Other Stuff

To survive my grief and confusion, I must have other stuff.

First and most important are my close friends.

Friends who listen to my whole life, and still bring back my laughter.

Friends who see the whore’s terror, whore finding she is in agony in the mind and body, whore who can’t cry but body shake with deep sorrow.

Friends who listen on the phone, in room full of other – listen without judging, without disgust, without comparing.

Friends who show how alive I am.

Friends who show me that I can give and receive love.

I have found I believe in some kind of Christian.

I don’t go to church much – but I prayer a lot.

Not as I did, out of desperation pleading for some help, any help.

Not as I did, out of a fury determined to find there was nothing there.

Not as I did, going in and out of liberal Christian beliefs knowing I would never fit, never fit coz my heart was closed by knowing I was bad.

No – all that is no longer my clothes.

My belief is that the lowest, the most scared, the ones who have known how man makes a hell on earth, the confused, the hurt in every cell in their bodies – these are the people who I prayer with and for.

When I prayer, I prayer to a space that I cannot name, I prayer into the centre of my guts not knowing how and why I do.

All I know I feel a courage, a belief that my is true, a holding, a place to rest.

All I know in prayer I can place my fury at injustice, place my invisible tears at the waste of a billions of girls and women to the sex trade.

All I know is I can prayer walking in a busy city road, prayer as I watch TV, I always feel prayer as I write this.

I am person who cannot fit with ritual or feel silly when praying with others.

I don’t why but my prayer as part of the general noise of my life.

But I not good with silence – too many years of not speaking, not being heard if I did speak,

Too many years of words of others being made my reality – words that murdered any ability to prayer.

I would I am very anarchist Christian –  I believe in the Gospels and that’s all. I don’t want a building, I don’t want that community – I just want and need to discover and fight for my own path.

But sometimes I go to Quakers or Unitarians – they don’t mind my kicking against the club.

I get great relief from TV, in TV I switch off this blog, let my hurt child, my lost teenager, my exhausted whore to have a break.

For the child, she love Doctor Who, music that is just fun, finding Bewitched and the Avengers. My child likes to laugh and get safely scared.

For the teenager, I watch “youth” drama. She love all the vampire stuff, especially Being Human. She watches TV teenager, wants the angst of Dawson Creek, laugh with Glee. She watches CSI, to fancy some women in the programme.

She wants to be safe enough to fancy women on TV without sex destroying her joy of lust.

She watches horror stuff, for she enjoy the ride of artificial fear, knowing nothing bad can happen to her now. But horror must be like a ride at a fair – no real sickness, no connection to real torture – just horror with it tongue deeply in its cheek.

Her favourite horrors are not so scary – such as Carrie, Hitchcock, Don’t Look Now, old horror films.  As long as it takes away her real terror – than she enjoys a damned good scare.

My teenager loves cricket, football and rugby. She spends hours watching sports, happy being in the moment – letting her sorrow, pain and rage melt slowly away.

And the whore love dark and complicated dramas. She love Six Feet Under, Dexter, True Blood. She wants to taken away from her reality by complex plots, fine acting and world that are not her’s.

She love music and arts documentaries, love how they remind that her brain store knowledge of culture both low and high, even when she thought her mind was dead.

I write this post to reward my soul.

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