"To the artist ... and to those who have forgotten that they are so."

"To the ones who choose to feel
though at times it may tear them apart ..
feel the things that everybody else is afraid to feel.
To those who paint the darkness
so that the darkness
Does not paint them.
To the discarded
and the disregarded
To the Kurt Cobain singer
Van Gough painter
Robin Williams actor
Sylvia Plath poet to the ..
tortured soul.
With the blistered feet.
To the artist.
To those who have never belonged
we say
Welcome home."

Wow.

One of Australia's leading performance poets Joel McKerrow launches his debut album in Melbourne in a few days. What a gift to stumble across his first music video today, he is INCREDIBLE. (I was full-blown weeping by the end.)

“I have heard it said that the best way to destroy a people is to take away their stories. To make them forget. Get lost in the smallness of their own predicament. Like a child who cannot find their way home. It was Milan Kundera who said, ‘The first step in liquidating a people is to erase its memory. To destroy its books, its culture, its history.’ If this is the case, that the first step in the destruction of a people is to take away their stories, then surely it is true that the first step in the restoring of a people is the restoration of their stories. As a poet, this is what I do. This is why I do what I do.” - Joel McKerrow

World's Okayest Mum!

Exactly seven years ago I had my hair done before Rocco was born because it'd be a while before I'd be able to get my hair done again.

Max and Crash Bandicoot could not WAIT for that baby to come out!

Oh that baby. Wow. He operated in a sleep-deprived haze, so did I. We slogged it through, somehow. Day after day of routine and cleaning and washing and cooking. Being a stepmum to older kids and their dad was going through chemo for cancer and constantly fronting up to do everything that needed to be done was challenging. It wasn't much fun, most of the time. Rocco didn't sleep and cried so much. Nothing seemed wrong - he just cried. And cried. And cried. And I had to walk away, many times. Outside into that freezing winter and I'd look up crying tears of frustration and exhaustion, wondering what was going to happen. When would it get better?

Those early days are over so now I can totally romanticise them and wish them back and marvel at how exquisite and tiny my children were. And then I look at them and they still are. And we've moved on and shifted and the world turns and I constantly tell them stories of funny things they used to do when they were babies. I wonder how their parents separation is affecting them. We've talked about it. They're affected, of course they are. I miss them so intensely when I'm not with them that I can barely stand it. I worry. I'm doing the best that I can ... and to fall short of that and have days where I kind of hardly get by? Sucks. Blows. I've always been a fucking amazing mother. A really bloody good one, defending and loving and giving to all my kids fiercely. I teach them stuff I think they should know about the world, kind of brainwash them a bit.

"One of the most important things you guys have to do in the world is help other people when they need help. Always look around, make sure everybody around you is ok."

My kids have felt me pull away since the death of my brother and everything that's happened after. I dropped the ball, really. Have been sitting on the benches for a while, watching them play.

Brutal, loving them so deeply while having an incredibly tired spirit. I blinked and Max is inches from being taller than me, asking if he can please watch Breaking Bad?

"NO!!"

"Oh come on mum!"

No bloody way are you serious? What do you mean you're too old to play handball at lunch anymore? Why is your voice so deep? You sure you don't want me to come to the movies with you?

"I'm sure mum. I'll be fine."

And he is. He is a FINE young man. They both are. There's only a limited amount of time left for me to mother these two beautiful, healthy, naughty, caring, outrageous, stinky little men. I got work to do and I better hurry if I want to be remembered as one of the most biggest influencers of their lives. I want everything for them. Everything. Even though nobody gets everything. They'll go through their own turmoils and hard times ..  I want them to open their eyes and hearts to the world and people around them. Can a flawed woman raise mighty warriors? I think yes. Flawed women are extraordinary fighters.

Maybe the biggest thing I'll teach all of my kids is to not ever give up. Keep going after the world keeps burning down around you. Keep striding, guys. Take a rest. Get back up. Again. You got this. I know it you do. I believe in you. You are amazing. Get up.

I'll never be the best most caring amazing selfless stunning homemaking crafting intelligent super-incredible mother of all time but I can be a mostly okay mother. We all fuck our kids up. Yes even you. I just hope I don't fuck mine up too much. Wish there was a book called "On Hopefully Not Fucking Ones Kids Up Too Much."

I'd buy it.

I can make my boys laugh, teach them rap and the importance of words, kneel down on the floor in front of them so they look down on me for a change. I can listen to their hearts, show them how to take care of themselves, and throw as much armour and love onto them before they walk out into the arena of a world I do not understand. Everybody meets the world sooner or later, ready or not.

It is beautiful. But fuck this world. I have no idea what the hell is going on. Just keep going, keep loving. Stupid beautiful fucking world.

::

Hey do you want to come to this?

Brisbane, 20th June. Come. I'll be doing a presentation on motherhood unlike anything you've ever seen .. may need to break out the big guns hoodie for it.

I love Brisbane, so much warmer than the Blue Mountains why can't I live there every winter. I'll be skimping on a hotel and crashing at Megan's house. Megan told me the other day "You can sleep on the mattress in the toyroom and smell Rocco's wee." The last night we slept there at christmas, Rocco did probably the hugest wee in the world. Not just a tribute - the hugest wee in the world. Our taxi was there and I was kind of laughing and we dragged it out to the sunlight and I grabbed a measuring tape - that circle of wee on Megan's toyroom mattress had a circumference of 80cm. Already has a man bladder, just like his mum.

I'll never forget the shock on her face as I said goodbye. Megan I am so, so sorry about that huge wee.

"EIGHTY CENTIMETRES EDEN!"

The Empowering Women Conference is put on by Kristy Valley from The Imperfect Mum. I love Kristy - she's so down to earth and real and wise. AND REAL. Like how you eat a real strawberry and you pause and honour that strawberry, it tastes so good.

"Hey wait man - this strawberry is REAL. Wow."

As real as the struggle.

If you come, please say hi. Tell me you sometimes suck as a mother too. Let's swap secrets and laugh and make each other feel better about how huge this motherhood gig is.

So much expectation, so little cake.

(BYO cake. Unless Kristy has organised cake .. hey Kristy will there be cake or do we bring our own?)

I've Waited Long Enough.

Shun fame. Confuse people. Keep going.

Ripped off? Give more. Punched and bleeding? Give again. For it is in giving, we will lose and win. Do it. For give.

Unkill yourself. You can't call this a comeback if you've never left.

Use everything you were never given to defeat everything trying to destroy you. If you are a person of pure intent this world will want you gone. Acknowledge nothing. Play it easy. Get away with it. Get on with it. Go hard. Go home. (The only home you ever have is in your own heart. Best not get too attached to things.)

Has anybody seen my brother? I left him here by the side of the road, told him I'd be back. Came back. He's gone. Hopefully we'll see him in the nether. I always saw him. Never mind.

Sure I became a mother but that's motherfucker to you, sir. Say it again. Sing it louder. Love your children. Harder. Let the salt faded on your lips be instrumental in keeping you going. Be the instrument.

The Creator stepped back and watched as the creation created. In awe.

And it was good.

Be the leper, the Jesus, the Judas the priest.
The Roman, the Emperor ... the jailer the thief.

Don't complain. Never explain.

Be your own new song, to carrion. {watch this space}

Oh, So Quiet.

I was so shy as a kid that I could hardly look people in the eye when they talked to me. Sometimes my face would go the deepest shade of crimson that kids would laugh and laugh. "Your face is as red as your hair!" 

Fuck those kids. Fuck people who go out of their way to make other people feel bad. I watched a group of young women wearing hardly anything laugh at a homeless man. Who laughs at a homeless man? I guess I must have missed the punchline but I sure as hell wanted to punch some empathy into them which is a total contradiction.

Those girls skirts were so high it was embarrassing - sweetheart, you just ain't got it. In laughing at the homeless man you're actually laughing at yourselves but you're nowhere near understanding that concept. Yet.

Maybe one day when life starts sinking its teeth into them, bleeding, wrestling them around in the dirty water like a crocodile and they're gasping for air saying "I get it! I get it now!"

The hardest lessons make the strongest motherfuckers.

Yeah I been quiet. I always go quiet when there's too much to say. There's always way too much to say I usually say it anyway despite and in spite but I don't have much time for spite these days. Too busy trying to get things down before it's too late. No time for crying just trying to create.

The last time I ever saw my real father I was eleven years old and I was so nervous because I hadn't seen him for years and I always wondered what it would be like to talk to him. I look exactly like him. Before he came to visit his kids I ran upstairs and grabbed my coin collection, a huge hexagonal glass case. And when he arrived I sat on the couch being quiet so quiet and waited very patiently until I realised. He didn't have anything to say to me. I never showed him my coin collection. I never saw him again.

Years after he died I had a dream he was on a train that I was chasing and I was still holding that hexagonal box and as I ran I wasn't timid anymore I was furious and just as the train carrying him sped off without me I threw that fucking box at the glass aimed it directly at his head and yelled out THERE'S MY FUCKING COIN COLLECTION.

I never turn crimson anymore. And I've never really liked objects.

So yeah I been going through stuff. Who hasn't? I don't do surface level. Some things can't be written about. They just have to be felt. Acknowledged. Let go. I don't understand so many things but where is it written that I even have to?

My words are currently being poured into the shape of a memoir. Wordsmithing. Banging and hammering the letters and sentences and secrets and structures and lessons into the right mold with every tool I have. I start with scaffolding. Soon I'll be wrapping the meat around the skeleton. It's easy to write. It's hard to let go and trust that it will be set in the right incarnation before I let it go.

If my sons had coin collections I would sit while they described every single coin back and front. It would take hours and I'd probably be bored shitless but I wouldn't show it I'd just marvel at the curve of their lips and the memory of their feet kicking me from the inside. I constantly tell them I love them with my whole heart and pray that that's enough.

I feel all of my life. It's hard and necessary. Just do my best. Wash the dishes.

::

My Rocco loves to explore everything. So curious. I love watching him explore everything.

He picked up this magnificent stick and straight away knew it was something special.

"Mum, I'm going to keep this stick always. So when I'm an old man I can have all the memories of my life."

When he spoke those words to me, I felt like everything was going to be ok.

Perhaps everything always has been.