(The original book cover can be found here, this is the cover I have and I like it.)

Edited to add later: You can tell this book was written by a person that really considers the construction of sentences – almost every page has a beautifully written sentence that you could remove from it’s context and put in one of those foil LIVE LAUGH LOVE prints. I’ve just highlighted some favourites:

“The Green crevasse of Devil’s Duke was a favourite place for picnics and could be easily reached by train; bandstands belted out favourite melodies in the sunshine by the beach and there were large numbers of public houses, pimps, pickpockets and prostitutes of both sexes.”
p.5 #architecture #alliteration-that-doesn’t-piss-me-off

“the married woman did not exist as an individual”
p.16 #legalhistoryofbritain #subtlerage #butnottoomuch

“the distant feminine ferment”
p.18 #again,alliteration #condensedwomanistrage #sentences-condensed-specifically-to-avoid-masked-male-ADHD-or-nagging-or-male-confusion

 I mean. They’re just arty sentences aren’t they, worthy of highlighting. Brown takes heavy subject matter and articulates it in a way that is not imposing (there is a lot of subtle anger towards the patriarchy but she glosses over it so men can read it without hating themselves too much) 

and actually enjoys literature as an art form. It is a really entertaining read for anyone who is interested in British history (so far, a lot about the Victorians), British architecture and also who needs help writing a decent feminist essay because the sentences are that fucking perfect

When I first arrived to Brighton I was appalled at the rudeness of the locals who would say things like “the hospitals da’an the road”, as if to say “I know what happened to you and I’m so misinformed I think I have the right to say things like that” (a silent “thanks for toilet training me, I’m already taking you for granted.” entirely avoided because that rudeness inspired insult and shock, it was intended to and it did.)

I’m reading a book about Women’s Hospitals in Brighton and Hove, by resident Val Brown (I’d imagine that to write such a controversial book you’d assume/adopt a moniker, and that there would have been great lengths taken to prevent it’s publication) and it’s written so far – at six pages and an appendix in, like a beautiful novel. I have never enjoyed someone describing architecture like this, nor has a writer ever written the nature of a town that actually compelled me to google map the address.

I can tell that the author is a humble person, and that she sees potential in the architecture of her town that honours it’s original designers. You’d perhaps be inclined to think that she does the architecture of her town a lot of poetic justice but it is so wonderful to consider a person who has a town that she can call home and regard it with so much love. A likeable person did not author this book, I can tell that much in the few pages that I have read. (But she’s probably a white, British person for a few generations so my most determined of anonymous stalkers can give her a chance too, maybe they will learn something.)

I’ve learned a word I will now employ the use of if I get into a mood


to describe a block of flats. It is also a fancy word. I mean it works both ways. I can use it angrily or I can use it non-angrily and it remains effortlessly elegant, like the author’s writing style.

Apparently though: Brighton was a liberal town, with numerous red light districts that spanned across the wealthier and poorer districts therewith and it was proudly liberal until the latter end of the 1800s when conservatives (both male parties and female, I would never have thought so) were invited to positions of local council.

You’d think conservatives would hate me but actually my family did a lot for your country’s faux royal family and a lot of them, conservative. I’m not. My politics are pretty liberal (because I believe that cannabis should be legalised, if only because most people that smoke cannabis are in very serious pain of some kind – and sometimes you realise you are in physical pain by first acknowledging that you are in psychic or emotional pain. Cannabis is a ritualistic drug that probably could also work wonders for counsellors and psychiatrists who will have to evolve the nature of their profession to an EXCHANGE of trust and information rather than monologues that can endanger their patients, and note taking that can be influenced by feelings of envy and jealousy unacknowledged by the doctors and nurses making them.) but my personality is conservative and so any attempt at being a balanced person really does not make me ‘centered’ either.

Apparently a lot of the hospitals in this town were founded by women, who banded together so that there could be affordable dispensaries that offered locals affordable healthcare. One of those buildings is apparently owned by a solicitor’s now. But Brown’s description of the building was what compelled me to look, actually. She sees the magic in Brighton that I’ve sort of stopped seeing, because the locals are rude. (I lose track of which blonde someone might be defending but it is always, always poorly motivated and always insultingly stupid. And often the people who ‘defend’ the blonde, end up making her situation much worse because if I don’t like someone – it is never without a very good reason. And rarely without my having tried to like them first.)

There’s this bit at the back of the book “the struggle for women to forge a place in public life” and that, is actually what compelled me to buy the book. The concluding sentence. Being ganged up on, from country to country to four street town to town – by people who wanted to be popular – to the point that they could perpetuate some pretence that they did not know I was being raped in that hospital, that I was being given drugs that I should never have been given, tells me that society is not yet responsible enough to remove individuals from their own autonomy.

My spiritual teacher Lisa once told me “if you kill yourself, your next life will be three times worse”, and that was the only thing that saved me from moments of suicidal rage. I know that anyone who has ever accessed that memory will share the belief: that there was no lie in her saying so, and the acceptance thereafter that the idea my life could’ve been relived – and – fuck, three times worse? I spent time with PTSD, I’ve even been told I had ‘psychosis’ (I didn’t, I should’ve been left to the care of a spiritual teacher – and I wasn’t. And I think it was on purpose.) – and the reality of that truth with the sincerity on her face when she said so was more sobering than any ‘reality check’ soliloquy of my entire life. If someone has seen that memory, if they then kill themselves – they were mind controlled to do so.

Hosting briefly, that baby bird, that was determined to throw herself into my window just to attempt to jump off my balcony and learn to fucking-fly-already (she’s a brilliant flier and she does pass by my balcony at perfectly timed intervals – she’s alive and well) but I spoke with my angels, and they insisted that if my concern was that she wanted to kill herself, I ought to let her do so.

What really compelled you to get this book? I was being a dick. Because where I have proven I was only telling the truth, where I have proven that every blonde your British/Danish/EVEN ARABS DID IT society has foolishly defended (as if a single one of you, could do a better job defending that blonde than I could have) that was later found to be outrightly abusing me without fear of consequence, I know that it is not me that should be wasting tax payers monies in those hospitals.

And the findings of what goes on in those hospitals when the doctors and nurses convince themselves ‘you’re the only one that knows what you’re doing’, will affect the lives of thousands of people. How many other women, like me, are in those hospitals because their female ‘friends’ and ‘relatives’ were jealous and the men that they were manipulating used their male-insecurities to support the decision were defending a blonde – to be …popular…?

It is a good book though and it is not boring. I’m a good book judge.

Also I learned to consider that people might be jealous or envious through watching British period movies. My favourite novels have always been British period novels. Ironic, no? Theres this scene where Joseph Fiennes as Lord Robert says to Elizabeth that the women and men that surrounded her were ‘jealous and envious’ and that film was directed by an Indian guy and I really don’t blame my bird-friend for deciding that her first human form will probably be Indian.



Professor Germaine @ The Cambridge Union

RECIPE: Bacon, Coriander, (Skinless, sliced) Cucumber,  
Lemon, Mozzarella Cheese, Olive Oil, Caramelised Red Onion 
3x Slices of Toast

This breakfast BLT was inspired by a scene in FRIENDS -
where Ross has an episode of rage in the work place. 
It occurs in a moment of disappointment, during post-thanks giving
season. He exerts trust towards his co-workers by leaving a sandwich 
he had meticulously and carefully prepared, with his TG Turkey 
leftovers - and he includes a 'moist maker' in the sandwich to 
keep it from getting dry. 
I share Ross' sandwhich preferences and quite like for bread to be 

All I can say is - if you're preparing bacon, it's better soft and 
fatty - and chopped into bits, if you're using it within a sandwich.

In the event my comment gets deleted:

I feel like a lot of the attendees of this speech have never really investigated anything that Professor Germaine Greer actually wrote – for example – she bravely authored some time ago that sexual energy is actually projected by men. This is something that remains undiscussed publicly and it’s dangerous. Nor do the students notice that the clues she offers in this discussion allude to the “WHY” of Arab and Muslim women’s choices to cover up – even when their husbands or fathers or brothers or uncles etc don’t force them to. Even if an Arab or Muslim woman chooses to cover up entirely, I’m still offended by their motivation to do so. That they have to at all – especially in Arabic or Muslim countries where their sometimes religious brethren really ought not to look or sexualise them at all. (Something I saw in that Persepolis graphic novel – there’s a bit where police men pursue the protagonist and berate her for the fact that when she was running, her ass wobbled – she turned around and screamed “DON’T LOOK AT MY ASS THEN” – that still has never left my mind) I feel the anger expressed by two students here is completely justified but that they’ve clearly not been told the truth – what it means when people say that there’s a time for innocence, which is offensive. We all deserve to know and grow from the truth from childhood. There is a time where I’d probably have shared that anger towards Germaine, especially as I love that there are men who feel like their bodies don’t reflect their inner being, but that only calls for society to necessitate the establishment of new gender identities if we still believe we need one at all. I identify as male and have since I was a child but thankfully enjoy that I’m female and that I can exist without having to pay too much attention to the idea of my genitals having anything to do with my identity or how I carry myself or how I dress – at all. I recall when I first heard about Prof. Greer having made a statement that transgender men are still men, even if they have a sex change – (I’m not sure if those were even really her words exactly) I was inclined to be offensive but I couldn’t decide how I really felt about the statement or what had inspired her to say that. When you allow some time – even if it is years – before making your own opinions/getting angry towards other people for theirs – you might manifest a truth of some kind to help you understand their perspective. I don’t really appreciate debate structures at all because if you’re really a deep thinker, it takes you a life time to create an opinion of your own that is worth sharing at all. I learned at University, and far too late – that men are quite capable of leaving their bodies. My Jewish lecturers at UCA taught me about the ‘male gaze’ – that when you regard film, often men and women are watching two very different movies. They said “we have a verse in the Talmud that teaches men to be grateful that they are not women” and I remember then also thinking “WHY?!” – I took the statement only figuratively but later understood there were things that men had not learned at the time about life, and that in not sharing their truth with women our evolution and understanding of Planetary life was stagnant. Fortunately Abraham Hicks and Esther Hicks took me on the next phase of that journey and I learned to be unafraid of the concept and to simply consider that when I think of absolutely anyone, I am ‘sharing energy’ with them. So I am disappointed that Cambridge lecturers aren’t teaching their female students about the male gaze – which I think ought to be an integral aspect of the pastoral care that should be offered to people under thirty five. I’m disappointed that Professor Germaine couldn’t tell the truth bluntly and that it’s still something that has to be implied so as not to incite fear.



How do you inoffensively write a speech impediment?

The video above is a montage of >> Cheese << dialogue, a character
from the kids show on Cartoon Network called Foster's Home for
Imaginary Friends. Kindly uploaded by @Sara Nelowe

Here is a screenshot taken from his >> wikia page. <<

Screen Shot 2019-01-18 at 03.48.59.png

It is 7 minutes to 3AM. My sleeping habits have changed, are not at all in keeping with what society would deem appropriate but certainly, I have improved energy levels. I’m having a cup of Cookie cereal and I think hemp milk. I can’t remember, we’ve about four different kinds of milk in the fridge downstairs (only one of which came from a cow – and that is because I’m having a desert making moment. I’m in a trial and error phase and it’s fantastic because it’s opening all these neural pathways in my mind and that is very, very exciting to me as a person who identifies as a problem solver and strategist by nature.) and the non-dairy kinds all taste the same to me, differing only in that I like the sweeter ones more.

peach is a shade of orange not pink

(I’m also a *ridiculous* multitasker – as in my brain is thinking towards many things at once. Not all of them academically inclined but all of them are always most definitely artistically inclined.)

Screen Shot 2019-01-18 at 03.03.06.png

(I’m creating a categorised system within my note keeping, which is otherwise entirely confusing and a lot of good stuff gets completely lost. A word came to my mind as I was writing this blog post and I had to make a note of it. I’ve had a tab up on my browser about archivists for awhile )

This is what my browser tab looks like.

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If my life were a cinematic, a detail oriented/visual narrator type of media student would suggest that the detailing of my tabs probably signifies how I am constantly thinking – all the time. A spiritual person would probably say that my compartmentalised innerbeing’s ADHD is where confusion came in as to my preferred meditation methods.

I woke up shortly before midnight, after taking a nap beside >> El Tintino << (I’ve neglected his twitter but I think it is forever meta appropriate, if you’re inclined to understand his personality) and interestingly enough, he woke me up, without touching me at all – I opened my eyes and I saw he was looking at me. I said “PEEPEE?” and his ears propped up in an acknowledging but in-desperate “yes.” If he had been desperate, he’d of jumped up and off my bed and ran towards my bedroom door. In light of him not being desperate, I grabbed him for a cuddle (which was really that guilt ridden habit that originates for me, as the five minute  to fifteen minute to half an hour moment in which you plead with yourself as you might’ve done as a child being woken up before having to go to school) and drifted into a little sleep with him beneath my duvet. Ofcourse I later took him downstairs, came back up and listened to h3h3 (I LOVE their purple velvet sofa and the mis en scene) (and working out how Ethan would be if he enlisted in the Israeli military the way his wife Hila did – I also think it’s brave that he talks about God a lot – it is actually very brave for any Jewish person to discuss or allude to a belief in God at all. And their viewers are cruel sorts.) (I admire bravery in all forms) (He reminds me a little bit of a comedy character an acquaintance and I wrote about, based on an assistant teacher who was in charge of my sixthform’s trip to Uganda. He was a fun person to irritate and very inspiring. I later wrote a script for a two to five minute webisode at University. I’ll upload it, I really ought to.)

AND I STITCHED. I’m making a mobile. I mean I have the makings of a mobile in my head. Not because I am infant crazy but because I’ve always obsessed over them as sculptural pieces.

I’m listening to a lot of debates, conferences and discussions amongst literary types. Really in an effort to teach myself how to speak again. I enjoy hearing writers speak, because they put so much of themselves into structuring the delivery of a single sentence. I imagine it’s a kind of compulsion – there was a moment in which a lady discussed it in this video that I’m currently listening to as I author this post, that she witnessed Professor Germaine Greer’s dedication to conveying messages in beautifully written sentences for her books.

Professor Germaine Greer meets the Archivists
uploaded by @The University of Melbourne

I’m moved by Mr Lachlan Glanville’s speech, I’ve only just begin to watch it but as I’ve written many times, a sentence or a ‘mere’ few words can really trigger a very comprehensive thought journey of sorts and in this he discusses that a redefinition of rape is necessary in society. And it is true: I believe that administering any kind of penetration that has not been expressly consented to is for all intents and purposes, rape. For example – an injection that has not been consented to, is rape.

Here is something worth noting to myself: I enjoy paragraphs in which the use of tense – that is past/present/future interchanges and carries no consistency – I can’t cope with it in a sentence yet but in a paragraph, it is interesting. Perhaps that is my inner science fiction buff being seduced by the idea of a narrator, for example, playing with the concept of time travel as they write. It is grammatical incorrectness but don’t you think that there has to be some kind of artistic evolution in literacy?

The question is rhetorical, you give a reader too much significance by encouraging them to think that their opinion can validate or otherwise discredit yours. But I love a good conversation, I find those are lacking in my home.



I left a comment that I think is an important read – in response to a very important debate that you shan’t find boring!

Screen Shot 2019-01-08 at 23.32.49.png

And I learned two new words:

screen shot 2019-01-08 at 23.41.32screen shot 2019-01-08 at 23.41.50




The image above, was a photograph taken in the 1970s of Professor 
Germaine Greer.

The image beneath is a self portrait I took in Farnham, around
about the time that I went to a speech of hers at a venue called
the Maltings. 

I had never seen the photograph of her before, but I enjoy the
similarity somewhat. I found the image while listening to a >> debate
she took part in speaking for the motion of Women's liberation << 
at >>Cambridge University<< uploaded by @VagabondWays

I took these stills from the Cambridge site today... [18|JAN|2019]

screen shot 2019-01-18 at 04.12.21
screen shot 2019-01-18 at 04.12.30screen shot 2019-01-18 at 04.12.35

giving me life

dangerous ideas 

In the future, Google Maps will be a virtual reality experience allowing us to explore every crevice of the world. ‘Psychic’ kids will take you to the locations of every imprisoned and sexually enslaved person. When the truth comes out of the male sexuality, there will necessarily be a world where secrets no longer exist. There will be no judgements because there will be no stigma attached to anything that is both informed and properly consented to. There will be less abuse.

Big brother, as a concept, is our reality. Big sister – the counterpart – narratively concerned is inevitable. No closed doors. No secrets – fine – we’ve accepted that. That means you – too – patriarchy.

You want surveillance but who grants you the accountability for a role like that? The you that accesses everyone’s emails, sifts through messages that are so unharmful – such as the exchanges of naked pictures between people in or out of relationships, the you that accesses webcam performances that women perceive as a serious career and yet are not earning proportionately for – those performances are screen captured by many people, and later sold privately for more than the performer had ever considered she could’ve earned for her time, her choice to share her body.

Men and their fathers, realising new extents to their personal relationships that they had previously not considered will no longer be able to trust their fathers unless they can have the same dialogue in front of their fathers and their mothers. Children will not want their familial lives and relationships to be confined to simply two parents – they will want many parents.

Once I was sitting in the box room of my mother’s home, and I opened a conversation with a boy I had been completely in love with for years – from a distance – whom I had upon first glance been attracted to but kept a distance because he was a year and a half my junior and I felt he was too young for me – and with whom I had been intimate but had never had sex with – and my mother and I sat side by side while he appeared on webcam.

Later he said to me “you wanted to show me off”

I had never even considered the idea that my mother could be interested in the boys that I was interested in, ever since I was a child I was repulsed by the notion of being with someone even a few months younger than myself. I had something of an internet boyfriend for a month or two, some six years younger than me (I was twenty eight at the time) and I really, seriously, super-liked him, and I realised that my younger self had been far wiser than my older one. My very first impression is always the right one – that is a gift of mine that I will never go back on. In my company though – people grow fast if they are vulnerable enough to have an open and heartfelt conversation with me, and that sometimes means that they outgrow me fast – too. My mother’s life really did end somewhat at about sixteen years old, so I have to accept that her mind is stuck there.

Years later I learned that that-boys father was revisiting his youth, and had abandoned one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen – for a younger model. Some other me would’ve judged him for that, but I don’t now.

If someone needs a relationship, to continue being able to find hope of life in age (I hear that men truly struggle with that, struggle with the idea of being desirable – get lost in the 9-5, lose some significant part of themselves through never having lived their true dreams) and that in turn depletes their capacity to sustain their familial relationships – to continue performing a role that made them feel nothing of the life they really wanted. That lie, that struggle – the sensible, logical/clinical performance that America would call the ‘nuclear’ family value – has no place in the future. At all.

If the person you lose is truly ‘yours’, and you are truly yours too, you will not be threatened by that loss.

They’ll come back if they grow enough to appreciate what they had with you. And perhaps that might never happen – but your growth will be in learning to release a dynamic that you also must’ve necessarily outgrown for the attachment to no longer be valued to an extent that they’d risk the loss of it.

Can you imagine that no one in my family knows my mother? Growing up with your sole caregiver being unable to have any kind of non confrontational discussion with you means you will be to the world, someone that is equally impossible to ever truly know. I want her to live her life but in her head she’s stuck in a place where the only kind of woman she could find beauty in was an anorexic dancer. Losing relationships and accepting their loss and growing from that loss can make or break your life – but if you can continue to live through a loss like that, if you can continue to choose happiness and continue to choose growth and life (do not allow someone to make your relationship with them the one thing that keeps them alive – EVER) – you will find a new self. You’ll lose some part of your identity for awhile, I know that happened to me many times. But that you will come back from time to time, years later. Life is long. Much longer if you continue to hope for things and work towards dreams. Esther Hicks and Abraham Hicks changed my life – you don’t need to care for the spiritual stuff, only the message needs to have any importance to you – and the message is universal. Live your dreams, choose to find beauty in yourself. The future depends on your ability to love yourself, on your ability not to make someone responsible for loving you in place of your family. And not to make your family responsible for loving you either, no one has to love you except you.

I will never bring a man home again, I would like to leave my home as soon as I can – I don’t trust my sister or my mother. And they never really invited me to believe I ought to. Not to run, running creates new problems – but just because I’ve been taught that is the natural course of things.



I D U B B B Z R E D & P U R P L E


Be prepared for the most Meta blogpost I’ve ever written.
Everything is connected, even if it doesn’t seem that way.


Simply put: Yin and Yang are fragments of a dualistic whole. That is the most basic explanation I can give in an attempt to shed some light on a concept that is actually really, really complicated. The expansive Yin and Yang – super close up – actually looks more like a Final Fantasy X Expert Sphere grid. (She writes, as if she had any real understanding of how to engage with sphere grids when she played FFX at eleven years old.)
It’s just a useful visual reference. Take a second to google it.

Kim Kardashian recently released a meditation playlist & that inspired me. I L-O-V-E her.
My playlist is called “If you were songs” – it’s not a meditation but it is a multi-sensory thought journey.

I promised I’d write a letter for my big brother. Here it is, Omi

Your problems start at home – but you carry them with you wherever you run. This is how I understand the nature of Karma. Sometimes it’s easier to live your Karma with people you can’t lose, like blood-family. Sometimes it’s really not.

Someone once told me that you pick your family – maybe that’s how it looks physically. Think about it like this: your life is a solipsism. A multi-sensory cinematic of your subconscious made conscious. When you cast a film, based on the script that is your subconscious: you might meet hundreds of people that carry a similar energy qualifying them to play the role of that character, the space in your immersive theatrical that needs filling/some manifestation of some-often-unrecognised aspect of your character. I guess that what determines who wins the role in your movie depends on which of their qualities matter to you as a casting director.

Supposedly Feminism is about equality and sisterhood, but I’ve only experienced that once or twice – and without long-term consistency. Any real understanding I have about Feminism is entirely with thanks to Men and fraternity. I mean, I’ve heard women talk about it and I thought it was great but I didn’t really believe it, y’know?

Enter Supreme Womanist antihero Wolfmother, Naiobe.


Edited to add a selection of tweets – screen shots taken from Jada Pinkett-Smith
Screen Shot 2017-11-25 at 22.37.16

Like I’ve hung out with feminists that made their preconceived notions about my personality based on how I chose to dress, or how I chose to sexualise myself etc, and they gave themselves liberty to treat me poorly because of it.
(I’ve also hung out with ‘spiritual’ women that also made preconceived notions about my personality/identity based on physical information too. Sucks for them.. because when I connect with people who meditate I take them on pretty epic journeys.)
(Why I prefer the company of Men. And that is not to say I get any kind of special treatment from men, my best male friends are NOT ‘nice’ people. My ego really doesn’t need that, at all.)
I’ve hung out with spiritual, feminist artists… a photographer ex-friend comes to mind. She was really academic. She read feminism but she didn’t really live it.
She took photos of me that I hated – she insisted my looks weren’t important – but where is the empowerment in using a photograph of someone that they hate? It’s not for you to tell me how I’d like to be portrayed. She made the photos private, and then made them unprivate when I introduced her to a male version of her – who was attracted to me.
What is the real intention here? Intentions MATTER. I’ve found feminism can be the biggest lie a woman can tell.
>> This scene in Legally Blonde kind of sums it all up for me <<


Feminism has traditionally come in ‘waves’, in keeping with social evolution. Basically think of it like this:
1st Wave – We nag, men change their behaviours a bit to quiet the nagging,
2nd Wave – We find something new to nag about, some of us go cRaaAaaZy and throw ourselves on horse racing tracks/get so dramatic we starve ourselves, men change their behaviours to avoid the drama – so on and so forth, etc etc etc

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Disclaimer: I am actually deeply grateful to the ancient Matriarchs that made it possible for me to simplify such a profound movement with roots in deep, deep, deep suffering – something that has cyclicly affected generation upon generation through various forms and expressions of misogyny,  which is ingrained in many (most?) (all??) cultures and religions.  (See, being multidimensional – as women often are – means you have all these sides of you that want to express themselves and you have to pick ONE to indicate your character and I think that’s almost impossible verbally – so I stay quiet.)

K, so… Here is my definition of Feminism for the ADD generation.

I think the best manifestos are concise-one-liner-maxims..
To me, feminism means: “Fuck you, I do what I want” …

I think we’ve earned that, as a gender, as an energy that occupies physical regardless of gender. Unfortunately I can’t take credit for it.
I could justify it, but that demeans the essence of the sentiment. I really shouldn’t have to justify myself to anybody. The moment you start “waaaait…. even if..X,Y,Z?’ing” you’re shitting on my beliefs. Don’t shit on my beliefs, its rude.

Eric Cartman is one of my feminist anti-heroes.


>> watch this <<

Eric Cartman is an extreme personality who functions as the ‘contrast’ in that particular dynamic of friends. He is an archetype so well written that he is loveable even though he is … terrible. If I could restructure a wave of Feminism it would be inspired by Fraternity.

Segue //

Abraham Hicks argues the following:

Firstly: That fictional characters are no more or less real than you or me.
Secondly: That contrast is necessary for growth.

Well. Obviously I agree. You’ll have to listen to all of her talks on YouTube to find where she says these things, sorry.

// Segue

I once got a book called “The Philosophy of South Park”. I uh. Didn’t read it, but the title was a powerful thought-seed.

My brother used to love cartoons so I grew up loving them too – I looked for company to watch cartoons with. I have an ex my brother never met, that I dated for four years, who was… just like him. He once said “cartoons are ALL about what you can get away with.” He was a fascinating person to spend a few years of my life around because he was unbelievably smart/funny and full of unique thoughts free of influence from the internet. South Park is full of minutiae to over analyse, but lets stick to what I know.

Setting the scene: I visited Syria years ago and spent a lot of time watching South Park because I wasn’t really allowed to go out by myself. *insert side eye emoji*

(FYI, I was nineteen. On my one adventure out, I went to a pet shop about a five minute walk away from my dad’s. My dad rang me consistently, between what felt like 2 minute intervals. He rang me on my journey from his flat to the Petshop. His reason being it’s socially frowned upon for women in Syria to be seen walking in the streets alone. Ok.)

So… I bumped into a very badly-dressed-fat-goth-guy around my age, called Abouda Mahoud. Ah-Boo-Da-Ma-Hood. I mean there are some fantastic sound-vibrations in there. Basically, segmented, these were all individual issues that interfered with my capacity to cast him in my personal movie.

Wait, shut up, and let me explain.
1. Why would him being badly dressed bother me? Because I care about clothes. If you are attracted to ME, I assure you it is atleast 50% thanks to how I’m dressed. Costume design is important in my personal movie.
2. Why would I care about him being fat? BECAUSE I CARED ABOUT MYSELF BEING FAT. (Years later I would go on to have the biggest-long-winded crush on someone not fat, but pretty chubby. Lol, karma)
3. Why would him being goth bother me? IT WOULDN’T. AT ALL. But “badly dressed” and “goth”, connected in any kind of physical description, does not fit in with my personal movie.

So to clarify: nothing written is necessarily indicative of anything wrong with him, I was the one with the issue(s).

Disregarding my shallowness, I still gave him my number (I think he made me laugh. Making me laugh excuses you from most things I might find awful about you) and yet, if I recollect on the incident it makes me eye twitchy and uncomfortable. Like I think at some point, I was so bored we exchanged sexts…? THEN I found out from my cousin that my auntie had seen me speaking to him at the Pet Shop… I think she believed that was as well as I could ever do… She told me to come back next year and we’d find me a husband. Perhaps I should’ve taken her up on that *insert side eye emoji*) Not really. If I don’t get exactly what I am wanting, I don’t accept. In some contexts, compromise is for the weak.

Back to South Park. I recall watching an ‘extras’ scene, where Matt and Trey observe that Cartman is the only being who could possibly enjoy a theme park on his own.
I spent five years completely stoned, creating wonderful memories lost in the ether and somehow… I remember that. I have a theory for why: as a person who spent most of her life chasing not being alone, I possibly manifested a series of experiences that would enable me to empathise with the only being who could possibly enjoy a theme park on his own.

People wonder sometimes why I prefer to walk alone. (by walk, I mean get taxis. but if I DO walk, I’ll probably listen to my iTunes.)
For the most part, the thought of being close to people enters my mind and I immediately jump onto some other, unrelated and most importantly less uncomfortable thought. I am too complicated and too difficult a personality, if I am going to be friends with someone – that is, share my energy and personal space with them.. I have to be able to trust them.

Let me try & explain. (TL:DR – the only soul that has ever both earned and deserved my trust, has been a funny-definitely-potentially-evil genius that bounces from sociopathic to being full of uncontrollable emotion… and do you have any fucking clue how hard it is to find people like that???? And how much harder it is to get them to trust you back!? It’s ok I was made for challenges such as these)

Shoes by Louboutin – I’d dress Dorothy in these & nothing else

I first listened to this in a friend’s car. Upon the first time I met him, I asked him if he was Jewish (he said no, disappointing) and then out of nowhere, I just erupted in laughter. I like.. rolled around on the kitchen floor in hysterics. He asked me why I was laughing.. I think my explanation was “You’re just so awkward. You remind me of Larry David”

And here, let me introduce my next Feminist anti-hero. Courtesy of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Her husband is cheating scum, she’s loud, obnoxious and holy shit don’t piss her off. She has socially unacceptable emotional outbursts. She doesn’t follow any kind of social construct that dictates how to be maternal. She doesn’t care about what you think of her. She is confrontational. >> Watch << An ex of mine used to compare me to her. I used to compare him to Geoff.


Back to the friend. I spent a few months in love with him, I’d lie on his bed while he drew (he’s a very skilled artist) & we’d listen to music & discuss music & I felt comfortable talking to him about my spirituality – he asked me if I knew anything about astral travel. I told him that in my childhood I’d had a bestfriend that used to have ‘outer body experiences’ in her sleep… that was before she got diagnosed with “schizophrenia”.

Prior to her diagnosis, I remember a sleep-over at her house. We spent the night watching horror movies. We went to sleep in her living room, on mattresses laid out on the floor, wrapped in duvets. I had my feet out at the end of my duvet for ~temperature regulation~. And I felt something grab my ankle. If I were telling you this story to your face I would grab your ankle with my hand to show you how it felt. My eyes shot open, I sat up, and at the foot of my mattress there was a huge, white, smokey face of a girl with a plait. I lay back down, eyes wide, shook my friend awake and said “Something just grabbed my foot.” She sat up, bleary eyed and looked. She said “Oh, it’s just the ghost girl.” And lay back down. At that point I hadn’t told her what I’d seen, so I knew we shared that experience. (I was so scared of the ghost I kept my eyes closed and asked her to make the ghost go away. She said “You have to ask her to leave.” and I said “I cant, I’m scared”. So my friend asked for me.)

I think that it’s important to state some facts. Firstly, we were little kids when this happened and neither of us had ever, ever been exposed to alcohol/drugs or stimulants that mess with what I’ve been taught to describe as your radio frequency of perception. We SHARED what a psychiatrist might describe as a hallucination. We saw the same thing. Our friendship disintegrated and many years later I found myself knocking on her door – she was so open about what she understood to be mental illness that she comfortably described the things that she saw. I learned she had become a self harmer.
Self harm is a means of releasing built up energy – this is a significant piece of knowledge – try keeping it in, try tensing your whole body, try visualising. Or don’t, whatever.

A teacher would later explain a few things to me: horror films make you feel fear – and fear is an energy that non-physical feeds off. Similarly, if you feel fear you can prevent yourself from being able to see non-physical. You do not have to accept gifts you aren’t ready for.
When you accept that everything is connected: you accept that just because a person is hallucinating, doesn’t mean what they’re hallucinating isn’t REAL.

Funfact: This childhood friend had a HUGE crush on my brother. In a school play, She played Alice. My brother used to call her my “fat friend”.

Back to my friend: I eventually transferred the feelings I had for him to other people, because I accepted that no matter what I did, I was never going to be good enough for him. He triggered in me, an unbelievable sense of unease and insecurity. Perhaps he was transferring his feelings about himself. I like to think so. Basically tho –

This friend and I slept together & he told all our friends. I didn’t mind.
The next day he got a blowjob from his housemate … & he told all our friends. I didn’t mind.
One time I went to visit him at his parent’s home in Kent. His father overheard me on the phone saying to my mother “No, he’s not my boyfriend, we’re just friends.” and got upset because I had apparently indicated I was too good for his son. His son did not stick up for me. This I minded.
Then I went through his phone (I am the kind of person that will look through your phone ok?) and saw he had described me as a “jealous arab”, to a female friend of his – a reference to a passing joke I made about being jealous of his other female friends. This I minded. I let him go.

Well. I distanced myself, but we had moments of closeness in our somewhat more separate lives.

Years later, after all our friends had gone off to do their own thing and triggered both his and my own abandonment issues: he and I left long term relationships at around the same time.

That was around-about the first time I got sectioned. When I left the psychiatric ward, I stayed with him at my flat. We slept together. There was a moment we were lying beside one another, just touching and we felt strangely connected, our physical bodies forgotten. I have to stress that I’m not being poetic. I found nothing poetic about being in his company. It was a totally chill, physical-non-physical experience. I joked that it was “alien sex”. Maybe I wasn’t joking. MOVING ON.

One day, he gave me a rock he had crudely painted on, saying he loved me.
This: I really fucking minded.

Throughout our friendship I had done a lot for him: in some way given and given and given without expecting him to give back – often with no regard for how he upset me. I saw this rock as a poor effort that summed up his capacity to feel towards me.

I left it on my kitchen table and pretended to think nothing of it.

This, to me, was a lesser fragment of my brother’s soul. By lesser I mean… He hadn’t learned enough karmic lessons to be able to engage with me in the way my brother would have. For all the pain this fragment put me through, I learned a lot. Actually that is an energy following how I engage with his soul. Always some new pain to discover.

One time this friend played this song:
>> This song is significant <<
It reminded me of a painting I gave to my brother. A black and red scribble of Alice falling down the rabbit hole. It really frightened my brother. (As far as Alice in Wonderland archetypes go: I am the white rabbit, the cheshire cat, the rude caterpillar and the obnoxious colour Queen.)


War is Peace
Freedom is Slavery
Ignorance is Strength
George Orwell, 1984
…. A Cancerian, surprisingly

Once I helped a wonderful-but-distant friend write a dissertation, it was about The Wizard of Oz. (This friend – who is, fyi, NOTHING like my brother – told me I visited him non-physically when he was on an acid trip: he said I was blue. It reminded me of an illustration my brother did years ago, when he was addicted to taking drugs – a blue woman… with my nose.) Back to this friend – he was a dealer back then, and without argument the most decent, ethical business person you could ever meet. A virgo. He gave the biggest bags of the best weed & always made time to sit and smoke with you. The second or third time I met him he saw me spraying fake tan – and I was mortified. He was chill and said something like “it’s harder to be a person that conforms to society’s beauty standards”.
I call him ABC. ABC was particularly interested in colour theory… And although I can’t remember too clearly, because I was in the midst of what I’d describe as a spiritual awakening – what you might describe as a psychotic breakdown – when I wrote it. Whatever language you use, I was in a very, very different place perceptually. I was much more receptive to the significance of visual than I had, or have presently ever been. He engaged with me during that time – not in a patronising way, not with the intent to pacify me, and I don’t think he went to discuss it with anyone else. I think he really valued the experience even if it’s taken time to make any kind of sense. In strange light-stains I saw his face morph into a cousin of mine. Fragments.

At the time of writing the essay: I somewhat recall feeling that Dorothy’s red shoes signified a form of slavery that led her to her freedom. Shoes that belonged to someone else and yet fit her perfectly. In the movie I saw Dorothy take a journey through various forms of suffering that women have endured. From men and women.

I read somewhere that Dorothy’s dog Toto was a metaphor for Anubis – he judged her as pure of heart and he led her through the underworld. So… ‘her’ dog and ‘her’ shoes: freedom – a combined effort.

Disclaimer: Being pure of heart has fuck all to do with being nice, fuck all to do with whether you’ve done or said shitty things. Karma is a bank that dates back to the dawn of physical. Sometimes you’re nasty and nasty and nasty – and nothing “bad” happens to you for it…. karmically speaking, it turns out that you were just returning a favour from way back when.

Red is the colour of communism. Communism needs to be redefined. To do so would be revolutionary.
Red is the colour of menstruation. Menstruation needs to be redefined. To do so would be frightening.
Red is a colour that triggers a subconscious fear in men. Fear needs to be redefined.

Red is also the colour of the blood in our arteries. So.. red represents inhalation.
Blue is the colour of the blood in our veins. Blue represents exhalation.
The combination is life.

The significance, I think, of Dorothy in heels, is that these shoes are painful to wear. That bitch traverses Oz and doesn’t once complain about how much her feet hurt. That is quiet evidence of a quality people who haven’t ever really suffered overlook with an ease I personally find shameful – strength.

Femininity is a painful ideal, a form of slavery in and of itself. Women can take any form of pain better than any Man. Trust me. And if some monk somewhere has mastered pain control, somewhere along the line of knowledge passing in a ‘Chinese Whisper’ (what the fuck does that even mean?) I promise it was a Woman’s body that taught them how.

Men and Women have been conditioned to adhere to gender-acceptable behaviours and have had all of the varying aspects of their physical and non-physical identities dictated to them. Men and Women have been inclined to fit into moulds and social structures in keeping with what is accepted by those that occupy their environment. Sorry to back-track a little: but Cartman doesn’t give a shit about any of this. He is unapologetically himself. It is the underlying nature of the quality that I admire – not his resulting actions. But also I think it’s important to state that we as individuals are at least four archetypal energies at once. More as we suffer ego death and ego rebirth. You have to experience the energies of a whole tarot deck to be a complete being, and once you’ve done that you go again, and again… and again.

I have a memory of my brother, hearing me shaving my legs… He snitched on me. He was furious about it. He shouted about it to my mother: “Why the fuck should she need to shave her legs?!” … The first – accidental – feminist I ever met was my brother.

Before Dorothy ends up in Oz, she lives in Kansas on a farm with a group of Men who are, I think, somewhat controlling. Perhaps compelled by a need to be useful, they are under some illusion that their opinion is relevant in her daily life. In simple terms they fail to meet her actual needs – something I think Men have been taught is their duty. Their failings are her failings too. Perhaps she was supposed to be their example. She only had to stick up for herself.

Another friend-love-interest-that-also-reminds-me-of-my-dad told me he thought I needed a protector once, he also told me he wasn’t prepared to be that. Somewhere in my past I learned not to stick up for myself. I guess I never explained that somewhere along the line of that thing called ‘growing up’ that I’m not convinced I or anyone I’ve ever met is done doing – I learned that when I stick up for myself.. I really hurt people. Emotionally. Physically. I can cause damage.

Wizard of Oz:
A woman holds her hand out to touch Toto – and Toto bites the woman. In my friends dissertation I wrote that Dorothy’s dog teaches her not to let anyone touch her without permission.

I projected heavily onto Dorothy in Oz & I saw her friends as deceptively portrayed: stripped of their innocent demeanours, they each represented struggles of powerful unisex archetypes that resonated with me. The lion who couldn’t roar, the tinman who had no heart & the scarecrow… who had no brain. (I dated that guy for five years. Trust me – he’s not the one – he doesn’t even need a brain to pursue any of his personal interests)

Soulmates (such as the friends Dorothy meets along her journey) are people who are meant to help you to cultivate qualities that prepare you for your Twinflame – I would suggest Dorothy’s Twinflame was the Wizard – a man who embodied the desired qualities of all of her soulmates combined.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about artists: we are essentially sentient sponges that absorb sensory information and claim everything we find pleasing as our own. I’d love to ask Frida Kahlo if you can really be an artist and a communist at the same time.

In one particular secondary school I went to: I’d-love-to-mention-the-name but the current headmistress was my form tutor and I know she’d be LIVID if my nudes popped up in connection to them…
We were taught the Art of Debate: the ability to argue on behalf of multiple sides of a notion. The school enforced a uniform policy – a skirt two inches below the knee, NO make up, NO unlaced doc martens… On the one hand I think it was an important effort in ensuring that young girls aren’t sexualised – this is an important feminist notion. But uh, as one of those girls, I can say we all quite happily sexualised ourselves. This is also an important feminist notion. Enter feminist anti-hero number three, Ja’mie King.

‘On paper’ she’s a lot of marvellous things. She’s a humanitarian. She’s an academic. She’s a dancer. But she has a personality too. She’s your darkest self, your intentions exposed, flaws owned and shamelessly spoken aloud. She’s a drama queen. She’s a control freak. She’s got an eating disorder. She’s a bitch. Maybe if women owned these aspects of themselves, men would be able to too. I don’t want to exist in a nice World, just an honest one.


Back to me and my school ‘mates’… I guess having rules about how to dress/behave taught us how to break them with style. I think I learned a few things about the Art of Breaking Rules and not getting caught. I’d be a nightmare if I were a member of a secret society or two, or three, huh..

I made a youtube video and in the description I suggested that YouTubers are essentially free babysitters. Sometimes I feel like I was raised by the actors and actresses I grew up watching on repeat. Gotta give it to my sister and my ma, they have good taste in entertainment.

Enter the ultra feminist anti-heroine duo team…


I posted an Absolutely Fabulous video on my FaceBook (it would take a very special and perceptive person to make any sense of the nonsense I document on my FB and thankfully it seems as though no-one pays any attention to it) and thought that Eddy and Patsy were Saffy’s parents: and of course they’re ‘terrible’ human beings that neglected Saffy… but then, were they such awful parents when you consider how she turned out? They swore, smoked, drank excessively and took drugs in front of Edwina’s daughter.
Saffy’s autonomous, intelligent, intellectual, empathetic, responsible, creative blah, blah.

In part I used it as a space to verbalise how I found it upsetting that YouTubers are forced to act as role-models for their child viewers. A spiritual man once told me that if I wanted a role-model… I should consult a tree. Personally I think trees have better things to do than engage in conversations with people. Also… I actually feel sorry for trees that get molested by tree huggers.

Maybe YouTubers are actually better at raising your kids than you are. (The Universal you, but not the Royal We (I learned that term by watching Whoopi Goldberg at the Oscar’s ceremony on YouTube and I love it) because the Royal We think parents are gene-and-money-donors and that kids actually choose their own ‘parents’.)

All growing up is, is collecting thoughts.
Oh.. and the people that brought ME up were softcore pornstars & photographers. I don’t think they realised that’s what they were doing at the time, though.


Celebrities are people who have found some form of expression that resonates with the collective consciousness. They are examples of what people perceive as ultimate-archetypes. People who have achieved what humanity perceives as immortality. I have a few favourites… but my very favourite is Kanye West. My sister noticed that I admire him recently, and I said “It’s not that I’m attracted to him – he’s hot – but that’s not why I like him.” Anyone can be hot. “I like him because he is an artist, everything about him is art. He’s made personality art.” In general I sung (I don’t mean I actually sung, I don’t do singing) his praises, I often do. He is the art teacher I’ve always wanted. (If we were friends I’d be like “ok so can u teach me design for free? thx”

I think people wonder why I admire Kanye West so much. Oh gosh there are so many reasons. I’ll explain the least obvious – when I learned about archetypal energy and fragments… I was inclined to notice minutiae… a small example, being that Kanye shares a middle name with my brother. I know psychologists argue that we look to replicate our familial relationships in people we meet, so there’s nothing extraordinary there. And there are differences in my brother and in Kanye that separate the “fragment” and I’m not speaking superficially – this has nothing to do with ‘physical’.

My older brother has been living in and out of psychiatric wards since he was sixteen. He is now forty seven. (Psychiatric wards and psychiatric medications make zombies of human beings, especially creative ones – but especially spiritually awake ones. They are an evil of humanity. Torture chambers. Possibly the reason for the UK being so spiritually undeveloped. We keep people who access any higher truth as far away from society as we can, where other cultures might know better.)

I thought of my brother as an ultimate gamer and yet he has never been able to play what a friend described as “the game”. He couldn’t fake-normal. People like that can’t escape psychiatric wards.

I think I once wrote about him in the personal statement I wrote up to study film. I have this memory that’s too fucking distant to really describe – but he basically taught me about the importance of suspending disbelief. I think we watched House of Flying Daggers and I suggested it was stupid, people can’t jump from building to building like that. He got angry with me for being so attached to reality that I couldn’t even enjoy a film. He isn’t allowed internet in his psychiatric ward, but if he was I’d love to show him some parkour videos…

When I was a baby, my brother would sit on a beanbag playing games and my mother would sit me on a pillow on his lap. In a broken family your siblings are your parental figures. As I grew older I watched him play games & make music. Eventually he was removed from my reality. I kind of learned to play the games I loved watching him play.

When we were younger and living in Dubai, we were partly raised by an Indian woman called Mala. I assume she must’ve left Bollywood music on the TV and that it was a source of comedy to us… This was a time before political correctness (A necessary phase of social evolution, in an effort to kill racism.)

Omi LOVED music videos but really didn’t enjoy the choreography in Indian music videos. (Took the piss of the choreography) (He was an amazing dancer). One time we called him down early in the morning to watch his “favourite music video”… imagine calling a seldom-home-teenager-who-went-on-two-week-raves-in-super-illegal-quarries-in-Dubai down to watch something they found horrendous, as a prank.
>> I guess it’s this kind of humour. <<

Something in Kanye keeps the hope in me that somewhere my pre-psych-med-zombie brother exists and that he’s making amazing art.
>> This is one of my all time favourites << Like my brothers soul speaking.


My brother had a lot of really interesting friends. “Druggies” and “Dealers”. (I grew up being the kid that taught her kid-friends these words, that lessened complete individuals into something awful… that made the parents of these kid-friends not want me around their kids. And then: when I learned to keep secrets I grew up the super-innocent-preteen with the Christian mother (Don’t get me started) that you couldn’t play uncensored Eminem songs to…?)
I recall sitting in the car with one of these Druggies, a scruffy black guy. My mother was driving. She is so inquisitive, I’ve always found her nosey but really I’m the same if I find you interesting enough… and she asked him all sorts of questions. She found him fascinating. He was very well educated. Turns out he was African Royalty. Casual. Hard to imagine a person is Royalty when you come from a culture where royalty live in palaces… when there are people in their country, living in poverty. “You are only as strong as your weakest link.” Who authored that quote? It’s so Sun Tzu.

Kanye and my brother have many, many similarities: for example, I used to get pushed around a lot as a kid and I never wanted to take up space. People would walk into me. My brother was a scary teenager that did-not-take-shit. He got away with it. Because he was fucking funny. And he was a genius, so arguing with him and winning was impossible. He could also glance at you in a particular way and make you feel fear. Yet somehow everyone who met him kind of worshipped him.
So.. when people got in my way, I’d say excuse me, and they’d either ignore me or perhaps I’d go unheard. One time he noticed and he angrily said to me “Push them out of the way!” He uh. Did a demonstration.

My brother is an artist. He loved to watch cartoons, game, skateboard, listen to and make music and he was the first person who took my dream-journeys seriously. He had a mozart bust as a child. One time in primary school we made a tape together on a weird synth and I took it to class for show and tell… No one really responded when I played the tape so I assumed they thought it was bad. It might’ve been bad? I thought it was good.
When I see Kanye, I see my brother in another body. A brilliant, rude creative living some many years in the future and way too clever to be understood by just anyone. I’ve never really found anyone as amazing as either of them at-their-best.

I think that Willow Smith and Jaden Smith are Twinflames. If I put them into some kind of narrative I would say that they were enlightened beings that rejected Nirvana, to incarnate one last time, to help a Planet completely void of love. On the condition that they wouldn’t be separate. It’s important to acknowledge that the Greeks have five words for love (more, maybe). When Twinflames find each other – and the World really doesn’t want Twinflames to be together – it’s a magnet thing… MAGICAL SHIT HAPPENS. My brother is not my Twin but he is a soulmate that has taught me a lot of lessons I needed to learn in order to be myself. You can only FIND your Twin when you are your true self, you can only ATTRACT your Twin when you’re comfortable without them. The one exists. Really. Also… I found mine and I don’t actually give a fuck.

I listened to an Alan Watts youtube video, where he discusses that “incest” is the last taboo. I think Willow and Jaden would be doing a great disservice to the World by engaging in that. But what if they were inspired to reconstruct relationship dynamics? Future-Willow could get away with having a fuckboy harem!

I’m really glad I don’t know their parents because I imagine they’d glare at me. I’d be like “I’M ONLY SPEAKING MY TRUTH”, >> play this song <<, beg Mrs Pinkett-Smith to let me sleep in one of their spare rooms & tell me bedtime stories… FOREVER

Funfact: I had a maths teacher in one school who kept forgetting my name. With frequency, when I would disrupt his classes, he would scream “DOROTHY!!!!!” *insert angry emoji*