Melissa's Musings

2011-12-27T18:23:00.000-08:00

I love this. And on the turn of the calendar year, as 2012 arrives...well, I simply had to share it with you.

MHH

"Disappeared" in healing sabbaticals

2011-10-22T20:20:00.000-07:00

"Not all those that wander are lost." Tolkien

One day I'm going to disappear to a shack on a remote beach somewhere warm, sleeping to the rolling waves. I'll become a check-out chick called "Rachel": going to work doing the shift, going home to my reclusive shack. People will come through my check out and not know why they feel a little better, why they smile a little broader, why their heart is eased a little more...

One day I'm going to disappear and become a stable hand called "Toby" at a stud in the hills somewhere. Awake well before dawn, drinking the crisp shifting air, assisting the preparation for the elite and most magnificent horses. They won't know why the horses I tend are a little more settled, a little stronger, how the horses' injuries disappear "overnight"...

One day I'm going to disappear deep into the jungle, pushing deeper through the thick, dark, untouched foliage until I reach a people of no common language. They will baptize a name unheard of there if I prove worthy. They will not know why they feel a little better, a little stronger, why the jungle holds her boundary, embraces her people tighter and flourishes a little richer...

One day I'm going to disappear in the crowd. I'll be one more anonymous human, walking the planet in purpose no greater or lesser than any other.
Not higher nor lower than any other.
One more essential human in the mix with a difference only discernible by those with the same affliction...

the eyes are open.

2011 ;) MHH

Have I reached my limit...?

2011-10-10T05:30:00.000-07:00

I call halt to the rhythmic clatter of my heels on the asphalt.
I have walked back to my car, covering the length of the car park twice, for reasons neither necessary nor urgent. Both times I have turned just as I approached the entrance of the hospital and keeping cadence akin to the military drill I once lived, paced back to my car.
I know people are waiting for me. I know their hearts are desperate and the wait is torturous and long for them. And I'm doing this...

I turn and start to run back to the hospital, diverting down to an entrance not commonly known that will take me through the basement to the elevators hoping to avoid crowds. As I enter I slow, it is a hospital after all, and all too clearly can hear the clatter of my heels again.

My bag falls from my shoulder. I bend to pick it up and only when I reach for the handle, faltering to take hold of it, do I see the tremor in my own hand...
Of late this has become the most difficult of hospitals to enter: The Royal Children's Hospital.
It is all too familiar for the journey I share with my own son, Jack. We have been heavily dependent on this hospital, have known many traumatic and frightening journeys ourselves in here. I know it all too well: the grounds, the floors, the incredible staff, the chapel always empty ( it seems few parents hold faith when they're watching their child struggle). Brilliant doctors, some of the best in the world, reside here, and it has been blessing to have them help us. It is not our family's experience that has my hands trembling.

In the cool, quiet corridor of the basement, I am squat down staring at my hands but not seeing them. Not in this moment.
I'm seeing the brain fluid of a nine-year-old girl running over them, the sutures across her head failing while staff code and frantically prepare to rush her into surgery...
I see the dirt of India beneath them, bloodied by the dripping birthing fluids of newborn twins, both still attached to the placenta fighting for breath...
I see them softly cradling a seven month old baby, screeching in agony from her infusion of chemotherapy...
I see them holding the hand of a mother...
Wiping the eyes of the grandmother...
Soothing the fussing infant, untangling the drips and lines as a toddler runs about me, assisting to hold little posture as the physiotherapist tries to rehabilitate...

The work I"m privileged to do in healing is extraordinary. The people I'm privileged to help even more so.
In the years I have been doing this, I have seen so very much. Perhaps too much.

Suddenly my hands come back into focus and I'm back in the hallway of a hospital with many memories, amid the children's paintings lining the walls, the chill tiles upon the floor...and my hands are trembling.

Staring at them, I can't help but wonder:
Have I reached my limit? Have I seen too much?

Years immersed in this, walking a pioneering road amid the claims, the criticisms, the publicity, the skeptics, the wonders, the healings, the global walk, and more...All that ongoing noise...
Have I reached my limit?

My stare is broken by the tolling of my phone in my bag. A text message from the office. The family are waiting: apparently a little voice is "asking for Melissa".

I grab up my bag. My pace is long, light and quick as I head to the isolation doors of the children's cancer unit.
And I will joke and sing, laugh and play, all the while immersing this child in frequency (quantum bioenergetics) All I can do, my best, all I can, to help him.
For that little voice, louder than any of the noise just told me,

There is no limit.

A little "chook time"...

2011-10-06T04:13:00.000-07:00

Took in a little "chook time" today...

Our chickens hatched from eggs in an incubator at my daughter's kindergarten on her birthday, so they gave her two: Sela & Judy (she named them)

They came home, two tiny fluffballs in a shoebox.

No-one ever taught them.No-one ever showed them. Yet as they grew they knew how to scratch, to dirt bathe, what to eat & what to avoid, how to scuttle blissfully at full cry, how to come home each night to roost ...

how to be successful at being a chicken.

There was no mother, no teacher, no "rules" guiding them...just survival each day with nothing to lose.

All came from within.

Every now & then I'll pause life & take a little "chook time", quietly sitting in the sun, watching them be...for they do it so very well.

Steve Jobs - a name we won't forget

2011-10-05T18:20:00.000-07:00

Today, Steve Jobs, of Apple died, losing his battle with cancer at the age of 56.
An incredible man with exceptional vision, may we remember without the need to belittle for our own ego sake, that such legacy of vision we should all leave behind us.
Thanks Steve Jobs for your brilliance. In your honor, as you now rest,
One of my favorite Steve Jobs pieces is attached :)

http://www.thedailybeast.com/newsweek/2011/08/28/steve-jobs-his-10-commandments.html

For Linda - Finding Home

2011-10-03T19:30:00.000-07:00

Disappointment's black oil meanders a descending slick
clouding a cheek's flush, dousing hope,
smothering love.
Memory,
time spent
scorches
the facade held tight in
disguising discretion.
Exoskeletal cracks, shattering as the fire within grows intolerant.
True heart cannot hold the breach.
Discovery splatters the inner walls as the home is ripped,
slaughtered,
becoming only house.
Ramshackle,
Uninhabitable,
A house without home.

A deception without heart.
The fire builds,
the flame ascending,
temperature soars,
the weapons loading betrayal with the cruelest ammunition:
truth.
A house without home.

Mere shadow encasing refugee.
Ownership displaced, affection withdrawn,
Careless.
In the echo of battle, new coordinates required,
The owner falls deeper, grappling in memory amid answer...

Breath drawn and held for too long,
exhales.
The poised tear,
hanging,
tremulous with fatigue,
releases.

She finds Self.
And within,
Smile.
Laughter.
Play.
Warmth.
Rest.
Comfort.
Safe.
She is Home.

For Linda Hughes-Brehaut, with all my love and admiration.

MHH 2011

The Cry of Integrity

2011-10-01T18:38:00.000-07:00

In my favorite city on this earth, people left their electronic screens to come together and demand Integrity! Government has reacted with lies, concealment , fear. Dangerous to underestimate the power of that which cannot be denied ;) MHH

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTH2p_91_os&feature=share

2011-09-27T03:51:00.000-07:00

2011-09-25T21:34:00.001-07:00

All the beauty, all the atrocity, all of our race's history is built upon the limited equation of a linear time frame... Yet evidence is plain of existence now beyond this equation.
We are infinite. Boundless. The possibilities for us are genuinely without restraint...
if we can but evolve our minds. ;) MHH

Restore the Masculine

2011-09-24T21:20:00.000-07:00

Just wrote this as a comment in a massive thread debating sexism.
What are your thoughts?

"Both men & women are essential & irreplaceable in the balance of humanity. Both have their roles. Both equally important & neither cannot survive without the other.
Recent decades has seen a damaging demoralization of the masculine in the name of an equally imbalanced "feminism" creating a strange, displaced mutant sexualism in society.
I am a lady: I have been an officer in the military, I am a mother, I head up an international company, I am wife.
Being woman does not make me weak.
Being strong does not make me "man" either.
I am woman because the balance of my presence is Man.
As such, let the masculine restore."

MHH

Autumn

2011-04-30T15:26:00.000-07:00

The sun swings lower upon her orbital axle her late light streaking perpendicular through the hemisphere's autumn adornment.
Leaf cries spectacular hue in it's final curtain call preceding it's host's hibernation.
And I, a single inhabitant, am blessed to be witness beneath it

MH2011

The Wedding Approaches: Instalment Five

2011-04-11T21:18:00.000-07:00

Yet another unexpected delight of this unique unfolding event (yep, the wedding) is just how cleansing the process is. And "unexpectedly" is exactly how such things have arrived.

Cathartic delights are upon me. Its hard rubbish collection time (only happens once a year in the mountains in which we reside) and the cathartic outpourings of a natural purger are enraptured. Old mattresses, boxes and bags of miscellaneous rubbish, tiny push bikes (still usable, so they're up on the roadside with matching still functional bike helmets), wheelchair arms removed upon delivery and never used... its a melange of wondrous abandonment :) And as I am there at the roadside, carefully positioning items, making them look pretty to those that may wish to make treasure of my trash, a thought occurs... Should I formally cast off the closing of this chapter in life?

Should I cast off what it has been to be alone for many years? Alone with 3 kids, one severely disabled, running an international business and all that goes with it: the clinic here in Melbourne, the courses, the travel, the books, etc.

Each involved with this wedding, however involved they are, have invested in it their own emotional endeavors. Naturally. Rite of passage like this have the ability to cause all to take stock at some level. As the event itself draws nearer a funnel-like effect develops and the intensity in the agendas at work condenses. I see in me plainly as much as I observe it around me.

I see it in the events unfolding, the lessons intensifying, the demands grappling more urgently. The rising waves of grief gripping me. The mental strength demanded for my patience to withhold. I see it in the dance of a heart once shackled.

A long time ago now I married a good friend (Do not do that. Love is real.) . Years later, out of the blue, he chose to leave us. In hindsight it was more premeditated on his part than that but at the time it was unexpected. We were alone: all money "disappeared" and inaccessible, pregnant, 2 babies, one with disabilities...wow, it was scary.

Simultaneously I am feeling the bitterness (several years overdue) and the bliss of the end of this chapter.

In a matter of days I will walk down an aisle into a sacred union with the greatest man I know. From the first, my heart has always been his. In a few days my vow and pledge will be before you all.

I had long ago given up any belief that this could be. A few years ago one of my greatest friends and colleagues, Jainee, and I came to the conclusion that it must be that we were married to our work. I then selected my heart become chaste, closed to any but always giving where it could.

For years.

Then out of nowhere a hand plunged into the dark chasm of this decision, gripping my heart and drawing it into light. Within days, (I often wonder if it was the same day) the same occurred for my friend.

I place ring upon that hand in a few days.

Should I formally cast off the closing of this chapter in life? Perhaps through ritual or process? Perhaps it was closed for me.

Or perhaps in these very musings, as I cast memory to the curb, someone may find treasure in my trash,

and too, reprieve their heart from Love's chastity.

For I was wrong: believe.

A Marital "obedience"

2011-04-09T19:50:00.000-07:00

"...and obey."

I recently commented on a genuine friend, the wonderfully intelligent and fabulous journalist, Helen Barradell's, status on facebook:

"The emasculation of man over the past several decades is one of this planets greatest imbalances and perhaps core to our race's demise."
The approach of nuptials and the chosen venue for the vows had required we attend premarital counselling via an age-old religious doctrine housed within this hallowed venue: the church.

Those of you that know us know well enough that we both walk solidly in spirit and as such we both relished the opportunity to dance amid this atop of ancestry and history.

The church was onto us immediately, it seems, for we were separated from any "group" counselling invitation and offered a rare opportunity to undergo the sessions privately with the upper hierarchy of the establishment.

The first session left us divided in expression as we departed it.

I was appalled, saddened, disgruntled. Ferg: bemused.

One thing was plain: this church's view of marriage was not at all as either of us had ever seen it.

A little backtrack: the precedent working with us , a minister within the cathedral itself, was a woman. Plain in her countenance, her dress, her manner was the battle she had fought, and the strength she had summoned for it, for her place in this political community. Even more so was this battle plain in her approach to marriage. It is a battle that plainly is still present among us, but so much a common part of us that we don't really pay it much attention. These changing times have, as with all things caught in this acceleration, brought this to the fore...

Only last week at the meeting for the Order of Service with the church did the need for us to speak up become a necessity. The church immediately and, for the first time, quite passionately tried to dissuade us from our choice of service: a beautiful, linguistically luscious service worthy of the mystic warrior I am pledging to.

"Um...no." A pause as she glanced from Ferg (sitting back, arms folded and intimidating in his silence) to me, desperately trying to be patient,

"No," slight scoffing," Melissa, I think you should consider one of these.."

She pulls out a couple of alternative, more "modern", ready-to-go marital orders of service.

" This one is the one you'd know: its from 1962, the modern service and commonly used for some time, although, this..."
She drops volume with a flourish on her unkempt desk, "Is the Australian version, updated and released in 2005."

Her triumphant smile shows not a flicker of doubt that, of course, we would choose this one.

As she expands upon the brilliance of this choice of service, her pitch enthusiastic and true, we simultaneously lean over the desk, perusing her preferred versions. We look at one another, smiling, and gently lean back into our seats,

"We'd like the 1662." Ferg.

"But the Australian version..."

"We aren't being married in an Australian church."

She's confused. Yes, granted, the building is in Australia, the church does not originate from this country.

Me, "We'd like the 1662."

A cacophony of emotions run a sequence of shadows across her face in a moment.

"The version from 1962 is still commonly used, let me go over it..."

But the dawning of change was upon humanity , even in our slowed society, in the 60s. The "age of Aquarius" was on approach, the feminine rising, bras were burnt, men cooked their own dinner... and the balance of the sexes became a political game in a struggle for power. "Feminism" rose, hostilities were born is claims of "equality" and in those claims no foundation of being equal could be found.

In short, we did not want an order of matrimony founded in an era of gender power and politics.

"Marriage is not the "partnership" in compromise people continue to refer to.

It is unity. Duo Incarne Uno, "two become one" as was always foretold.

A balanced unity where each is as essential as the other, and appropriate in their presence. Love is still real."

"But Melissa, you will vow to "obey" him! "Obey!". In the service it says, "and obey"." She looks me in the eye, "You don't want to do that."

Me, "And he will "serve and cherish" me."

In our minds we, Ferg and I, understand these vows from where they dawned: 1662. When "obedience" was to clan, tribe, community and family. Where, as has always been the case, the women were the spiritual keepers of the clan, as the men were the pinnacle to the survival of it. "Man" was guardian to the spiritual, just as "woman" was obedient to the survival and keeping of the people. All was in balance.

Recent times. The past several decades have seen a travesty in that "balance". A skew as the feminine power rose, the kundalini shifting from Tibet to South Amercia, the age indeed of Aquarius, has risen fear in the man and so it should...they have been denied the very power they need to hold.

"You are being dogmatic about this. I cannot change the service. I cannot change the words. You would say "and obey"." She's standing behind her desk now, going for authority in her body language and nervously picks at her underwear.

I gently concede, "If it is so disturbing to you, I'm happy for you to remove those two words."

"I can't change the service!"

"Then it is not I that is being dogmatic." I quietly say with a smile.

Her passionate war is her own as she leans in on Ferg, looking for his support...for only a second or two before she realizes...

Firmly, unhappily, she is absolute in her tone as she departs,

"I'm going to leave you to think about this. And I hope you do just that."

I hope we all do ;)

MH 2011
Postscript: not only did this minister do the 1662 for us on the day, but she did it magnificently with such sacred beauty and spiritual eloquence...I will always hold her dear to my heart :) M

The Wedding Approaches: Instalment Four

2011-04-09T19:12:00.000-07:00

Just looked into a now crowded bathroom cabinet and discovered 6 different curl enhancing/defrizzing hair products. All new, used only once or twice each.

It makes absolute sense...

Its remarkably obvious and practical...

And yet still, despite the calm logic of a woman not prone to panicking, it has been an utterly irresistible force: The past few weeks has seen me trialling strange and wondrous "beauty" treatments, manicure technique and substances, hair products, hair tools, and more, that I have never tried before and have never had much interest in,

ever.

Yet, despite the ridiculousness of it, and somewhere within my absolute knowledge of this, I continue to venture into unknown territories. Needless to say I probably, right now, look terrible :)

Blessedly a greater force (perhaps "logic" itself ) stepped in and I have come to my senses.

Ok, it was seeing another bride looking tad uncomfortable at her own nuptials, who then asked me if I could work on her (see QBI page for details) to relieve her discomfort.

Ok, so it was more of a reality slap shaped in the cruel, open visuals of dry, red, patchy itching, oozing in-growneds, bright red scalp and oddly discoloured epidermis, crowned nicely by the distorted expression of "determined-to-be-a-princess" survival on the bride's face.

Aware of several friends intended to be married in the nearish future, I feel compelled to share a little learned wisdom so that these brides-to-be do not go to the alter worriedly patched, oozing and itching as the poor chick I helped last week:

If it works, don't fix it.

Just looked into a now crowded bathroom cabinet and discovered 6 different curl enhancing/defrizzing hair products. All new, used only once or twice each.

By nature a purger, I too stay true to what works...

and bin them :)

The Wedding Approaches: Instalment Three

2011-03-23T21:07:00.000-07:00

"A three thousand dollar jewel..."

At my standard sprint pace I was gathering goods to leave the office for a series of appointments then the clinic.
"I'll do the banking if you like. I have a meeting there anyway about the merchant stuff..." I offer to Elaine. They look at me dubiously in the office. I continue, "You know, I do know how to deposit funds. I can handle it. So... this envelope?"

I have so much on. Let's face it, I always do :) This impending event, the blessed wedding, is frustrating me no end with its constant intrusion into an already strained schedule. God forbid when, like this week, people have jerked the chain on me: no-showing me and not calling, changing appointments last minute, various things not arriving as they were meant to (not least of all my bridal gown heading off on its own to France, apparently. Still don't have it).

Sure enough in my bag as I exit were several last minute wedding invitations to be jammed in the nearest postal reciprocal somewhere on my journey. I bolt from the office.

Ahem, well...I forgot to deposit the cash at the bank yesterday (don't tell Elaine!). This morning I frantically stripped my bag looking for the envelope... Did I put somewhere "safe"? I'm looking about the office, flinging stacks about, "Did they have no faith and take it themselves?" I text Elaine, in a disguised confession: "do you recall where I put that envelope...?"

Before she replies there is a knock at my door. The postman. He never comes to the door. Our mailbox is a significant and steep distance from our door...

"Can I help you?" I smile.
"I think I can help you actually." The postman says, "Looking for anything?"
Ok, a cryptic postie.
My true answer would have been , "Patience." However, before I could summon a polite response he procured an envelope.
An envelope with over $3000 cash in it and several cheques.
THE envelope.
"You posted this yesterday" he grinned

"What?!"
He chuckled at my astonishment.
"But, but...how?!"

Trying to get the mail in the mailbox before the 6pm pick up the night before, I had stopped at our local box, car still running and deposited the wedding invitations, before leaping back in. This postman saw me doing it as he was about to do the pick up.
"When I was pulling the mail out a few coins fell out of the pile you'd just put in, so I investigated. Lucky you had the return address on it!" (Bless you, Elaine, for your choice of envelope (disguised cash transportation). I shall never again laugh at the few coins you put in to be "absolutely exact".)
"Even luckier that I saw you, so when you answered the door I could return it."

Messy, exuberant gratitude gushed from me. I offered him cash reward which he had to refuse.

What great integrity this man had. It was mostly cash: no-one would have ever known if he had kept it. Yet not only did he return it, he went out of his way to do it. A good man :)

He left wishing us "all the best for our wedding" and for a moment I wondered "Is he psychic?" then recalled that the envelope had been disguised amid wedding invitations...sigh...

Invasive rite of passage is this wedding upon my usual schedule madness.
And what a jewel this man was amongst it :)

The Wedding Approachs: Instalment Two

2011-03-17T17:58:00.000-07:00

"Ivory is close to Aubergine..."

I don't usually talk to people at the gym. I'm in and out, very focused when I'm there for I don't have a lot of spare time. But of course only last week...

"You have a gorgeous shape!"

Rivulets of sweat are running down my spine, the weight of the squat rack cutting the flesh on my shoulders (it ain't pretty when I'm training) as I lift my gaze to a warm, welcoming smile. I hook the rack up and run my hands self consciously over any lumpy bits,

"Thanks."

"I'm a dressmaker and your shape would be perfect to work on. Just so you know I'm not perving or anything. I just appreciate it." We both laugh.

At the time I remember thinking to myself "I so hope I don't need you"

Indiscernible packages arrived today. Covered in Chinese writing the only English word on them was "Shanghai"... What the?

Yes, that's right. I ordered the flower girl and bridesmaid dresses online.

They have arrived.

Ok, well some dresses have arrived. What I ordered wasn't what emerged from the packages.

There are two colours I have nothing to do with: ice blue and purple. ("Purple": even saying it sounds like you're puking) Both look rubbish anywhere near me and I return the favor. So as my excited seven year old and I tear apart the first bag what should rupture forth;

PURPLE!

"Oh Mum! Its SO beautiful!" She's dancing about delightedly, holding the dress to her.

"Oh dear god..." came my dismayed utterance

"What a wonderful surprise, Mum!"

"Wonderful..." with all the enthusiastic tone of a Monty Python "hooray". I grab up the "receipt" trying to make sense of it. "What the...?" Nothing.

"What's in the other bag, Mum?!"

With dread my eyes slip sideways toward the other package. Bridesmaid dresses. We brave it:

And once again, although right colour, completely foreign dresses to what was once ordered.

I hit the inbox, find the number and call them.

The person I had all my transactions with was "Sarah".

There had been no indication that they were coming from China. Or that "Sarah" has even less English than I have Cantonese.

"Sarah, I ordered the dresses in Ivory."

"Yes. Ivory. Yes. Yes." Within her voice she's smiling broadly.

"They're purple!"

"Aubergine."

"Excuse me?"

"The dress is Aubergine." Sarah's still smiling, evidently quite proud.

"No. No. On every receipt, every email they are ivory!"

"Ah well yes, ivory is very close to aubergine." I am informed with stoic authority.

"Ah, no its not. Ivory and aubergine are very different!"

"On our chart there are close....have look at website" Sure enough on their colour chart on the site for some obscure reason there is no sequential order in the colours; ivory is right next to aubergine. Regardless on every receipt, order form etc I had ordered "ivory".

"They are close."

"So is the wedding they are to be worn at, Sarah!" This isn't going anywhere...

Sigh...

My daughter now has the dress on and is spinning and twirling in front of the mirror, her delighted smile brighter than the aubergine itself. I can't help laughing. "Ivory is close to Aubergine."

I email our magnificent florist, a gifted artist, for somehow she will save this

"Elaine, a challenge in improvisation is upon us..."

Then search my bag for the card Imogen, the dressmaker at the gym, gave me. I don't usually speak to people at the gym...

I cannot help looking at the handmade beading and cringing at the thought of a six year old in a sweat shop slaving over my bargain dresses. Goddamn that! :(

"Improvise, adapt and overcome."

It was the catch cry when I was in Infantry in the Australian Army. I carry it through life. And it seems this approaching event is as tactical as any enemy contact I'd known before.

This wedding may well become a mastery in camouflage and concealment. :)

The Wedding Approaches: Instalment One

2011-03-17T00:03:00.000-07:00

Its so easy to forget what you're doing! There is such anticipation, such expectation upon a wedding I can now understand how easily one can forget they are actually getting married.

A month out from our own wedding and as expected all that is planned, ordered, organised and hoped for starts to intensify. And fall apart. And change. And unravel. And develop. And so much more. I should probably be devastated, a little traumatised, tantrum enhanced perhaps but the humour in this is just too rich... I have to share this journey.

And so you're welcome to join me over the next month.

I'll be doing it in instalments. Notifying through facebook, twitter and for those following on here. Hope you enjoy.

Instalment One:

The invitations that were meant to go out over three weeks ago have still not gone out. I find this out four weeks before the wedding through friends sending me casually worded text messages pointedly but not absolutely saying, "Just making sure you have our postal address. Here it is again..."

No invites. This is despite the "rush order" recommended (for a convenient extra $150, of course). On the website it states that the invitations will be delivered 5 working days after the approved print mock-up. This is reiterated to me upon a phone call to the company, fitted in between web design meetings, patient appointments, frantic meetings with financial team, school pick up...

"That mock up that was approved 4 weeks ago? Is that the mock up you're referring to?" I ask her. I'm driving the mobile office, hollering at the touch screen even though the microphone is up behind the rear view mirror because a visual helps you to be heard on a blue tooth apparently.

"Oh well, " I can hear her smiling,"we've had a long weekend in Victoria and that would have delayed the process."

"For three weeks?"

"Yes." She happily chirps.

"Uh, no. I'm afraid no." Couldn't help laughing, "Those invitations need to be out. Today."

"We can have them express post to you tomorrow."

"How about you express post them to the people invited? The addresses are on the envelopes."

"We don't provide that service, I'm afraid."

"Well...lucky you provide refunds and discounts, isn't it?" I'm smiling. She's appropriately wary now...the saga unfolds.

So text I resort to. I'm sending out text massages to all that I do have the numbers of (many relatives, friends, colleagues, etc, I do not ) just giving them the heads up of date and time. Feel free to text me if you feel I've lost your postal address too :)

Now there is a dignified wedding invite :) Text.

If the guests are lucky they may receive an invite in the mail while we're on our honeymoon, so they can revel in the joy of us married already.

In the meantime I think the wedding party are still coming. So at least there will be two of us.

2011-03-14T01:26:00.000-07:00

We are but residents, alongside many others, upon a planet that is shifting, aching in despair. Every resident, all species, are effected. All are trying to communicate warning. Even the human.
Put aside the cognitive superficiality of policy, politics and process... We are all in this together.
Feel this. Heal this.

Throw glitter in her grave...

2011-03-10T23:34:00.000-08:00

My mother died suddenly.
The kind of "suddenly" that has the police walking up your path and knocking at your door to inform you "suddenly". The "We need you to identify the body" suddenly.

Our father was terminally ill and incapacitated (he left us only months after Mum). As such my sister and I entered a world of "arrangements" that were directly foreign to us: death certificates and autopsies, diversions and decisions...
We sat down with the funeral director to organise the service itself and I curbed my tongue for the most part as he, with all the sweetness and sympathy of a well trained salesman, showed us through coffin brochures and flower arrangements.
I was opting for a cheaper coffin. My sister was leaning toward the fully upholstered, satin lined, Latvian Orthodox version at which the gentleman was nodding understandingly (chi-ching).
I was forced to remind Linda that we were only going to look at it for 30 minutes then its permanently in the dirt (don't start me on the burial choice!) which was met with the director's disapproving frown. My practicality was plainly eating into his commission.
Linda broke into discussion with a friend and I took the time to grab the director's attention...

"At the cemetery..."
"Yes, Ms Hocking?"
"Could you please throw glitter into the actual grave prior to our arrival?"
He sat back and stared at me, his shock clear upon his face. "Well I can honestly say I've never heard this before." He replied with a smile. "Any way in particular?..."

The service at the church complete, the procession had arrived for the graveside service, and my young children and I lead the congregation to the graveside.

My children and my niece, my mother's grandchildren, were young: 8, 6, 4 and 4 years old. As we walked down the funeral director approached me (he had realized at this stage I wasn't lacking compassion, I was just on good terms with "death".)
"I have four balloons for the children to release during the service." he whispered.
I was concerned, "I don't know...it would be better if you had eight. Could you summon another four? It would work better if they got a keeper each too."
"Ah...no. I just got four..."

The service began.
It was summer in Australia: the light bright and brilliant and warm.
As we stood beside the grave, my mother cradled upon it, our hearts once heavy, lightened as we looked down:
The very walls of the freshly cut earth of the grave sparkled. The light caught upon the glitter sending coloured shards, dazzling and divine from the earth itself. It was spectacular.
The funeral director leaned in and said, "That is amazing! What made you think of it?"
"I needed my children, my family to see my mother going into light, not into a cold, dark abyss."
"Of course." he smiled,"Do you mind if we use that from now on? I have a child's funeral tomorrow..."

The kids to their delight were then handed the balloons and upon the closure of prayer invited to release them. None of them wanted to let go of their balloon. Would you when you were 6?
"Helpful" relatives started using loud voices at the children,
"Let go, Maddy!" "
"Teagan, let go of your balloon and watch Nana fly like an angel!"
"Jack, let go of Nana!"
Jack burst into traumatised tears, "Nooo! NO letting go of Nana"
I brought out my Army voice, "Everyone stop!"
I squatted down to the kids, engulfing in cuddles,

"Its okay guys. The idea is you let go when YOU are ready to let go. If you're not ready then you hold onto that balloon until you are. No-one else can decide it for you."

Within only a few minutes, by their own choice, one by one, they each let go of their balloon and we watched each one soar into the deep blue.

Grief is such a unique journey: no-one else can decide it for you.
You let go only when you are ready to let go.
Hold onto that balloon until you are.

Melissa Hocking 2011

Remember? We chose to come here...

2011-02-06T20:23:00.000-08:00

Kissing my girl's goodnight, I was quietly decending the spiral staircase from their room (the Ladie's Loft) when I heard Colby say to Teagan (the youngest),
"Teags, remind me again where we came from... I think I'm starting to forget."
"We came from Spirit, Col. Close your eyes and remember... Remember? We chose to come here..."

Melissa Hocking 2010

2011-01-18T22:58:00.000-08:00

To walk to the edge of any of life's symbolic precipices & consciously step off, this is courage in self as no other. Such conscious decision gives intent & dawning, trusting in self and in spirit absolutely, to walking your path and walking it true...
M

A lost communication in these unfathomable times

2011-01-11T22:51:00.000-08:00

An unsual solitary moment within a world in turmoil....

Amid the oppressing humidity, despite the heated, torrential downpour I took foot upon a familiar running circuit over the mountain to ease the turmoil within myself. Shallow, barely present trails had become channels for the deluge and each footfall in climb and in descent was calculated, my eyes constantly seeking the next rock to stabilise the pace...

Unfathomable floods and shattering fires, random senseless shootings and abhorrent acts of violence, I take road on this day on foot to relieve the tension I take up in the task I am here to do (as I often do). Each coursing rivulet of sweat takes with it the toxin of stress that does not serve me. Today is indeed a disturbing day. A run in the rain, often silent and solitary, is fine retreat.

As is common in my experience of life, I often have butterflies land upon me (no doubt related to the work I do in healing) so as the cloud of butterflies began to build about me, even as I ran, at first I wasn't disturbed. Rising from the very earth that sheltered them they took flight deliberate in their intent to draw to the runner.

An iridescent glitter began to dot and decorate the increasing cloud building about me as dragonflies, coming from it would seem nowhere, joined the chaotic throng. An unlikely coupling. And as such a quiet disturbance took root within...

I slowed to a walk, curious, and sure enough the butterflies started to take claim upon my flesh.

Not sure if this was uniform through the bush, perhaps many insects were behaving so, I quickly sprinted forward, finding that this kaleidoscope veil was isolated and focused about me... and rapidly caught up. I quickly returned to pace but ...something deep within stirred more unsettled.

Why were they seeking me like this?

On this when so many are suffering.

On this day when so many are bracing for an unknown but given horror.

On this day when a world is struggling to feel safe are they too seeking comfort?

This deliberate entry upon my path did seem a search for reassurance.

Only when I saw a dragonfly stutter in his flight did I consider that it was indeed pouring with rain. It had been consistently the whole way, cascades from my cap, rivers meandering the length of my limbs...

I have never seen such creatures endure the rain before. Running in the rain is solitary not just in those you may come across but in all creature, sounds, visually you are shrouded...

Not this day.

Desperation was clear in their actions but not in their language.

A warning? An attempt to comfort?

As my foot hit tarmac, almost home on my circuit, this gifted veil lifted from me remaining in boundary of bushland. I stopped and turned, my rhythm broken by this sudden shift. Rising and gently dispersing they rapidly disappeared...

and without knowing why, my own tears began to fall, heavy, burdened, lost and unheeded amongst the confusion of the solid rain.

What did I miss? They braved an atmosphere dangerous to them, life threatening, to desperately accompany me...and I missed it.

I do not know the message. I did not hear the communication. I would hope the solace they were seeking was found even briefly but I fear perhaps not.

For myself the weight of all that is happening, of all calling for help and assistance is heavier upon my return...

My friends, give light whenever you can, because you can, in these unfathomable times.

Know gratitude that you can share this much.

For we are still here on this day

Melissa Hocking

A Year Ago Today...

2011-01-04T17:55:00.000-08:00

A year ago today my son and I were in the general waiting area of a major hospital about to be admitted for his radical, extreme and horribly painful orthopedic surgery.
He was hysterical with fear.
I was too. But there was only room for one of us to scream and cry.

A year ago today, according to my own doctors, I had three weeks to live at best. I had ceased treatment for my own terminal illness in order to be functional for my boy through the horror we were necessarily about to embark upon.
They were not supportive of that decision.

A year ago today two incredible girlfriends, true friends, had moved in to our house to help us as we had nobody that could and as such my daughters were at home with them in a childhood oblivion to the trauma upon us.

The experience of being human is never matched in intensity as owning the responsibility of guardianship: of family, of friends, of self.

On this day my son is laughing, loud and musical, at his mother's antics as he bears weight through is legs working toward promise of walking. This in utter defiance to the quadriplegia that claims his body. And only possible due to the surgery he chose a year ago.

On this day I breathe deeply, my mind clear, my body stronger than it has been for several years. My heart beats not renewed but instead, reborn.

On this day both of my incredible friends are moving through life amid blessing and trial as life would have them do so. It is delight to watch. And they are loved by all of us.
It is a rare gratitude, complex and rich, that we shall eternally bare for them.

This day houses light as never before. Love as never before. A future as never possible but I know no impossibility and so, I shall claim it.

For we are here on this day.

"Plunge boldly into the thick of life, and seize it where you will. It is always interesting"

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Melissa Hocking 2011

"And now you say, "Merry Christmas"."

2010-12-21T21:07:00.000-08:00

We were forced to do it. We had to brave a major shopping centre, a few days before Christmas to grab some last minute items. The sweat, the throngs of desperation, the madness, the accelerated mental fatigue, the tantrums, the social ineptitude birthing from utter self-centredness in the fight for retail survival... And the crowds would be there too.

Our schedules being our schedules (never dull) it had unfolded that the kids would need to come with me. Three kids, all believers in Santa, one autistic and wheelchair dependant, its never an easy journey Christmas crowds aside.
Amid reminders of, "Best behaviour, guys. Let's stick together. We're in the last few days now. You don't want to blow it and hit the naughty list last minute!" Their protests fell on my ears deafened by the pulsing ebb of impending throngs as the automatic doors drew back, sucking us inward...

Within forty meters of entry, my seven year old daughter cops a pram running into her ankle from the side, with the father pushing the pram hissing at her, "Watch out!".
Shoving wheelchair in his path and halting his progress entirely, I caught his eye, "I believe you meant to say, "I'm sorry. Are you ok?"." The now crippled seven year old sitting on her brother's lap on the wheelchair, we moved onward...

Entering the depths, I lead the troops into the belly of nonsensical purchasing: The market.
More would follow the first pram incident, subjecting us to complaints of "taking up the whole moving walkway with the wheelchair" (how inconvenient of us!), a four year old slapping my nine year old daughter for holding the last pink ball, minor tantrums from my gang when Mum refused to purchase another DSI so "we don't have to share" (where am I going wrong?) and Jack blatantly taking advantage of his disability to barge in, completely jumping the queue waiting, to speak to Santa with the announcement of "Santa, thank goodness! I've needed to talk to you..." and once again, as happens every single year, Santa looked at my kids, looked at me and said, "Are these your kids?" (who the hell else would work this hard, I ask you?!)

Eventually we made it to the four deep crowd, queuing at the butcher. People were yelling across the counter with items of meat and money flowing back and forth in rapid succession. Chatting with the gang (the kids) as we waited our turn, it took me some time to realise the crowd was laterally shoving one another but not progressing, feet were tapping impatiently...
At the counter was a gentle lady, somewhere around the eighty year old mark, leaning heavily on her walking frame and trying to be heard over the counter that towered well above her. She was trying to buy a piece of corned beef for Christmas Day.

Her frail but friendly voice called, "Could you please weigh that for me? Tell me how much it might be..." the piece the butcher held was not much larger than an apple . However upon weighing it was apparently far too expensive.
"Do you have a smaller piece?" The butcher procured a piece barely palm sized. But alas again, with a slow and sad glance in her purse, it was too costly...
"Could you cut it for me please?"...

My Colby, all heart, grabbed desperately at my hand pleading, "Mum, we have to do something! Can we give her some money? Please!"
"How can we do it, Col, without making her uncomfortable?" The four of us huddled, three of us rapidly whispering different theories of how we could help this lovely lady without embarrassing her. Jack however wasn't sharing and instead kept saying, "Give me the money, Mum. Give it to me!", clutching at my hand with his clammy cerebral palsy grip.
The crowd was shuffling, impatient, blatantly rude...To keep Jack settled I handed him the $50 note we were still busily plotting to drop in the lady's bag somehow...
The crowd's muttering started to become decorated with baubles of "Ouch!", "Oh, excuse me." and "Oh, sorry mate." An audible shift that tells me my son is on the move. I looked up to see Jack shoving his wheelchair through the crowd, ramming whoever would thwart his path (something he never does!) bee-lining for this frail little lady.
"Can I help you?" It was our turn at the counter.
"First of all, I'd like..." I began using the distraction to my advantage...

The sweet lady only noticed Jack once he was right beside her.
"Excuse me, " he said to her, and with that Jack smile and a huge amount of effort he raised his quadriplegic affected arm grasping the $50 note," This is yours."
"Oh no, it couldn't be..." she protested.
He interrupted, "No, it is yours. It is. Please take it."
She stared at him, then looked about the now silenced, watching crowd.
"Please. It hurts to hold my arm like this."
She took the $50.
He smiled and cheerily said, "And now you say "Merry Christmas Jack!""
Her voice shaky she said, "Oh yes. Merry Christmas, Jack." To the crowd, "Did someone drop this?" And the crowd all smiling all shook their heads, murmuring utterings of "saw you drop it", "sure its yours".
I sidled over, grabbed the handle of my boy's chair and we quietly made our way through the gathering.
We were moving away when the butcher called over the counter to her,
"Here's your corned beef, ma'am.", handing her a large parcel of corned beef. As she again began to protest he went on, "No charge. Already paid for. Merry Christmas, Love!"

Well clear of the butcher's queue, camouflaged in the moving crowd, we turned to glance back. This lovely lady was softly crying, happy, several people from the once impatient and hostile crowd, smiling and gently comforting her.

We all looked upon the image from a distance and a quiet whisper came up from the wheelchair beside me as he looked on,
"And now you say "Merry Christmas"."

Melissa Hocking 2010

Treacherous Tides

2010-10-24T02:36:00.000-07:00

Bewildered angst holds steady in the tides of an ocean dawning hatred.
Time’s thought toward it, denied. And yet,
Rise and pitch
Beguiling
Against restraining perimeters drawn in upon her.
Perimeter misfits her very being,
Emotion the foreign downtrod that confounds.
Reverberating threat “There is no release!”
The boundary will not retreat.

How then, oh life,
How does the bombardment engage the constricts?

Foul loathing rises within the collar of lies constricting truth’s escape in a slow suffocation of silence.

A silence that promised truth would hold.
A silence that promised justice in pardon for the mistake made.
A silence that promised to quietly, softly render them powerless.

She heaves within at the horror of bad decision,
Time wasted stains the present tears,
Regret a weeping ink upon her soul, staining evidence of a connection still bound.
The metallic sting of Blood strikes the nostrils as the daggers pierce,
Shredded flesh cascades a shawl down her back,
Shrouding the betrayal of silence.

Too many voices for silence to fall.

The orchestral machinations of a closing,
Sweet metallic nonchalance of latch sealing…
All is in darkness and all is misleading.

How then, oh life,
Put light within the dark?
Put light upon this treacherous ocean!
Amid the course and terror, shards will stream,
Light will mirror and shatter such hatred.
Into the depths within the layers the greatness of ocean depths will claim and diminish,
Wave upon wave closing in, closing down.
The tides will ebb.
The tides are rest.

Melissa Hocking 2010

2010-10-23T22:50:00.000-07:00

We are created of layer after layer of subtle light (information)

& that light communicates with all other layers of your "reality" -

inwardly, outwardly, multidimensionally, infinitely.

All comes from you first.
You are the conductor orchestrating this creation.

MH 2010

A Limited Reality on a Spherical Luminosity

2010-10-17T02:46:00.000-07:00

We accept a linear time frame.

As such we are restricted in how much information we can obtain and assimilate in a lifetime. Yet from this limited and restricted source we construct a “reality” and despite it being merely a confined perspective, we convince ourselves under the guise of “belief” that it is “truth” and it is “right”.

All the beauty, all the atrocity, all of our race’s history is built upon this limited equation.

We are infinite.
Limitless.
Our possibilities are genuinely without restraint.

Evidence is mounting as change takes speed and vibration lifts under the reality we call “quantum effect”. Remembering that this too is only a limited perspective.
Well beyond the “equation” each individual remains unique: never being present in this form before and, as evolution must have it, never again repeating this presence. This in itself appears evident of our infinite capacity.

We think time is linear but it is spherical, boundless.

Luminous, ever shifting, ever growing, this is every single individual’s truth.

In the present equation we cannot truly know any other’s reality for we are too preoccupied with “knowing’ our own. But we can choose to accept their infinite luminosity.
Such a choice, owned by each, enables humanity’s history to remain “history”, and the unending possibilities of a new humanity’s consciousness to take life.

Melissa Hocking 2010

The Hunted Connection IV

2010-10-14T22:42:00.000-07:00

Enticed by mystery I was given to grace.
He guides me as lover, souls entraining in synchronistic rhythms, a play into the spirit entwined.

And I go.
Willingly, hungrily I go.

Surrendering.
Trusting.

I gaze in awe. He paves the mystery.

MH 2010

2010-09-21T17:04:00.000-07:00

They looked upon each other and nourished themselves with that.

The fruit that their eyes bore was the sustenance of both.

Nothing but love and their state of mind did they consume.

~Gottfried von Strassburg

2010-09-16T17:56:00.000-07:00

I think we are challenged as humankind has never been challenged before, to prove our maturity and our mastery, not of nature, but of ourselves.

~ Rachel Carson

2010-09-14T16:51:00.000-07:00

Walking life's path, knowing consciously that you are here with a purpose as important and as unique as you yourself are...
Relish such knowledge.
And let yourself smile at it :)
It is a never-to-be-repeated value in this universe.

MH

In a World of Self Healing Part II

2010-09-09T22:02:00.000-07:00

Sadly, my world of self healing has been feeling a little... well, the image says it all :)

Then I recalled exactly where I am: in the process letting go of that which no longer serves me :)

Suddenly...

This process of healing is nothing short of utterly amazing :) M

In a world of Self Healing

2010-09-08T18:33:00.000-07:00

It's fairly common knowledge amongst those of you that have met me that the experience of self healing can often evade me :) Whenever I am in session for someone else, be it in the immediate, remote sessions, or using any and all of the incredible list of tools we have (see the Instrumental Body) I am 100% there in that moment, completely engaged and communicative. However self healing, the moment I put myself into session: sleep.

His holiness the Dalai Lama referred to this in his teachings while we were in India, saying that there is "always a lesson in a healing (meditation). For his friend, Melissa Hocking, clearly the lesson is to get more rest!" (thanks for that one)

Yesterday my system fell into an exhausted immune collapse (fair enough really. Its been a huge couple of weeks with far too many hours on too many flights...brilliantly successful and fun but hard on the physical body). Everything that could pack it in is trying to. The worst is my back and neck completely going out and in no small painless way. Huge level of pain!

The mighty man massaged and tried to help. Nadia did some delicious hands on QB on me in the office (to which there were loud exclamations of "OH Mel! Ouch! Oh its your lower back too!" )Helpful :) However it worsened until I was in a frozen, physiological lock-up of immense pain. Lying down was even worse. Its been a hard night...

As I lay in bed, wincing, the mighty man gently said, "I know you can fix this yourself. Go to the chiropractor or whoever tomorrow if it feels right, but I think this is for you..."

6am this morning I entered a new world of self healing, knowing that as bad as this is (and oh, it is bad) it is in my power to change it. Frequency is flowing rich and increasing in flow and amid this communicative torrent, a wealth of information is pouring in. Not surprising to me (I've seen so much) but perhaps surprising to others is that my back is nowhere near better yet. The priorities, the causative aspects of how this came to this point are being targeted.

And successfully so :)

Already I feel great change within my structure and myself.

Its the last bastion of language, the human biology, in communicating what we need for ourselves in our own evolution. If we don't listen, we don't hear it earlier, the body will surely throw an imbalance into the mix just to get our attention.

As always there is lesson in this, so I'll keep you posted... :) M

Hunted Connection I

2010-08-11T04:25:00.000-07:00

I had quoted Rumi. A line of hope from an elegant poet.
In a flash, he responded with the very next line from the same piece.
There had been no time to google or research....
I quoted the next line.
His immediate response, to complete the poem, was to seal our friendship.

"Those beautiful words we said to one another
are hidden in the secret heart of heaven.

One day, like the rain, they will pour
our love story all over the world" Rumi

Agasp with delight I watched his next message come in:

"I love Rumi! How do you come to know him?"

Indeed he seduced me with medieval poetry...

His appearance and persona upon the profile I was privy to, the only place I had access to view him, did not match the beautiful script, the inspiring conversation, the thrill of communicating with the friend I now had. We clearly both loved chatting to one another.
I had no real idea what he looked like nor what he really did. As he didn't of me.

From the beginning ours was a meeting of presence, a dance in the ecstacy of the extraordinary.
The man I did not believe existed was peacably, presently arriving...

Antique Little Girls

2010-08-11T03:14:00.000-07:00

Upon the wall a plaque is bared
A phrase that captures all
Amid the lilting remnant smiles
The scribe is to befall
That deep within, despite the roles
The little girl resides
Regardless of the time that’s passed
Or the lessons that life hides.

She sings and hopes in colours,
She dances light within
She dreams and wishes for those she loves
Her heart a toll to ring

Shared wisdom in her play
The little ones delight
Captured in the dancing giggles
Her heart the dawning light

Wisdom paints her patience
Her energy is young
Enthusiasm lights the world
When she is said to come

New is found in skills of old
Memories in child’s mind
From she so beautiful, so warm, so strong
So gentle and so kind.

A role that will not be repeat
She owns it for the world
The plaque it states it plainly:

Grandmas are antique little girls.

For the beautiful Mel Hunt, Happy Birthday

Melissa Hocking 2010

Initiation 333

2010-08-03T04:34:00.000-07:00

Kaleidoscope sounds behind the fluttering, closed lids of trust.
Breath shallowing, unmeasured, unnoticed,
Slipping,
Gratefully slipping,
Falling,
Roguish muscularity jerks consciousness into fore,
Resentment takes mind and holds it in a delusional awareness
A misleading reality.
Colours fade, escaping the grip of an imprisoned dimension.
Struggle, trying,
Struggle, losing...

Draw deep, sweet, succulent breath ...
The colourful, spiralling parade resumes in rest.

From core to peripheral the vibration lifts
A dull ache permeates the flesh renewal from heart streaming.
The flesh reacts,
The mind falls deep, rich,
Downward into beyond.

Cumulus travel, fast tunnel in light,
Sliding through the non-existence of time.
Sweet, spherical arrival, ever moving, without moment.
Emotion, too small, is overwhelmed
As knowledge is strewn against the limitless boundary of recognition.
Biology steps into mechanical relief, drawing information into structure it knows priority.
Spirit flies.
A spiralling ecstasy, aloft upon release,
Accelerating,
Infinite,
Savouring the fragrant mead of whole life...
Spirit Flies.

“the physical healing, while often “miraculous”, is the very least of what occurs in session”
Melissa Hocking 2010 – Quantum BioEnergetics International

In my mind, my descriptive structure, this is what it is to know session under Quantum BioEnergetics for the first time.

While the work we are doing continues to be "cutting edge", the research "phenomenal", while the demand for the knowledge of this is ever increasing, still it is this experience, this moment of recognition when the individual enters self that is what this work is all about. A genuine initiation intot he most important "club" you could ever become member of: You

2010-08-02T03:53:00.000-07:00

Stark cherry tree branches weep forlorn in the icy chill, battered by hail and torrential rains. Adorning her shape, ripe buds full of promise yet to awaken, kiss each branch tip and from each of them: a single remnant drop of rain, yet to fall. Baubles of hope, their spherical base mirrors the warming light. A reflection of a future.

The Dark Self

2010-08-01T23:56:00.000-07:00

Spiraling into the shadows,
Awareness a pile about the trodden footprints from which one cannot sift out the clarity of wisdom.
The facade hemmed too high to disguise the pretence any longer:
Worthless.

Too short the reach?
Too far the journey?

History gripping, regardless of truth, striking blows upon raw,
bloodless wounds.
Phrase,
forgotten long by delivery, oozes from the open flesh of injury
Splattering pointless upon the transparent shield
Of the self torturing mind.
Worthless.

Cast amid the hungered jaws of the self involved,
Sacrifice to wants,
Ready price to relinquish
Upon the caged desires of the shallow.

Disloyalty ripples from core to perimeter of the performer.
The mirror cries
Worthless.

The mirror, fragmented, tainted by dishonor,
marred by the withering esteem of those casting response.
Incomplete in reflection, the mirror
Lies.
The clouded veil drawn by falsity is weighty, resistant…
Lift the veil.

All within screams hollow and
Worthless.
Lift the veil.

Injury strikes blindness, vision impaired of the truth within.
You are abundant within you…

Lift the veil.

Melissa Hocking 2010

Grief Evolving

2010-06-28T20:46:00.000-07:00

The shiver chill of the air defines Winter upon us. The winter sun too low to penetrate the valley, days spent in shadow. Shallow light, anew, gripping the land with promise ahead assures the darkness is past. Streaking through the tree lines, paling the apparent infertility of skeletal branches, its sweet kiss begins to awaken the buds of renewal.

Rain.

2010-06-28T20:44:00.000-07:00

Raindrops splatter light and irregular upon the glass as thought the chill in the air creates a reluctance to enter this atmosphere for so readily today it could turn to snow. Intermittent and undetermined, their arrival leaves one hungry for commitment, impatient for the uniformity of the solid fall of rain, the banking sweeps pushed by breeze of the gravity driven downpour. Release. Rain.

The Hunted Connection - Introduction

2010-06-26T21:48:00.000-07:00

So many times I have gone to pen to write a piece about my incredible partner. Poetic, explanatory, argumentative, indulgent... regardless they remain unfinished and incomplete. So many semi drafts & scraps of paper escaping the pages of the present journal (in which all of my pieces tend to birth from) sadly can all be filed under "unfinished" as the journey's pace has too rapidly outrun the piece. Evolving alongside one other, continuing to grow together, these pieces rapidly fell to "outdated" even "obsolete".

Yet for however long this chapter is shared by my mighty man and I, I strongly feel it is a journey to be shared with all...for it is utterly extraordinary.

Making peace with my own expectations of self I have come to accept that in small piece, brief paragraph, even unfinished verse, I will share this with you :)

This series will be known as

"The Hunted Connection"

Each piece merely numbered prior to title so if the romantic in the audience needs to follow the order of the journey, they may :)

To quote Rumi, in the very same verse that graciously introduced my mighty man and I to one another :

"Those beautiful words we said to one another

are hidden in the secret heart of heaven.

One day, like the rain, they will pour

our love story all over the world"

Indeed, this verse is how we met.

Come with us...

Melissa Hocking 2010

Why Do We Wax?

2010-06-26T21:46:00.000-07:00

Today in standard process and almost involuntarily, I habitually entered into the encyclopedic and systemic catalogue of hair treatment/removal: trimming, plucking, waxing, shaving, preening, volumising... Such behaviours are considered an "indulgence". And yet to inflict pain upon oneself is considered "ill". Regardless of the contradictory aspects, 'tis a stinging entry to add to the list of "things my mother never told me about being a woman"...sigh...

MH

Conspiracy

2010-05-31T04:21:00.000-07:00

The fluid muscular flex against a powerless manipulation.
They are choking in a senseless oblivion,
The dark pall a granite fist closing in upon a core that is rapidly losing breath.

Position held in action,
Decision kept from democracy,
A people cry victim
“They didn’t tell us! They lied! They lied!”
And in a generous oratorical vomit the people gift all power to the enemy.

Identity cannot heal.
Bloodless and benign is denial.
Self pity a rancid infection and those bearing decision kneel in adoration to the powerful stench of the self proclaimed injured.
Do.
Do.
Crying, shrieking, weeping, moaning, hollering, praying, sobbing, pleading, begging, hoping…
Powerless.
Do something. Do anything.
Stand up. Flex.
Power’s delusion anxiously dissolves beneath the soft acid onslaught of true strength.
Bring change.

Melissa Hocking 2010

2010-05-31T04:18:00.000-07:00

Little Moppet's Battle

2010-05-28T02:29:00.000-07:00

(A little girl’s battle with leukaemia)

The temple is sweating toxicity,
Blood, Discourage.
The foundation leeches the ache of mistrust.
From another’s word a tiny body disintegrates,
Power is pillaged,
Decisions absconded.

Strength falls in segments,
Petals of innocent trust scattered beneath the weighty footfall of ignorance.
Contorted in spasm, agony in control
Hysterical,
the system shrieks coarse tones
Of despair, twisting amid the
Choices structured in humiliation,

Foundation in regret...
She reaches for relief.
A haunted gaze,
The silver sheen of transparent flesh,
The cherry stain of blood departing...

Wisdom discarded in the misconception of uneducated youth.
Shattered breath,
Wasted hearts withering.
The temple whimpers.
One deep breath before ascension
Her eyes open and grasp at the gaze of he who loves most...

Wisdom is lost eternally as one final tear crashes upon the earth.

I love you, Moppet. I thank you.

Melissa Hocking 2009

Colby Cuddles Beautiful Girl

2010-04-25T03:41:00.000-07:00

For her birthday she wants her own special alarm clock. The reason will be nothing anticipated. Predictable she is not.
The physicality of her expression is a dance unlike any other.
She is drama without knowing what drama is,
for to her it is life.
No conversation is dull nor is it short.
She is built-in entertainment

She is all heart.

Rose bud lips part and a singing voice pervades the atmosphere, slipping into the ear as silk and drawing sweet tear upon your heart...until she recognises someone is listening.
Upon the stage she is inspiring, courageous and rich, well beyond her years.
Others look to her. All look upward.
Entering the stage she looks down,
her eyes shaded as she searches audience beneath the footlights for her mother... at each performance.

She is all heart.

She has embraced from the womb, snuggling, nuzzling, holding and cuddling,
going without falter or fear to the stranger in the room, the space, the airport, that needs attention, needs embracing the most.
She gives. She gives wholly.
She hurts completely.
Intelligent, emotionally articulate, verbally entrancing, seeming much older than her years.
She is beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful from within.

She is all heart.

And it shows.

She is Colby Cuddles Beautiful Girl.
And I am her blessed mother.

Melissa Hocking 2010

Footnote:

Colby Alexandra Hocking is indeed my sweet, incredibly clever and talented daughter. And I am indeed her awestruck and inspired mother. Never a dull moment is spent with Col. Presently 8 years old, she has already been in a number of professional theatre productions (somewhere I would never have imagined us!) in the past two years. As talented, clever and beautiful as she is, she knows no guise or ego with it. She truly is all heart.

2010-04-24T23:22:00.000-07:00

To make great change one needs to enter the opportunity to make it.

To make greater change, one enters with integrity.

To sustain such change, one holds with compassion.

Melissa Hocking

ANZAC

2010-04-24T19:08:00.000-07:00

"We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and the oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender." Winston Churchill

In 1915, on April 25, World War I, a campaign strategy set into place by Winston Churchill sent the allied forces, the ANZACS, into the first major military action fought by the Australian and New Zealand Armed Forces, landing upon the Gallipoli Peninsula in Turkey.

Information had been leaked, mistakes had been made... the soldiers met fierce resistance, sitting ducks under enfilade fire from the Turkish Army, infantrymen in the water they suffered heavy casualties and endured great hardships. It was a bloody massacre.

Beautiful men that could never hope to have had any idea what was to strike them were lost that day, and in the eight month campaign that followed. They knew a fear, a courage, a love, a hate, that most of us are fortunate enough to never have to know. The cold, the blood, the rats, the smell of death, decomposing bodies metres fromt hem, rounds and shrapnel whizzing past their ears... the earthly thump of a propelled metal round tearing into human flesh.

Today, April 25, 2010, ANZAC Day in Australia, the media, social media networks and many forums are filled with rudimentary "Lest We Forgets". (ANZAC is an acronym for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps). A day of rememberance, as many countries have across the globe, I am looking upon these spat out "Lest'"s and wondering just how much is an uneducated, but socially applauded lip service?

Do people really understand ANZAC day anymore? All the "lest we forget"s...do they even know what to remember?

I'm a member of the RSL, (Returned & Servicemen's League) being, of course, ex-military and having seen active service. Having done Officer Training at Royal Military College, Duntroon, in the Australian Army, my work in the military was extreme and I saw...a lot. Probably far too much. Perhaps, in fact one would assume, my perspective may be far different. But it seems quite simple and perhaps, people do know what it is they are being asked to never forget...I sincerely hope we do.

Above all else "Lest we forget ...our GRATITUDE"

For we are free.

Melissa Hocking 2010

See Jack...see him truly

2010-04-12T01:38:00.000-07:00

An excess mirror was placed by the front door recently, leaning against the wall in a distinct about-to-be-discarded manner (it had earned this status being of some Luna Park genetic line: it reflected a lumpy, ten-kilos-heavier form. No, I haven't suddenly put on that much weight! It was the bloody mirror.).

Racing about the house in my usual frantic manner, phone calls, and questions and work, I overheard Jack quietly chatting to someone...

"And this is how I play Wii Sports Resort Sword Play...like this..." I'd hear him expelling breath unevenly for a few moments, "..and like this.." More effort was being spent.

Glancing about the corner, my son had positioned his wheelchair right in front of the defective mirror.

Jack has spastic quadriplegic cerebral palsy. He acquired a brain injury as an infant and this is the life sentence he now lives with. Unlike a standard quadriplegic (whatever that is) Jack's entire body, head, neck and face too, is affected. For the most part, Jack fights what is known as "reactive tone": he will make the decision to move, his body will then spasm and fight it, and he then re-makes the decision and uses multiple times more energy to then move that limb. And this battle is undertaken for everything: eating, breathing, swallowing, let alone standing, rolling, etc. 24/7.

A very intelligent boy, my son is trapped inside this non-compliant body for this life.

His sweet voice, quiet and focused, was now holding my attention...

"Jack can do this. Watch now..." and again I would hear his quiet, resolute efforts in action. I darted another look around the corner...

Slowly, deliberately he was moving his arms, fighting more truly than I've ever seen before in his life the fierce spasticity that traumatises his body at the merest suggestion of movement. Watching himself intensely, he was guiding his moves as deliberately as he could, counting each centimetre of success, perusing the process of movement.... then suddenly, no warning, his body would defy him, throwing his musculature into a spasm, contorting his action, defying his will... his face showed the betrayal.

He'd then calm his physiology and take a deep, saddened breath... Stealing another look around the corner, Jack's head had dropped and he gazed soulfully at his feet for a few moments.
Another deep intake of air was heard as he lifted his head, his eyes meeting his own in the mirror again...

"And this is how I play Skydiving on the Wii..." never taking his eyes from his actions, he moved as though timed in a Chi rhythm, "Like this...and I go this way," changing direction, his body flew into spasm again, shredding his form, robbing his journey...

His process of recovery undertaken again, his disappointment in his retaliating system was devastating. No tears. No complaints. No cries of "It's not fair!", even though it isn't.

In the intake of air as he lifted his head again were barely audible words, "Try again Jack."

And again he met his eyes in the reflection.

"This is Skydiving..."

As I type, unable to leave, mesmerised by this unfolding, my mother heart aching, aching,

Jack continues his reflective journey before the mirror...he's been going for 47 minutes.

My beautiful, patient, resolute son is the most courageous of people.

Melissa Hocking 2010

Season Closing

2010-04-11T16:43:00.000-07:00

An Autumn frost is descending,
A damp sting falling like a gossamer veil,
awakening warm flesh made lazy by Summer's abundance.
Hues shifting will.
Branches dawning stark.
The earth creaks,
moaning as she labours under seasonal weight and prepares for rest.

Greys are creeping through the weary basking light
Edging into a new darkness
Change,
Mistakenly feared.
Womb of creation is ripening amid the dark,
Blood rolls slowly, warm and nutritious,
Feeding dark,
Shadowing the expectant light,
borne upon the expectation of a single structures life.

Dark.
Darkness cannot exist without
Light.
Light.
Light cannot exist without an evolutionary
creation.

Lifting gaze upward,
piercing view amid the stark branches of the winter tree,
atmosphere calls season.
Life calls to shift.
A linear time band wraps the lunar cry
And so enters
Change.

The earth moans.
We shiver and pale.
Abandoning the heavy ripeness of past
we cascade into the mistaken shell shrouded by darkness
that is the
Cauldron of Creation.
Anew.

Melissa Hocking 2010

2010-04-01T01:02:00.000-07:00

Escapism: the insidious, chemical weapon going on within the individual entities of a race in denial of its own atrocities. By definiton: humanity's dis-ease

2010-04-01T01:01:00.000-07:00

In the silence of our hearts we know,

we are proving ourselves worthy of the miracle of human life. M :)

2010-04-01T00:59:00.000-07:00

I am living the biology of transcendence: the spiralling, vibratory matrix is accelerating and communicating a structure reunited and reactivated by the frenetic kaleidescope of Quantum BioEnergetics.

2010-03-19T18:33:00.000-07:00

An outstretched hand, long left without hope, is birthing a rescue through the breaching surface. The light strikes diamond, splintering a resonant choreography that rewards such courage, and light dances through the soul... Love’s wisdom is buoyant.

2010-03-19T18:26:00.001-07:00

Escapism: the insidious, chemical weapon going on within the individual entities of a race in denial of its own atrocities. By definiton: humanity's dis-ease :)

The Billy Cart Derby

2010-03-12T20:26:00.001-08:00

Dusk was fast creeping through the dampening atmosphere as we pulled into the car park at my children's new primary school. We've been attending only a matter of weeks and have had all of the "new kid" issues that go with a new school and then some...

The damp caressed the flesh as we excitedly leaped out of the car, daughters Colby, 8, Teagan, 6, and me lifting Jack, 10, into his wheelchair, helmets in hand, ready for the battle ahead:
The Annual Billy Cart Derby, March 12, 2010.

(NB: For those of you unaware, my son Jack wagers a daily battle against his non-compliant body. Disabled by a brain trauma injury he is formally diagnosed with quadriplegic cerebral palsy and traits of autism spectrum disorder. He and his sisters all go to this new school...and what an awesome institution it is.)

Real billy carts! These were the good old death traps from the days of old, built with old pram wheels, planks of discarded timber, ropes and ocky straps, chains and bad paint jobs. The haphazard vehicular concoction where you plunge down an incline unfettered by petty, silly things like brakes, accelerating into the hay bales unable to avoid the impending and inevitable injuries. Remember those?
And every construct you could imagine was proudly paraded before the entire anticipatory school community prior to the big race... Balloons cleverly engulfing the vehicle for "added buffering upon crash". Extra tinsel and bling as the girls were sure that would add to the experience. Some sparse and ready for impending destruction right up to a fully scaled VW combi billy cart (scoff) and every eclectic mix in between.

Families could construct their own billy carts and compete in the derby. Luckily, or perhaps conveniently, I have a kid on wheels :) Inspired by the recent winter Olympics and the madness of the luge/bobsled teams the kids and I had strategically designed a way of throwing ourselves all over Jack and his wheelchair so we could take the slope and ride the challenge together!

The construct began with the base of Jack's sports chair. It was ingenious design, balancing the weight with a calculated slight lean to Teagan's position by the rear (me). Rear position (mine) was with my feet on the mono-wheels (the two little wheels on the rear of the wheelchair to stop it go over backwards when we pull a mono) and gripping fiercely the handles. Jack was driving behind the cardboard, formula one designed, aerodynamic front wing at his feet (an illegal add-on). The girls on either side of the chair, elbow and knee guards on, helmets semi-hiding their humiliated faces, their chin-straps muffling their embarrassed "Mum!"s. Oh yes... Team Hocking had arrived.

The track itself was legendary: on the back hill of the school, it was steep and grassy, the hay bales placed either side of the track and for added adventure, right in the turn that was major crash zone the track was scattered with the sea-mine, indestructible, spiky balls of the chestnut tree (if you've ever sat on one of those...well, let me tell you from experience, you wouldn't do it twice). A turn at the bottom of the slope was the inevitable end for all bar two of the teams. And to add to it, the Police were attending (yep, real ones) with their speed guns, clocking our pace as we torn strips from the earth.
(Seriously, how many schools would do this?! Yes, we all signed ridiculous waivers :))

Reconnaissance: Jack and I took position amid the cheering audience. Teagan went to the bottom of the track looking like a marshall. Colby was checking things out at the start line. Jack and I were positioned right at crash zone where we saw kids stacking at spectacular speeds. A little girl ended up with 15 stitches :( minor injuries here and there. My son's contagious laughter guiding the crowd... laughter and cheering, family and community...

Our turn: We gathered at the start line. My eldest daughter concerned she may not look good (Mum once again explaining "It's not about what you look like, it's about who you are!"). A hushed caution had taken the crowd. The commentator is introducing us...it became clear by his intro they were expecting a slow and precious walk down so the "disabled kid" could have a go... they were so wrong. My son, the kid with no hope of physically saving himself, loves a stack more than most normal humans. We kicked off!

Kids hanging on, we had agreed we would all howl like the bobsledders and they did it proud. Hollering preemptive stackage I powered behind the chair, thighs pumping, feet pounding the earth until I leaped upon the mono-wheels and took control! In the corner of my eye I could see the crowd agape in horror that we would do this... but the beam upon my boy's face, the encouragement my girls were yelling to one another...the crowd rapidly warmed as we journeyed on and let themselves feel the courage and utter joy of my boy just being a boy :)
We had hit 47km/h according to the police when Colby let go and tried to flick her hair, came asunder and skewed off a-spin into the right hand, hay barricade. The cart's weight was compromised and the dreaded corner was upon us... it was all over.
Teagan and I clung for dear life, Jack raised his arms, "woohooing", in welcome of the inevitable... heeling to the right, Teags and I with arms like rubber bands, our bodies denying the acceleration, the chair (billy cart) leaped from the earth and took air. Regaining land on the right, single, front wheel, we spewed and sprawled in a skidding, scattered, tangled mess across the track, sliding in a multi-level heap to a stop against the hay bails.

Silence.
We lay in a heap, not game to move for injury discovery. The horror struck crowd were holding their breath... all that could be heard was one legendary boy's hysterical laughter,

"Ha ha ha!!! Great crash, Mum! That was awesome! We did it, Mum! What a great crash!"

Quick Epilogue: No injuries aquired. Much laughter from all parties. Rest assured I am no fool: All of us were safe. Jack was strapped in and braced as usual by Mum. And when we landed, by the time my body took the blow of the hay barricade, I had wrapped beneath the wheelchair and my son's helmeted head was upon my chest, vibrating with giggles.
As has always happened over the past decade, I have lightning reflexes: if my son is falling I will take the fall for him and he will land upon me. In every way :)

I, too, have been to India

2010-03-08T02:24:00.000-08:00

Before a team of specialists
An artist paints her face to feed expectation of a conditioned audience.
The visual is pleasing,
Her curls, her features, her eyes, her eyes...
We will highlight, lift, gloss
Her eyes will pop.
Precision in the layering,
Confidence in the strike of tool,
The artist is meticulous and
The canvas is exquisite.
All step back, admiring as only their own vanity could contain...
Such beauty. Such beauty.

Escaping the outer corner of the left eye
A single tear
Not falling, nor coursing, nor rolling...
This tear disperses a flat cloud
Across the luminous expectant angle
Of cheek.
A weeping flush
Its filth housed within its clandestine travel,
An insidious memory of ongoing
infection.

India.
The rose of India
The body of flesh and filth,
Heart and karma,
Her rose placed infection in the feminine eye.
She placed grief and isolation in the rose of this canvas.

Humanity, stark within the soft petal curvature of the Indian heart,
A rusted populous,
Absolute in presence,
True to experience,
Unencumbered by perspective...

This rose owns this canvas.
This tear owns India.

A dire humanity is housed within the weeping dew of this dispersion,
Infection...

Dark, aged eyes project unfettered gratitude for the toe tag that will carve from him his saleable organs upon his immediate death. Casting off the wealth of gratitude indifferently ,an entrepreneur awaits his income.
A mirror to the artist’s frustration as she patches the incessant weep...

Wailing of a newborn girl engulfed and silenced by the Ganges as she plummets to the watery chill of unwanted.
A new wave of infection bleeds across the canvas cheek.

Blood runs between the fingers of the healer, one placenta, two cords, two souls that never knew atrocity would not welcome them.
The canvas could be ruined by this...the artist tries to recover with a medium waterproof.

This same canvas brushes the flies from the babas’ gaping, retching mouth...blood trails his path to his dying place.

And humanity steps over him,
On their way.

Humanity steps over us,
On their way.

Humanity ignores its atrocity,
On their way.

To know Human
An infection claimed the feminine eye
Dispersing so gently a raw wisdom
To pass on.

The canvas is teacher.
Humanity her pupil.
She steps beneath the lights, waves to some pupil, smiles at her host...
A single tear escapes....

Melissa Hocking 2010

Departure

2010-03-08T02:14:00.000-08:00

A wicked verbal spin
Repetitive in demand of answer desired.
Tone rising, repulsive
With each repetition
For the answer is not forthcoming...

The opponent refusing to engage she becomes the mirror,
His venom reflecting back upon himself.

Intensity accelerating with each reflective bounce,
The frustration explodes
Dripping down the blood stained bars of
An adolescent cage.

The futility dispersed
The potency diminishes and desperation takes grip.

Silence.

His eyes drop to earth,
Hands cradling the senseless, tangled mind.
Struggling for clarity escaping still, confusion...
In pause, her extrinsic gaze reaching into the prison
she draws boundary as gently as strength allows
“I do not want you back”

Frantic, he lunges upon his ego,
Hollering retaliation,
Resonating disconnected communication
He storms an immaturity that can only venture to regret.
A door slams.
Repulsion.
Disappointment weighs the generous heart
Scarred by the remnant acid tear.
The reflection stills,
Draws fresh, clear breath and
Resolutely,
softly,

She departs.

Melissa Hocking 2009

The Mirror

2010-03-04T18:30:00.000-08:00

This isn't mine, but I love it so :)
Every now and then I'll catch myself complaining, perhaps even whinging, and realising the very things that have irritated me from another are my own to visit first. A long time ago a friend said to me, "True mastery is to look at yourself first..."

A Mirror

My friend for you,
A mirror,
You are for me,
Hug, I will hug you,
You hug me

A mirror for you,
My friend,
You are for me,
Respect, I will respect you,
You will respect me.

A mirror for you,
My friend,
You are for me,
Accept, I will accept you,
Accept me.

A mirror for you,
A mirror,
You are for me.

Self Portrait - The Lacing

2010-03-03T00:38:00.000-08:00

She cannot see her beauty.
Remnant structure disables a vision here,
as resonance accelerates further,
further.
Take me Home. Take me Home.

What deluded us, re-wrote a contract so impossible, a brutality of self, a destruction in soul...

She walks seeing so much, too much, seeing minds and thoughts and tactics,
Too much, too much...
She sees the whole. And they do not.
Nobody sees as she sees, and nobody sees her...
Her magnificence despite the complexity
Forgotten love for a five year old
Everything a man could want and more than any man have

A presence so rich, such intoxication,
Her departure creates an opiate agony of withdrawal apparent that it is punishable upon her
She walks alone

Dancing amid light, instrumental upon the strings of life,
Enamoured by compassion,
Her weaponry is truth.
She rides an all-present stallion of bliss in her work
They grasp, they clutch, they need, they cry,
Her embrace is full,
Real,
True.

Her children clutched in her heart, wrapped to her stride, alighting in her laughter, the shine in the shards of her eyes,
Her family like arrowhead unstructured, present, protected
She is scout
She is statistic
She steps forward her vision’s lens is them...
She walks alone

Sore wasted heart, withered from ongoing,
unending generosity of sharing, holding, comforting, soothing, embracing, uplifting,
giving, giving, giving...
Greyed and cast upon the earth,
shrivelled and fatigued,
a pulse as strong as the resolute warrior will allow in gentility,
the damage is present...
The wasted heart refuses reception
She walks alone

Opacity guarding the withered drum is deteriorating,
Fragmented, frenetic,
Reception is apparent, beauty visible from core
She walks...
as fingers are lacing into hers

Melissa Hocking February 2010

2010-03-03T00:35:00.000-08:00

Longing for You – An Unspoken Invitation

2010-03-03T00:21:00.000-08:00

Longing for you
Elaborately.

Luxurious and indulgent, deliciously intimate, courageously wise, warm and sure and steady...
Without guise or games, without fear or manipulations...

Longing for you
Anticipating
Rendering me a traveller within, seeking that which I would ask of another so that I do not deflect you with utter ineptitude.

Longing for you
Aching
Hoping. Praying. Wishing. Affirming. Asking. Believing . And in doing so I have kept you from me. Pushing you into non-existence. Denying the greater law of your presence, keeping you from me. That which I’ve longed for...

Longing for you
Imploring
Seeking not another soul, for you are already the deepest recesses, the fragmented splinters of this withered heart. This heart’s filigree scars curl in delight at the expression of the soul you are

Longing for you
Inviting
Isolated in our connection, two felines curled about one another, observant and merged before the smouldering fireplace,
Stepping out of life and into presence, fingers laced, souls ecstatically, blissfully entwined...

Ascending
In absolution.

Surrendering

For you.

Copyright Melissa Hocking 2010

Unrequited Violation

2010-03-03T00:19:00.000-08:00

Warning: This piece does house offensive language

Intellectual flutterings dance between two newfound friends.
Delight that glimpse is sighted and captured of a mind seeming exciting,
A man presenting beautiful,
Engaged, the tango ensues,
The sweetness devouring she that would taste...
He does not recognise strength.
He falters to find challenge in meeting, in match...
She staggers, reassessing, withdraws...
“Fear has conquered you today, girl.
Where does that leave you now and in the future...”
His jaw line harsh, sharp, it’s aggression plain in its thrust,
Manipulation his sword...
He seeks to do harm...
His power is flimsy in the face of intelligent femme.
He falls to what he feels is the only weapon left in his ego-bound cache that will overpower...
“You’re gonna taste my cock, girl. Can you taste it? Now. Taste it...”
Abusive, explosive in tantrum
The disobeyed plan ruptures in foul indiscretion ,
Violence
Of obscene descriptive.
“I will tear you to pieces as I enter you...”
The abhorrence overwhelming
“You will scream as I thrust harder...
You like pain, don’t you, girl?
Don’t you?!
Don’t you, girl?!!”
The demand enveloping the bloodlust violence ,
Peeling away amid his verbal parry and the premeditated violation is exposed
“I’m going to fuck your brains out, girl, until you are screaming...then I’ll deliver you again...”
He shouts mechanics not movement.
Shrieks sex not sensuality.
Expels violence.
Violence.

Seeking to overpower he chooses assault.
Her self is her claymore.
He pulls his weapon.
She depresses the trigger.

The violation falls flaccid

Melissa Hocking 2010

Truth's Cost (A Curious Calvin Klein Dialogue)

2010-03-03T00:13:00.000-08:00

What is that you’re wearing?

That’s Truth, my friend

You’re wearing Truth?

Yes. I got it on sale.

Really ? And what is the going price for Truth?

$30.

$30 only?! How it is Truth costs so little? Was it a sample” of truth? A tester? Perhaps others had tried it out...

No, no. It hadn’t been touched upon...perhaps it was because it had no packaging: it was there on its own...the last...people were just ignoring it...

I find it better without the packaging.

Yes, Truth with packaging just isn’t Truth.

Actually I believe Truth in its various packaging gets re-labelled: “Reality”

Oh? I had heard it was “Perspective”

Well , yes, “Reality” is “Perspective”, the eau de toilette of Truth. A diluted version of Truth distinguished only by the packaging. A synthetic impression that could never substantiate replacement.

I think I’ll invest $30 in Truth myself. An opportunity not to be missed: Truth for $30

If you’ll wear Truth, make haste, for there is only one Truth per person...and I am hearing rumor that Truth has been discontinued.
Apparently replaced by “Euphoria”.
When you find your Truth, remember, it is devoid of packaging and as such,

there are no guarantees... ;)

Melissa Hocking 2010