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the unfucking of thyself. myself.




Homai to Aroha


Little bit of a cluster fuck today, but seeing as this is my blog and I can cluster-fuck it if I need too … here we go:

As I have been going on about our river trip for the last few days, and the convent that we stayed at, I’ve noticed I’ve been avoiding the photographs of the church and the actual convent.

Therein lies the cluster fuck and the unfuck.

I don’t like churches. I don’t like the way they make Me feel. And when We went into this church I was approaching it purely from a ‘lets take some good pictures’ point of view … and still felt horrible going in there.

These are the photos from the outside only … tomorrow I’ll do the ones from the inside. So in essence this is a 2 part cluster-fuck-unfucking-of-thyself lol.

I don’t like churches for a lot of reasons. One being, that I was brought up having to go to church every sunday (not a church like this), and I have some ass hat memories from that ordeal that have taken half a lifetime to come to terms with. Part of that unfolding has been separating religion from ‘god’. The two are not even remotely related.

The other part of my angst with this particular iconic building, is that it overshadows the settlement that was there long before the missionaries arrived on these shorelines. And whilst the nuns that set up shop here, may have actually been quite righteous individuals, they are themselves the ‘icons’ of our colonial history. They came, “the great white hope”, and they ‘saved’ the natives from the other colonial parasites and the diseases and alcohol and rape and perversity, they bought with them. They set up an ‘orphanage’, which is honourable … missing the point that We never needed ‘orphanages’ before they arrived.

The land that this big iconic building sits on, is ‘gifted’ land. As in, tangata whenua of this area, ‘let’ the catholic church build their buildings on the land. The idea was they would help the church and the church would help them. The nuns have done that: again, thats an honourable thing.

But the whole building smacks of the colonial history that has diminished or is not so obvious anymore, everywhere else in our country.

When I stepped into this building, I couldn’t hardly breathe and felt dizzy as fuck … more so than normal.

I could feel the weight of grief Tangata Whenua (people of the land) had bore. The disbelief, that a ‘visiting’ peoples could wreak so much havoc in such a short time. And then I could feel the angst of all colonised people … the disbelief … the horror … the clamber to find solutions … the grief. It makes everything tight and quite unbearably sad and desperate. All in those 4 walls where the pakeha come to ‘worship’ the gods of their ancestors.

Anyway, thats part one. The best photograph, in my opinion, is this one because it is just a silhouette. If only that was true of the indentation that they have left on this land.

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#bnw #artistic #photography #photographer

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moko & big dig big ups

before the month declined slightly, i didn’t get the chance to post the beginning of said month, & that it was awesome starting this gregorian year off with my eldest moko.

this year he’ll be 11 … eeek.

he’s so gorgeous & such a lovely kid.

i’d asked him what he wanted to do for ‘new years’ & he reckoned he wasn’t fussed … just staying awake was an achievement ! so we did pizza & the beach earlier in the evening & then watched everyone elses fireworks from the comfort of our backyard ;)

lame photo of the ‘fireworks’ i know. but let me just point out my achievement for  this night.

i haven’t ‘done’ fireworks displays for years & definitely haven’t gone out to take pics of any recently lol. yep, fireworks are all the usual pts(d) fuckery – loud, bright, random. this is the first year in fucking years i smiled @ them – hence the photo being shit lol.

so high-fucking-five me !

the following couple days before moko went home to his fams, he said he was missing his baby brother & told me all about how he got him up in the mornings & they’d have a chat (moko #9 is the newbie & he’s 4 months old) & then moko #1 would put bubba in his chair & turn on a specific cartoon for him, which apparently loves. i thought this was awesome & asked him why he does it. he says to me: so mama can have a sleep & cos i love him.

like i said, he’s a lovely kid.

anyway … the day before moko went home, we went to a ‘big dig’ – the purpose was to dig for 4 hours to hopefully find a plastic token & thusly win a corresponding prize.

he didn’t find anything & think he was over it within the first hour, but he persevered lol.

for me, it was a bit of a fucked up ‘achievement’. my beach was packed … & i mean packed (for our area anyways). not indicative of calm & tranquility, especially at this time of the year … but i sucked it up … well actually, breathed it out … & went down.

no-one but me really recognised the achievement, but oh well: you don’t always get a high five for the shit yah do ay.

have i mentioned i love my mokos?

they make life good xox

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#flowerporn #capedaisy #macro #photography #kpm©

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“Resistance” is in my blood … just ask my Mama ;) … and as I look over my unique heritage, I’m not really surprised at all.

Theres the Irish and Scottish colonisation’s, that resulted in their Response and continued Resistance. A few of those ancestors were sent to these ‘colonies’, and tahdah, our line changed. They weren’t perfect humans by any means, in fact there’s a couple who were down right assholes, but I’ll leave that for another post. But their Resistance to the invasion of their countries, was second to none. I admire the fuck out of that part of their narrative.

Then there’s the Jewish blood; the English blood; the French Canadian blood … and of course … the tangata whenua – Maori blood.

Learning about my tipuna and the layers of my Indigenous culture, has given Me a tonne of strength; it’s answered a heap of questions for Me; it’s made Me realise that I already know, deep down, what I need … Who I am … where I want to be. It’s given Me layers upon layers of beautiful healing.

And I am made up of multiple layers of Resistance and Response.

That Resistance has been voiced regarding colonisation and the social justice issues We continue to face as tangata whenua, through my art; and more recently that has extended to responding to, and re-framing sexual violence.

This love of justice … fairness … questioning … reframing … is what gives Me that fire in my belly. It’s probably what has helped to keep Me alive at times and I am grateful for it.  I’d rather have it, than have nothing at all <3

“Thou Shalt Not Concede”

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#bnw #dark #beach #photography #kpm©

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dark, rainy days.

my favourite days

are dark & rainy.

because, for me, everything about

the dark:

brings calm.

to my mind; to my body.

there are no ups & downs.

no high highs, or low lows.

it’s just quiet.

just plain.

just grey.

just dark.

like neutrality,

but beautiful.






me & bumble bees

did i tell yah

i love

the humble

bumble bee?

well, i do.

wanna know why?

according to some


scientific dude,

these little creatures,

shouldn’t be able to fly.


their little fat

fuzzy bodies,

should be to heavy

for their

petite little


but even though

some old fart

decided, in his

infinite wisdom,

that the aero-dynamics

of it all

just don’t

add up,

they fly

just fine,


so why do i

like ’em so much?

because they defy

the odds.

they are what

they are,

no matter what

any cunt decides

they should be(e).





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#beachlife #attitude #photography #kpm©







‘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.




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