mixes

dont get it twisted,

i was despised by my own ‘kind’ too.

the slap back of ‘mixed’ personhood.

they shunned harder than the white girls did.

stuck in between the 2 worlds.

is the cruel irony.


kpm©


 

today is angel baby day:

well, thats what i call it anyways.

not to cultural misappropriate & all, but this is a remembrance day that i completely dig. not that i dont remember them any other day; its just nice to have an ‘occasion’ where they are celebrated on purpose.

as ‘maori’, our dead are never far from us anyways. i’ve learnt over the years that to seperate them into the ‘them’ & ‘other’ category is cold & pretty much denying part of yourself.

my dead are with me all the time.

my angel babies are always with me.

today i would’ve lit a candle for them … but i packed them all away lol.

*love yous little ones, you’ve never been forgotten*


kpm ©


 

self

“be yourself”, they say:  is that so you can pinch our ‘essence’; redefine & rebrand us?


kpm©


 

a taonga.

plastic carving of maori. made in china.

castrated.

for just $9.99.


kpm©


 

Image

‘mentally ill’

This started as a long ass post … but honestly I can’t be bothered rambling on, let alone making it painful for someone else to read lol. This is a subject I approach with little reverence and question unmerciful-lessly.

I’ve decided that some of it is a ‘cultural’ thing; well perceived from a monocultural perspective. Like a shit tonne of other stuff really.

In our old language, the closest thing to being ‘mentally ill’, was ‘porangi’. We’ve whitened it up since then and given the title a maori name. But in all reality, we didn’t have a word for being mentally ill.

The word Porangi was a verb, and meant “to search for, seek.”

And when someone was in a state of ‘searching and seeking’, they were cared for by those that loved them. This would take as long as it took. Period.

Today we have a shit tonne of titles, like borderline personality disorder, like pts(d), like depression … and they all have levels. The answer for any of these?

Medication. Talking.

Does the medication work? I think it’s designed to ‘normalise’ Us. But again, I ask, who decides what Normal is? Is normal more about being a contributing, tax paying member of society? Or appearances? Or Both.

Because it sure as shit aint about what is best for Us.

I think diagnoses and labels are developed to silence and produce a paying customer.

Slap a label on that bitch. Medicate that bitch. Silence that bitch.

Is any of this really helpful?

In my 40 odd years, I think I may have met (in person) a couple (meaning TWO) of people that this system has worked for. But I’ve met a shit tonne more, that have been ‘searching’ and have ‘come right’ with nothing but love, rest, understanding and time.

To sum up – fuck mental health; fuck diagnoses; fuck professionals who think they’re helping and they’re not; fuck medication; fuck misunderstanding.

Fuck it all.


kpm©


 

Image

sectioned.

said in an earlier post that i’d been having quite vivid dreams lately.

another of those awesome (but not so awesome) dreams woke me with a memory. and it is the memory that lingers even now.

as some of you will know, i used to work in a kiddie prison. the government doesn’t call it that of course, but potato potahtoe … it is what it is … a fucking prison as far as i’m concerned.

when i started at this hell hole, i was bright eyed and busy tailed and was ready to take on the world. i wasn’t ignorant but was slightly naive.

realistically though: i was still colonised.

i believed the negative stats that say our people are at the bottom of the heap and the only way we can change that is by assimilating. again, the government cunts won’t state it like this … but it is what it is.

i went into youth justice with the notion that getting them kiddie fuckers early meant that there’d be less damage done. my theory was sound. i hadn’t factored in though, that the powers that be, didn’t and don’t, actually give a shit.

anyway … the memory i had was of a young man that i had sectioned. when i say i, i should be saying the government entity that i worked for. i followed the instructions i was given and did what was required of my position.

what lingered … lingers … in my memory and my gutt though, is how it made me feel and what it did to my body.

it was the first time it like 20 odd years that i had been that sick. true, my health was declining over all at this point … but i got tonsillitis for the first time in like years. so bad, my throat swelled shut and i couldn’t speak.

at the same time my gutt turned and i was vomiting.

little hard to vomit out of a swollen throat. enough said bout that.

and i knew in the pitt of my stomach that i had done something that i neither believed in or wanted to do.

without going into the gory details, sectioning this young man, in my opinion, was about managing him not helping him. it was about getting him out of the way and using the power of the crown to do so.

and i was the instrument that did it.

i had to go to court and back up the statements that were included in the report. and no shit, i could barely speak. not that they gave a fuck.

i remember looking at this kid in the box, thinking: fuck, i don’t even want to be here and i don’t believe any of this shit. and then looking at him and him looking at me like i was betraying him.

i betrayed me really. as well as him.

i didn’t act on my instinct and on my beliefs because they were all up the shit.

honestly, our system was not and is not equipped to deal with young people with mental health issues. aside from the mono cultural bullshit they have to go through that puts them in the position of being misunderstood in the first place – ultimately winding up in a facility like this one … they then have to navigate health issues that this system doesn’t understand and isn’t designed to assist with.

excuses aside, this was one of those moments that had me wanting to head out the door. but i had spent so much time and money studying – i had sacrificed so much to be here, i lamented.

and in the meantime it was destroying me, literally, from the inside out.

what i understood this morning regarding this memory, was i hadn’t just sectioned one of Our kids, one of My kids … i had gone against everything that i believed in … i had silenced myself and done as i was told. i had advocated for the wrong side.

i had silenced my own still small voice for the sake of time, effort, money and sacrifice.

i sacrificed my voice.

literally.

my resolution this morning, after this long-winded realisation …

i’ll never do this again.

figuratively or physically.

no matter the cost, i won’t ever be on the wrong side of my own values ever again.


kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


 

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unfuckery.

Karakia:

Atua

Tukua

Homai to Aroha

Ae.

Completely random: but this caught my eye today. It’s been awhile since I’ve even really taken notice of this. Although I’ve photographed this piece before, I don’t think I’ve done it in a macro.

This is a corner to corner macro shot of the first Manaia carving I ever attempted. He’s my version of representing our Whanganui Iwi, and he sits at the top of 2 other manaia.

His curves and lines were a complete mind and body fuck when I was learning how to do whakairo, and although it’s not really my forte (not without some more serious learning ;) ); you do come to appreciate the skill that it takes to direct a chisel along the grains of wood without completely mangling it.

His eye is made from paua shell, and as all good manaia should do:

He watches over Me.

<3


kpm ©


 

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exhibition art [2017] ~ “rarohenga”

Rarohenga

Underworld, nether-world –

the place where

the spirits of

the dead

go.


#abstract #art #painting #rarohenga #underworld #resistance #selfdetermination #kpm©


kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


 

SaveSave

SaveSave

the speech

you need to,

pull yourself up

by the boot straps.

suck it up

& soldier on.

“everyone’s afforded the same opportunities”:

bullshit speech.

.

that speech is spitted by

those, with boots.

& bootstraps.

.

those without, don’t give a fuck about your productivity speech.

they don’t give a fuck about your mentality, your wellbeing

or your version of moving fucking forward.

.

you talk of crime,

where there is no real crime.

.

you talk of homelessness,

whilst cosy in your homes.

.

you talk of being cultured,

on your stolen land.

.

you talk about being more,

because you have more.

.

you talk of being educated,

in your educational institutes.

.

those of us without those things:

.

wait for it:

.

we don’t give a fuck!

.

your bootstraps make no fucking difference here.


kpm©