so it is ..

Pretty much 44 years of yelling to be heard in one way or another.

guess what.

I got my justice.

I got heard.

Now what.

Cos in one way or another, ‘they’ don’t like the sound of my voice.

Not loud.

Not quiet.

Not mixed.

Not solo.

Preferable to be silent.


So does any amount of yelling or breaking silence, work? .. relieve the anxiety?

Or is this a different era we coming into.


Where silence is a choice.

How I move is a choice.

How I choose is a choice.

How I scream, how I yell, is a choice.

How I whisper, how I tell or retell , is all a choice.

My choice.

My flavour.

My decision or non decision.

Not anyone else or for anyone else.

Just me.


now thats some new shit ..


my choice to remain quiet ..

is my choice.

thats mine.

thats my fight.

for me.




shoulders way tighter than i realised.

in the morning. they tighten with any noise.

they’re deducing the tone and the mood.

& then my stomach starts turning from there.

but, still and quiet doesn’t feel safe either.

in that, im negotiating myself out of that space.

that silence, that may cost me my life today.

that day.

kpm ©


? / wtf ?

a monk can do the cone of silence for 90 odd days & theyre a fucking saint.

i don’t want to talk to anyone for 24 hours+ & apparently i have mental health issues.

what the actual fuck is up with that?

kpm ©


to speak

forgot, that speaking,

or more specifically,

espousing a desire, want,


brings silence.

not of the golden variety.

but the punishment variety.

the variety that silences, You.

that silences Your World.

Your truth.

kpm ©


fierce ~

for too long

I have listened

remaining silent

to the ignorant

uncompassionate discourse

espousing their taunts:


“Get over it all ready …

Stop using it as an excuse …

That was years ago …

You need to forgive …

You need to move on”.


And as I have fought my own


of a pervert cunt

getting into

my tiny panties;

defending myself from an

impending assault that

exists only in my senses and dreams now;

I am loathed to


with you to understand my position;

to educate yourselves;

to show some empathy

and compassion.

Not realizing however,

that you,

the ignorant

do not wish to understand.


as I raised my own daughters,

I learned what

being 3 looks like.


It has grazed knees and tantrums.

It picks its nose and flicks it.

It imagines fairies and candy.

It rolls around on the floor with its cat.

It chases butterflies.

It draws pictures and bakes cakes with its Nan.


and what it doesn’t look like.


It doesn’t have nightmares.

It doesn’t hide under the bed.

It doesn’t hold its head because it hurts.

It doesn’t slice its arms.

It doesn’t piss its pants in fear.

And it deserves

Fierce, fierce


So now I defend my being;

my position.

And I refuse to listen to any more

uneducated bullshit

or let ignorance be an excuse

or an answer.


And for her,

for me;


for all those little people

that didn’t make it

out of that dark room

with prying fingers

and filthy deeds;

for all those little people

who never got the chance

to get out

and grow up

and live a life worth fucking living;

for all those little people,

just like me,

who grew up

into big people,

who are still battling their demons

and healing their scars;

who have rocked in the corner

holding their head in their hands,

for far too fucking long;

I will keep speaking the unwelcome truths

and the

mundane horrors,

so we will be heard,

our stories told.

So we can change

the future for all

Our Babies.


Haumi e! Hui e! Tāiki e!




some days, weeks, months;

there are



i’m learning that,

that –

is ok too.






how long is too long.

or not long enough.

to sit in silence & wait.

for another.

to be interested enough in you to.



kpm ©



silent night,

most un-holy of nights.




the silent treatment.

when they think they’re punishing you.




silent silence.silence

i wonder

if the idea

right there

along with

burning witches,

was to

silence bitches.




but then it expanded

to just about


who didn’t


with religion



with men

with medicine

with  normality.

and although the


was forced


its more



a subtle

for sleep




intra acting








non conformity








not speaking




non emotion



anything and

fucken everything

that isn’t










women don’t …

I was recently informed that my ‘cursing’ and how I ‘speak’, can be intimidating.

Thats right; intimidating.

At first I was slightly offended so questioned the bearer of these good tidings, as to their interpretation of this statement.

They espoused that ‘people generally’, don’t like the use of profanity as a second language, especially in a public setting (physical or cyber spacey … *eye ball roll*) and that its use sounds … ‘protesty’ … and draws attention to ones self.

But wait, theres more.

Capital letters are indicative of Anger or Yelling.

The speaker pauses and waits for a response …

And is still waiting, because I chose not to make any rebuttal with this fuckhead.

But I thought the points were interesting … not, ‘generalised’ interesting … more like … Oh, you’re one of those dicks that likes to use manipulation and ‘they say’ tactics to silence women.

‘Go fuck yourself’.

Thats all.

ps: my favourite meme ;)

(not my meme)

kpm ©



“you need to take it down a notch”

to what?

to silent?

kpm ©


an incident … a narrative

I had something happen the other day: the gory details I won’t regale you with here, other than to say it sent Me into Silence.

In that forced silence I found my old friend Depression.

Now she hasn’t made her presence felt with such force, in a very long time. Some of that may have to do with my ability to deny anything that remotely rhymes with ‘Depression’. I guess I detest the connotations that it rumbles up … the misdiagnoses, the ‘mental health’ issues and stigmas, the battles, the misinterpretations and ‘misunderstandings’. Theres not too much more I detest than the ‘look’ that is bestowed upon the Depressed and the tone that is induced in the ‘sympathiser’ when trying oh so very hard to ‘understand the situation’.

I hate it all.

But Depression is the new go-to word and here I am discussing it.

It feels like a heavy shroud, that covers your entire being. It settles in there and everything in and out seems darker, sadder, heavier … than usual.

And as that settled on my shoulders and in my heart the other day, I could feel my throat start to constrict as the silence strangled my larynx and then thorax. I couldn’t breath.

At that moment I wanted to not be here.

Not be anywhere.

Not dead. But not alive.

Forced silence is My killer.

Too long there has been forced silence. And for too long, when there has been a choice to speak, no words have managed to escape.

It’s the private hell of a small child who cannot talk, walk, cry out, move.

And it was in that moment, of depression and flashback, that I felt a familiar unease … with the familiarity, with the vulnerability, with the inability.

It took nearly 24 hours for it to subside … and as it did, I looked back and was able to identify the moment it had taken hold and why.

I was also able to identify that I am not that little child anymore. And as familiar as those things feel … I am Not forced into Silence literally, but instead flash back 40 odd years and hoover there looking for answers that I’ll never find.

I am here.

I am now.

I was there.

And I survived.

Now I have No need to be Silent.

Unless I want to be.

kpm ©


addendum: deafening silence

I’ve had some really positive feedback on my art displayed in the recent exhibition. I mean really good feedback. Things like: ‘it had an impact’ ‘it opened peoples eyes’ ‘it left a lasting impression’. I couldn’t ask for more really.

What I guess I hadn’t braced myself for, was the vulnerability I felt, the negative comments and the deafening silence.

I’m slowly working through the vulnerability part.

Most of my artivist pieces have only ever involved my response to colonisation. As sore as that topic can be, I’ve discovered it is in no way shape or form, any where near the soreness involved with personal abuse.

The collective abuse of a culture and the genocide of those people, is a grief, almost shared. The anger is aimed at almost nothing and almost everything. Theres a helplessness in it that is relieved through art. Well for Me there is. My responses that are educational are also cathartic but purposeful. That being, that in the educational process, decolonisation can happen.

I was hoping that that would happen with the personal abuse issues.

I was hoping that in expressing my self, I’d find relief and educate on the topic of sexual assault. That in the education, there’d be a type of decolonisation process, but based in the myths, prejudices, stereotypes and ignorance of sexual assault.

Great hopes.

And by in large, the feedback was hugely encouraging. And I am holding out hope that the impact it had on those that were moved by it, is lasting. That it creates change.

But here at home, the negative and silence resounds at the moment.

Maybe because of the topic? Maybe thats why it all seems so deafening?

The silence is not a new thing. I think it’s just considerably noticeable at the moment because of how I’m feeling. That sucks ass. Really, it does.