If Memories Lived in a Bank…


Tis a peculiar place, that where memories reside. Peculiar still that they call it a ‘bank’ when it’s really nothing of the sort.

In a bank assets are stored. Neatly. Sequentially. With order and reason.

One may consciously choose to select a memory at any given time, to access that data, analyse it, delete it even. Deposit new memories. It would make sense.

But the place where memories reside is not a database. And it cares little for reason or sense.

The place where memories reside is more like a pool. Fluid. Abstract. Prone to distortion.

Memories float. Some lurk in the depths, some drift to the surface. Some are such permanent fixtures. Staking a significant spot, standing the test of time, yet slowly becoming hidden by moss.

In this pool, of tantalising temptation, memories drift, sometimes they sink. Sometimes they plunge straight to the bottom, causing waves and dragging ones soul into darkness and despair. They can twist themselves into a vortex. They can lie.

Memories. The past instantaneously becoming the present. A flashback! Days gone by. History. His story. Your story. Mine.

If memories really lived in a bank I’d like to think they’d be 100% unequivocally reliable.

Accurate views of events. Captured in HD. All 365 degrees. That way they’d be irrefutable replicas of who, what, where, when and how.

We couldn’t question them.

If memories lived in a bank our records would match precisely. And we could replay our mutual scenes, with confidence and conviction, knowing we witnessed the exact same thing.

But the place where memories reside isn’t a bank. And it doesn’t care for clarity.

It was never crystal clear to begin with. How could it be? The data was constructed by another force entirely. Perception.

You see the place where memories reside is governed by perception.

Your goggles, my goggles.

Perception. Now that is something peculiar…



In this life time, we hold mirrors up for each other.

Each and every one of us.
In each and every encounter.

An exchange of energy, yes, but also a valuable chance to really see 👀 ourselves. Through the eyes of another.

How you feel about me. . . The thoughts that arise, the judgements made, the light you witness. . . All merely reflections of you.

Sometimes you make me uncomfortable.
Arousing feelings of fear.
Sometimes I hate you.
Curse your name.
Wish to smash you to smithereens.

As you, your intentions aside, show me the darkness within my own soul. Darkness I am not always ready, nor willing to yet relinquish.

But sometimes you see me, Love at my core. We see each other.

The windows to our souls directly facing and finally we witness that which we yearn to see reflected back to us.

‘Namaste’ we say. The light in me recognises the light in you.

Other times I can hear your thoughts and I try a little too hard to compensate for your misinterpretation of me.

As though I could force you to speak my language in my native tongue.

But then I remember, one can only meet you at the place in which they’ve met themselves. Your opinion of me really is none of my concern.

It is simply a reflection of you. For you.

The mirror you hold to highlight my insecurities? That’s the image I claim as my own. And it shows me where to pour my love.

‘She must fill up her own cup first!’ They speak of me whilst I sleep.
‘She needs to fill her own cup.’

But I didn’t know how, until now. Now I see the mirrors and I’m no longer hiding from what they have to show me.

Now I’ll take the reflections and I’ll look at myself. And minus the man – made concept of shame and my ego’s desire to judge, I’ll see my own shadows. The sore bits. Tender to touch.

I’ll see where they came from. Shine my truth torch on that subject. Embrace it. It’s part of my life’s tapestry afterall.

And then I’ll release it. Let it go. Nurse the wounds with the love I know I encompass.

Love for you.
Love for myself.
Love for the journey.

Because when our cups are full our mirrors will gleam.

And we can hold them up higher, knowing that truth love and light will bounce and beam and finally be seen.


Turkey Love

Sensitive, curious and gentle. He wears his heart on his snood, (that’s the dangly piece of skin above his beak) It acts as a mood ring, alternating in colour; red, white or blue to tell you how he’s feeling.

His song is unique. A fascinating call, humans call it a gobble. He’s been perfecting it since way back when he was a fluffy chick.

And when it’s time to make his contribution to the planet, he’ll use his gentle call and turn his snood a strong scarlet, to entice the Hen of his dreams.

I imagine part of his dream includes nesting up in the trees, which is his favourite place to seek sanctuary and rest his weary head. He’ll fly up there, Turkey’s love to fly. But not too far. If he needs to make a run for it he can do that too, at speeds of up to 35mph.

But he will not hurt you.

He came here with the same intention. To live in peace.

Benjamin Franklin was apparently a big Turkey fan. He favoured the Turkey over the bald Eagle as the national bird. And now the mass genocide of indigenous people is celebrated every year in the States by the mass genocide of this indigenous bird.

The only time most people get to connect with this creature is when they have their hands up his arse, or they’re tearing at his torso.

In the UK we have one of the biggest slaughter houses of the Turkey, under the familiar name of Bernard Matthews. (Bird flu? Anyone?) We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving here. But we do slaughter 2.2 million Turkey’s in the run up to celebrating the birthday of a white guy, that would have been black, if we even believe in his existence in the first place.

But we don’t actually enjoy the taste of Turkey. It’s dry. And needs a fuck load of trimmings; maybe some fat from a duck, or the flesh of a pig, to make it palatable.

And so it is that this handsome, regal creature; beak and toes painfully severed, so he cannot defend himself. Body pumped unnaturally to keep him so heavy, he couldn’t fly now if he wanted to. Wings unable to unfold, let alone carry him. Skin burning from the ammonia of sitting in his own piss, is crammed into a cage with thousands of his friends.

His ultimate destination? Some dried up boxing -day sandwich. With pickle. To disguise the taste.

Only arrogance and greed will tell you your life is worth more than his. Don’t listen.


They are ours only to love… And only for a short space of time…

This is the first point in my life where I am void of the comfort, compassion and companionship that comes from sharing ones home and heart with other creatures.

All my life I adored them. And it didn’t matter what form they came in, be it feathered or furry, so long as I could look into their eyes and feel the connection.

Kind, gentle, funny, loving, knowing and faithful. We are blessed to share our planet with them and cursed if we’re arrogant enough to believe ourselves of higher value.

One by one I’ve said goodbye. Nursed the horrendous void left when we’ve had to part ways.

And lately I’ve been feeling really emotional about the emptiness that I sense now I don’t have a creature to love, in my daily life.

Chickens and ducks, goats, rats, dogs, cats, rabbits… I would talk to them, feed them, build them homes, hold them, love them from a distance and now nothing. Not since my goldfish, the last of the tribe, died a few months back.
And I miss them more than I can say.

Circumstances dictates I’m unable to share my life with animals right now. And I don’t know if I ever will… I don’t think I believe in ‘pets’ anymore. I can’t get my head around how we slaughter and torture some and then drag others around on leads calling them ‘ours’. They’re not ours. Not to keep, eat, test, carve, torment, enslave. They are ours only to love. And only for a short space of time.

Remember you keep your dog or cat only because these animals were the first to be domesticated. Your dog and that bit of flesh you’re putting into your body? Yeah. There’s no difference.

Missing the love, but so grateful for the memories and the lesson learnt ❤❤❤