http://slouchsellout.blogspot.co.uk/

old me

How is man to recognize his full self, his full power through the eye’s of an incomplete woman? The woman who has been stripped of Goddess recognition and diminished to a big ass and full breast for physical comfort only.

The woman who has been silenced so she may forget her spiritual essence because her words stir too much thought outside of the pleasure space. The woman who has been diminished to covering all that rots inside of her with weaves and red bottom shoes.

I am sure the men, who restructured our societies from cultures that honored woman, had no idea of the outcome. They had no idea that eventually, even men would render themselves empty and longing for meaning, depth and connection.

There is a deep sadness when I witness a man that can’t recognize the emptiness he feels when he objectifies himself as a bank and truly believes he can buy love with things and status. It is painful to witness the betrayal when a woman takes him up on that offer.

He doesn’t recognize that the [creation] of a half woman has contributed to his repressed anger and frustration of feeling he is not enough. He then may love no woman or keep many half women as his prize.

He doesn’t recognize that it’s his submersion in the imbalanced warrior culture, where violence is the means of getting respect and power, as the reason he can break the face of the woman who bore him four children.

When woman is lost, so is man. The truth is, woman is the window to a man’s heart and a man’s heart is the gateway to his soul.

Power and control will NEVER out weigh love.

May we all find our way.

http://www.sinuousmag.com/2012/12/jada-pinket-smith-war-on-men/

Dear Mum,

I was seven when I discovered that you were fat, ugly and horrible. Up until that point I had believed that you were beautiful — in every sense of the word. I remember flicking through old photo albums and staring at pictures of you standing on the deck of a boat. Your white strapless bathing suit looked so glamorous, just like a movie star. Whenever I had the chance I’d pull out that wondrous white bathing suit hidden in your bottom drawer and imagine a time when I’d be big enough to wear it; when I’d be like you.

But all of that changed when, one night, we were dressed up for a party and you said to me, ‘‘Look at you, so thin, beautiful and lovely. And look at me, fat, ugly and horrible.’’

At first I didn’t understand what you meant.

‘‘You’re not fat,’’ I said earnestly and innocently, and you replied, ‘‘Yes I am, darling. I’ve always been fat; even as a child.’’

In the days that followed I had some painful revelations that have shaped my whole life. I learned that:

1. You must be fat because mothers don’t lie.

2. Fat is ugly and horrible.

3. When I grow up I’ll look like you and therefore I will be fat, ugly and horrible too.

Years later, I looked back on this conversation and the hundreds that followed and cursed you for feeling so unattractive, insecure and unworthy. Because, as my first and most influential role model, you taught me to believe the same thing about myself.

With every grimace at your reflection in the mirror, every new wonder diet that was going to change your life, and every guilty spoon of ‘‘Oh-I-really-shouldn’t,’’ I learned that women must be thin to be valid and worthy. Girls must go without because their greatest contribution to the world is their physical beauty.

Just like you, I have spent my whole life feeling fat. When did fat become a feeling anyway? And because I believed I was fat, I knew I was no good.

But now that I am older, and a mother myself, I know that blaming you for my body hatred is unhelpful and unfair. I now understand that you too are a product of a long and rich lineage of women who were taught to loathe themselves.

Look at the example Nanna set for you. Despite being what could only be described as famine-victim chic, she dieted every day of her life until the day she died at seventy-nine years of age. She used to put on make-up to walk to the letterbox for fear that somebody might see her unpainted face.

I remember her ‘‘compassionate’’ response when you announced that Dad had left you for another woman. Her first comment was, ‘‘I don’t understand why he’d leave you. You look after yourself, you wear lipstick. You’re overweight — but not that much.’’

Before Dad left, he provided no balm for your body-image torment either.

‘‘Jesus, Jan,’’ I overheard him say to you. ‘‘It’s not that hard. Energy in versus energy out. If you want to lose weight you just have to eat less.’’

That night at dinner I watched you implement Dad’s ‘‘Energy In, Energy Out: Jesus, Jan, Just Eat Less’’ weight-loss cure. You served up chow mein for dinner. (Remember how in 1980s Australian suburbia, a combination of mince, cabbage, and soy sauce was considered the height of exotic gourmet?) Everyone else’s food was on a dinner plate except yours. You served your chow mein on a tiny bread-and-butter plate.

As you sat in front of that pathetic scoop of mince, silent tears streamed down your face. I said nothing. Not even when your shoulders started heaving from your distress. We all ate our dinner in silence. Nobody comforted you. Nobody told you to stop being ridiculous and get a proper plate. Nobody told you that you were already loved and already good enough. Your achievements and your worth — as a teacher of children with special needs and a devoted mother of three of your own — paled into insignificance when compared with the centimeters you couldn’t lose from your waist.

It broke my heart to witness your despair and I’m sorry that I didn’t rush to your defense. I’d already learned that it was your fault that you were fat. I’d even heard Dad describe losing weight as a ‘‘simple’’ process — yet one that you still couldn’t come to grips with. The lesson: you didn’t deserve any food and you certainly didn’t deserve any sympathy.

But I was wrong, Mum. Now I understand what it’s like to grow up in a society that tells women that their beauty matters most, and at the same time defines a standard of beauty that is perpetually out of our reach. I also know the pain of internalising these messages. We have become our own jailors and we inflict our own punishments for failing to measure up. No one is crueler to us than we are to ourselves.

But this madness has to stop, Mum. It stops with you, it stops with me and it stops now. We deserve better — better than to have our days brought to ruin by bad body thoughts, wishing we were otherwise.

And it’s not just about you and me any more. It’s also about Violet. Your granddaughter is only three and I do not want body hatred to take root inside her and strangle her happiness, her confidence and her potential. I don’t want Violet to believe that her beauty is her most important asset; that it will define her worth in the world. When Violet looks to us to learn how to be a woman, we need to be the best role models we can. We need to show her with our words and our actions that women are good enough just the way they are. And for her to believe us, we need to believe it ourselves.

The older we get, the more loved ones we lose to accidents and illness. Their passing is always tragic and far too soon. I sometimes think about what these friends — and the people who love them — wouldn’t give for more time in a body that was healthy. A body that would allow them to live just a little longer. The size of that body’s thighs or the lines on its face wouldn’t matter. It would be alive and therefore it would be perfect.

Your body is perfect too. It allows you to disarm a room with your smile and infect everyone with your laugh. It gives you arms to wrap around Violet and squeeze her until she giggles. Every moment we spend worrying about our physical ‘‘flaws’’ is a moment wasted, a precious slice of life that we will never get back.

Let us honor and respect our bodies for what they do instead of despising them for how they appear. Focus on living healthy and active lives, let our weight fall where it may, and consign our body hatred in the past where it belongs. When I looked at that photo of you in the white bathing suit all those years ago, my innocent young eyes saw the truth. I saw unconditional love, beauty and wisdom. I saw my Mum.

Love, Kasey xx

https://medium.com/human-parts/bf5111e68cc1

I remember this. & Regret every word I said that perpetuated this bullshit for my little sister.

http://www.upworthy.com/an-awful-tabloid-decided-to-review-her-lady-parts-instead-of-her-music-so-she-responded-awesome?c=ufb2

dear daily mail,
it has come to my recent attention
that me recent appearance at glastonbury festivals kindly received a mention
i was doing a number of things on that stage up to and including singing songs (like you do…)
but you chose to ignore that and instead you published a feature review of my boob

dear daily mail,
there’s a thing called a search engine: use it!
if you’d googled my tits in advance you’d have found that your photos are hardly exclusive
in addition you state that my breast had escaped from my bra like a thief on the run
you do you know that it wasn’t attempting to just take in the RARE british sun?

dear daily mail,
it’s so sad what you tabloids are doing
your focus on debasing women’s appearances ruins our species of humans
but a rag is a rag and far be it from me to go censoring anyone OH NO
it appears that my entire body is currently trying to escape this kimono….

dear daily mail,
you misogynist pile of twats
i’m tired of these baby bumps, vadge flashes, muffintops
where are the newsworthy COCKS?
if iggy or jagger or bowie go topless the news barely causes a ripple
blah blah blah feminist blah blah blah gender shit blah blah blah
OH MY GOD NIPPLE

dear daily mail,
you will never write about this night
i know that because i’ve addressed you directly i’ve made myself no fun to fight
but thanks to the internet people all over the world can enjoy this discourse
and commune with a roomful of people in london who aren’t drinking kool-aid like yours

and though there be millions of people who’ll accept the cultural bar where you have it at
there are plenty of others who’re perfectly willing to see breasts in their natural habitat

i keenly anticipate your highly literate coverage of upcoming tours

dear daily mail,

UP YOURS.

http://www.collective-evolution.com/2013/10/15/how-to-get-high-without-drugs/#_

http://spacepixy.tumblr.com/

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found a beautiful house in London, lovely family house in Chelt, & the sun is shining... 

it's a funny feeling knowing that being outside will be really rewarding to your mental health and happiness, but there's something still tying you to the sofa. the same goes for doing yoga, exercising, and making effort to see people that make me happy.

i feel like at the moment it's even more important than normal to do those healthy things that keep me grounded and spiritual at the same time. i need to remember to stay inspired. going to make myself go help my mum with a gardening job tomorrow morning

"This is walking through the valley of the shadow of death. Not the valley of death, the valley of the shadows of death."

"Feel fear but say yes anyway. We want so much, we want everything, but we offer so little of ourselves. No. You must be bold, you must be strong. Your greatest strength is to say 'yes' to the true. Come what may."

"This voice of 'oh I can't, I can't do this', you really need to examine whose voice it is, because you, without really checking, are just accepting 'oh this is me'. Your true voice is not this. This is our cultured selves."

breakfast of champs. apple, banana, raisins, peach, kiwi, passion fruit yog, flaxseed and goji berry mix