Category Archives: Writing

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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Living your truth + your dating profile = it’s about to get interesting…

The adventurer in me seeks the adventurer in you

For soulful journeys across oceans

And spiritual realms

For love induced delirium

And caffeine inspired moments

We’ll walk through the back alleys of cities

Getting lost in photographic moments

Of gritty dirt and beautiful arches

We’ll jump in the sea

Just to play with the ocean

We’ll sip tea in secret gardens

And have wine in hidden rooms

We’ll meet poets and playwrights,

Scientists and academics

We’ll have conversations

With lost souls and enlightened hearts

We’ll look for the meaning of life

Whilst getting high on the reality of the moment

We’ll seek answers we’ll never find

Whilst dancing on pavements

And giggling at raindrops

We’ll cry our hearts out at the pain we encounter

Then dry them with the beauty of life

And the occasional slice of chocolate

We’ll settle

But never be settled

We’ll have homes

But also places to roam

We’ll never be ordinary

And we’ll never be rude to the waiters

But maybe we’ll throw about our baggage

And stab each other from time to time

It’s OK because all wounds heal

So long as they aren’t mortal


We’ll know reality

But we’ll turn it to poetry

Because living is an art

And we’re the ones with the blank canvases

Waiting to be filled

With the paint of our hearts


You’ll need the heart of an explorer

And the eyes of an artist

The mind of an adventurer

And the courage of a bear

Love is the hardest journey

And the most beautiful of all

I realized that if I am to live the life of my dreams, I have to get real about who I am and what I want. I’ve written about taking responsibility for my choices. I’ve written about breaking down my life into manageable chunks and creating joy in the moment. I’ve written about facing my emotional fears. But this is me. This is the poet in me. This is me living the emotions I hide, yet the very same emotions I seek.

I won’t find them unless I dare live them.

Every day I feel a little bit happier as I let that poet shine through a little more. That hopeless romantic who prefers traveling the world without a map, just so as to be able to get lost in cities and encounter moments she never knew existed (OK, so I do like carrying a map, just occasionally not using it). 

To create your dream life, you have to dare to live it. You have to dare to be who you truly are. Otherwise, how can you create what you truly want? How can you create a living expression of your heart if you aren’t prepared to first show that heart?

Magique is about creating poetry in the moment for people. Magique is about wielding magic to create beautiful experiences that evoke all senses. 

The movies I have rattling around in my mind are about sharing poetic (and funny) moments with people; about showing people the poetry of life. 

And the life I want to live is a life filled with everyday poetry. Magic. Beauty. Truth. Freedom. And love. 

So here’s the vulnerable person in me, cheering the vulnerable person in you – let’s create poetry together. Because an arm of possibility is stretching across the ocean this morning, leaving a trail of mist and sparkling sunbeams. It’s a call to adventure and a promise of peace. It’s everything and nothing. It just is. But it’s all about how you view it. I view it as an ocean of opportunity and a moment of poetic bliss. 

By Yours Truly, a.k.a. Maria Montgomery 

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Clock, tik tok…

The clock was like a grand old lady – timeless, yet on time. Tik tok, tik tok. Steady, but frail, knowing it was living in a world so different from what it was born into. Knowing it was time. Little time. Left.

It was a foreigner in its own home. The times had changed. And it had measured it all. Tik tok, tik tok.

At first it had taken pleasure in the changes – in seeing children grow up and find love. In being there as times changed. But then, it had moved beyond its time.

Tik tok, tik tok.

It was time, but it did not want to go. Did not want to leave, because it did not know where it was going.

It had seen so much, explored the colors and textures of the world, and it wanted to do it all again. There had been hard times too. Wars. But it had come through and found the world beautiful once more. Births and laughter instead of deaths and sorrow. Happiness always returned, albeit in different forms. You lost one thing and found another.

It had all been different times though. The times it had belonged to. Now, time was slipping. Turning into a future the clock could not grasp, because it did not belong there. Time was up.

And as sleep would come a new adventure would start. And time, time would keep moving.


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Jesters and the night…

Night flutters by and leaves a blanket of comforting darkness to hide in. Sounds fade and the lonely feel lonelier, whilst those content find themselves listening to their own heart and the faded sounds of nature. They discover in the muted darkness what was hidden in the blurred technicolor events of the day. Strong winds are sometimes heard, blocking out all other noises. On such nights restless souls find themselves wondering, worrying, or maybe dreaming of possibilities to come. As dust is stirred imagination is awakened.

With dawn possibilities arise. The night feels far away, almost like a dream hidden in the clouds of consciousness. You aren’t really sure if the thoughts that were awakened were your true heart’s desire, or folly. It seems but a vague memory now, maybe with some bits of clarity attached to it. Other times you feel thankful for sunrise as what you faced was not your heart, but your demons. As morning arrive you feel cleansed. Reborn.

Daylight tugs at you. Pulling you to create what night whispered in your ear, or to create something new to avoid returning to that which you heard in the night. You move into action, heralded by the thunder of your heart and the promise of life. One more day. One more chance.

It is funny what night does to you.

Just another little piece of The Jester.


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How to write a naughty, but nice, tale…

Yesterday I went to the labia. No, I did not go inside myself, more than in an analytical manner, rather I went to the Labia Theatre. And before you ask, no, it does not look like nether parts of someone’s anatomy either. It’s an old fashioned boho style cinema showing quality movies at a great price. It’s one of my favorite places in this world.

I gave a friend of mine a movie as a treat for her birthday, but I suspect I might have been one step closer than her to Heaven in the theatre. There is something about good storytelling which makes my heart soar. Thinking back to a conversation with my sister earlier in the week about how lucky I am to have found that storytelling and leading creative projects are my passions, I must once again nod in acknowledgement to this. Whilst my career path has never been straight and I work for free more often than I work for money, I love what I do. I have passion. And for that I’m very grateful.

Any story well-told inspires me, be it a book, a film, or a blog. There are many fascinating stories, but not everyone is capable of telling them in entertaining ways. I’m particularly impressed when heavy matters are discussed in an enlightening or humorous manner, so as to engage the reader/viewer and leave them inspired by the end of the tale. (If newspapers could only do that, the world would be a happier place.) One example of this is The Wolf of Wall Street, another The Dressmaker, which we watched yesterday. Humor turns a bitter tale sweet and filled with laughter. In The Dressmaker you also see the heart of some hardened characters, whilst you see the comedy (parody) in the not so lovable characters.

There was something which bugged me about the movie though and that was that the end seemed an anti-climax. You see, there are all these things in the beginning that build up the life of the main character. No matter how hard, her life is progressing. Then, suddenly, everything goes to hell quite literally. And whilst the end is a happy one, I felt there was too much bitterness in it. The movie needed one last scene where the past was forgot and the future was the present. It didn’t need to be a future where all was bright, but a future in which the character had inner peace, not revenge, in her heart.

Now, of course, that’s just my take on events, but it felt like the bittersweetness turned rather bitter in the end. Could just have been that Chris Hemsworth disappeared off the screen. After all, there’s something to be said for six packs on the silver screen. Women are easily distracted by this kind of display and it can’t be helped if we feel a certain kind of disappointment if we are later robbed of it.

I must return to my paid work duties now. It’s also the end of the tax year in some countries today, which means I’m in a state of terror. People look upon my life and tell me I’m brave – they’ve never seen my face when I receive bank statements, bills and tax returns. Any form I have to fill out leaves me shivering. Which is why I need to get back to my paid work so I can hire a PA before someone sues me for filling in the wrong form.

Later. After I’ve had a nervous breakdown and restorative quantities of wine and chocolate. And coffee. Lots of coffee.


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Behind closed doors…

Every sound becomes a symphony in the night. Behind shut doors men become poets out of sight. Light gently flows out into the evening air through the slates of closed shutters and every so often you will see shadows stir behind them. Movement. That’s where the poets hide. Those who have seen the light.

Come dawn come clarity. Man shuts out the night and the hopeless dreams. The pain of reality. They close the doors to their hearts and go back to the lives they never desired.

Some men are brave. They decide to try a dose of vulnerability, leaving their hearts open to daylight. They know that no sorrow is greater than the sorrow of never having lived. So they live, even if they don’t dare to.

It’s those men who change our lives for the better.

Just another mini-chapter of The Jester. And by the way – it’s Valentine’s Day. If someone hasn’t told you so already: you’re fucking sexy. Own it. Because it feels good to be sexy, doesn’t it? That’s why I’m such a big proponent of it. I figured someone had to be. And don’t worry if you don’t have boobs like Parton (it will cost you a few bucks to get ’em) or a butt like J-Lo – most of the world doesn’t. It’s still totally OK to run around pretending to be the sexiest thing alive. After all, why not? Why not feel sexy? Beats feeling like poop any day. 


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Good morning lover…

Each person is a story. Graspable and ungraspable at the same time. Comprehensible, yet incomprehensible. As a person leaves this world, what is left is the impact they had on others; their story turning into other people’s stories. Still, with each person gone a story is lost, unless captured in memories, photos, films and books. Fragments of a life, pieced together. Analysis from people who most likely don’t understand. They create their own stories around the story. Still, that’s what makes it so beautiful – how we fuel our own fires with that of someone else’s. Yet, at the same time, it’s the tragedy as we will feed our own beliefs to the point of ridicule. Look at what happened in Germany, look at what’s happening with terrorism today. The religion at fault. The scapegoat.

Give me a word and I’ll write you a poem. I can even write you a story. I can write about anything. I can make up the unbelievable and believable. In high school I called certain discussions and essays “intellectual bullshitting.” I still do. I can take a quote or a novel and make up almost anything about what it means. I can weave it into a nice story and argue my point of view. You can debate anything if you really want to. I can look at things from different point of views and argue them; making up more arguments as I go along. Most people don’t. Most people look at it from their point of view; using the fabric of their life as a point of reference. Just like I do when I write poems and stories. I’ll write about anything you ask, but it’s still me. It’s different things I see. Different aspects of my life. And sometimes I like arguing the points I haven’t resolved myself, nor know if they are resolvable. By the end of the day we know very little. Life evolves and we with it. Today is not tomorrow, nor yesterday. Yet, I still believe we can learn from the stories of others.

Sometimes we find ourselves in stories too. Like I’ve said in previous blogs, artists connect us through their art. For a moment in a note, in a lyric, in a painting, in a choreography we find ourselves. A part of our world. And we feel connected to the artist. At the same time, we created our own story around the story. We connected with what we felt; not necessarily with what they meant.

And there he was this young boy…he was strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words… – The Fugees (One of my favorite lines of all time because it describes that moment of connection perfectly; in love and in art.)

The media writes stories all the time. It comes up with opinions of its own. I once read that because Oscar Pretorious once lied and once ended up in a pub brawl (or similar) where he shouted “I’ll kill you,” he was a murderer. I’m wondering how many people have lied and at one point shouted “I’ll kill you” in a fit of anger? I presume there are quite a few murderers in our midst if this is what makes you a murderer.

It’s rare to read articles about what we can learn from so and so conflict and how we can best resolve it. Experts are wired to talk about it from a certain angle. I’ve rarely ever heard someone scream “Yes, let’s get some immigrants and involve them in a project in our country whilst the war is on so that we all come out richer because of it.” Not sure that’s possible, my point is mainly that people tend to view situations from a certain angle (it’s a “crisis” not an “opportunity”) and therefore go about creating results based on their assumptions.

Collaborations across man made borders is a beautiful thing. It’s also rare. Because there are borders of beliefs. Of assumptions. Of trains of thought, religion and politics. But it’s possible. And stories help it become possible as they share our humanity with the world. Romeo wasn’t all that different from Juliet after all. The Capulets and the Montagues.

Stories to me is about how we see life. I tend to see mine as a tale; one where I can add magic by changing my point of view. I’ve also been known to make decisions based on how well it will suit the plot of my life. Adventure normally comes before sanity. Sometimes that leads to plot twists. Yet, at other times I’m so dedicated to my dreams I forget to live entirely, I just work and lose the plot with it…

Stories to me are also my life in so many other ways. I write them for others. I write them for myself. I have a passion for sharing people’s stories. I want to create products that create stories for people; give them an opportunity to enjoy the magic of a moment that was crafted for them. The story was written for them and they get to experience it. All products, in essence, are stories waiting to happen.

I just took a break from a very busy day to write this as I felt the need to write for me, not clients…and because the threads of a poem started coming to me as I was walking around doing some things round the cottage and I felt like taking five to write it down. You’ll find it below. And I could tell you what each line means. I could tell you what made me laugh about it. I could. Or you could just write your own story around it. Mine is my secret. Written in plain sight.

Good Morning Lover

He blew by on the wind
Chili mingled with salt
Spices calmed by yoghurt
Mildness and sweetness
Yet that undertone of hot sauce and fruity notes
Playful adventure; hot desire
You meet, you greet, you feel
You learn to taste them
See them for who they truly are
Discover their scent, layer by layer, until only the base notes remain
Yet they wouldn’t be the base without the heart and the top notes
You fumble
Through the dust and the sweat; passion tangled in starched sheets
Midnight reveries
You search, yet you already know
You stand there half-drunk on possibility
Possibly scared of heartbreak
Like two souls semi-conscious at the dawn of eternity
As the sun cuts through the clouds

By Maria Montgomery


Tangled Up

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