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Darkmatter should not be welcome in Wellington

#throwback Oct 3, 2016 @ 20:07


 

writing by renee

Dear Meow, InsideOUT, New Zealand Portrait Gallery and Slow Boat Records,

I’m writing regarding your upcoming Darkmatter events on 9 and 10 October.

Darkmatter have made clear statements that justify rape and pedophilia. They can be read here.

The statements include calling little girls – children – “kinky” and “deviant”. They suggest that culturally, society places too much onus on sexual violence perpetrators and not enough on victims. This is false, victim blaming, and threatening. 

In fact, sexual violence perpetrators are rarely made accountable; and sexual violence victims are barely ever believed, and they never, ever, ever see justice. One in three New Zealand women are sexually assaulted in their lifetimes – there is even a pathway leading to Massey University in Wellington nicknamed “rape alley”! Yet only 13% of cases reported result in a conviction.

However Darkmatter presents his statement as an effort to protect marginalised groups, it is clearly apology, erasure, minimisation and justification for the sexual abuse…

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what does

did yah know that

sexual assault

or sexual violation,

whatever your feng shui;

does a number of things

to ones gig.

theres the physical act.

the physical results.

those scars can be permanent.

tearing.

bruising.

scarring.

a womb, that won’t bear children.

just to name a few.

then there’s the psychological

fuckery.

paranoia.

fear.

anxiety.

dreams: nightmares: night terrors,

potatoe – potato.

whatevs: bitches are bitches.

then there’s the sexual effects.

we are sexual beings.

sexual violation, is an offence of the sexual being.

the results:

flashbacks –

smell.

pain.

sight.

hearing.

taste.

to get it fucking twisted

a pts(d) fuck:

that those past violations

are present violations.

that they are re-lived

right here

right now,

even though you know with your head

they’re not now:

you body says otherwise.


from pts(d) expression series #75 – Jan 2, 2017 @ 08:03

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and it continues … 1980 … more little fuckwits and then theres my love of dance …

where i was born …

Originally Published on: Jun 8, 2015 @ 12:44.

I noticed with this post and with the previous (1979) post, that it ‘feels’ like I’m skimming the surface. Maybe that was because it’s all I could do … just skim … maybe it was because I couldn’t remember things in detail … or, maybe, as usual, I tend to do ‘things’ in a dissociated state when it comes to shit that creates ’emotion’ in Me.

Think I’ll fill in bits that I remember as I go through this post …


Primary school continued to be ho-hum, as far as formal education goes. I was a pretty good student. I listened, I learnt. I kept learning to read between the lines.

*The art of ‘blending’ in is what I aimed for, even though I stuck out like dogs balls. I was one of maybe half a dozen brown kids in a predominantly pale faced school. I don’t remember having a brown teacher; none of the ‘staff’ or ‘authorities’ were brown. But this was a reflection of my entire world really. At church I was one of 3 brown children, one of those was my brother.*

*Even though I tried to blend … * I remember being everyone’s bitch, *and by bitch, I mean fuck toy … I guess some ‘exploration’ is kinda normal, but I don’t remember this being particularly pleasureable and feeling ‘invasive’, but I didn’t know what that word was* … and I’m pretty sure that ‘invasiveness’ wasn’t part of the curriculum…but it came with my education anyhow. I don’t know if it was because I was already ‘damaged’ and attracted even the littlest of fuckwits, even way back then. I think I may have had some kind of neon sign attached to my ponytail…”take a poke, she’s used to it”. Various counsellors, in later years, seemed to think this was ‘normal’ child like behaviour. Maybe so in their over educated worlds…but from my view…it was shit. And no matter what I did, or tried to do, to avoid them…they found me. This sort of bullshit happened for years…right up until I took matters into my own hands and started ‘consciously’ fucking pfft.

*In hindsight … I wonder what ‘those kids’ had been through … because their ‘explorations’, I believe, weren’t particularly ‘natural’. They were things that had been ‘learned’. And in the wonderful act of hindsight, I don’t blame them now … or have any animosity toward them. They were just kids … like Me.*

I always did wonder where all those teachers were during these times?? Because I don’t recall even one intervening. Maybe they were practicing the art of turning a blind eye again, which seemed to be the norm for that era. I bet they made sure their kids were monitored at their schools though! Pfft again!

But in amongst all that…I found dance. My Nan loved dancing. She told me stories of being twirled around; of dancing till her feet were sore. She always glowed when she talked about dancing. Nan loved the old school musical theatre movies – I can’t remember the technical term for them – but you know, Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds type stuff. She loved them! And Opera…I didn’t share her love for that though ;)

But I did share her love for dance. She started me off in Ballet lessons. And I was good. I’m not sure how Nan was able to see that in me, but she was right. I loved it…and I danced my little tootsies off for a few years.

It’s the latter memories I prefer ;) However, they are all part of my story…part of who I am. I’m not ashamed of that anymore….still quite abit pissed off though….but learning to embrace the Ying with the Yang….and remembering that there is good shit with the bad shit…I just have to dig a little deeper to find it sometimes.

Love and light to me again….as I continue to unfold xo


#mystory

open letter: dear functioning kiddy fuckers. PS:

yes thats right,

i haven’t forgotten, about the teeny tiny

weaner

belonging to the

teeny tiny –

lawyer

doctor

surgeon

politician

clergyman

pastor

dentist

MP

judge.

ohhh, don’t worry

i would hate to leave you out.

you lot have managed to stay tucked up

as snug as a bug in a teeny weeny rug,

far away from the monster

under the bed.

you lot pretend to reside in far loftier surrounds –

the boardroom

your leagues

and gentlemen clubs.

a little amusing

that you should categorise your dealings.

pretty sure a kiddy fucker,

is just a kiddy fucker.

like shit is shit.

putting icing on it,

don’t make it a cake,

you fuckers.

oh, but i lose my manners.

you are not immune

from the tiny weaner syndrome.

the inadequacy that propels you to

surf for little prey.

yes, you are just inadequate.

pathetic.

miserable.

small.

you may have a blue collar,

a white collar.

but you deserve less

than

a

dog collar

but i see you too.

to the rest of humanity

~ don’t leave your children unattended

~ don’t disregard our intuition

~ if you think that its dodgy; then it is

~ these fuckers don’t take a vacation

just listen

just listen for a minute

it’s not that they don’t listen…that annoys you. It’s that it’s all hush-hush type non listening. We talk about all sorts of trauma all over the place…in a loud voice…through print…through voice…and the public outcry is loud in response. But this type of thing is whispered about…and tip toed around. That annoys you. Annoys the living shit out of you. That if it was seemingly actually important, wouldn’t it be more acknowledged…openly.

do you think they are trying to be polite…not for the persons sake…but for events sake? To detach from it?

like have a conversation about ‘the body’, ‘the child’, ‘the victim’ so as not to acknowledge the elephant…obvious thing in the room…the broken, bleeding, sticky event itself?

it seems so obvious to you…but its your chink.

you’ll find a way to scream out and be heard.

until then…fix your wounds, so you can yell louder…and make sure your heard. Not just for you, but for the tens of millions of babies in the same position as you were…that are still there.