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today was anzac.

i’m not feeling it. as pathetic as that sounds … i’m just not.

after the recent shooting that saw 50 peoples lives, end … that we, as a country, have been blatantly quick to forget …

i just aint feeling it.

dont get me wrong, i always remember what my grandfather did for this shitass country & i am eternally grateful for his sacrifice & the toll that it took on him & his family in the following years …

but he’s not walking this earth anymore.

nor are his compadres.

i remember him every day, not just on this day.

what they did won’t ever be forgotten by those that loved them.

not their country.

their country forgets way too quickly.

so,

today i decided to start my own ‘remembrance’. being a pts(d) retard & all, crowded spaces are one of my achilles heels. i’ve guilted myself for the past few years, trying to bust my ass getting to a dawn service.

today, i kissed that scenario goodbye.

instead, i did this:

i did nans version of ‘gunfire’ or a ‘hot toddy’ – hot coffee & rum. then i took it & my funky ass down to the beach & found 2 flowers, the same colour, but different; & did a bouquet that nan would be embarrassed of lol (she was a beautifully talented florist), said my ‘prayers of remembrance’ & set my bouquet afloat.

i love my nan & grandad like no other humans that have been in my life.

today i remembered both of their sacrifices, for a war that wasn’t theirs: for a war that still needlessly rages.


kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


 

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dreamt about my grandfather …

I woke in tears, and that hasn’t happened for a long long time. The tears stopped a little while ago but I think they’ll be intermittent today as I process …

I dreamt we were out doing ‘normal’ shit and I felt lost … not completely unsafe … just that lost, looking for home kinda feeling.

So I went into my grandfathers old room, in the old house. The bed was made and had the hideous maroon coloured bed spread on it. But it was made like my Nan makes it, all tucked up tight. I think I was wanting to curl up in there and listen to him read Me the Bible. I used to do that as a kid … listening to at least an hours worth of Psalms or Proverbs, his favourites :) I felt safe there. Perfectly safe. And perfectly loved.

But he wasn’t there. And I realised he wasn’t coming back cos he’s dead and I can’t see him or touch him – here – anymore. The tears started flowing in my dream, and they continued when I woke up.

You know when you’re half asleep, half awake, and you can feel something dawning on you … like some deep relevant revelation? Or does that just happen to Me ;) … Well that was happening as I was wiping tears and looking for my snot rag.

I got snippets of my Grandfather, his garden, him working, him cooking, him sitting watching TV doing his ‘invoices’ … and then I saw him crying … when I told him what had happened to Me as a child at the hands of his child. He had big silent tears spilling down his face that day, and I had never seen him cry before. He whispered that He was sorry and touched my hand. He looked sad and ashamed.

I understand now, as a grandparent, the love you have for your grandchildren … and the ache that comes from knowing that they’ve been hurt.

My Grandfather was My Man … the Man in my life that meant something; that I knew loved Me. I am eternally grateful that I had at least one Man be that person for Me.

As all that was churning over in my gutt / mind / heart … I felt a pang of something/s … think it was emotion … The neglect of my father … No safe space … No safe place anymore … and Not grieving the loss of my Grandfathers Face and Space after he left this world.

I’ve written about losing him before, but I can’t be bothered finding the link …

When my Grandfather was dying, we were all a bit in disbelief … I think because we thought he would somehow live forever … he was so strong, and determined, and organised lol, pretty sure death wasn’t on the agenda for that particular week! Certainly wasn’t for Me anyways.

I remember getting the call in the night. My Mama didn’t want to disturb us and it turned out that my Grandfathers heart had stopped the night before but they had resuscitated him. When she rang to let us know what was happening, I booked flights and we left the next morning. It was an 8 hour drive and like 4 hours to the morning flight. Simple choice.

Diversion: This was the last comfortable flight I took. I remember that awkward butterfly feeling in my gutt when we were landing in what they believe is an aeroplane; I think it is a tin can with wings … and knowing that this day was going to be an ending. I thought then that it was hopefully just something that would happen that was unpleasant, but we’d move on ok. Deep down though, I knew it was a life changer. And this feeling or whatever it is … comes at times when shit gets real. It’s uncomfortable and I want to run from it.

Duly noted …

When we got up to the hospital, my Grandfather looked tired … he looked uncomfortable and I knew he wanted to go home. He was trying to make jokes and make everyone feel Ok. And by in large, it was working. Everyone was in a blissful state of denial … even I felt a little warmed by it.

The pedo cunt was there, since he is the son of. What a bastard. But that is / was the story of my life … of everyone’s really. They all put up with him … at everything … on every occasion … because he was / is … family pfft. He raved on about putting down animals that are dying and that if Grandad was an animal he’d be put to sleep. That cunt and my Mama had the final say in whether my Grandfather was resuscitated again or not. They talked facts … I wanted to take him home.

Isn’t Home what we want when we feel uncomfortable or in need of love, or something safe or good? Even if Home isn’t all of those things; or even if Home doesn’t technically exist? It’s a feeling …  a yearning … a belonging. Home. And that’s where my Grandfather needed to be … dying or not … he needed to be at home. But they wouldn’t let us take him home and no-one, including myself, had the grit to argue with those medical wankers at that stage.

So instead, we sat with Grandad, and read Him the Bible.

They told us we couldn’t give him anything to drink, but we didn’t listen to that bullshit and gave him whatever he wanted … which was chocolate milk lol of all things … I don’t think I’d ever seen him drink chocolate milk. But we gave it to him, because he was the Man that gave Us everything!!

He slept fitfully and we kept reading to him.

One of those inhospitable nurses, who was near the end of her shift no doubt, came in and told us we should be telling him what we needed too .. You know, last rites, last confessionals … all the things you wished you had of said but didn’t. I got then, that my Grandfather was dying, that his organs were slowly shutting down. But I could’ve punched that bitch for her attitude.

We continued reading to him.

You see, Grandad was a Man of very few words. But when he spoke, he said what he meant and he didn’t say it twice. This was no time for deep confessions or ‘I wish I had’ve …’ ; this was the time He Needed Us and Would Never Admit It.

In the meantime the pedo cunt decided he wanted to go home and get some clothes and the nurse warned him that his father may be not be alive when he got back so not to mess around.

None of Us gave a shit how long that cunt left for … and secretly hoped he crashed on the way to wherever he was going and never came back.

That was a God Send … if you believe in those. The pedo cunt left. I saw in him no shred of stamina. No shred of self sacrificial love for another. But I didn’t give a shit … I just wanted him to go away. And away he went. Finally.

Not more than an hour later Grandad woke up and looked like he was alright, but having not been around a whole lot of dying people before, we didn’t realise it was like a last rush. The bitch nurse (who was probably really nice, but I didn’t give a shit bout her either …) said he was going to die – go and wake up my daughter to come say goodbye.

At this stage everyone kind of went into shock I think. My poor Mama was trying to fuss around as our pizza had arrived; my youngest daughter started crying …

I went an achey blue cold. I can’t describe it any other way.

I didn’t want to be there. Like the prelude to a panic attack … Anywhere but here. But at the same time, I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world other than next to the only Man that loved Me completely.

In that achey blue cold state, I kind of snapped at my Mama and told her to tell Grandad she loved him. I ordered my youngest daughter to go wake up my eldest daughter … Now, and drag her here Now … and Fast. My eldest was pregnant with our first moko and was just pregnant tired. My youngest did as she was told for a change … I think it was my tone.

They started crying when they got back to Grandad and I understood why. And usually I’d encouraged it. But my beautiful Grandfather was a war veteran … a man who hardly ever cried … that was extremely uncomfortable with emotion and with the discomfort of others.

I told them to suck it up. To tell Grandad they loved Him and that He was a good Man. I told him He had done a fine job of being a father, grandfather and great-grandfather and now he could leave and we would be alright.

And the light in his big blue eyes went out.

And as the rest of the proceedings came and went … the phone calls, the death-mobile and all their papers and shit … the wheeling him out … telling them that we wanted him to be brought home (which was against his wishes, but not really .. I figured he wanted to go home before hand, and this was the least we could do ..) … the pedo cunt showing up again … me, mama and my girls all sleeping together in the same room that night … all waking up sobbing … feeling the end of an era fall on the whole house … the funeral … the tears … the numbness … for months until I half pie cracked one afternoon and sobbed till it hurt … and then the years that have gone by and I can’t even remember when he died … the date, the year, the time … but that moment when his light left was the moment something else left.

My Safe Place.

He was it. He was my father, my grandfather, my love, my safety, my teacher, my Man.

And then I got scared. And there was nowhere to go.

And this morning as I was wiping away snot and tears, I realised this was when my world came unhinged so to speak. I didn’t have a lot anyway … but what was good, was in him.What was safe, was in him. What was the calm in the storm, was in him. And i didn’t know how to re-orientate myself.

I still don’t.

But now I know.

And it hurts like fucking shit.

So I’ll let the tears run today and maybe I’ll light Grandad a candle … I’ll sit with all this today and feel that filthy great big lump in my throat and that ugly grief feeling in my puku.

I’ll let it do its thing.

The Love Of My Life

kpm ©


 

i do love my grandfather. but.

today i heard my grandfather

in your voice.

not in a nostalgic way.

but a cringe, a recoil.

he spoke to my nan like she was a piece of shit.

a waste of space.

an annoyance.

he rolled his eyes @ her.

grimaced when she spoke.

if you weren’t a child with child eyes

if you weren’t a child with child ears

one would wonder:

why on earth he stayed around.

why on earth she stayed around.

is there a pain more stinging

than being in a place, you are clearly not wanted

or required.


kpm©


 

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i had it all along <3

An interesting day so far … I forget that some of my most ‘profound’ moments come when I am alone. Yes, I am an introvert who likes my own company. I always have but have only just come to grips with that and started to embrace everything that that is for Me.

The partner was away for the day and night and this has given Me enough time to reflect and get to the gist of my gistnyness – Yes, that is one of my awesome made up words ;)

After pondering on the relationship between myself and my biological father, I woke with a bit of an unfolding of a revelation. On the third cup of coffee (good quality, heart warming coffee that is) whilst watching a ‘comfort’ movie – “Guardians of the Galaxy #2”, yes, I know … I’m sooo deep I stun my own self sometimes – that unfolding revelation completely unfolded and hit Me in the frontal lobe; or there abouts anyways.

I published a post the other day regarding “family”, and what that means to Me. I described in there, that family, for Me, is sometimes more than blood. What I didn’t expand on in this post, was who those are for Me.

I shall do that briefly now.

I grew up with my younger brother; as in we shared a mother and a house. Our experiences however, were completely different. I guess I resented him slightly for that over the years but have come to recognise that he has had his own hurdles and he, like Me, has found his own way of dealing with his shit. We were never ‘close’, as in, in each others pockets constantly; and I only recall ever having 1 argument with him, and he was pretty young then, maybe 9 or something. And in retrospect, he was just trying to assert his place in the world. And he has successfully managed that! He is an awesome father, musician, friend, lyricist, scholar and Man. And he is self-taught in all areas, which I admire and can relate to on all levels. Because we had different fathers, he had his own demons to exorcise with his father and their family of origin. And he has manoeuvred that beautifully. He has a wonderful relationship with his sisters and brothers and makes sure they are all connected to him and his son, so every one knows everyone. His father passed away a few years ago, but not before he had reconciled, as much as he could, the relationship between them. He was under no illusions though, about what he had missed out on; good and bad. And as the years have passed, he’s been able to let most of the angst of that go.

So while I came to admire and respect my brother, that closeness that I kinda sorta craved, that I now recognise came from not having a connection with my sisters, lingered for a good part of my early years.

What I had forgotten though (as I do, and have done, quite frequently), is that I made some extremely close and lasting friendships of the brotherly, sibling-ly kind, with other people throughout my life. One such friend was my brother, friend and drinking partner from hell. We had an extremely close bond. One that came to a close quite a few years ago, but never the less, it had existed; and I loved and depended on it. It held Me together through some extremely rough times. We would talk all night, drink all day, laugh at each others lame ass jokes, lend money, borrow money, argue, yell, disagree, agree … I became his daughters godmother when she was born, and was even at her birth. I suck at being a godmother though lol.

My gist is … while I hadn’t had a ‘close’ relationship with my biological brother … one that I somehow ‘thought’ we ‘should’ve’ had (which is bullshit by the way) … I didn’t miss out on what I needed. It only got added to by other people in other places.

With respect to my biological father; I realised whilst watching my comfort movie, that I had always had a ‘father’. One that loved Me; provided for Me; cared for Me; was interested in Me; was proud of Me; he tried, at all times, to protect Me; he connected with Me and my children. He was everything that a good father and dad should be. And he is my maternal grandfather <3

While I have believed somewhere within my being, that I had somehow missed out by not having a biological father ‘take care’ of Me; I really hadn’t! I had actually had a better version / the best version of a father that anyone could ever ask for.

When he passed on, I held his hand and stroked his head while the light in his big beautiful blue eyes went out. I told him that he was a good man; a beautiful man; a successful man, and that We all loved him; that we would miss him but that he had done his job impeccably and we were eternally grateful. I was able to do that for the most important man in my life, because he had shown Me love my entire life.

That is the essence of a father. It is also the essence of a father – daughter relationship.

So, you see, I didn’t miss out at all. I had just forgotten – well semantics fucked up my feng shui for a little while – that what I had hoped for from my biological father, I had actually gotten in abundance, from my grandfather father. I love that that happened to Me. And I wouldn’t change that for all the feng shui in the world! I wouldn’t even change it to have a better relationship with my biological father.

And so my peace with it all, came in this recollection:

That I had the father I always craved for and wanted. I couldn’t have had anyone better. My biological father, is just that. And I don’t owe him anymore than that recognition; I don’t even owe him anger, because with his absence, someone greater and better and more lovely, was able to fill those shoes.

<3


kpm ©


 

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my grandad.

me and my grandfather <3

me and my grandfather.

The most important Man in my life.

My Grandfather is my Father and Grandfather all rolled into one. I knew he loved Me. Not by what he said, but by how he acted. And for Me that has always been more important than words. His actions toward Me always spoke volumes, even when I wasn’t really aware of it; or became aware of it, after the fact.

It’s been … a long while … since he passed … and I miss him ferociously … every day.

But I am grateful … forever grateful … that this mans influence has been my ‘measuring stick’ of what protection and love look like. I am forever grateful for the love he gave me and the lessons he taught.

From this beautiful man came my love of building … concrete … music … Italian cuisine … poppies … bacon and eggs and fried tomatoes in the morning … structure … cup of tea and super wine biscuit breaks (very important when your a builder ;) ) … vegetable gardens … good tools …

I think he influenced nearly every good aspect of my life.

He always wanted me to go to University and study politics and eventually go into government. I never really understood his reasoning … as he never really gave reasons. In later years I understood that he wanted us to change the system from the inside out. He didn’t believe in War; as he had fought in WW2 … and I’m pretty sure the effects of that were embedded in his being. He barely talked about it, and when he did, he’d talk about ammunitions and that they shouldn’t be made … and as long as they were made, there’d always be War.

But instead I went University and did Criminology; and in his last hours with us, he told me he was proud of me. It made me cry. That even in that moment, as he could barely breathe; he thought to tell me he was proud of me.

And that was the kind of man he was.

I love you Grandad … and miss you every day … thankyou for everything you were and thankyou for your constant presence with Me.

I hope I continue to make you proud :)


kpm ©


 

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ANZAC – for my Grandad

Every ANZAC day I think of You; I remember you getting up at some god forsaken hour, ironing your ‘tweeds’, getting your medals together and heading off to the local RSA, ready for the dawn parade. I remember you telling us about the bugle, about General Freyberg, about your army ‘cobbers’. But I only ever remember going to 1 dawn parade with you in all of the years you were with us; shame on me.

But today I think you would’ve been proud of Mama and me. We took your photo – of You, General Freyberg and ‘Lorry’, to the Lakeside commemoration.

Grandad…Muaupoko were so welcoming…we told them your stories…mum told them the Tiny story and the Turkeys story :). They loved your picture ;). They sang you a waiata xo…you would’ve been so proud, felt so loved, and honoured, and humbled.

I know the event was for Freyberg, but for me, it was for YOU. I miss you…and I love you.

I won’t ever forget xo

(not my meme)


kpm ©