WAITING. FURIOUSLY.

I believe it is the Japanese and the Chinese and the Siamese as portrayed in the King and I who made me feel comfortable putting brooches in my hair.

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I bought these brooches immediately after watching a recent video with Louise Pentland and her sibling-daughter Darceshtino shopping in Stamford. It was a cute cobbled villagey street and appeared to be a fantastic preserve for older buildings. They went into a shop and bought brooches, I then popped out and bought myself two, hoping for an exchange of sorts. These are inexpensive items but you can’t find them elsewhere, and if they are desirable they are valuable. I felt Louise’s influence telling me she wanted THESE TWO and I liked the pink teardrop pearls but I didn’t like the sun one, but I changed my mind when it was on. BUT THEY’RE HERS OKAY. For an equal trade.)

I’ll tell you a funny story

When I was younger, I swapped some beanie babies for limited edition McDonalds toys because I really preferred them. Amongst them a tiny elephant.

I got bullied for it by my mother and “sister”, they called me a mug and made fun of me.

Years later I watched a documentary about the elephants that had been affected by Idi Amin’s rule that lived in Victoria Park, which I then visited on Safari in Uganda. The elephants STAMPEDED EN MASSE to my tour bus and we had to go. Until now I know I should’ve got the hell out of that bus to greet them, but they had PTSD. They cried at night for the mothers they watched die, they had to as infants be cuddled by their keepers. They were damaged by that. PTSD is a big deal.

Years later yet, by some coincidence I found the son of a man who owned the company that makes the toys for McDonalds and we spoke a lot online for years. We had a sort of closeness but he lives in the States and I’m VERY upset with him. We had an e-date and we watched Agora. Obviously it was my choice of film.

I said that I didn’t appreciate how educated she had been, and yet that she justified having had slaves. He said “baby steps.”

He showed me photos of his expensive home and told me that he’s both Jewish and AZN.

Years later I got sectioned in part because I told my “sister” about him. THIS IS HE. My “sister” doesn’t know me very well but she knows how to manipulate stories, and she called him “mr mcdonalds”. I give everyone nicknames. That was not a nickname I had given him, my sister is a compulsive liar.

Ian is far wealthier than I am. He is, on paper, apparently worth more than me. I’m royalty though Ian. But it isn’t really money that gives a person their worth, not in my World, that is not how I was raised. I think it offended him that I was unimpressed by anything he had, or his education (he is a university snob) and if he did not have a friend like me, he might not’ve done much with his life, might not have been compelled to search for people worthy of learning something from. Might’ve been quite happy with who he is.

Stamford though: it was, as I’d been told by a landlady, a ‘beautiful’ part of England.

I recalled for a moment all my associations with the word Stamford that deserved some explanation but would’ve been out of place in this piece of work I did.

Well there’s Stamford Brook. I once took an exam there, in what had been a prison for juvenile delinquents turned into a venue for my A-level Philosophy exam.

There’s also the Stanford experiment – which was sort of a psychosocial experiment in which people were given one of two roles in a prison. You were either selected to be a prison guard or you were selected to be a prisoner, and you were put in the setting for a period and forced to live under that dynamic with complete strangers.

The idea was that people, given positions of authority and without consequence would show the predatory nature of human kind. They knew they were being watched and that “nothing” was being done.

The abuse inflicted towards prison guards and prisoners both, was so terrifying that I think they had to terminate the experiment prematurely. I think someone actually died.

If you are not raised for a position of power, by people who have been raised many generations over – you cannot be responsible for it. The ideal person for a position of power is a person who wants nothing to do with it.
If you are a communist, or you are inclined that way as I am – you believe that people of power assume it and then step down but I do not think that humans really understand the nature of our existence to be able to do that.

I know I was raised to do that, but I had to experience a lot to be able to survive my life and I once said that you earth a current of energy to stop it going back and forth. I took and took and took abuses in my life that most people would’ve committed suicide over and I did so with a performance of sorts that made you all think I didn’t really care. The good bit about it was you believed I didn’t really care, the bad bit about it is that you actually believed I didn’t care?

That I had no idea that there was some truth I deserved to hear?

I was taught by a family that had been raised by a judge, that made a final decision for the United Nations. If you want to prove something, if you want to make a judgement in a court of law, you need to be able to prove it without ANY DOUBT.

Hints are not and were not good enough.

If you grew up with a family like mine, you also became accustomed to the habits of liars fast. Latin parents are strict and also, arabs talk to one another pretty abruptly. That is how we communicate. Give me a person, any person, and I will try to match them up in terms of how I speak to them. I’ll attempt to be appropriate.

If you ever had to become accepting of injustices like seeing your elder sibling having a wardrobe that was worth more than your ‘family home’, where you and your ‘mother’ were being given £50 a week (it might’ve been £40 but I prefer to round up.) for food, where your sibling was sent to a boarding school (at her request) and the fees cost about the same as your mother’s mortgage (she had a slight discount because she was offered a scholarship cos they REeeeEEEally wanted her and her weird friends there) and then pretending that any “salary” she had would’ve funded that wardrobe.

My sister has tiny dresses that she never wears, that cost what some people working under minimum wage earn. She got some discounts but she still paid hundreds for many things.

Whenever I complained, growing up, about the injustices of my sibling being given more than me, money to go out, money for clothes – she would screech with her irritating, shrill voice things like “DONT BRING ME INTO IT, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS MAKE IT ABOUT ME, DONT MAKE IT ABOUT ME” with as much vehemence as she’d later in your life scream things like “YOU ARE SO SELF OBSESSED” You really have to hear it to appreciate how embarrassing it is.

But the worst bit is that my ‘dad’ writes like this, the guy that liked to pit us against one another. He knew exactly what he was doing.

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He can speak Arabic fluently, French fluently and English fluently. That is more languages than you can speak, isn’t it.

So he’s not a retard.

He pretends to be.

I can navigate liars much better than you can, and what you mistook for naiveté was actually a behaviour you’d be a better person for imitating. The pursuit of truth from all perspectives available, the assumption of INNOCENCE because someone is ‘not guilty’ until they are proven guilty beyond all doubt – because you don’t want to be responsible for imprisoning a person that was innocent, but you also don’t want to be responsible for a dangerous person harming innocent people because you were too lazy to do the fucking work.


There was another experiment like the Stamford experiment, a person would be placed in front of a button and told to press it and that upon doing so they’d hear a person screaming in agony but they were assured there would be no consequence towards the fact. So they did.

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To the left is a chrysalis, I imagine, although something in me worries it’s passed but as much as I think so, I also do not. On the right is a magnet (maggot). I did afew things in this little patch, it was cleared of grass because I placed something on top for my spider friends when they lived above that spot and the grass stopped growing because it didn’t get any sun. I took Cici and Nyu (one of the plants had died, I put the remains in my maggot-left-over bin that is also a magnet farm) and one remained alive, I think it was Cici but I also know that they’d of happily shared a body. I planted them beneath the soil. I also put in some tinned tomato left overs in the soil so it makes sense that these two popped out at some point that day.

The cream blob is from a pastry. The magnet to the right tasted the cream, and enjoyed it, but did not consume much. These insects have no greed in them because they have never needed anything, they’ve been given everything they needed and had many options from which to choose.

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From an evolutionary perspective I think that having what is needed cultivates an environment that minimises suffering. I asked the magnet “who are you” and with it’s mouth, on the opposite end to it’s eyes, they gestured at me.

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These are some white tights I bought from ASOS and I’m quite happy with them.

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This is a new plant friend I bought from the local floristress and her daughter, who have many mentions in my blog lately because I’ve invested in plants which make much better companions than human beings.

I sound depressed. I was thinking of Einstein mostly when I annotated this. I’m perhaps a bit melancholic but also I was a goth growing up and that tendency I have to be a little bit morbid and a little bit too thoughtful fosters a kind of observational gift that I’d like to imagine enriches my capacity for storytelling. Another thing: plants have never seemed to be very conversational and one of my talents is actually just speaking. Which again, is ironic, because I spent my life mute or not mute. I used to talk to people all day if I could, during my teens, using MSN. It didn’t matter if they were ‘genuine’ or not or what they might’ve wanted from me, because I was sitting in front of a computer and typing.

I wanted to learn how to touch type because I enjoyed the noise of women’s nails tapping on a keyboard after seeing this beautifully attired receptionist cheerfully humming a lugubrious death-march.

 

 

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