I promised I would write about him some day

I decided I would walk back to my Hotel that day, even though I had spent all day and most of my money shopping and my shoulders were aching from the weight of the bags. Flagging down a tuk-tuk would made the trip quick and easy and with the unbearable heat rising up from the sidewalk and bouncing off the city walls and radiating down from above it is a wonder I chose to walk that day but at the time I decided that I would like to wander through the alley ways and stalls and nod my head in greeting to the people of Sukhumvit Road and thats all it was at the time. But it is only in retrospect that we see the significance of seemingly small decisions such as these. We don’t realise how our preferences, no matter how small, act as the fingers and the palms and the curves and the creases of hands to clay on a spinning potters wheel. Every single movement, no matter how slight changes the shape of the clay… just as every step favoured over the other, or every appointment made in favour of the previous day, or the day after can alter the shape of our life.

And so with choosing to drag those heavy bags upon my tired shoulders on weary legs through the streets of Bangkok that day I didn’t know that it would mean meeting him, and in meeting him, I didn’t know it would change something in me for the rest of my life.

Don’t be a scumbag

Life can be cruel, but it is cruel and hard on everyone in different ways. If you grew up in a shitty environment with people who treated you with disdain and cruelty and down right neglect and abuse then this is horrible. Its understandable to be hurt and then battle with confusion and disfunction as a result through your childhood and teenage years but you know what? Come adulthood turn and face that thing head on.
There is nothing that no scumbag mum or dad or uncle or upbringing can do to truly defeat you unless at some point you give up, and if you give up because it was all too much, then maybe no one could even fault you for that, but if you use that scum bag of a father or scumbag of a mother or scumbag of an upbringing to then JUSTIFY treating another human being with neglect and abuse and generally being a scum bag yourself, then you have lost a leg to stand on.
Man up/woman up and learn about accountability.
The greatest men and women in our history have created that history with nothing more than the memories of tragedy/abuse/loss/stolen innocence and an understanding that at some point you have the choice to either stop the cycle, or to keep being a scumbag.
Dont be a scumbag.

This is the very definition and beauty of true art

Marina Abramovic and Ulay started an intense love story in the 70s, performing art out of the van they lived in. When they felt the relationship had run its course, they decided to walk the Great Wall of China, each from one end, meeting for one last big hug in the middle and never seeing each other again…

At her 2010 MoMa retrospective Marina performed the brilliant piece ‘The Artist Is Present’, a 736-hour and 30-minute static, silent piece, in which she sat immobile in the museum’s atrium, while spectators were invited to take turns sitting opposite her. Ulay arrived without her knowing and this is what happened.

I post this for my own Ulay.

The baby named Baby, part 2

So where was I? Oh yes. We had just finished living at the quarry, and then we were moving.

Do you know anyone who has lived on a farm? Yes? How about someone who lived on a farm, but in a bus? Yes? Ok, well then do you know anybody who lived on a farm, in a bus, with circus performers? No? Well let me tell you the next part of this story so that you can finally say that you do in fact know someone who lived on a farm, in a bus, with circus performers.
I don’t know why we moved from the quarry I really don’t remember. I wonder who initiated the move?
My mother? Did she get tired of pulling her kids down from precarious cliff faces? Was the dust getting to her?
Or was it my father? Did he grow bored of living in that quarry? Was it too unoriginal? Did he want a more curious address?
Well for whatever the reason was, all I know is that the next chapter of our life was… interesting.

The baby named Baby, Part 1

I thought I would tell you the very strange and curious story of the baby named Baby. Some of the things you are about to read will sound too strange to be true, but it is this story that will prove that sometimes truth can indeed be stranger than fiction, and I know that everything in this story is true, as the baby is me, and the story is mine.

I call this tale, “The baby named Baby.”

US radio interview with Rowan Radio 89.7

Good morning!
I was interviewed by New Jersey station “Rowan Radio” 89.7 earlier this week for their ‘Womens room’ segment to discuss onethousandsingledays.com and what i’ve learnt so far.
I am continued to be humbled that the lessons I have learnt through my life experiences could have the power to speak to people beyond my physical reach.
Many thanks to Allie Volpe and to Rowan Radio!
You can listen to the interview online HERE

Ease her heart

Lost and found Pt 2

Most dreams are forgotten somewhere in those few hours after we wake up, but then there are those dreams which you can still remember years later.

I have dreams that I dreamed as early as 5 years old which I can still remember, but the memory of a dream is different to the memory of something that really happened in your waking world. With the memory of a dream, there are parts that you remember with crystal clarity, and then other parts that are scattered and foggy.

Dream recall can often seem like watching a movie in which odd parts have been edited out, so you may find yourself in a field in one moment, and then all of a sudden you are in that house you used to live in when you were 10 years old and there is no bridge in your memory to connect  the field to that house. It chops and changes and sometimes makes no sense at all…

Lost and found Pt 1

I cannot find the beginning to this story. Every time I think I have found it, I realise that there was something that preceded that moment, which preceded another moment, and the further back I go, the more history seems to light up, and as I sit here, I realise that if I were to truly tell this story and give it any real justice, I would have to write a book, and a book will come, but not today, so I will have to pick the part of the story which I love the most, and make that the beginning.

And so, the part of this story that I love the most, was the night he kissed me, and that, I suppose, really was the beginning of a story that would span over 10 years, and not end in happily ever after.