Hum Hum

Breaking sound barriers.




Smelting in the farenheit heat

Left it all behind in

Dust on the street.

Sound barriers and

Energy carriers.

I feel everything.

An over tight drum

Hum hummmmmmm

Hum hummmmmmm


I throw myself into the Pacific Ocean waves. I decide quite consciously that this is the only force of nature that is strong enough right now to absorb my rage. Like a fool I take on the surf, believing initially I have a fighting chance. My body is tense and stiff. My breathing shallow. I wade in knowing full well the power of the water will take me and break the tumescence.

That is what I provoke it to do.

A wave rises. I stumble. My legs clumsy to find their balance. Control. Control. I have fucking control.

Another wave rises and I am knocked about a bit more. The ocean takes the weight and responsibility off my legs and I float gracelessly on my belly in the sand.

I get up. Pull the swimming costume out of my ass. Go back for more.

Punish me!

Make me realise my insignificance. I bob up and down cleverly on the unbroken surf.
Ha! I can do this!

I am stronger than the ocean.

A wave rises, gathers height and momentum. My body feels awkard. There is not enough marine time for me to prepare.

The wave is upon me. Crash! My body breaks under the weight of the force of the water and I am rendered powerless and the ocean wave takes me under, takes me with and then….

There is a rushing, crashing silence.

And surrender happens in the flailing of my body and the inhaling of salt water on the white curly waves.

And that feels like we both got something valuable.

Something priceless.

Something worthy.

Coyote Ugly

I had an unshakeable knowledge of what was right. Being British lends itself to that, being righteously right about everything, even stuff, or especially stuff going on with the internal affairs of other countries and cultures.

I want to talk about The Spirit or in other words, The Beast. The indominatble Spirit we are all born with and then have kicked, purged, manipulated, beaten, socialised and educated out of us.

The beast in your core. The beast that has you prowling the streets, (but mostly the internet), for an expression, an ejaculation, of yourself, into somone else, so they will absorb you and feel you and get you and recognise that predatory look in your eyes and you will come together spent from the kill and your beast can rest inside the limbs of another beast temporarily, until it is time to rise and prowl and kill again.

White European Imperialists, forcibly and brutally destroyed the beast, the spirit of so many native peoples, in so many different lands. They witnessed human behaviours aka human Spirit as savage, primitive and proceeded to supress, oppress, and kill the Spirit of those who were not like them.

This is in today’s terminology is an unmitigated fuck up of human rights.

I have Northern European heritage. Our national British Spirit or Beast is one of internal self control, void of emotion and sensory severence. The indomitable British Spirit seeks to control, dominate and erase.

We fucked up all of the cultures we colonised. Tamed their Spirit. Broke their national identities. Imposed our self righteousness upon them, severed their connection with their Spirit, the very Spirit that fed them, not because we knew better but because we could not abide not having the Beast of the native people’s. We had to crush their Spirit in war and rape and domination, because what we did not have for ourselves, we could not allow in others.

LA July 2014

I feel such discomfort in my body. I interupt her, I have the solution, I understand it from all angles and want to get this meeting done.

OK, I was rude, in the most English way possible, I interupted her.


The Bronx, New York City, 1970’s

She tells me her story.

She was beaten on a daily basis, at the mercy of the adults in her household. Mother, father, step father, all of them beating up her Spirit. Beating up her Beast.
Dominating, destroying the very life force they put into her at conception. Threatening her life. The life they made. Copulating, conceiving, birthing and then systematically killing that very Spirit they brought to life.

Life can make no sense here, especially to a child. She defied them all by staying alive. Her Spirit Lived despite their best efforts at destroying her, killing her.

I do not know how it is to have my life endangered in this way over years of time. I do not know what it is to be threatened this way.

She said she would sing and dance during the beatings. She said, she would say, mamma are you done yet? Mamma do you feel better after that?

I only know that her indominatble Spirit does not know how to acquiesce, or be tamed.


Racism is a powerful trigger word most everywhere in the world, but nowhere quite so neon as in the United States. In Britain, we have addressed these issues on a government policy top down level, but it still exists and I do not profess to know the answer. In many ways we have tamed the Beast of racism without having allowed true connection of peoples’ Spirit to flourish.

Disconnection from each other’s Spirit creates racism, sexism, and most other kinds of isms. Any form of human degradation or desecration can only be done in separation. Once we allow another Spirit to live and our Spirit connects to theirs and because of their life we too can live, then their is only connection.


Israel, June 2014

The racial hatred explodes in Gaza again.

Teenage boys, separated by the words Jew and Muslim killed in racially motivated attacks.

Politically motivated attacks.

Rocket fire to reinforce separation of Spirit.

This world is Ugly.

Tel Aviv, July 2014

Our friend Leah arrives home to LA eventually, via Rome and Copenhagen after dodging rocket fire in Tel Aviv.


And here in the desert cities of the Western United States Coyote’s roam and prowl. Depicted as wild dangerous animals.


There is no more dangerous an animal than he or she separated and disconnected from their Beast.


Jamaica Circa 1500 AD.

I am a native America from the Caribbean. I am a tribe elder, male, I wear a full spectacular red and white feathered head dress. I hold an axe and I dance. A dance of war. Protecting my species from another tribe’s disconnection. I witness the genocide of my people, the contorted sick faces of the dead are etched on my memory.


LA July 2014

I am a visitor in the land of Columbus.

Still no culpability has been declared.

Still no apologies and restitution.

Still no connection through Spirit.

Still separation and the killing of Beasts.


The meeting develops into a full blown argument. No not even an argument. A totally un-British, very ugly screaming match. My body feels shaken like a pre- earthquake tremor, I feel stretched like in some medieval torture equipment and my insides are hot molten lava and arid desert simultaneously.

This is my Beast.

This is her Beast.

I do everything within my power to control my Beast.

She lets hers loose and her shifting tectonic plates tremor into mine.

I walk away from the table. More than terrified at the sensations in my body.

I lie down in the relative cool of the unairconditioned room and then she comes the Wolf Coyote comes and shape shifts her body into mine.

Prairie Wolf.

My animal. My beast.


Later I get up. Approach her. I apologise for interupting her in the meeting.

My white imperialist Beast killer was in charge. Or thought she was. I say I was afraid of that violent communication. I say I was frightened.


The next day. I am on my knees. Howling at the injustice of the world. Howling at the shaken belief system. Howling with the birthing pains of my Coyote.

And I apologise for unwittingly trying to kill her Beast.

I apologise for the separation of her Spirit from mine.

I apologise for the genocide of the First Peoples.

I apologise for all the greed of the white man and the White European Colonists.

I never want to be separate from Your Spirit ever again.



“Coyote’s are in our neighbourhood.

Coyote’s are very dangerous wild animals.

They kill dogs and cats and small mammals.

Several killings have occurred in this area.”


He squeezes me in a hug and I feel like ketchup, and I am not sure which end my insides are going to pop out of, and I am worried about the mess I will make, all over him, all over the sheets, and you know how it is with squeezed out ketchup, there is no way of it ever going back in to the safety of its container.


He does it well. Flicks his discomfort round the inside of his mouth like an oral hygeine rinse and then laughs with his eyes as his twitch of larynx tipples me off balance.

Interupts a pattern of what is expected.

I stare at his face. A temporary stun gun stare. He improvises a tune in his cupped hands over his face. It is very effective. I feel captivated at the sounds he is creating in his throat. Impressed. Yes, I am impressed.

She, however, is not.

She isn’t physically here and yet she is, because she knows that all these little quirky details are what she fell in love with and she knows, when his eyes are locked with mine and I feel stunned and disarmed. She too knows, and she knows, because she has that imprint from him too in her DNA.

And we rest on the petal of the rose.


She is beautiful and even more radiant on his love, on his sex. I experienced that once too only I don’t think I shone as much as she did, they seem made for eachother and I am jealous. He is my part time now and again, we sort of have something but don’t kind of lover. I am jealous because clearly what he has shared with her this weekend doesn’t come anywhere near close to what we share. I feel like the second choice engagement ring, the one that gets left in the window, because there is another shining much brighter on a promise of longer lasting love.

I am surprised too at my jealousy outbreak, it feels like some hideous incurable rash, visible and sore and blistered for all to see. I don’t usually get jealous. This is a true statement.  The reason I don’t usually get jealous is because up until this weekend, I would hide it, disguise it, have it show up in some other incarnation. Something like calm, locked down tolerance and other deep down disguises.

I know the emotional price of jealousy.  I know that madness, that bat shit crazy madness, where my pupils widen, my logic takes a vacation and that primal scream. Oh! That scream, like a freight train screeching through the New York city subway in the dead of night.

I have known for many years that place of disconnect inside of me and I remember as if it were yesterday the reasons why I chose it, lock down and internal control of my emotions, an act of internal terrorism, because being honest about the cause of my pain would have been so much worse. A combination of defeated pride and humiliation.

Denial of those tender emotions caused damage. Damage of years of disconnect in internal far away spaces. Disconnect was much easier than the truth. The truth of unrequited desires.

Here I am now. Older and bitten by seeing my lover with his lover and feeling set apart, excluded, unwelcome at their engagement party, as she wears the diamond ring he chose over mine.

I felt like a robot having an epileptic fit. Jolted. Angular. Awkward. Exposed. Helpless.

I felt helpless in the wake of that freight train. The noise it made on the New York subway, screeching and merciless. I was underneath, feeling very unlucky at being altered by the jealousy train.

And yet, here I am a few days later much richer from my jealousy inflictions. I accessed a deep, dark, crystalised cavity of loneliness in my chest space. A space so in need of intimacy and connection and love, there it was, and I acknowledged it and the pain and the emptiness inside and it is grateful to be noticed, to be known.

This is the place inside I’ve been avoiding for years, decades even and all there was to do for five days was to be in that dark cavity and feel into that graveyard of a space and make friends with the bones and the cold and the damp and here too, even the loneliness feels lonely, here too despair feels despair and here too wretchedness feels wretched. A kind of purgatory.

And so I decided to speak and interact with every person from this lonely place and in doing so I acknowledge its existence, its positive intention for me, its hunger and the echoing of its desire; love me, know me, feel me, be with me, touch me, accept me, play with me, laugh with me, come in, come in, come into my soul.

Energetically I feel the opening of my heart and a warm radiance in my chest and as I expand my sternum forwards the cavity too pushes out towards the light, through my lungs, through my ribs, my sternum, my skin and out into the air and I am reminded of how my mother and grandmother would tell me how a healing wound needs air to breathe.

And I breathe.


Childhood.  That is the best example I can find.  I was lucky.  I was free in the 1970’s to do what I wanted, almost.  It was before the world went mad, before paedophilia was  even heard of and when we could trust one another to be decent and good, at least most of the time.  The best example of the involuntary.  That inner knowing and complete incarnation of the spirit in every cell of my body, where it had a home and belonged inside of that little girl.  And her spirit was strong and she knew it, with the northern winds blowing in her tatty pig tail hair and the hand me down shoes with holes keeping her connected to the concrete and the earth.  How she would run, where every living moment was felt in every living breathing movement of her body and she knew no separation, because there was no separation and her involuntary was disguised in the myth of childhood and the escapism of fairytale dreams.

I can not ask you for that which I desire.  I doubt I will ever ask anything of you ever again, such was my trauma.  Adult desire.  Denied.  Retried.  Looted and rebooted, tested, troubleshooted.  I don’t remember the first time, it was the subtly of conditioning, it happened as the pattern in the wallpaper happened and as the water condensed on the window pane.  I do not remember, other than gauging their reactions.  The wincing of their faces.  The disapproval of something they were too ignorant and too powerful to understand.


I would get close to the grass, feel it between my fingers. I’d pull it and hear it rip. Beneath the grass was soil and that fitted nicely under my finger nails and the daisies would close and nod and that’s when it was time and I would run home.

Home in my body. Home in that little girl. Home. That is who I am. Home.


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