Memories: 6 March 2023

6 March 2024

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I had my debrief with my psychiatrist this afternoon. He noted that I am more loving and have let go of some of my guarded Boudiccean self-protection and he feels that I will better discern any future predators if they should arise in my dance space or other real world applications.

I worried that I may never discern better and will continuously attract more traitors and abusers. But I think he may be right. He commented at how wonderfully accepted and included and even loved, I have been in recent months (the past 6 months) at the Brooklyn Standard Club! That that had never happened for me before in any other venues I danced at!

I laughed with happiness and agreed that was the absolute truth. He thinks I have finally turned some corner in my psyche and energetic field where I can finally attract real love to myself. Oh Goddess...I certainly hope so. I’ve waited decades to find a loving authentic loyal faithful romantic passionate life partner.

In the meantime I will keep making my YouTube vlogs, and keep dancing wildly on the weekends and keep making jewellery when I can afford the silver and/or eventually gold :-)

He is also adamant that I need the Botox treatment for my bladder and it needs to happen soon and I need to find out the costing with my private urologist. He says it can’t wait yet another year. I am too exhausted from the constant broken sleep and it’s deleterious to my health.

I worry about the risk of retention with the Botox treatment. But I acknowledge that I can’t go on like this much longer. It’s been 8 years of constant urgency during my nights.

6 March 2023

8.01 pm it was another scathing hot day. I was quite unwell with asthma and my gut. But I rallied my energies to go outside in the afternoon to practise melting copper and pouring it onto angle iron. Only half the amount melted. The crucible cracked apart. So I only got a 2 1/2 inch bar of copper. I ran out of oxygen in the “c” bottle so I need to refill it.

I also need to source a cup shaped piece of steel to use as a crucible for melting copper in. (The ceramic one I had was too small and couldn’t take the heat).

I also need to buy a new aluminium flask for delft sand casting. Baby steps. Everything is on the other side of pain, illness, chronic fatigue, poverty and all of these things I am pushing through each and every day.

Happy Purim. The gods are watching my struggles and cheering me on regardless. :-)

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11.13 am Happy Purim this evening.

Today marks my dead ignominious cuntish father’s birthday. He would have been 95.

I am not well. These personal hellish days of Awe-fullness dog me every February and March. From February 28 (Cees’s birthday) until March 8 my maternal grandmother’s suicide date.

Then I pick myself up and carry on in anticipation of my own birthday in April. But something feels different: something I can’t quite define. Perhaps it’s my own fragile health? But something has shifted.

The dead cannot hurt me anymore…but they can haunt and taunt me on their anniversaries. But only because I am the memory keeper and if I wanted to, I could obliterate all memory of them for eternity.

But they are part of my weft and warp of the gnarled despotic tapestry of my very existence on this beautiful blue planet gone to Hell.

I can be grateful I was raised by hellhounds/whores of Babylon/and npc compliant Zombies as that gave me the gift of circumspection so kept me safe from even worse fates and soul loss and degradation epitomised by this current Epoch.

My neshamah is still pristine even though decades of pain and unrequited love and rage and grief has made it shellacked and brittle. Leaky as a colander, but as Leonard Cohen wisely iterated…that is how the Light gets in and flows and flows in an endless streaming in the psychedelic dreaming that is LOVE.

So two more days of dark dank horror then I begin my climb up Jacobs ladder, clawing up the broken rungs and kicked and farted on by hellish imps and wrested by the Angels by the hair on my chinny chin chin (make that a double will ya?!) once again. Another year in “Paradise”. Hold your head up…moving on…

What magick shall I create by force of will between now and my birthday? And what magick shall I linger on for the rest of my days on earth?

Watching the world burn….and peel and stand anew in its own Phoenixian Becoming. Ringside seats for the Wise Ones. Bring your knitting.

Vive la Revolution. Heads will roll.

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12:22 am. Finally in bed. My asthma has been bad all day. For the past few days really. I have also been beset by tummy troubles. So I feel rather fragile indeed.

It was hot yesterday. I baked beehive muffins (from a ceramic tin I bought from a secondhand hand shop that was manufactured by the mormons in the United States). It came with its own recipe but always makes far too much mixture, enough to partially fill another muffin pan.

Then I went to West End drumming in the afternoon. I enjoyed myself even though I had to keep coughing with my asthma. Bobo barked at all the other dogs. So the pair of us were quite noisy.

Then I came home and watched videos on casting by Craig Dabler on YouTube. I am determined to hone my new craft!

6 March 2021

8:27 am. Not much sleep again last night. Even though I was exhausted all day yesterday. This body is manifesting its own energy now. Without the coherence of my brain. Hmmm. What is she preparing for?

It’s a beautiful morning! The light is almost shimmery and there’s a cool breeze and even the animals are contented.

My lungs are not liking the sudden cooling but I am happy about it. It was very humid last night. Maybe I should start sleeping outside in my hammock? It’s not safe though. Shame about that!

Anyway expect crazy ramblings as lack of decent sleep launches me into hypomania.

I was raised by jokers and clowns...stuck in the middle of their constructed maelstrom like a decades-long bad dream.

As Lyn said to me yesterday..my mother’s spell is finally broken. 11 years (tomorrow!) after her death. 11 more years stolen from me. Holy hell! But I am better these days. They could not hold me down forever. But almost 56 years was quite enough.

My shaman friend told me last year that I would find my nîche. I still have no idea what that might be, but on good days I can sense it coming.

I pray for a beautiful, peaceful, safe, honourable, healthy and loving existence. I manifest it daily from the crushed deadweight and skeletal remains of the old one. Like Kali screaming into the Void holding the heads of my enemies.

I recreate from destruction and desecration...a wholly holy different worldview. Manifesting like a Bitch...like a Berserker and on mornings like this one...I can believe it’s here even if in 3D reality it has not quite settled into place yet.

(My trickster gods like to slip and slide that metaphorical mirage like jelly on a plate). I have had to learn not to grab for it and gobble down its sweet mystery but allow it to solidify and lock into place.

It’s there for me...I know it. But my broken body and sleep deprived mind, out of sync with the rest of humanity has to ...wait.

Then like grandmother spider cast my silken hopeful flowing web on the winds of fate and land exactly where I am supposed to be in any fragmentary illusory moment. Home! Inside my heart and mind.

6 March 2020

9:53 am. Hmmm I look back on the memories I have just re-posted. All I can say is WOW! Such exponential healing.

Lyn told me yesterday “Each time you get seriously ill Tanya, like this last weekend, I notice you come back even stronger in your spirit!”

I agreed. I sense it too. Even though the antibiotics are wreaking havoc with my bowels. (Nasty!) I still feel weak and clammy (no fever but sorta just sticky and over-heated like a creme brûlée that hasn’t been torched yet).

I feel a great and powerful calm and stoicism and another uprising in my spirit. Azrael was not so imaginary. He didn’t take me to the next dimension (again!) but he gifted me extra strength to heal my body again.

Well my version of healing which even at my best is always subpar, like running on a low battery at 70 per cent. But then I supercharge myself on the weekend by frenetic dancing then fall into collapse. But I get up again. :-)

…

It’s been hellishly humid all day. But now a big storm is rolling in. I have gone to bed to lie here and thoroughly enjoy the sounds of Thor and Odin throwing the heads of unworthy warriors around. Then I shall delight in the rain.

…

1:11 pm and all is well. Little storm of sardonicism has passed.

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I need to change my mind about my current iteration of life (and dying!) I think I need some cannabis as that will gift me with an attitude adjustment! 😉

But in the meantime my ancestors are gifting me weird flashbacks and literary extrapolations. I love my mind! Healing!

…

All I got from these antibiotics is diarrhoea and a mild psychosis. But the green phlegm has stopped in my chest. Scarified but sanctified. We begin the Beguine.

Don’t cry Kelly Anne...Mama T is back...just squeezing through the membrane between life and death. The only way out is through...through the looking glass. Thank god I am myopic and can’t see the mess!

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PLUS CA CHANGE, PLUS C’EST LA MEME CHOSE.

(Translation: The more things change, the more they stay the same!)

MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL, WHO’S THE FAIREST OF THEM ALL?

(Fair in the modern interpretation of equal and just!)

Mirror as in reflections and refractions of an image seen with the eye of the Beholder with bias or cognitive dissonant blindness. You only see what you want to see but disregard the rest. Regardez-vous! (Look at yourself!) There is no mask or lie in the mirror. Stultifying! But Shine bright like a diamond. Like quicksilver, slip away. Kill with a look, the craven Dybbukim.

“Azrael, why me?”

“No one better qualified, my lovely, the gods built you this way. Trust in us...everything has its higher reason. After the season, comes the vindication and the glorious harvest!”

Tanya, little one, we know your body is fighting Death and you are tired. Be merciful to the clueless and unmerciless. Do not become the monsters that spent decades trying to annihilate you.

If you must go out in a blaze of glory, little brave defiant one, let your last epitaph be Dignity, Grace and Mercy. Like a dandelion flower that has had her seeds blown to the four directions. Let the winds blow you Home.

To grow in fertile territory again. Nurtured and protected by wise ones that know your beauty and strength that seems so delicate and precarious, will blossom out again.

The cycle of every single life on this planet. Bloom and grow. Cut and pruned and decimated by the greedy and corrupt. But up you go, on your feet again, flowering!!!!

Love you!

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6 March 2019

1.03 am unable to sleep. I went to bed at midnight, exhausted but lay here, irritated by the sound of the fan and now am irked by the humidity in my bedroom.

Read and shared my memories re: my father. Interesting. For me to have seen how far I have come.

Well 2 more days of horror to go. My mother’s death on 7th March and my grandmother’s suicide on 8th March then I shall shake off the creepy vile ancestors again.

They are pulling at me, clawing at me. My leg hurts. I feel weak, exhausted but hypervigilant/over-stimulated.

Meh. Tomorrow is another day.

I am worried about money (so what else is new?!) so I will try to take life easy tomorrow. (Or rather later today!)

I hope I sleep soon. Wish me luck!

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6 March 2018

Today was my father’s birthday. The week of awfulness continues. He would have been 90 today.

I still find it hard to imagine how both my parents managed to reach such advanced age. Both were maniacs. My dad drove like one and rolled several cars during my childhood. Even gave me concussion while driving me to the hospital when I cut my knee open when I was 7. (No seatbelts in those days so I hit my head on the dashboard).

I was concussed another time when a kid smashed a heavy wooden gate into my forehead at Sunday School. 6 years old. No wonder I never made it in life. So much trauma, sexual abuse, violence, and strange “accidents” that were bloody deliberate.

My life is a walking nightmare but the dream continues... I have survived every bastard that ever tried to kill me/rape me/ molest me. Only just....In spite of all of them and all the damage done, I will Thrive. Even as I keep faking it.

Ah well, I made myself a good dinner. I have been knitting and sitting on my powderkeg of ptsd triggers.

Sitting, plotzing and waiting for Godot!

I pray to the gods he comes soon. But then of course, no one could handle me. I was never safe with any of them and the only one that can save me is my own Self.

Thriving, jiving and believing in my own abilities will reap their own rewards one fine day.

…

Yesterday I did 4 loads of washing and then it bucketed down in Noachide proportions during the night. It is still raining now. So that washing is gonna get smelly and Mama T will have to do it all again. I love the rain but I hate when it messes up my washing!

6 March 2017

6 March 2017. His birthday. He had died 3 days earlier

Today is my father's birthday. Vale you absconded, beautiful but depraved Motherfucker. I loved you and I let you go. Some people are too dangerous to keep in your life or energy but some never quite leave you.

May he find rest and peace in the loving arms of the Ein Sof Aur. May his spirit find healing and may the exquisite beauty that was innate within that lustful hateful corpus find expression in a positive way.

He died in peace but alone. As do we all. But some shine their lights and leave a legacy of great and wholesome love and blessings upon the earth and some leave behind a shadow and grease mark that is not easily erased.

My father left behind 3 women who all deserved a much better life and a much better exemplar of manhood.

But we will Rise and we will Shine and we will love and be loved and we shall be a blessing to all the earth and encourage and ennoble all the other compatriots of pain who were un-mothered and un-fathered but grew to be our own mothers and our own fathers and grew Wise and Strong and so beautifully Brokenly searingly cracked that Kinstugi spiritual gold poured through our eyes from Soul to Sole and made us Vibrant and Vibrate on another resonance.

Of light and of a life, pure, eternal and Powerful. Cloaked in bodies in varying states of mortal moribund decay but sooo beautiful. Short fat little wild creatures of Smite and Light but soo adorable! Whirling dervish angry Vagina monologous delights. But soo fucking beautiful.

Singers and dancers and writers, and musicians and artists and hard manual labourers of gruelling exhaustion. Scientists and gardeners, and cooks and dishwashers and bottle keepers but Soo beautiful.

Caretakers and Undertakers, birthers and murderers, fakers and frottered and flattered and flops. But sooo beautiful. Lovers and fighters and dreamers and sleeping prophets. Three wise men and a thousand wise arse women and So beautiful!

Life. L'Chaim. Sweat and glow, birth, bestow. Give and take and Blessed are the meek the sleek and sublime.

Nothing lost and everything gained on the Wheel of Fortune in the hurdy gurdy trip on the Light Fandango of Life.

Did I mention? Beautiful?!!!!!

Love you all! Never give up! Never let the Bastards Grind you down! We got you!

…

Trigger warning: grief purging. Edification of a monster. Love that never dies. Life lessons for the Lowly!

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My father had some strange ideas about health. He often practised intermittent fasting. Starving himself for 3 days then binge-ing for 3 days. This kept his weight in the normal range.

He loved coffee with a dash of salt in it. Actually from what I remember he drank a lot of coffee. He had smoked from age 7! to 21 then gave up instantaneously and cold turkey and became a loud vociferous anti-smoking campaigner. He abhorred smoking.

He made me drink the boiled water left over from boiling vegetables with a dash of salt and pepper and sometimes a knob of butter in it (Gross!).

He was often in violent rages. Loved to drink whiskey. Beer. Loved eating fresh fish we caught at the beach. Loved Pipis, oysters, scallops (ew!)

His dietary predilections must have been well for him as the old bastard lived until almost 89.

He drove cars like a dangerous maniacal race car driver on acid. Rolled at least 3 cars during my childhood. Never once was he injured and miraculously he never killed others in a car accident. He walked away, nonchalantly.

He did give me concussion, racing me to the hospital with a gaping wound in my knee as he hit the brakes at the lights (no seat belts in 1972) and I banged my head on the dashboard. The Idiot then screamed at me for being careless.

He was in a state of fury that my cut knee needed medical treatment and was only assuaged when the ED doctor told him that my bone had narrowly missed being chipped. I just sat dazed and confused with a headache from his dangerous driving and the screaming and trauma of being driven there.

It is funny now, but by the gods it was horrendous back then. He had little empathy for fragile little children.

He ate with gusto, shovelling food down his throat with great furious passion (I get my gulping gourmandry from him). He once bragged to me that he ate a 3 course meal in 7 minutes at railway cafeteria in time to board a train. (Burp!). He could belch out the alphabet (an admirable skill to a 5 year old).

Everything he did was fiercely enervated. (I get that from him too!). He was larger than life and very intimidating when in one of his furies.

He was emphatic and dogmatic and brooked no fools. Fisticuffs were his punctuation marks with other men in bars or at work. He never once hit my mother and with the way she rode his emotional dysphoria like a mustang I was often very amazed that he did not!

I buffered and broke up several very explosive dangerous fights by the time I was 5. Intuitively I already knew with every fibre of my Being that I was being raised by maniacal dangerously unstable children cloaked in adult bodies. I truly believed they had already tried to kill me and possibly might one day.

So it was with some amazement when I survived them. Over and over again. Each birthday, another milestone to my survival and another example of my indomitable will to enjoy my life and find love, meaning and purpose and at other more darker, more zombified days, merely to survive one more hour, one more minute and keep breathing, shuffling, sleeping until years passed me by, my children grew up and grew out of me and I myself had held on so long that I too outgrew the horror and travesty of my childhood, 20s, 30s and even 40s.

My 50s? Awesome so far. Perhaps I will outlive my own expectations and survive or thrive into my 60s, or 70s. The prospect of that is kinda creepy but hey, I never truly expected to live this long! Life is an unfurling flower in the Tree of Life.

Make it beautiful. Trust it. Nurture it and never let it beat you.

But I digress: my father was a profoundly spiritual man. He (like my mother) read abundantly, mostly occultist books. He loved T Lobsang Rampa which he encouraged me to read (I loved the idea of Guardians or gardeners of the earth, aliens or gods protecting and seeding this planet with us humans, guiding us with world religions and evolving us into higher consciousness of peace and universal love).

David Davidson was enamoured with my father (desperately seeking his own Daddy in older male mentors) because my dad had read Gurdjieff and Ouspensky and studied magic and occult philosophy (desperately seeking Mana and meaning and evolution of consciousness).

Magic happens, Babies! It is not only found in a book. It is inside each of us if we are fortunate enough to access it by accident or design, by intent or by sheer miraculous luck. Humans truly do have superpowers. But most of us never discover what they are as we stumble through our lives in a somnulant dream or a stumbling nightmare of sheer basic survival.

My dad also loved American westerns like Zane Grey. He had had a large collection of US silver dollars. He spoke the words, chance, dance and half, the American way with the short A.

He was a hard worker, mostly manual labour. He worked 3 jobs at one time. In the 70s he once had 3 jobs on one day! Telling each boss or supervisor to fuck off, walking into another job by lunchtime and yet another one by 3 pm.

Work was plentiful. He was handsome, able-bodied, articulate and could be charming, until the first Coworker or supervisor told him what to do or sneezed the wrong way. Lmao! My father never did find his nîche in life.

His favourite song was Wandering Star by Lee Marvin in Paint Your Wagon, a character he really identified with. He also adored Jack Nicholson and um, that other famous actor that played cowboys. (The one with a deep voice that often sounded out of breath. Hm…name escapes me. He played opposite Billy Crystal in City Slickers) . He also loved John Wayne. Ahh yes…Jack Palance.

My dad also taught me to love and appreciate gay people. He identified with the Other, with the marginalised and with the eccentric and flamboyant. My parents took me to the very first underground gay wedding when I was 5.

I remember feeling overwhelmed with a room full of "uncles", all very high camp (Darlings!) and mincing their hips and words in sinewy displays of masculinity and feminine largess. It was fabulous.

I was handed around the room from shoulder to shoulder and was positively fussed over and fêted. Until I was put to bed on a mattress on the floor and in the darkness Trevor slipped into the room to sleep beside me.

I was not comfortable with this and one of the gay men entered the room and told Trevor to get away from me. I have absolutely adored/respected and admired gay people ever since. Protection of my little personal space was a rarity. It took a gay man to show me what real loving respect for individuality was.

My dad also did cartoon drawings of Pluto and Mickey mouse and Donald Duck and impersonations of the same. He played the ukelele and sang Tiny Tim Songs to me. Always fucking tiptoeing through the tulips.

He could be an ally, warning me that Slaphappy (my mother) was on the warpath. Other times I was saved from uncertain demise at his hands by my halfsister hurling my 3 year old body through the air into the safety of my bedroom. I "flew" and did not comprehend how I landed on my behind. It had felt like a dream until the sudden stop at my bottom. (My father's favourite expression "It is not the fall that hurts, it is the sudden stop at the bottom".

So I kept falling. It is not the bottom stop that hurts, it is the great craggy chasming abyss that scrambles beneath your feet and the long slow painful climb from an ever bottomless pit of fucking epic devastation, striving for a foothold, or a kind hand to pull you up or give you a leg up as the ground crumbles and implodes beneath your feet and you dive again and again into the existential (and often physical) abyss that exemplifies your life!

You lie down prostate, supine and exhausted and think at last you will have rest and peace but the fates throw you into the fray again and again and laughter bellicosely screams from the bowels of your belly and chest because it is all too real and after a while it all becomes hilariously funny.

What doesn't kill you? Well, we all know how that goes.

BUT I DIGRESS...

My father had a great sense of humour and his laughter was insane and somehow healing. He had a great sense of the absurd. He loved Phyllis Diller, Charlie Chaplin, the 3 Stooges, Laurel and (the fat one? Hardy). He was a Bon Vivant and a great raconteur.

He once lost his oars on his dinghy and drifted out into the Cook Strait and had to be rescued. (I often wondered if that was a deliberate attempt at suicide?) The dinghy subsequently floated back on a beach after a southerly storm. I was endlessly teased about my father's failure to escape in that boat and it coming back to bite me (him!)

He both adored and abhorred my demanding selfish Narcopath mother. He never truly gave up on her, even decades after their separation.

He floated around, fascinated in her orbit through her 23 year relationship with Cees and was quite willingly manipulated by Buck Scherer in an obvious attempt to continue to float around my mother once again, like a torpid blue bottle jellyfish stranded on a toxic beach of malevolent greedy selfish entities.

He was addicted.

I can thank him for my own love addiction(s) and inability to find a stable life partner and inability to thrive (....just yet!). But I hope, oh god I do hope to give the final middle finger of fate to all my parental entropied stimulators and prove to them and myself and my children how fucking amazingly awesome I truly am in spite of it all. 🙂.

To fly in the face of my own misery and to shine a light on the fear and torment and turn that shit to spiritual gold. Beautiful. Noble. Gracious and Blessed.

My parents and half sister never knew who I was or whom I could have been. "A mind is a terrible thing to waste" but those callow curs wasted their lives and hearts and minds on Abusing myself and others instead of lifting up and keeping each other precious. Instead of using their talents to heal not harm. Wastrels. All of them.

My dad's other favourite saying was "A rolling stone gathers no moss". His desire for freedom at any cost led to his demise, dying alone and impoverished as a homeless man. (Well living in "assisted" accommodation the past 3 years).

He lived life very fortunately, often won raffles in pubs, even buying the last ticket!

He gathered no moss. No real attachments except to my mother. He taught his own daughter and granddaughters to hate him, as he became increasingly sexually inappropriate in older age. I could not trust him alone with my daughters which filled me with horror.

Going to work meant being in a crazed schizophrenic torn agony as I knew my kids would be at his mercy when they came home from school. He was so utterly selfish he cooked his own meals and ate but refused to cook for my daughters. I had to take them to McDonalds or cook for them myself when I got home.

Then he started violent attacks on my neighbour Brendan who told me he had had trouble restraining himself from punching my elderly 70 year old father in his face. I explained to my neighbour it is not him, but my father who is unstable and picks fights. Told my father to leave that very night.

I also told him that I could never forgive his failure to protect me from Trevor Singh as a child or his failure (even gloating about!) to protect my half sister before I was born. Horrible man! A man I had blindly loved like a living God throughout most of my childhood.

I can still smell his scent of masculinity lathered in Old Spice. His comforting body that shielded my infant one. How did this big big all consuming fiery love go so wrong?

I am a product of his loins and his hard work. His spiritual guidance and his violent furies. His refusal to believe in me, his only daughter and his failure to protect and respect me. His love that was hardly pure. His folly.

His hatred and envy of me and his own granddaughters. His desperate failure to love without consuming and subsuming the best and most beautiful women in his life.

His freedom which is his greatest gift and his most scathing curse for it is a freedom that drives The Tanya and Crystal and Jasmine to live without real love in the world of men, without compromise and without fear.

A backhanded slap on the arse of Eternity. A terrible mortifying aspect of our psyches that makes the average person tremble with ”anticipation” and precipitation. Hahaha!

Who am I? Whom Am I yet becoming? More myself. Unique, healed and whole.

My spirit whistles the wind, the Old Salts rub into my wounds. Tears of joy leach out and become rivers of edification. Gods and monsters. Yin and yang. Zero point energy.

A star explodes and a black hole becomes a white hole and an expectorating arsehole takes my half sister's betrayals with him. Nuts. But that is the way of the Spirit.

I have many brothers and sisters now. Keepers of Light and Truth and Beauty and...So much Love.

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Blurred vision today but my mind is crystal clear and chiming like a cathedral bell.

Going to have a shower to cleanse the dross. Unchained melodies and unchained daughters. Sing it Babies :-)

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Ahhhh much better. In the shower I saw a long legged (tendriled?) pink sea anemone osmosing in its own bio-luminescence, gently swaying in the crystal clear waters. Dancing to the currents.

Suddenly it closed upon itself from an impending intruder. Sucking itself inside. Safe and sound. Then gently unfurling again into the life stream or life's dream and psychedelic Dreamer smiled and said "Dance, little one".

I cupped my hands under the Force of water flowing freely from the showerhead. It formed a pool in my hands that was shaped like a love heart. Again I smiled.

Then I was reminded of a memory of Gisela and David my parents my lovers, cooking in a pressure cooker and how it exploded some over-cooked stew high up on our kitchen ceiling. For a moment in time there was silence and awe. Meat and gravy and assorted slime dripping on our heads.

My tiny child's mind started laughing (I hated their cooking anyway). Then the inevitable screaming started. "You fucking idiot! Now look what a mess you made". Life is messy.

Food slops dripping on my head like raindrops and a 7 year old laughing. "Mum! Dad! It wasn't you?! It was the machine that did it! Get rid of the machine!" Silence again. Brittle embarrassed silence in the face of the tiny Tanya's singular logic.

Scrambling for a mop and sponges. Dad up on a step ladder scrubbing the ceiling. "Dad, you missed a spot". "Whatever!" Whatever!

Eternal sunshine of a spotless mind wasted in pressure-cooked stew and irradiated by microwaves and aluminium foil and Aspertame poisoning but so funny. What did we eat for dinner that night? I don't remember.

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6 March 2016

Today is my father, David Ian Phillips's birthday. He is now 88. He was a loving father to me as an infant. I was a very sickly baby with reflux and "failure to thrive" syndrome (not much has changed there except I have lost the art of projectile vomiting which would have been a handy weapon against certain enemies). I used it regularly on my sister's Fair Isle Cardigan.

The only way they could settle me down to sleep was to lie me down, all bundled up in the small of my father's back. He radiated so much heat from his body that I felt warm, safe and loved there.

He was the first person to hold me at birth, after medical staff. I was born by emergency Caesarian after Gisela had laboured on and off for 7 days and had suffered from Toxaemia.

I was born just 2 and a half hours before my sister Angela's 15th birthday. The specialist Mr Smith would not wait even those few more hours so we could share the same birthday! I was also born on my grandfather, Erich Karl Fritz Meyer's Yahrzeit (anniversary of his death).

My parents screamed and fought so much during their pregnancy with me that I was very weak and ill indeed. One month premature. Dad said I was covered in a fine blonde down but had violet eyes, Titian red hair, and my mother's perfect shaped legs and feet. He used to kiss my tiny feet. He had never seen anything so beautiful except for my mother.

This nascent love story did not last. His rages continued. He would scream at me, aged 2 or 3 for walking or standing in front of the 'idiot box'.

One time my sister ran into the living room, scooped me up by my tiny armpits, and literally hurled me into my bedroom next door. I have never forgotten the sudden uplift and flying sensation then (as Dad used to love to quip 'it's not the fall that hurts, it's the sudden stop at the bottom') landing hard on my backside with a thump.

I was too shocked to cry. I was 3. The door slammed shut behind me. There was some brief yelling. Then I sat on my bruised bottom, rubbing it, trying to figure out how I had learned to fly and what had happened. This was the only time my sister actively protected me. She was 18.

I loved my dad with a blind devotion until I was 16. When I was here on holiday in Ipswich, Brisbane from Wellington. Dad was living in a caravan park at Queens Park Nature Reserve.

He had his Cockatoo, Cheeky and we went swimming at the local pool where he always bought me a cherry ripe and made lewd comments about the 1981 string bikini fashion and needing a pair of scissors.

Up until then he had never been skeesy or sleazy. He had always been a gentleman and spoken respectfully, almost a feminist, about women.

But he took me to the local pub one night. 45 degrees dry hot summer heat so we went to the pub often for the airconditioning. I was 16. I was wearing a white singlet top with a panel in front of embroidered flowers. (I have always loved embroidered clothing and textiles, probably my European ancestry). I wore no bra. Too hot and I only had a B cup in those days.

Some aboriginal man offered to fuck me. I was horrified and distressed. (Remember I was no wilting violet. I had been in pubs since my birthday in April with my tough, much older Maori women mentors and no man had ever spoken to me with such contemptuous violence back in NZ).

I went to my dad. "That man over there threatened to fuck me." Expecting Dad to tell the man to fuck off or at least to tell him to mind his p's and q's. My dad glanced over at the sneering younger male in his late 20's. His eyes slid over to my chest. "What do you expect, dressed like that, in a pub?"

I was aghast and horrified. My dad did not defend or protect me. I was on my own in the world of men. Not even my then 54 year old father was man enough to stand by me. I walked off.

Four years later, when he had returned to NZ and was visiting me, married and heavily pregnant with his first grandchild, standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, he stepped up behind me and put his arms around me in what I expected would be a fatherly hug, but cupped my full expectant breasts in his hands instead.

I was shocked and mortified. My father had never molested me before! I had been sexually abused by my godfather and later by my step father but I had never had reason to fear my dad before. I froze. Sickened. He stepped away. Sensing my horror. After that I never felt comfortable with him in my home.

I finally cut ties to him in 2000. A watershed year which saw me also escape my mother and her last conman BF later husband, my father, a former BF and his maniac sister. Another former lover.

I went into hiding. In Mt Gravatt East from Loganlea. Eventually they found me. Gila's son had gone to school in Mansfield with some young men who visited my neighbour but befriended my daughters. Small fucking world.

By a giant stroke of serendipity my housing commission house became available in that two week time frame that I broke down and freaked out about where we were going to have to escape to next.

We moved here to Holland Park. Only 5 minutes away but SAFE. My first and only Safe Haven. Sacred Space. My place of healing. For which I am eternally grateful.

So now, Happy Birthday, Dad you old Fuck. Still itinerant, living off the kindness of strangers, house-sitting, popping warfarin for your DVT and whatever other Octogenarian ailments you have to add to your bursitis and bellicose personality.

I never want to see you again. You and my mother ensured you gave me a lifetime of hell. Even now. So yeah. Thanks for giving me life and seeding me on this planet.

I am a great twisted Kauri tree. Thick, strong with gnarls and scars that mostly only I can see. Wherever you cut me down I grew up and around that wound. I grew tall. Not in height but in Valour!

"How tall is Tanya?"

"Sooo, Tall!" (I would stand on my tippy toes at the foot of my parents’ bed, reaching up to the sky with my little fingers outstretched to make me appear even taller. Little Tanya destined to never get more height than my hobbit height - 5 foot 3!)

How strong am I? Too bloody strong for too bloody long but I am slowly devolving into my own decrepitude and older age. Endstage trauma patient.

Thanks for the memories, Dad. Thanks for the nurturance as a tiny baby when I was cute and beautiful to you. Without that bare minimum I would not have survived.

Angela once asked me, a year or so before she declared me dead at the end of the will dispute in September 2012. "Do you regret not dying as a small baby/child? Do you wish you had not been born?"

It was a hard question. At the time I answered, "yes but I am here so I might as well make the best of it. We are all here for a reason. But if given the choice I would probably not do this life again. Except for having my kids, I suppose".

She looked at me with sad eyes. She wanted me to thank her for keeping me alive. Nup. That is the role of any parent or much older sibling. That is just what you do. Protect and serve the very young and innocent. She failed in her duty. As a fellow survivor of Trevor Singh.

So yeah. Here I am. Almost 51. Alive. Happily free of their abuse and Bastardry.

They got one thing right. I turned out Amazing.

….

6 March 2015

5.19 pm. OMG! Byron Bay ! The closest thing to Paradise without Dying.

I have had a wonderful swim in crystalline waters, great surf so got some bodysurfing in. I had fish and chips on the beach and communed with a very polite gentlemanly seagull with one blinded eye but who gently took the chips I eventually proffered him (as he was uncharacteristically patient and polite for a seagull) right out of my hand. Lovely Bird!

Now contemplating what to do next?

Oh and they have new fancy Japanese toilets that talk to you and are so much cleaner than the old surf club toilets which always filled me with Horror! Now Byron is even more special for me.

…

7.15 pm. I had a gorgeous gelato. Sticky Date pudding and chocolate with brandy. I stopped to listen to the a lovely woman singer. An aboriginal man named Wes asked if I thought she was any good?

I said, "Wes, we have fresh air, the sea, beautiful twilight, beautiful music, in Byron Bay! What more could anyone ask for? It would just be greedy." He smiled, kissed my hand and continued on his merry way. Very sweet!

…

Now at Brunswick heads Hotel. Live music! A jack Daniels with coke. Beautiful night, beautiful vibe. Grateful woman here.

(Thank you Lyn for making this possible and for Jarrod to remind me to follow my Doctor's orders!)

Thank you G-d for bringing me to this season of joy.

…

Some gorgeous women got me up dancing. A whole group of us, twirling. It was awesome.

Heading back to Bris-Bania now :-)

…

…

1.59 am. I released a love that teased and tormented, cajoled and stymied. Pushed and pulled on my heart and my energy. How I love him! It must end so I can be free.

With freedom will come new love. Real, tranquil and requited. No more reaching into the void of the Avoidant. This one to come will let me know he chooses me. No more angst, no more constant striving to maintain connection with a Shadow Puppet.

For all I know he "works" for one of my enemies at the pub. A judas henchman. Well, they all rode on the skirt-tails of my fight for freedom and expression of joy. The final cut is the deepest. The only one I truly loved. Another Hollow Hologram. Smoke and Mirrors, Baby. No longer can you leech my heart and soul.

Tomorrow, the healing and connection to my inner spirituality at Byron. A clear run. Woman that runs with the wolves leaving the pig in sheep's clothing to wallow in its own muck.

I am Free.

6 March 2014

Crap, off to bed. Big day tomorrow. Need to sleep. Super charged, so will have to knock myself out...again. Menopause makes me, frustrated, horny, energised, mad, outrageous, supercharged, high, then low then exhausted then angry, then so Happy I could die and it would be all right....yeah baby! Losing weight without trying thanks to my dying 'mones. Dancing til I die, then recuperating then doing it all again. Guess what? I am Loving it.

6 March 2012

Today is my father David Phillips birthday. I don't know where he is, and don't care to know...last I heard he was itinerant in Perth WA. By now he may be dead and noone has bothered to inform me.

In my heart he has died anyway, a long time ago, with his collusion and betrayals of me with Buck Scherer. Such is life. I adored my father as a child, he was god-like figure of vast proportions in my innocent rose-coloured glassed eyes.

At 20, the shards fell off, when I was pregnant with Crystal and he behaved dishonourably to me. So I mention this only as a nod to the man who was my father eons ago, the man who attempted to love me and walked the rooms with me as I squalled in pain with my reflux and failure to thrive from the abuse and neglect and lack of stability I received from him, my mother and my sister Angela.

They tried to be parents to me...all three, but were so unstable they would forget to put nappies on me, or inoculate me against disease and would hit me for soiling my bed (in this case, my sister Angela!) So yes. I have loved these shallow inadequate cruel people who faked any love or affection for me, then as now.

My father I so adored, with his heat radiating from the small of his back was the only human that could settle me as an infant to sleep. If not for the constant screaming and emotional disturbances as I lay IN UTERO, and up to the separation at almost 8 years of life, I might have had a much more stable life.

So Dad wherever you are. I know Who you ARE, and who you failed to be for me...you and my other 'primary care givers'. Angela, I am not Dead as you wish me to be, but Very very much Alive and Aware. Your loss, babe. You can't hit me for shitting now....cos you Shat in your own Nest this time.....and I KNOW IT.

…

Sunday was an incredibly spiritual day for me. I had such a lovely time on Paltalk and was able to resonate and connect with about 4 or 5 people and offer support and counselling, so felt really appreciated and loved.

Today was also a positive day. It's been amazing how much better I have begun to feel in my spirit since I had healing from my Native American Midewiin (healer) man.

Life is good for now. Hopefully I will continue to get stronger after my severe depression the last two weeks and I am so blessed that my loving friends in my world and online, rallied around me and buoyed me up again. You are my Angels and my Shining Lights!

6 March 2011

6 March 2010

My mother is on the downhill slide to Eternity now. She has an infection therefore fever and dehydrated. Soon will come the time to let her go.

(Update: She died the next day on 7th March. I begged her spirit as she lay in unconsciousness, to choose her own death date…. Not my father’s birthday on 6th or the death date of my grandmother Eva’s suicide on 8th March. So she slipped comfortably on 7th March 2010).

Copyright Tanya Désirée Arons