I survived suffocation, penetration and degradation, all before I started school. That, in my view, is completely and utterly gangstah.

Now, when I start to remember things, I listen. I cry if I need too … I tell that little Me that she is the bravest little soul I know. I tell her what she didn’t get told then … that this is someone elses sickness and depravity and Not part of my being.

And then I try to breathe out … let all that bad shit leave my insides.

Everyday I do this. I am trying and trying and still trying to make peace with a part of my existence that I wish didn’t happen; that I’d never wish on anyone else.

What I know about myself now is: I Will – I Am – recalibrating my beautiful soul surviving self <3





size of a palm


length of an arm

climbing up

to get a seat

can’t reach the milk,

Grandad can pass


and pour


click clack

Nan’s heels

are too big



a big girl,

a pretty dress

pretty shoes


at Grandad

smiles and sways

to Nan’s songs

very small

very large






what and where

to be

light and love

to be


to laugh

to sing

darkness come


clammy hands

putrid stench

one flick your wrist



shreds life



tormented you

despising smallness


filthy disease

screaming fear

relish pain







no one will hear



the bogey man