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.

Fear of Having

I have fear. A fear of having. A fear of having all the love and money and sex i want and losing it, I have fear of loss. The kind of loss that leaves the soul bereft and the body aching. I have fear of losing, so I chase that which I can not have, because I have won there, I have won in not having and therefore not losing.

I would rather not receive in the first place to avoid the pain of losing. I build up my belief system around this, I carry out behaviours that support this fear of losing. I get myself into habits of not having. Habits of not receiving; from compliments to money, from money to love, from love to sex.

I don’t want to need you for anything. If I don’t need you, I will never lose you. If you don’t give. I will not receive. If I don’t receive of you then I will not lose you.

I can not receive, because I fear so much your loss.

Curious Creatures

Curious creatures they are, they are, with their mixed messages and such and such. They say we’re unpredictable and moody and so on and so on, so tell me this, why do they play hard and make me wait. Wait till I ask and then the game even over has just begun anew. Yes. Yes. I still want you.

Curious creatures gifted from God and I have been know to scream your name into a whisper into a scream, over your shoulder and the room becomes full and swollen with us, you, me, God and I swear when I feel your hunger in me, I confuse you with Him. In the dark it is hard to know the difference. You feel like God to me.

Curious creatures, big eyes, tight lips, tall, infeasably tall, reaching tops of cupboards and other out of reach places. Fixed smile, enviably agile, strong, infeasably strong, jar opening strength, heart opening strength, pin me down leg opening strength.

Curious creatures, calculating, manipulating, tribulating and so on and so on. Hidden treasures. Hidden pleasures. Press, push, plunge in, then the world has no care, when I feel you there and I push and I press and I load up against your iron. Rubbing, rub, rub. Flooding, flood, flood.

Curious creatures, lying to be kind? Shouting to be heard? Fighting for peace? Competing to be best, to be the first, to be beast and win the beauty, her prize. She too lies, denies what her body yearns, fire, desire and such and such.

Curious, curious, curious creatures, ego, mean, heart glow, your body tells me what you don’t want me to know. Have me. I am of better use to you, to God, to you, to God and so on and so on.

Soft Spot

There is a small soft spot inside of me, inside of my vagina to be precise. It seems to be the most out of reach place on the whole earth. I do not even know, (when I feel it), where it is anatomically, though I am sure it exists somewhere on the outer ridges of eternity.

I know it is commonly known as the G spot. I had a lover, (years ago), who had its coordinates mapped out in engineering style graphics in his head. He never really touched it despite his best mathematical efforts.

I forgot. My body forgot that this spot even existed, forgotten like an unread dusty manuscript in an ancient tongue, in a sealed sacred tomb.

Until recently.

Like I said it is soft and he had penetrated his way in, with his cock and after some strokes, he was there, touching the place inside of me where God exists, where the threshold of the universe unites with mortal human flesh. My human flesh. His human flesh. Our human flesh.

And he touches and touches and touches and I come in waves, gentle short lapping waves.

And I remember.

My face flushed. My heart pounding.

My body awoken. Reborn. Speaking in the tongues of orgasm. The most ancient of languages.

His gentle penetrating persistence.

I experience his orgasm too as he arches and ploughs himself into my soil.

He does not know yet how he brings me back to life. Back to live and feel alive.

My heart expands.

My heart expands.

My heart expands.

The finite space in my chest expands.

His cock expands. Hard against my soft spot. My softness and I am reminded. I am reminded of who I am.

Love is who I am

Love I am


Time to Say Goodbye

It is almost four years since my brother Conway took his own life.  Four years since my sibling was ripped apart from me by a premature death.  If you know somebody who has experienced the death of a loved one this way, please silently understand that they have undergone a serious trauma, they may not know this consciously themselves as the initial pain and agony of separation is too much for their system to bear.  This blog is about my brother and our mother Connie, who too has since passed, leaving me somewhat bereft of relatives.

I had been caring for my severely and chronically depressed brother since 2006.  I returned to our family at my mother’s request, because as an elderly woman she could no longer cope with his depression and alcoholism.  My brother was a bonafide and fully qualified alcoholic. It killed him. It killed my mother and it killed me too, metaphorically.

I have grieved their loss in my body, my mind and my soul, it gripped and  grabbed me unconsensually. It consumed me.  Insanity overtook my mind.  I despaired at all the ways I failed them and myself.  It filled me with sadness and it dampened my senses cutting off my connection to the sensory world . It left me empty and overwhelmed with a void of inadequacy.  How could he leave me this way? My sibling. My brother.  How could you leave me this way?

To survive my brother’s alcoholism I had to shut parts of my system down, I too became depressed, it was a coping mechanism.  To survive my brother’s suicide I did the same.  System shut down, because feeling, the agony of my loss was excruciating. It felt like being underwater in a dormant state.  The weight of my sorrow keeping me submerged.

It’s been nearly four years, but gradually I lost the weight that grief  imposes, gradually I floated back to the surface, raised my head above the water line and took some gasping breaths of life.

There comes a time when the loved ones passed also need to be set free.  My brother and mother stayed very close after their deaths.  They stayed close to comfort me, protect me, they stayed close because their separation from me initially was for them also too much to bear.

This Sunday, 2nd February, (my late dad’s birthday), while attending a self development course I got a strong sense of their presence, a strong sense of them saying it’s time now, time for us to leave you, time for us to say goodbye, because now we know you will be ok without us and we too have to move on in our spiritual journey in the afterlife.  We must go to another level of Spirit and Peace, we are needed elsewhere now and as you Joanne have your journey on earth to complete, we too have our journey in Spirit to complete.

Tears rolled down my face, puddles of tears collected on my face and in that moment when all of us agreed there was a gentle separation.  A promise of eternal love.  A promise that all is well and we are complete. A promise that in love we shall always be together and that if I were to call on them, or them upon me, then we would return to each other with the light shining upon us and  with God’s blessing on our lips and a secure knowledge that we are One.

Lunar Sun

My blog stats are abysmal.  Every writer, however prophetic or illiterate desires an audience, readers, at least one, in the hope that really there is life out there, somewhere, a life of meaning and approval.  It always seems to begin with the mundane, I mean not always but mostly.  I watch the steam rise from my socks drying on the radiator.  It rises and disappears as if by magic, then reappears on the windows as condensation, as if by magic. I know, so don’t feel the need to inform me, it’s chemistry, year six chemistry, not magic. Bah! All those science enthusiasts with their logic that calcifies my poetic tendencies, like a Medusa stare.

I was ill over the festive period.  I watched the awful cheesy BBC drama, Atlantis, it was so terrible, I watched all of the twelve episodes on i player just to make sure.  Hence the Medusa simile above.  It was entertaining.  It was visually effective and did conjure some idea of an Atlantis and thankfully because of the BBC I won’t have to do that in my own imagination anymore.  Am I grumbling?  I don’t mean to, it just comes out my head, usually after a twelve day bed ridden dose of flu.  The twelve days of Christmas.  The twelve days of bed ridden flu.

I lived. That cuts a long story short.

I wrote another blog earlier today.  I can’t publish that one. It names names and places, there are no innocents to be protected, but even so, it reveals a little too much…of my soul.  This lead me on to thinking; is every emotion an expression of love, deep at its source?  Anger ergo Love.  Hatred ergo Love.  Jealousy ergo Love and so on and so on….

We had an online discussion, which dissolved into a description of intellectual wanking, wanking metaphorically about emotions and behaviours and intentions and such…Occasionally I can think profoundly, no better or worse than the next human, I mean there is nothing new under the sun, or so I thought, until I saw series three, episode one of Sherlock Holmes, by the BBC whilst ill in bed, on the i player. Benedict Cumberpatch, (ok, really I know it is Cumberbatch, but it amuses me so to call him Cumberpatch and I bet it isn’t the first time in his life somebody chuckled at that).

More on that later.  Knowing that love is the source of every emotion doesn’t make hating your ex’s guts any easier, does it?  Knowing that love is the source of a jealous hell bent murder, doesn’t make the behaviour condoneable, does it?  Knowing that his anger was an expression of his love doesn’t make the bruises hurt less, doesn’t make the fear any less.  Knowing fear is an expression of love…now maybe, just maybe fear is the only exception.

Fear is not cognito ergo sum love.  Fear is not love. (I do know that is not correct Latin).

Fear is something quite different. Quite opposite.  There has to be an opposite.  Always. Without exception. Unlike English, where there are many exceptions.  Not this time. There has to be an opposite of love and I know it is supposed to be hate, but if it were hate, then my theory wouldn’t work and all researchers want there hypotheses to work, otherwise they wouldn’t get funding and world wide acclaim and the Nobel Peace Prize etc.

[I realise that I love putting commas in sentences and even more so when they are in the right place]

[I realise that I am writing and this can only mean I feel alive again]

And then there came a question about how feelings differ from emotions and where they originate.  In the senses or the mind.  One in the same.  One body mind system.  Of course, but where do they originate?  Then I posted a quote by Einstein, on facebook, and he didn’t seem to know either, other than to say, we are eternal.

[I realise, that I do love the word eternal, in the same way I love the word ephemeral and its meaning]

The person in the discussion who spoke of metaphorical wanking is training to be a therapist, (and I only mention this again because it is leading me to the point, yes a point) and I said sex was better, but only sometimes, and it all seemed largely inconclusive, like most research.

Holism, she stated.  Oh! Great, that explains everything, an ism, I said

I meant actual sex, not metaphorical sex, not euphemisms and other random isms thrown in to debates and conversations to make the bowler feel intellectually advantaged.

I am learning, albeit slowly that love doesn’t have to be in the chemical formula for great sex. I am learning albeit slowly, that great sex can stand erect and alone in its own right without the attachments of love and other emotions mentioned above. Are we conditioned especially as women to expect love to be in there to make sex more morally and culturally acceptable? Is it more acceptable to fuck his brains out if I love him for it? I only know this is possible theoretically not experimentally, (except for one time in 1987 with a Royal Marine).  It seems love and sex have opposites and exceptions too, like English, and Royal Marines, as mentioned above.

I am no closer to winning the Nobel Peace Prize, but I know what is….those blogs are on their way.

So? So bloody what. Who cares? Who bloody cares?

I often wonder about that too, but not here, not now, because it isn’t, because nobody cares, it’s because sometimes I just can’t feel they care. Feel it where?  In my heart where my Love is, the heart as a sensory organ, the genitals as sensory organs, capable of sensing so much more than we ever dare give them credit for, and I am making a deposit, as did he, only mine is of the betting kind.  I made a bet, £500 worth of bet and it was my fat ass future I was betting on.

It is coming.  It is coming.  Like the second time around.

Cumberbatch has revived my faith in acting.  I did not see the first two series of Sherlock Holmes.  I didn’t want my nostalgic ruminations to be ruined and corrupted by terrible acting and a frivolous flippant script.  It was none of that and all of the opposite. We have established there is always an opposite and Sherlock, by the BBC, is very good and I understate deliberately for effect. It is incredibly brilliant.  Magical combinations.  Intense and electric chemistry, like an unexpected flash of blue magnesium, MgO. So please BBC put series one and two back on i player so I can catch up, please.

The Royal Marine gave me an orgasm, my first internal vaginal orgasm.  I was eighteen.That is what my body had been blindly searching for and this is what I refused to live without and I recall promiscuity in women back then being described pathologically. Only by the patriarchs.  Only by our repressed Victorian ancestral guilt and shame, when the women then had to visit a doctor for an orgasm to cure her hysteria. No wonder the medical profession were keen to get the monopoly on that.

And so I say she is coming.

She is coming.

I do not mean in the same way as series four of Sherlock.

I mean that when she does, you will see her and bear witness, because when she does, she will light up brighter than a lunar sun.


I lit the light
The light

Of poi


In my afterglow.


Cryptic and silent,
Poisonous signal

Rising plume.

Becareful of who you consume


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