a memory

‘raukawa’ (a place i once lived) was a time i loved, un-interfered with, parenting, loving, & raising kids .. but it didn’t last forever .. i wish it could’ve been slightly different etc .. but, i had a goal, a purpose, and the kids were it. looking back i not only made the best of that situation, i enjoyed it. i loved it. and the memories of it i also love x



& today, as in actual today ..

today was abit of a sicky day .. hormones have decided to commence fuckery again, after a nice long interlude .. of which i am grateful.

but whilst i was ailing around on the couch, consoling myself with hot water bottles & herbal teas, i listened to someone outside, constructing something lol. construction noises, of the modern day kind, would usually fucketh me off, but this symphony of construction was of the old school kind.

& it bought back dozens of forgotten memories of my grandfather & uncle (the good one).

both were builders & builders before there was skill saws & pile drivers. they were the kind that could traverse a concrete pad to a wooden wall to a roof to window to plumbing pipes. & all the while today, as i listened to hammers & an old saw cutting through something, i was reminded of sunday afternoons, listening to grandad constructing something useful – cos everything had a worthy purpose back then.

i could smell the wood & the concrete & the hammer on the nails .. i could hear the odd ‘buggar it’ & counting of measurements .. & i felt the awe of watching him create with his hands something out of all that ‘mess’, as nan would call it. he was so clever. so confident. 

& i miss him, & my uncle.

but i’m pleased i have memories. good memories. of good men doing good things.

kpm ©


a remembering dream.

had another dream. about where i used to work.

most of them make me anxious AF, even in my dream.

i loved that place. i hated that place.

i learnt shitloads. i paid shitloads.


in my dream i remembered my first supervisor.

that there was a time when i felt reasonably safe in that place. i was learning the ropes & it was a new environment but i felt safe.

because i had that supervisor.

he was a potty mouth, brash motherfucker, who did whatever the fuck he liked.

i loved the old cunt.

he was protective of his staff. he had done the job so long he knew what to look for,  what behavioural indicators were presenting in the kids & he had no trouble pulling staff up, high and low, for trailing, or for not doing their job properly … for being unsafe.

id kind of forgotten about my experience with him.

that good feeling got drowned out by all the bullshit that happened after i was taken out of his team.

shit turned to shit thereafter. i started getting sicker as things started changing & home started getting more unpredictable.

that dude reminds me of another experience i had with a woman that utilised maori rongoa. she was hearty & held space like no other person i had ever experienced.

strong. quiet. knowing. protective.


my dreams reminded me of good things. good memories. im thinking this is my feng shui’s way of balancing out the back flashes at the moment.

of giving me something else to hold on to.

*keep watching this space ;)*



lots & lots of flashbacks

by mid week last week i was feeling fucking exhausted, rattled & way over it.

i can tell the difference now. between what is a memory & what is a flashback. btw, i hate that fucking terminology. who the fuck made that shit up ay. some douche in a white coat no doubt.

anyway, telling the difference between the two makes me feel better that i know, cos i like being in the know *insert eye ball roll*; does it make it any easier.


it has been fucking tiring.

im holding on to the thought, that i must be stronger than i was so my feng shui has decided to let a bit more poison seep out. thats a good thing. but it dont feel good at the time.

i am now working on ‘grounding techniques’ for in the moment back flashes ;)

all the glorious bullshit they tell you to do for a panic attack, work like, one third of the time for these flashy fuckers. pacing around like a caged animal is kind of working … until i overheat & have a hot flush to top it off lol.

fuck me.

ne’mind. its not like im gonna quit is it.




they watched.

on 29 sept, it had been 14 years since my nan died. it was also a new moon.


that night i had dreams & i woke feeling different. like my third eye had been buffed & my sight &  hearing was to the side. like on abit of a gangstah lean lol.

im a dreamer .. some are me processing trauma (always called them nightmares, but they’re not really) or things i dont understand with my mind, & some are ‘old’. not sure how to explain them, but i know when i have them, that they’re different. they usually come before something changes or shifts or something significant happens …. & i’m left with a deep sense of ‘doing things differently’.

part of the dream was of an old white woman who held space like my nan used to, but this woman had a kete (flax woven bag). she was like a shadow, but confident in her space.

my nan is / was a white woman of british decent, & she was also a ‘see-er’, whose gifting was pretty hardcore but she was continuously admonished & misunderstood throughout her life.

she is also the woman who left me in the room to be sexually assaulted. i think her gift brought her too the room in the first instance; or the door of the room – & she knocked and called out, but i think her fear stopped her from opening the door and confronting her regrets & fears.  she hadn’t wanted her son / the pedo.  so she left me there. i believe this is one of her deepest regrets.

she is now one of, or the most prominent kaitiaki (protectors / guardians)  i have.

anyway, so back to the dream … apart from this old white woman, the other significant part of the dream was that i strangled the uncle / her son / the assailant.

in all dreams I’ve had of him i usually cant speak or move or i feel deeply afraid etc etc. this is the first in 43 years, that i have asserted me, over him.

it felt good.

so upon waking, i felt different.

as the day unravelled, this is what i remember.

the self professed white supremacist aka pedo cunt (as i call him) was engaged in what he labelled as occultism at the time of his assaulting me. the room was painted black and on one wall above the bed, was painted an inverted pentagram with a goats head in it – a.typical bullshit. he has this tattooed on his head also. so this was my first experience of anything ‘occult’ like.

at the other end of the pendulum was my mother who had embraced mainstream pentecostal christianity, where all things ‘witchcraft’, maori, woman etc were demonised and ‘prayed out of me’.  by relation to the pedo cunt, i was labeled as being ‘touched’ by the demons that were his, including his ‘beliefs’.

as with most things of the ‘club’ variety throughout my life, i have ‘shelved’ all things religious.

as the years have gone on i’ve called on the ‘ancients’ instead of what any religion dishes up & nature is where ive been drawn too. the ocean being my first call.

so, i learned the horned creature that i was told was the devil; that was ‘cast out’ on many occasions; that was above me in crude form whilst i experienced one of the most heinous crimes my body has ever experienced … was not in fact who i was told he was.

today i learnt about ‘Pan’.

he, or ‘Pan’, has many of my traits; being the devil is not one of them.

the 2 things that were safe in my life were music & dance. these are 2 of the traits pan has.

i think he watched over me that day, in a distorted kind of way.

my dreams reminded me of that.

i won in the end. not that other cunt.



a pts(d) moment.

have you ever altered your belief system or added to what you know aka learned something, only to be ‘tested’ on it within the days that follow that shift?

yeah well, here i am, again.

today a statement was levelled at me about taking a shower and it sent me down a pts(d) wormhole that i am still trying to manoeuvre.

taking a fucking shower ffs.

whilst said in jest; & the details i won’t expand on here, i was time warped back to a small body that dodged leering glances, although i didn’t know what they were at the time. i just knew they made my stomach sore.

back to a time where the bathroom door wasn’t locked & would be randomly slid slightly open with the cunt on the other side, salivating, grinning & saying ‘oh, yooouuur in here … ‘ & the lingering moments sitting there in utter vulnerability … utter frozen-ness, waiting for him to finish so i could finish. 

back to a time where the bedroom door would open slightly at night & a dark figure would stand there … the light from the hallway obscuring their face … but breathing loud enough to make it known to the pretend sleeper, that they were watching. leaving with a slight chuckle under their breath, this cunt left his presence in the room; left his scent on his property.

back to time where the cunt would block the exist from a room with the gigantic frame of his body & as i tried to slide past, the cunt would reach for my chest or my groin, laughing lightly the whole time.

back to a time where the cunt would make seedy remarks about my growth; jokes about genitalia or a smelly mick, as he called it … the laughter drawing me in to an unholy, unconsenting union of a perceived shared experience. 

back to a time where my clothing became looser so i could barricade my body from prying hands, leering eyes.

back to a time when … my body was not my own.

where i was a pawn in a sick little game played by fucked up persons. where power was an aphrodisiac. where the scent of their putrid hormones filled the air.

back to a time where my body was open season & no amount of crying, sobbing, ignoring, battling, explaining or excusing, could deter the advances of a sick cunt hell bent on getting off on the fear the rose like smoke, from his prey.

my senses feel assaulted.

my chest feels grief.

my stomach feels the old panic.

this is my moment. another learning moment.

while i’m not here anymore, but i am soooo here. that is pts(d).

i am tired of being thrown back to a place i have been running from all my life. 

i’m tired of trying to explain this whole situation to anyone who would want to touch me on the shoulder, or move my shoes from the door step, or knock on the bathroom door while I’m showering, or borrow my jacket, or eat my leftover dinner, or come in for cuddles, or pass me the pen …

i’m tired of explaining my space, my body, my story, my wishes, my reasons.

why can’t they just let me be?


dont worry. i won’t be here forever.


big breaths.



flashbacks that disturbed todays feng shui …

but didn’t completely fuck it up … i’m working on that part.


  1. the fire. yup thats right. that intrusive cunt has even disturbed firelighting shit. as i lit it up & could smell of burning of the lovely wood, which i usually like, i got a wiff of something else. & it was a memory. of that cunt dancing around the fireplace in an old house i lived in as a kid. he was laughing & shrieking cos the fireplace / chimney on fire. he kept saying ‘its gonna burn the house down … hahaha’. why did this memory appear today of all fucking days? with it came the sensation that i had had to put up with him being in the same breathing space as me for way longer than i realised. i’d had to appear ‘normal’. ok with his rants, rage, derangement. & the looming fear he produced & exuded was palpable & in hindsight, completely fucking outrageous.
  2. the garage. it leaks & is therefore damp. & produces a wretched smell. all good i thought. then it slammed me in the face like a 10 tonne fucking truck. i felt myself slide back into the damp cold dark room that ripped my innocence from me, over & over again. its all i could smell. all i could feel weighing on my chest. that mouldy damp suffocating smell & the feeling of invasion that came with it.


& fuck again.

i’m still presently freaking out slightly & have downed a anti-anxiety. its not really working but oh well.

so now i know, what am i supposed to do? dissect the fuck out of it? put it in the ‘memories’ category for later pontification?

fuck knows.

i really wonder what gives some days.

kpm ©


me & music: the shorts.

i know i’ve done this sorta post before, but i can’t be fucked a. finding said repetitive post to make sure i’m not exactly repeating myself; exactly, b. linking to it & c. ahhh i just can’t be fucked.

i mean, @ the end of the fucking day, who cares whether i repeat myself except that pedantic little voice in own head that says its a No-No … & those blogger advice peeps who give super-duper but fucking tiring blogging advice. dudes, its waaayyy to much to live up too!


anyway ….

me & music.

we have a longstanding intimate relationship.

actually, other than being sexual assaulted, i think its one of the longest relationships i’ve had with something. ikr. don’t get to say that every fucking day ay!

what those white ‘professionals’ didn’t tell me, was that memories are attached to our senses. & yes, thats ‘good’ & ‘bad’ memories.

it’s why the smell of dampness makes me shake. & why the sound of doors shutting make me freeze.

it’s also why the smell of bacon & tomatoes makes me feel @ home. & why singing lullabies makes me smile.

essentially, i attached my memories to a shitload of various tunes throughout my lifetime … & fuck, i’m getting old now lol so theres quite a few songs holding quite a few memories.

but i do marvel @ the fact that, when my little body couldn’t hold anymore, i just hung it on a song. & i still do.

kpm ©


they come whenever they feel like it.

i remembered the time when i was @ my mothers house & i was pregnant @ the time. about 8 1/2 months pregnant actually.

in that state, you can feel quite vulnerable. well, i did anyway. not that i knew it or really recognised it @ the time.

anyway. the pedo cunt showed up. randomly. as cunts like that do.

he had some drama going on & insisted that he stay, or ‘lay-low’ @ the house for awhile.

completely oblivious to the fear he was causing – or possibly aware & just not caring – he started insisting that mum let him stay.

it was one of 2 times i felt physically ill & deeply anxious slash fearful. all the fear i’d felt as a child came streaming back. i couldn’t run – to fat for that lol. & i knew i couldn’t protect my baby if he chose to lose the plot.

mum told him he couldn’t stay cos there was no room, but i could see her fear & her discomfort in telling him No. because she was afraid of him too.

he had a little hissy fit & then left.

i was left frightened & shaky.

it was then that i decided i needed to out him as a pedo cunt. i didn’t want my children to have to put up with him.


& all the memory came flooding back as i was opening the door to the car.


fuck (p)tsd.

kpm ©


flashbacks are back.

they’re coming like memories put to sour music. smells that stain your nostrils.

flash backs of being young, walking past ‘it’. ‘it’ grazing me, leering over me.

then being in the family scene, just waiting for the temper to flare up. the violence to break out. that gutt feeling, tight. i know in my puku, that everyone, including me, is afraid. but they’re ignoring & waiting.

kpm ©



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 ©



let Me tell you what i remember.

. begging for a conversation; connection.

. crying when the babies got taken away.

. throwing dinner parties.

. shopping on wobbly legs.

. paying the backlog of rent.

. walking to work.

. waiting for hours.

. cowering.

. being throttled.

. sitting alone.

. being told to cover up.

. feeling ashamed.

. doing family events, alone.

. trying.

. trying harder.

let Me tell you what i remember.

. you playing X-box

. you banging on the windows.

. you picking fights.

. you bad mouthing Me to my children.

. you saying my hair looked awful.

. you telling Me to wear something less slutty.

. you leaving.

. you ignoring.

. you helping everyone but Me.

. you, and Me, in court.

. you kneeling.

. you dropping Me off.

. you chipping away at my confidence.

. you criticising absolutely everything about Me.

. you taking.

thats what i remember.



me & my music memories

You, know, I thought I’d already covered music. But apparently not. So here it is, my explanation (of sorts), of my love … affinity … gravitation … toward and with music.

I’m not a genre buff per se. If I had to pick one it would have to be R&B … which is pretty wide.

But my love of music probably happened before I was even birthed lol. My Nan would sing to Me when I was little, and I actually remember some of those songs :)

Her and I would watch old movies with Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds …  She also loved classical and operatic music. My Nan is where my love of Dance was nurtured <3

As I got older I was more influenced by Christian / Pentecostal ‘worship’ music, but absolutely loved Black Gospel. Theres nothing quite like the old Gospel.

My mother was / is a musician and still plays the guitar. When I was growing up I remember her music and her guitaring. She’d listen to ‘folk’ type music, like Peter, Paul and Mary … Simon and Garfunkel. Now whilst that wasn’t exactly my favourite, I guess it influenced what I was drawn too.

Because we were raised ‘Christian’, we weren’t allowed to listen to what was deemed ‘mainstream’ music. That didn’t stop Me, obviously, and made the listening to the ‘forbidden’ that much sweeter.

I’d find old cassette tapes and tape the songs that would come on the radio, as quickly as I could, before my mother got out of the shower, or returned from the supermarket lol. I kept those tapes tucked away and would listen to them when my mother was out or we went to my Grandparents. I was influenced by your mainstream ‘pop’ at the time, (the 80s), and because I was a dancer, that type of music also influenced my overall love of music.

Another great music memory for Me, is my Grandfather. I’d go to work with him when I was at their house for the holidays. This is something I absolutely loved. It is one of the few memories that I’ve clung on to over the years. It’s where my love for building and concrete and making things, comes from. And during these ‘work sessions’ with my Grandfather, he’d listen to the local radio station. I got to hear all the new songs and radio being what it is, they’d play the songs over and over, which meant I got to learn all the words :)

By the time my first daughter was born, I’d sing to her. It’s also one of the best memories I have of an extremely stressful, sad time – holding her, and rocking her and singing her to sleep.

I did the same when my second baby girl was born too, and she had the same reaction. She’d go all limp and relaxed, look at Me as I’d sing to her; smile and then go to sleep :)

And as the years went on, I was influenced by Country and Western, Heavy Metal, Rock, Jazz, Soul, Blues, Hip Hop, Underground, Thrash, D&B, House, Dub, Reggae, Ska … the list goes on. The first 2 were never my favourite genres but they still added to my ‘taste’.

I guess music has always been with Me.

It eases Me in ways I can’t explain. It helps Me to vent, focus, re focus … and as I’ve moved throughout the years, I’ve figured out what ‘does it for Me’. I’m drawn to the eerie minor keys and tones and those come in all genres. I’m not particularly drawn to lyrics as is the ‘norm’; but instead am drawn to ‘the feel’ or the ‘atmosphere’ that a piece of music gives.

It’s not something I could live without I don’t think. Although I have sensitive little ears lol, I think of all the ‘disabilities’ I wouldn’t want … the loss of hearing would be the hardest.

For Me, music holds some of my best memories I’ve got <3





no goodbyes …

not a great ‘do-er’ of ‘new years’ celebrations anymore, but i like the marking of the end of one thing & the transition into another.

thats what this new years is for me.

a recap of what i achieved, celebrated, struggled with, came to terms with, let go of & paid the price for. it’s all growth. & its all good. & i’m still grappling with some of it both mentally & physically.  my tummy is still in knots & i can’t quite find my groove. but i’m trying to take it one little hour @ a time & not dwell on too much for too long.

so, i went hunting for a photo of our little mate that died just before the gregorian christmas period … well a photo of how i remember him anyways.  but i couldn’t find the one i was originally looking for, but found another of him & i found others too.

they reminded me of all the things & people that come & go. that time doesn’t stand still. that memories are all we have sometimes. that the good is always mixed with the bad & that sometimes you have to hunt to find where one starts & the other ends. that love never gets old. that loneliness is the loudest sound in the world. that pain subsides for some. that growth is inevitable. & that death is too.

& that its All all good.


#ThePermWasTiiiight #KingiWasABBoy #NanPouredTheRum #BabyGirlListenedToMotownOnCassette #FourGenerationsWasntNoThang #IkaWasCute #TheSkinWasFlawlessButYouStillWantedToBeDifferent #TheSmokeMachineWasLiiiife #RewaiWasInAllTheShots #MinnieStillHadDoggy #WeLaughedAtGrandadsHatAndNowWouldKillToSeeHimInItAgain #MySisterWasLittle #ChristmasWasAThing #IWasTryingToTeachThemBoutOurHistoryAndProtestAndTheyWereBoredAF #DollazWasAMidget #PamzillaWouldntSmileAtKoro #PookieKnewExactlyWhereSheWantedToGo #TheBigBabiesCouldSwingOffKorosShoulders #TheyWentToLiveWithTheirDadAndMyHeartBroke #GrandadsANZACParadeSeemedWayToEarly #PooksHadHerFirstPeach #MyBrotherWasShorterThanMe #PammyAlwaysHadOneShoeCosWhoNeedsTwo #MamasHadEnoughEnergyToRunAfterTheMidgets #MyMamaStillHatedPhotos & #ILovedCrowdsAndConcerts

kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


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.



sad news.

my eldest daughter is 30. i had her just after i turned 16. our lives were hard; slightly tormented, but i did the best i could & loved her like no other.

she has her own family now. a beautiful growing family.

today she messaged me to let me know that a friend of hers had died. he’s a friend of mine too, but not like her. i’m the mother of lol. i’m the one that got called ‘…. her mum’. i remember him from my girls school days & caught up with him in later years via facebook, as you do.

he took his own life.

he left behind  a little boy whose just turned one.

i don’t think i’m sad because he died this way … i get it … he had a tormented life too. i don’t think i’m sad because he left behind his son … he’ll be loved & cared for.

i think i’m sad because as i get older & as i watch my kids grow up & have kids of their own; i can see their pain as their lives unfold & as they make their decisions. as they lose their friends & make new friends. & it hurts me.

i guess that’s the mother in me.

the part of me that always wanted to keep them safe knowing that they’d have to grow up & make their own decisions: live their own lives. but still somewhere in me is that basic instinct that wants them to be safe from all harm.

& it sucks when it doesn’t work.

my girl is sad but realistic. she has regrets & wishes. i guess that’s all part of life.

but today: it sucks shit.

kpm ©



photography .30

#bnw #memories #nansrecipes #handwriting #photography #kpm ©

kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


and, yes, of course theres a dream to follow …

You know what animals do when they’re vulnerable aka sick? They hide.

Hiding has always seemed like a cowardly thing to do unless your playing hide and seek of course. But no-one wants to admit they hide. So instead, they pretend. Same thing, different name. Like Sade and Shar-day ;)

Yesterday I realised I’ve been hiding.

Not a pretending to be something I’m not kind of hiding. I’m no good at that shit, in fact I suck at it. My attempts and whines at ‘being normal’ are really a wish to be plastic … well to be able to go along with the ‘quo’ and to just fit the fuck in.

But really? I can’t.

Never have.

So instead … I hide.

Hide in the house. Hide behind ‘pain’. Hide in the ‘average’. Hide in the outskirts.

And up until yesterday, I hadn’t realised that I’ve been beating the living shit out of myself, for doing so. And whilst talking a dump (my place of inspiration!), the opening thought came to mind.

Animals know when they are sick and because they are vulnerable, they hide until they are better. It’s called Survival.

It’s called self-preservation. It’s not about fear, it’s about practicality.

Our society doesn’t let us hide. It forces us into situations that make us ashamed to be afraid. Ashamed to want to run. Ashamed to know that we need to run and hide. It’s ok to fight back, as long as it’s not violently. It’s ok to be a little sad about the whole situation, as long as it doesn’t last past Monday morning.

And that’s pretty fucked up.

So, realising that little gem I reanalysed my situation.

Being vulnerable has never done Me any favours. Not a One. Period.

Vulnerability is about being small, incapable, open, unaware.

So I became capable, closed and finely tuned to my surroundings because I couldn’t do Big. Big comes with time. I didn’t have time. I had the need to survive. I became an analyser of my surroundings and the predictor of behaviours. By doing so I could  minimise the damage done to Me. Pretty smart really.

And then I became Bigger. And the tool that had helped Me survive wouldn’t switch off. They named it PTSD and decided it was a mental illness.

Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. What I do know though is, without the ability to analyse my surroundings and the behaviours of others, I would be dead.

So now I’m in hiding. Because I can’t make shit work in a world that expects Me to be inclusive, social, chatty, pleasant, productive … I hide because I feel vulnerable for different reasons? Are the wounds of old healed?

No. But they’re healing.

But I don’t know how to be a different kind of Me.

How the fuck you sposed to do ‘vulnerable’ and ‘open’ when those things are directly related to being fucked in a very small vaginal cavity? How are you sposed to be loving and caring and sharing and intimate when those things are weaknesses that get you trapped in a room you can’t get out of?

How do I re-write that narrative so I can come out feeling fucking Safe?

I thought having all my little bits and pieces to help with movement, sound, sight, smells … all the extras I take to distract and simplify things … were to help Me feel Safe. But they don’t make Me feel Safe, they just remind Me of how fucking vulnerable I feel! Of how fucking shit scared I am and of how I want to be anywhere, but here.

How do I re-write that shit?

So with all that on my mind, I finally drugged up last night and went to sleep: and noted, that I didn’t feel particularly bothered … just numb … the state that I like. And then dreamed … a sort of unusual one for Me … sort of nightmarish, but not entirely, taking into consideration the bigger picture of “Me and nightmares”.

I dreamt about the pedo cunt. Now I don’t always dream about him directly: sometimes its just a shadow or a voice .. but last night, it was him … in all his skin-headed ugliness. He looked slightly diminished, but his presence was permeating and lingering … hard to explain. I felt tired in my dream. Like that drained tired and I could see my Grandfathers old bed in their old house. I used to jump in bed with him in the mornings, when I was little, and he’d read Me pages and pages of the Bible. I felt Safe there.

In my dream I saw the bed and I wanted with all my senses to crawl up in there and sleep. And then out of my peripheral I saw the pedo cunt. He strolls in the room and sits on my Grandfathers bed. He’s trying to act ‘normal’, but I know he’s fucking with Me. Scaring Me … just quietly torturing Me. Then he starts trying to make ‘fun’ conversation with one of my mokos, whose been sitting on the ground in front of Me playing with some blocks. I felt vulnerable and afraid … but angry and protective.

I sat and looked at him trying to talk to her. She didn’t answer him and stayed close to Me. I felt frozen; but Not. I was aware. And although I was afraid, I knew I that I needed to remove her from his presence.

Somewhere in here there was a moment where I wanted someone to remove him from Us … but I knew that was never going to happen.

I woke up here.

I knew that I’d never subject my mokos to being anywhere near his mindfucking games or his sick filthy ways. Never. I’d never excuse him or make them listen to him. I’d remove them to save them. I’d also never subject them to anyone like him for the sake of ‘being polite’.

Difference is though, I’d come back and Remove that cunt. Forever. No doubt about it. No way, no how, would they ever have to be subject to his cruelty and perversity.

Not Ever.


I have tortured myself for years for trying to do the same thing for myself when I was a child.

I fucking survived that cunt! I survived and there was No-one to save Me. No-one picked Me up and removed Me and went back and told him to pull his fucking head in. No-one told him that his violent outbursts were completely inappropriate around children. No-one called the Police for fucks sakes.

And Yet … I fucking survived!

I spent adulthood hiding and recovering and yet I still can’t give myself a fucking break! This wasn’t a high-five moment, where I should sort of kind of congratulate myself in a millennial kind of way, about how absolutely ‘aweeee-sum’ I did … Fuck No …

That is a ‘I fucking survived a sick cunt for years and fucking years … my body survived … my fucking mind survived … My fucking spirit survived!’


I have spoken to army dudes that get trained to resist psychological torture and they still end up fucked up! Try being a teeny tiny little girl and resisting that shit.

Now that is some hardcore reality right there.

So today, I gave myself permission to hide as long as I need too! To shake and cry and sit in the corner and rock backwards and forwards if I fucking need too! For as long as I fucking need too!

As long as I need too! No more apologies or excuses. I’d really like to see someone else survive my life and not be dead or dribbling in a corner in a straight jacket.

But when I’m done … cos I will be done eventually … I’ll be putting that pedo cunt to rest. He doesn’t have a place in my life anymore and he has occupied to much space already.

And when I’ve put that cunt to rest …

Ima gonna get Cronked, Tear Shit Up and Celebrate the Shit Out of Me!


kpm ©



thusly unfucked.

In my clean out the other day I had to figure out what to do with these beauties: potential rubbish bin material?

Well, I could not do it:

Heres why ..

These are macro shots of my Nans recipes. Even though they are old and largely illegible … they are my Nans essence <3 In this shot I can ‘see’ her love and beauty; her patience with us; her creativity and her wisdom. I miss her. And these little pieces of paper made my mindfulness-ness sort of teary, but happy.

I am privileged to have had a Nan in my life, right up until I was in my 30s. Not to many people can say that. My children had a Great-Nan but she departed this world before her great great grandchildren were born.

Memories come with all sorts of things … bits of paper; handwritten scribbles; recipes; smells; words … flavours.

I love my Nan for everything she gave Us girls. She was / is the epitome of strength and resilience.

Today the shout out mindfulness spot goes to my Nan.


kpm ©



unfucked memory.




Homai to Aroha


Another ‘moko’ aka Grandbaby memory:

The Mokos (Grandchildren / Grandchild) Koro (Grandfather) (my partner) makes a cooked breakfast most mornings. Even though their parents would usually have given the mokos their usual breakfast / milk or whatever it was that was their norm; once ‘cooked breakfast’ arrived, each moko (except for 1 – Moko 3), would crawl up onto his lap whilst he was eating and starting poking around at his toast and baked beans, the sausages and bacon. He’s complain about them ‘eating all his breakfast’ and they’d sit happily on his lap eating away, till the plate was empty.

Mokos aged 9 and 8 still do they same thing, but without crawling up into his lap now. He’ll ask them if they want a cooked breakfast … they reply No … and then as he dishes up, they appear with: “Oh, Koro, can we have some baked beans …”, he rolls his eyes and dishes up extra plates of food.

What I really enjoyed this morning was the stories he told them of all the times they’d eaten up his breakfast, followed by the hysterical belly rolling laughter that followed. They sat and ate and laughed for nearly an hour.

I guess the important thing about growing up are the memories. For these darling Mokos, I really hope they embrace the memories and the laughter. Some of the most important things in this life.


kpm ©