Category Archives: Inspiration

Putting your sexy glasses on…and so reality changes…

N.B. this post does contain rambling. A nice word for it is “processing.” But really, I’m rambling. Hopefully your sexy mind and gorgeous heart will get something from my ramblings though. 

Do you ever get upset? I do. Maybe worse, sometimes I don’t notice I’m upset, but I act on the feeling anyway.

Today I got upset with one of the kids I help raise. He has what can be deemed as “behavioral issues.” We all use self-defense when we feel powerless. If you’re around abuse and/or have it pointed out to you that you have a flaw as a kid you tend to try to defend yourself. I grew shy when I was growing up; I blocked people from seeing my emotions and hid away. My kid got angry instead. As soon as he feels powerless he gets angry and he feels powerless a lot.

He sometimes feels powerless when learning new things as he has a problem memorizing shapes. As a result he’s been told he’s stupid. When trying to do something he thinks is hard he gets upset as he thinks his difficulties are proof of his stupidity. He also gets angry when he feels he no longer has a choice or is emotionally vulnerable. As soon as I tell him to do something he doesn’t agree with, he feels powerless and gets angry. It’s situations that a “normal” kid wouldn’t get angry about, just like a “normal” kid wouldn’t hide from people like I did as a child. Like my boy, I had wounds as a child and when they were touched, I flinched in pain. A “normal” kid wasn’t wounded, so they didn’t react as they felt no pain.

When I’m at Little Angels these kind of behavioral patterns in children don’t disturb me, because I don’t have a close connection to the children. I see it as my job to bring a kid to their heart. At home…home is my sanctuary. Home is a place I want to call a “happy place.” You think you’re having a perfectly nice time and then suddenly there’s someone who wants to destroy anything in sight for a really small thing that, for a kid who isn’t wounded, wouldn’t lead to a tantrum. It makes me angry, because I want to have a nice time. And using reasoning, why destroy a perfectly happy moment with a huge tantrum? It doesn’t make sense on that level, so it frustrates me.

I also have an emotional connection to my kid – he calls me mommy, I call him my kid. When he gets angry, I get hurt. I also hurt for him because I know the remorse that follows the anger and how much he hates himself afterwards. It’s painful to watch.

My anger and hurt doesn’t help my kid – it only feeds back to what he believes about himself. To break the cycle, I have to respond differently. When he gets ignored when angry, or I’m still happy, he doesn’t get what he wants from me. He doesn’t get to think he’s bad, rejected, stupid, unloved, etc. He likes himself better. When he likes himself, he doesn’t get angry as easily because his wound is more healed. He can do something difficult without getting upset as he doesn’t see it as proof of stupidity.

My emotional reactions are my own. I’m old enough to see beyond behavior.

Changing your reactions and stop punishing, screaming, etc. have nothing to do with accepting the behavior – my kid know I don’t, just like your friend, husband, or parent will know you don’t. The thing is, we’ve been told since children that one should react emotionally in a certain way. We’ve also conditioned ourselves through our own life experiences, like my kid has.

For me, as I said – I grew shy as a kid. For those around me that was easier to deal with than anger, but it’s simply another symptom of a broken ego. And my broken ego has followed me in life. The whole “mom dying, not a good step-mom and bullies” (all a big “I’ve been rejected”) shaped me. If I show I care I often dress it up in sarcasm, or humor, because I want to defend myself just in case I get rejected. If I raise someone up, I’m ready to show I don’t care, just in case.

Those things aren’t things I do in an aware fashion. It’s like when I’m out walking – instinctively instead of walking up to greet someone, I sometimes hide, because the bullies didn’t say hi if you greeted them, but if you didn’t greet them they yelled after you asking you why you didn’t. Either way you lost, so it was better not to be seen I thought. Really, the best thing would have been to acknowledge their behavior didn’t matter. I was still a lovable person.

For years I’ve worked to change my patterns, but some are so hidden you don’t realize. You think you’re teasing someone, when in fact you’re doing it just instead of complimenting them. “I really love your heart, though you’re a total goof :p” Sounds cute enough, but you see what I just did? I raised someone up and yet made sure they didn’t get any “power” over me in the same sentence. And I don’t think about it. I think I’m playing, only to realize that there’s a protection mechanism woven into my language patterns. I mean, seriously?!

The thing I’ve realized is, when I’m confident in myself, I don’t need to play little games to ensure people don’t have power over me, because they don’t. When I feel good in myself I don’t have to be hard to get, intellectually superior, sarcastic, or whatever the heck else my mind decides to do (half of the time I have no idea I’m doing it). Imagine dating me – there’s a huge “fuck you, I’m fine without you” written on my forehead. It will appeal to guys who love a chase, but the moment I open up to them (once I’ve gotten over feeling like a claustrophobic person stuck in an elevator) they will run for their lives. And so my pattern continues, because I’ve now convinced myself that opening up is the wrong strategy.

If you’re an open person, you attract open people. They don’t freak when you open up, because you were always open. I’ve never been open to men, unless the situation has been such that I knew I wouldn’t get close to the person anyway.

When I say I’m not open, I don’t mean I don’t share my thoughts. I do. I even share my feelings, but I share them without attaching any emotion to them. In drama school we called it “cloning” – you describe an event that emotionally wrecked your life, but you tell it as if it was a walk in the park. You can say “I love you” to someone without any love behind your words too. Or, my favorite: you can crack a joke while you’re saying it, or add a sarcastic comment afterwards. My security back up line.

Now this isn’t just about language, it’s about reactions in general. About a year and a half ago I had a run in with my dad about something. When he said something to me, I got really upset. I mean crying all the way to Cape Town from Copenhagen upset. I didn’t show him that at the airport though. I figured if I said something I’d lose it. Instead I sat down in the plane and started crying, because I had PMS. Normally I don’t cry, but that time I couldn’t stop.

A few days later I called my dad. I called him to say he really could’t say things like that, but I did it sharing from my heart, not getting angry. I didn’t want to call him. I wanted to ignore it. Withdraw more to punish him. Not let him anywhere near my emotions, because he fucking hurt me. That’s my survival tactic, but I realized then, as I do now, that it’s not a tactic that serves me. I love my dad. He has ways that sometimes hurt me, but I am old enough to take responsibility for acknowledging he doesn’t mean to. The man loves me. I need to take responsibility for my reactions just as much as he has to take responsibility for his words and actions toward me. He’s worked hard, I’m trying to do the same.

Justifying anger, hurt, pain, aloofness, sadness, it’s all very well, but it usually doesn’t serve us. Acknowledging our reactions, feeling into them instead of suppressing them, serves us, but then we have to let go and look beyond. My kid isn’t trying to hurt me, just like my dad wasn’t trying to hurt me. And my friend walking down the street isn’t going to treat me like the bullies did, nor is the guy I date going to turn on me if I’m open from the start.

Emotions that are born in our ego, as opposed to our heart, can wreck havoc in our lives. Don’t let them. Put on your glasses and see beyond them.

On that note I’m going out to buy new glasses…

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Filed under emotions, Inspiration, Musings, Uncategorized, Writing

Out of the shadows and into the light…

What makes you squirm uncomfortably? Often somewhere in our squirming moments we tend to find ourselves.

Personally I have this issue with helplessness and receiving care; usually because I confuse the two.

If people care for me I think they believe I need their care because I have some flaw, something I can’t handle myself, and they pity me and want to help. It’s a most humiliating feeling.

As a kid I thought the only reason most people cared for me was because I’d lost my mom. I was bullied and my step-mom wasn’t particularly nice to me so when people were nice I assumed it was pity, because so many people weren’t nice to me, meaning I must have some fault. Otherwise, why was I constantly rejected?

I even had this idea my mom hadn’t loved me – she refused hugging me the last time I saw her, then she died without leaving behind any letters left saying she loved me. It was not a good 24 hours of my life. And afterwards there was a huge hole inside of me and I didn’t know how to fill it. Being cared for by someone hurt when you could lose them, so my six year old self thought.

What’s more, my dad always encouraged me to better myself, so on another plane, I had this idea love was related to achievement. The only times I felt love was real was when people said “I love you, but…” Because then I could keep the idea of being flawed. If they seemed to just randomly love me, without pitying me (i.e. they actually seemed to care), I thought them stupid, or blind…take your pick.

Together with some early on rejections on the love front (try having your emotions and rejection trumpeted to a whole school when you’re fifteen – I blushed for a week straight), I’m not very good with emotions. I simply don’t want to confess to having them (not even to myself), because I think they cause trouble.

This has manifested in different ways in my life. First I became shy as I figured it was better being rejected for who I was not, than showing my real me. Then I wanted to change that and ended up always trying to prove my own strength. My can-do attitude. My willingness to perfect myself. My fiercely independent spirit. I feel safe when I’m independent. I feel in charge.

As my principal in drama school would have said, I’ve gone from using one cover (shy) to using another (independent). Being the seeker I am (and being as miserable as I was) I’ve always worked on myself though. I wanted to find happiness and happiness has a lot to do with self-love, loving people and letting them love you back. So I’ve worked on it. And recently what made me realize there’s a way to go is the “being cared for” thing.

When people try to care for me beyond my comfort level three things might happen: I feel suffocated (I can’t accept the care), I feel embarrassed (clearly they think I need help), or I think they’re being ridiculous (i.e. still thinking people blind to the real me). In some cases, I might also question if they’re doing it just to later embarrass me by telling me it wasn’t real (it really was very traumatic being fifteen, OK). If I actually want to receive the care I feel completely helpless because I don’t know how to. This leads to me wanting to be alone so I can feel powerful again and I can turn mean in the process of pushing people away.

Due to this I have had a tendency to fall for aloof men – men I connect with intellectually and/or physically. I don’t have to open up emotionally, because they’re like clams (or well, you know, a little bit clammy at least). They’re never completely into me, which means I don’t truly have to ever lose them. They won’t look after me, so I won’t feel stupid.

When I dated caring men in the past, it was always men I didn’t really have a connection with, so they never got close and I remained safe and aloof.

In a nutshell: the guys I liked didn’t care and the guys who liked me I didn’t care about.

Now, I could blame this on fate, or I could look at the common denominator in all this: me. I choose to look at me.

This year I’ve decided to turn everything in my life on its head, including my emotional life. I will do the things I fear the most. Like opening up socially in the place I call home, instead of waiting to go to places where I feel anonymous and safe. I will professionally go where I’m the most scared to go, because I care the most. I will also only date caring men I care about AND have a connection with. It will probably make me wanna puke, run for my life and feel like a claustrophobic person stuck in an elevator, but I’m determined that the only relationships I will have are soulful ones. In fact, I want everything in my life to be soulful – my work, my home, my kids, my friends…

For so long I’ve wanted to be the person who didn’t care, who didn’t feel, who just went on adventures and ran off with the circus. Well, whilst I do like the adventures and I’d happily join a circus for a while, I’d like to explore caring. Right here, right now. I’d also like to explore being with someone. Someone who would go on adventures with me; near and far. Someone I could create a home with, but also have freedom with. I like being independent, but I don’t like being a fool. And I’ve been a fool for long enough.

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The most beautiful story of all…

I don’t feel much like writing at all tonight. Unfortunately (fortunately that is) I follow my intuition as experience tells me that to doubt it is foolish. Hence, I’m writing.

Do you have a story that you come back to? A story that is your heart song? It’s not your life, it’s a metaphor for your life. It’s the life in you. This is my story. It’s called The Jester. You can read the other two chapters I’ve previously posted here. And here’s the next one…

The Jester…chapter unknown…

Rough winds were playing outside. She’d say they were cheeky winds. Playful with a bit of an edge – an edge strong enough to shake the house from time to time.

As usual remnants of her own life started to dance within her as the wind played. Old memories stirred, like leaves in the wind.

Today she was reminded of a man. He’d walked into her shop one day. He’d had a confident aura with a little bit of heartbreak shadowing its edges. Gray hair. Twinkling blue eyes. The lines in his face made him look weather worn in the right kind of way. He was the kind of man women would stop to look twice at, but he didn’t look back.

He was a wise man. He was a man who had seen and done what few ever would. He’d sinned in ways most would never imagine sinning and healed in ways most would never imagine healing. He was the kind of man who’d been through the sort of living hell that either make you die, or fight to reach a spiritual plane where life is no longer about pain.

Having the knowledge he had, he was also the kind of man who looked you in the eye and spoke the truth. Unfortunately the truth isn’t always pretty. Nor is it helpful if you don’t know what to do with it.

As a kid she’d been a bit like that man – she’d tell people the truth. Usually the truth she thought they most needed to hear; the truth about their wounds. As she grew older she learned that unless she offered a loving hand of help, the truth rarely set people free – instead it haunted them. They were as imprisoned by their fears and wounds as before she’d mentioned them. Just because someone else could see them and by seeing them make them tangible, it didn’t mean the person would do something about them. Instead the wounds started to bleed.

So she’d taken over her grandmother’s bakery and she now dished out the truth with a loving pat on the back and a suitable cake to go with it. People were charmed and charmed people are a lot more likely to go about making the changes you suggest they make.

In short, showing someone their wound without offering a way of healing it, is rather cruel unless the person is a healer in themselves. And even when you offer a way of healing a wound, it does the patient good to receive a dose of love too. After all, wounds are painful and love takes the edge of pain. And love, in one form or another, is usually the medicine needed to heal the wound.

The charismatic man who had stepped into her shop was prone to heal people with his wisdom, but he was no soothsayer. He did not wrap his truths up in nice little packages to diffuse the pain and he did not offer any love to go with his words. Instead he smirked and said the enlightened knew life is filled with pain and the only way to transcend it is to walk straight through it. Because that was his path, but it isn’t everyone’s path. Not everyone does well with bleeding wounds. In fact, quite a few of them faint and thereby render themselves useless.

The warmth of her shop had impressed him. He had liked what she’d done. How she camouflaged the truth in pretty little metaphors. He’d liked the cleverness of it all. He was wise enough to see that his way wasn’t everyone’s way. Of course he’d told her the truth though. He’d prodded and pushed till she bled.

At that stage she had thought she needed him. That she had needed his truth. She’d run after him like a lost puppy looking for advice. Her gran had just left the earthly realms. She was alone. She hadn’t found her feet yet. He wasn’t interested in friendship. He was a loner. And she wasn’t a chosen disciple.

The wind stirred up some sand that hit her windows as she stirred her tea. Sweet licorice and soft vanilla mingled with fruity notes of rooibos. Her tea gave her a level of comfort that man never could have. He only gave her a little piece of truth she was then left to battle herself. Ultimately those kind of pieces can set you free, but it’s often a long and harsh path. She knew because she’d taken it.

What struck her the most though as she remembered the man, was her need for friendship, for warmth, and his refusal to give it. For all his hearty laughs, heated spiritual discussions and twinkling blue eyes, he was always detached. Aloof. All he’d needed was his lover, his spirituality and his smoke. Everything else was earthly madness in his books. Yet, he was part of that madness because he was attached to the three things that diffused his pain. And he found it easier to say everyone had their path than taking responsibility for how he affected their path.

She wondered why she’d tried so hard to befriend him? Acceptance? Winning a true friend? She wasn’t sure, but she thought it had been to calm her own nerves. She wasn’t used to walking alone and believing her own truth. She wanted reassurance. He didn’t have the warmth of her gran, but he’d been wise and she’d wanted him to tell her that she was alright. That she could handle life on her own.

The wind did another little dance and she looked up and smiled at her dark window panes. She was certain that something fun filled and cheeky would happen soon. She could feel it in the air. Someone out there was stirring things up. She had the impression of two brothers playing, twirling around each other and laughing at the things they did as they flew by. Like scaring an old lady by pushing her door open and dancing through her living room. Or taking all the leaves old Monsieur Bardin had neatly raked into a heap and making them spin around him in a circle of unhindered delight. She liked this wind.

Her thoughts returned to the wise man. She’d sought confirmation from him; confirmation that she was wise. In the end she’d had to find that for herself though. It was funny and sad to see all the people looking for these kinds of things in the wrong places. Through the years she’d had women and men come into her shop crying over unrequited love. They’d been begging for crumbles from people who refused to give more. They could go elsewhere and be served cake, but for them crumbles were all they’d ever had. They didn’t expect more and held onto what little was given.

Others were merely confused by love. They felt attraction, on some level or other, and decided it was love.

Desire, she thought was a delirious thing. It would draw you to the mirror images of your soul and the best parts of you, but also the mirror images of your greatest wounds. Like the people searching for crumbles, because that’s what they were used to. Nursing those souls back to life was a particular pleasure of hers.

Other souls had been through too much pain. Like slaves they’d walk along with anyone who would ease it. Some chose the bottle, some chose pleasures of the flesh, others chose to devote themselves to a person, or to a spiritual path of no attachment.

To look beyond desire and at the same time enjoy the right kind of desire, so aptly provided by the world, was an art few mastered. She didn’t. Not yet. She looked beyond other people’s desires, but not her own. Not always. At least she provided the right kind of desire through her gifts; through her shop of delights. Healthy desire. Desire to stir the soul and enjoy the pleasures of the earth.

She thought about the man’s twinkling blue eyes. The gray streaks in his hair. How he’d laughed about life’s absurdities. And how those absurdities had caused the pain he’d so tried to overcome in his little spiritual bubble. Wise, yet foolish, but who was she to judge? He didn’t want friends, she wanted as many as possible. In the end one of his three desires had caused him pain – the desire for his lover. After that he’d left town and she’d never seen him again.

She sighed.

It was time to blow out her candle. The wind was still playing. She longed for bed and a night filled with dreams. In the morning she was fairly certain mischief would come knocking. With winds like these, it was bound to happen. And with that thought she blew out her candle, a smile playing on her lips.

By Yours Truly, a.k.a. Maria Montgomery. You can read the other two chapters I’ve previously posted here.

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Zlatan Ibrahimović and I…

Zlatan is kicking a ball. Right now that means a lot to me. Not because I’m into soccer, but because of what it symbolizes.

I was raised in Malmö and so was Zlatan. We went to high school together (the same high school Anita Ekberg went to, but that was before our time…). I can’t remember ever seeing him, though I must have seen him many times. It was a large high school and we attended different programs – he attended the soccer program and I did the International Baccalaureate.

Zlatan used to play for Malmö FF. Three of grandma’s brothers once upon a time played for Malmö FF too. They made quite a name for themselves – the Hjertsson brothers. Sven, one of them, notoriously pulled his shorts down during a game in Brazil, as he felt it would take too long to walk off the field to change to a new pair. I suspect that only fueled their fame. Kjell, on the other hand, ended up training a young Zlatan at some point or other.

I’m on “workcation” in Sweden for a couple of months and was staying with my gran this week as she’s recovering from cancer surgery. Zlatan’s dad lives in an apartment opposite of hers, which she reminded me about when I was there.

I ran into a guy in Morocco, outside Marrakech, who, once he found out I was Swedish, told me that Zlatan always passed by when in town. I bumped into someone else recently as well that had a story about Zlatan, but I forget what country I was in. I think it was in the UK.

Of course, if you open the sports pages of a magazine, again, there’s Zlatan. Right now, my dad is watching Sweden play Italy and, well, there’s Zlatan on the screen.

Wherever I go, there’s Zlatan.

I don’t care much about soccer. I never understood the pleasure of chasing a ball and, even less, watching others chase it. Of course, it can be fun for the sake of the atmosphere where you watch the game though and some goals are spectacular. Especially Zlatan’s.

The thing is, in so many places around the world right now there’s fear. In some countries it’s because neighboring countries don’t get along. In other countries, it’s because different groups within the country don’t get along. There was a mass shooting in Orlando that wasted so many people’s lives for no comprehensible reason. At least no comprehensible reason to me. It makes me scared to think there are people out there capable of murdering like that. Yet, I look at the images from Paris and thousands of people have gathered to watch people kick ball. They’ve stood up against the threat of terrorists and as different as they all are, they’re united in the pleasure of watching a game. A simple game of kicking ball has removed borders and barriers and made people come together in joy.

It gives me hope. I work in a township in South Africa and many times I’m so bothered by what I see and experience it feels like a part of me gives up, because I don’t understand how man could create such a cruel world. Then I see one man, by kicking a ball, uniting people all over the world in their admiration for how he kicks that ball. It’s such a simple thing – the love of sports. The love of playing a game. The love of team spirit.

One day I hope that team spirit encompasses the world and what we fight for is not our way, but the best way for the earth and all who live upon it. I know it’s not that simple. But look how far we can get just by kicking a ball.

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A naked confession…

There are days when you feel Murphy’s law is hitting you full on in the face. Days when all you want to do is crawl back to bed. You’re tired. You’ve been walking up a mountain and you’re out of strength. You think you can’t keep going. Your resources are depleted. Then suddenly you look up. And you see everything around you – the beauty of the mountain you’re standing on. The sunshine. The gorgeous people surrounding you. You remember the passion you have for the path you’re on – why you are climbing the mountain in the first place. And you realize that maybe if you shift your focus from the problem to what you have in your life which you love, then you see you live a blessed life. You have so much to be grateful for. So many things you love. Murphy’s law suddenly doesn’t feel so bad anymore. After all it’s just a tiny stumbling block. And should it turn out it’s blocking the path you’re currently on with no way of getting past it, then you’ll find another route. Your passion remains the same. The top of the mountain remains the same. You just have to find another way to get there. And who knows? Maybe there will be a stranger to give you a hug and encourage you along the way… If he’s naked, all the better. ‪#‎LifesJourney‬ ‪#‎AHugPlease‬‪ #‎FocusCreatesReality‬ 

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The turned on life…

Last night I went to this event. On a rooftop. Music playing. Tropical winds blowing. Stars twinkling. The silhouette of mountains as our backdrop. It was beautiful. I was happy. I was happy because I felt free. Like there were no thoughts hampering me, or holding me back. I wasn’t shy, nor trying on any attitudes to hide my fear, I was just there taking in life. I was alive. Truly alive.

And as I stood there chatting to a group of people this man goes: “You know you are a very pretty woman. A very, very pretty woman. You really are pretty you know.” A few minutes later he repeated this and when he said goodbye he said so again.

When you meet someone you don’t know what they’ve been through. You’ll likely make some assumptions. To me hearing those words last night was like a breeze of kindness sweeping over me. Not because I think I’m ugly and needed to hear I’m pretty, but because someone cared enough to compliment me.

I grew up being bullied both at home and at school. As a kid I could live off a compliment for months, because I didn’t get that many. They were like a hope – a beacon of light – promising me that maybe, maybe I was worth something after all. Most of the time I got to hear I was a geek and I should shut up, or at home that my step-sisters were fabulous and I was not. It took me many, many years to build up my confidence and heal my wounds. It took me many years to be happy just being me and trusting that there truly are kind people around.

A compliment I often receive these days is hearing I’m the most interesting person someone’s ever met and that I live the most astounding life. I feel both proud and like a bit of a fake when they tell me that though. I may have done interesting things and learnt a lot along the way, but that doesn’t mean I was happy all along, or that my day-to-day life was much more than being married to my Mac (work) or working my ass off to help some children.

I always focused on my career, because I was less scared of that. I had confidence in my abilities, but not in myself. And I love what I do, so I kept thinking I’d be happy the day I have artistic freedom – when I can run whatever projects I want. I was so frustrated having to do other things to make a living I invested all my free time in trying to build a career for myself running my own business, working on charity and making my own movies. Yet, it was always my excuse – you guys go have fun, I’ll go and work. And somewhere along the line I had enough – I want to live, not just try to make it.

I will always work double hours, I have no doubt, because I really do love the projects I run, but I will take time to live too; not just through my projects but through myself. I want to dance till the small hours, drink wine with interesting people in cozy wine bars, go hiking in sun burnt hills, sip coffee and talk about artistry and discuss ideas and projects that set my heart on fire. I want to run away on impulsive trips filled with adventure and discover the scents, spices, foods and impressions of different cities and people around the globe. I want to make love till the morning, go skinny dipping in foreign seas and love freely with every inch of my being. I want friends that make my heart come alive. I want to live. In every area of my life.

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Connecting souls – art, sex and thoughts…

Sometimes a spirit touches us. A word. A song. A look. The beating of a heart. Someone, who for one second makes you believe you are not alone. Because they see what you see.

It’s as if they’ve captured your soul. At least a tiny piece of it. Because what they do or say resonate with you.

There are songs that remind me of setting my creative spirit free (on a starry, starry night…).

There are songs that remind me of my home (because I found myself in the fire burnt hills in the land of a thousands lights…).

There are songs that make me want to stay in bed all day with starry, love crossed eyes (lay in my big brass bed, stay lady stay…).

There are songs that remind me of my dreams; of a youth fired by a wish to change the world for the better and artistic freedom (because the jester sang for the king and queen in a suit he’d borrowed from James Dean…).

There are songs that remind me never to get trapped by the ties of society (I used to see her every morning, getting off the bus, the picture never dropped, it’s like multicolored snapshot stuck in my brain, it kept me sane for a couple of years as it drenched my fears of becoming like the other who become unhappy mothers and fathers of unhappy kids and why is that? Because they’ve forgotten how to play. They’re afraid to seem strange, to seem gay…).

There are movies that shaped my life, because you know I believe “if there’s any kind of God it would be in the space between you and me.” There are people, like Isabel Allende, as mentioned in a previous blog, who changed my life by talking about Antonio Banderas swimming naked in rice pudding. Men like Branson who made me see red hot. Women like Angelina that made me believe in my dreams. People that offered blankets of comfort without ever knowing me.

There are people whose ideas make me believe I’m not alone. There is someone out there who believe what I do.

There are men who inspired me as they faced years in jail and instead of letting it break their spirit, they found peace. Men who saw even more than I’ve seen in Africa.

There are connections that happen in the fraction of a second. And they only last so long. It’s not like sex. True sex. Where bodies, hearts and souls come together for real. But it’s a connection all the same. And sometimes it’s all that we need. That knowledge that there is someone out there who sees a fraction of the world like you do.

Thankfully there are souls who broke the sound of silence. And who have made us come through the dark times by shining their light, and helping us remember the good times as we celebrated with their soundtracks.

When I was a teen I decided not to become a politician. I thought artists inspired on a whole other level. They changed the world not with power, or corruption, but with thought; ideas shared through mediums reaching the human heart. So I decided to become one.

RIP Bowie – you made me remember how much a man can mean to others; how much one sexy man can change the world. Here’s ground control to Major Tom.

(All quotes from memory. Not necessarily precise.)

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Image Source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/507780926714322150/ 

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