|Posted by Tia Price on May 7, 2016 at 6:25 AM||comments (614)|
It's all in her hands.
Everything she creates and touches, the hands are there, guiding the way.
If it's cleaning and dusting, the grip is within her mitt.
If it's massaging an ache, kneading and doughing out the ceases in the muscle, the skin, it's the four fingers and thumb that's doing the work.
If it's rubbing a back in a hug of comfort.
Holding a script, running her finger along the print to remember. Remember.
If it's holding a paintbrush.
Stirring a meal.
A life story, speaks, from the worn overworked claw that twitches from the end of her arm.
The hump on the thumb root, the fingers stained from a cigarette too many.
Such a long lifeline..
They work so hard and do so much but age is setting in.
Those hands have worked magic for not yet too long a time, but wear is beginning to show.
The cuticles never moisturised. The nails barely painted.
Au naturelle, they show the age and use.
Wrinkles are beginning to form and it saddens her.
A judas vein showing itself brazenly on the surface.
Knowing her best is behind her, already, not even halfway through a lifetime.
Old for so long that we are alive, it's starting to show.
Moistening aids, barely of use now and painted nails make her look cheap, wrong.
They've never been a ladylike shape.
She must know this, her hands tell her story.
They say she works hard.
They say, I have done my best.
|Posted by Tia Price on March 31, 2016 at 3:40 PM||comments (0)|
I have everything, because I have you.
I only have to think of you , my merry three, our happy four, and my whole chest is luminous pink. Glowing. Igniting, a fanfare of love pouring out for all to see.
Walking along as though in some enchanted glade, as I think of my little ones and my loving partner.
Two boys laughing and playing being the best friends I long for them to be. Chums, compadres, partners in crime. Telling them in my mind as I rewind lovely memories of them in the day, how they will always have each other.
How I didn't, when I needed it, and how I want them to have it. Have each other, for always.
Even when they fight and bite and blame. When they think they hate each other because he did this and he said that. They will always have each other after it all.
I imagine them older, defending and protecting. With their secrets together.
I watch them sharing a joke I don't understand in the bath, laughing at some action or another that makes no sense to my adult mind, but cannot wipe the glorious, gormless adoring smile from my face as they play. As they build a bank of fun memories to remember and recount.
And my partner. My lovely, stupid, brilliant best friend who made these amazing creatures with me.
I had months where I mourned a little that we were not just we.
Now, I realise how beautiful and wonderful it is, that we are more. That we are a family.
My beautiful little family that has given me more love and happiness than at any other time in my life.
Real love. Real life. So incredibly real.
I am so grateful for all that I have.
I am so grateful that, because of this, these wondrous people, I have everything.
I have all I'll ever need.
Because I have them.
|Posted by Tia Price on March 4, 2016 at 6:50 AM||comments (0)|
When I was young, from ages 8-12 I used to watch TV far too regularly. A sin I've bestowed upon my own brood.
But, through it, I met my first love.
I watched him in various ridiculous situations.
Rude, arrogant, hideously ignorant and wonderfully slap stick.
I loved him.
I tuned in, to Bbc 2 on Friday nights to watch him foul himself with a cattle prod in Halloween costume or sit in a tent and fear wombles.
I loved him.
As I grew older, and understood more humour, seeing him in a dress and terrible Elizabethan wig, did nothing to sate my longing. His one liners always retained in my mind. 'Sprouts mexicain'. In a green suit as an imaginary friend, he was mine always.
When news reached me that he had had an horrific accident and his life was in the balance, I clung to hope.
And he survived.
Drifting in and out of limelight but always a celebrity I watched re runs, videos , DVDs of his glory days.
Recently, my hero, my idol, my love of loves was finally taken.
His arrogant flame snuffed out, too young.
And I cried, genuine tears that now, I would never physically meet that man who filled my youth with crush and laughter.
Who inspired me.
Who made me emulate.
Who was is and always will be my hero.
So to you, Rik, sweet Rik Mayall, I write a goodbye. For all the saaandwiches I'll never share with you. For the 80's Thatcher jokes I'll never share. For the self possessed light I shan't ever be in the shadow of. For the continued bullying your adult son that now will not be.
I love you Rik, Lord of my own Flashheart.
My world is a little less bright without you.
|Posted by Tia Price on September 7, 2015 at 2:20 PM||comments (0)|
In the playground with my son, who had demanded 'mama, blue slide!' I noticed two children in the corner of the little house, which forms the walkway to said slide.
My son noticed them too, and lovely open hearted little creature that he is he went up to them and said 'hello, what you up to?'and kept trying, somewhat incessantly I will admit, to engage them in any sort of conversation or play.
Instantly I was on guard sensing that his presence was not welcome.
They didn't acknowledge him as he babbled on trying so sweetly.... trying to be friends.
Being open, being lovely, being heartbreakingly sweet.
He tried three times....on the third attempt they began to shout 'no-one else can come in' 'you can't come in' and most brutally I feel : 'go away'.
My heart broke and my rage ascended simultaneously.
I pulled my son to me, glowered with my most motherly 'you wretched children disgust me ' look and said 'come on Newton you aren't wanted here' thinking only to teach him 'leave with dignity'. I would have said much more but heir rather large father (?) was sat nearby albeit utterly glued to his portable communication device. Ironic really.
As we made our way to leave they ran and hid in the bamboo ( I'll pride myself that that was due to my look) and I fought my natural maternal rage that wished upon them stinging nettle stings with no cure, nuts which won't quit and for them to feel the rejection they wished upon him. I fought it.
I fought the urge to hex with wicked thought.
The next day, still it bothers me.
Bothers me that my son kept saying 'sorry' to me as we left and ploughed on down the field. Translating it to ' I'm sorry I wanted to be friends.' 'I'm sorry for being me'.
I did as any mother would and told him never to be sorry and that they were horrid and one day they would know how that felt.
He was beautiful just as he was.
On telling my partner he was equally offended and said we should just never go to the park when other kids are there.
But that solves nothing.... There will be other children, and people in his life. Keeping him from places where they are denies him the fundamental relationships that can be both good and bad. The lessons that come from childhood.
As I shed a little tear ( because I'm overtly theatrical and very protective) thinking to myself that I wish for my children never to feel pain and to never experience that rejection a little voice, gentle but firm pipes up and says ' but without those lessons, without pain one can never appreciate true love. One could not enjoy life as fully without knowing what it is to lack, to be rejected or to lose. You have to have that to know real love'
And that is the truth...
That is true.
That is life.
Still..... I fight the hope that wishes they have stung shins for eternity...or at least most of their childhood.
And bad breath......yeah, bad breath.
|Posted by Tia Price on September 2, 2015 at 4:40 PM||comments (0)|
I have found myself wondering recently, and probably all time since, what would have happened, how it would have been if things had been different.
Events not occurred, timing changed and communication easy without problem.
I wonder, and I think.
So, for a moment. A brief little moment as my fingers tap away on this device, I will give over to a narrative of a different fork in the road which was not at all as it was, is. One that lends itself to movie fantasy, romantic notions of perfection and that blasted pedestal. One that gives you a chance to prove what could have been.
So, here is our story, in a different reality.
I call, and instead of a female voice, your smoke deepened voice breathes into my ear, you sound low but happy to speak to me. We talk for a while, Idely, where you've been and who I've seen. We laugh and I can see your white teeth in my mind and I love them.
We meet, we go back to mine. You have an awkward hello with my parents, and my dad is friendly, my mother cold, suspicious. We disappear to my room. You look through my CDs and mock their lack of versatily, I defend and we lay on the bed, watching the ceiling and aware of each other. Being with you makes sense when nothing else does and I just want to be there always.
You play your guitar for me and I'm holding back such strong feelings all the time because I'm so amazed by you and what you can do.
As time passes, we learn each others moods.
We are both jealous.
We are both possessive .
I encourage you to apply for college. To follow your intelligence and use it. You enrol and I'm so excited for you because I see how smart you are and how inferior I feel, but so proud you are mine.
Your friends are a problem. Your choice of companion so different to my own, we argue, but you see how they do not support you in the path you now want to follow. You see them less and you do better and manage to sort things with your dad. He sees the effort your making and agrees to let you come home.
I finish Alevel and do well, readying to go on to uni. You do not like this because I will live in Hampshire, away from you when you still have another year of college. We discuss gap years and deferring but the same problem presents itself, we would be parted.
For ourselves we have to and it is difficult.
We alternate weekends, you come and stay and meet my new friends. You're jealous because you see them as taking me away from you. I worry what you're doing when I'm not home and I'm sure you're spending time with those people again, smoking too much and not doing enough. I love my life at Uni but I worry about you and know without me there you find it harder to stay focused, but I have to focus on my stuff.
You choose a uni near to mine to continue studies and we are both happy with this, but socialising is hard as at weekends we wrap ourselves away, too jealous to share each other when we can be together. My housemates think you are controlling and manipulative, I disagree unwilling to see it.
You encourage me to paint and draw, you encourage me in my performance, you encourage and support. I love that you do, I love that you come and see me and I'm so happy.
A few months into your first year and my second, we break up, though we don't want to, we realise that focus on anything else is becoming too difficult.
But.... Time apart is also too hard.
Forever drawn back to each other we reconcile and agree to work on having our own lives whilst being with other.
Year pass. Happily.
We get our own place. You still smoke and I do occasionally. We live in London and I pursue acting, I seem to do quite well. But you are very clear that you consider me yours. I don't complain, I secretly like it, though sometimes I need to breathe.
Maybe we have kids.
Maybe we live in an opium den.
Maybe we break up.
Maybe you die anyway.
Maybe I do.
It couldn't happen. Will never happen.
So a fantasy is all this is.
|Posted by Tia Price on September 2, 2015 at 4:30 PM||comments (0)|
Felix. My 'Lucky one'.
I'm watching you as you sleep and snuffle. Watching you as you rest and grow, before I too climb into my own bed.
I stroke your pudgy cheek and I feel tears build and fall and in my mind I'm telling you not to grow anymore.
Not to grow and get big. Not to let time pass and hit those milestones with hopeful flying colours.
I look at your two year old brother sleeping and I compare. They say it's a blink and you're older, and already I can see that's true. He is two, really he is two and a half. Chatting. Running. Climbing. Counting. Demanding and doing everything a little person with his own identity should do.... I miss that little baby who gave me gummy grins and surpassed the milestones with lightening speed. I am so proud of him. Now he is a little boy and before I know it so too will you be.
And I want you to, I want you to get big and brave and strong and talking and walking and being your own little being with a life and a destiny. Who will make friends and make mistakes and lose and love and fail and win.
Who will live..
I want that for you, and I'll guide you to it as over time I gradually let you go.
But, right now, sleeping porky little baby of mine, who unlike your brother is a mamas boy, I will love you in that all encompassing 'my baby' way. I'll try to put the phone down, check the emails less, stop doing laundry and cleaning.
I'll try to stop because that blink is happening right now.
I don't want to miss it, or forget you. Not savour it now and look back regretting.
You're perfect, my lovely little thing, never ever forget that.
Mama loves you.
|Posted by Tia Price on August 6, 2015 at 10:25 AM||comments (0)|
I will be honest.
I have 101 things drifting through my head at any given moment.
Things to do, write, paint etc. Wanting so desperately to express myself creatively, to make something, do something that comes from me.
Paint it, write it- fictitious or otherwise. I want to read, I want to listen to music uninterrupted. I want to imagine if this TV thing I went to on Sunday really might lead to something….I want even to perhaps tune in and find out if it will.
To just put on a film and enjoy…. Without guilt that im perhaps ignoring someone.
Wear these pyjamas all day without feeling guilty and judged for.. what?
Spend two hours in the bath, intermittently topping up with hot water, surrounded by various lovely scents and reading, or daydreaming without the possible worry that might cross over my kind, about… something….anything.
I want to sit on that sofa and not worry that im not doing enough for my son, the baby is yet too young to have me project concern, he’s fine. I think…. The kidney!
Even want to pick up those study guides and read them, learn something. I want to daydream and ponder, mooch through woodland, alone and listen to my own thoughts, or even just the sounds around me.
Yet… I spend the majority of my days tidying, cleaning, washing. Cooking, thinking of budgeting. Thinking of my sons if they are bored, if they have enough, if they need more.
Telling my toddler ‘Don’t do that, stop it, get down, no, no, no.’ Intercepting possible mishaps and reprimanding and attempting some sort of routine when it goes against my root nature.
Then looking at my body and judging it for being too heavy and shapeless. For being the body of a lady who ate too much cake and had two lovely big babies. Wanting to feel sensual and lovely and fierce and all woman, instead of a baggy tiger scratched bag that once looked ‘ok’.
My mind is some sort of rollercoaster at any given moment, and I find, that even when given that time to ‘myself’ where I could do perhaps one of the desired above, I end up laying in bed, and falling asleep… because I am also so tired, exhausted by the cleaning, the cooking, the thinking of what we need, who needs what and when and what for.
Appointments and guilt and all those wonderful conditions associated with the motherhood of two. And God I love them, my partner and my two little ones. I love them with a ferocity I have to dampen, because I feel too much.
Yet….. I need to be more organized, and I am the organized one. I need to be more compartmentalized, able to think that way, and mostly I do. But, this week, its like ive retreated, hunkered down inside and made a silent eyes closed protest… slowing the washing and the cooking and the everything else.
Too much day to day boring yawning God let someone else take over for a while stuff to do.
Get me a cleaner.
Get me an accountant and a nanny.
Get me an income that I don’t have to chase after.
Get him some music equipment that will engross him for some time.
For a week…. A whole, blissful, long and lovely week where it is just me.
So I can refresh.
Come back to myself.
And be, just be.
Listen to the rhythm of myself and not the needs of those I love.
Because I love me too and I need it. I really need it.
Because then I will come back better, fuller, able to love much deeper instead of through shallow breaths. I will be me again and lovely mama and happy partner. Laughing from my core. Loving from my heart and giving from myself.
Because I will be able to.....Because, I will want to.
|Posted by Tia Price on July 27, 2015 at 5:20 AM||comments (0)|
This place doesnt feel like home just yet.
It doesn't have our culminative stink, yet.
Settling to sleep, im not settled. Closing my eyes, i dont think of our old place, our home. But i dont feel right here yet.
There are no memories of us, no bit of us yet permeated into this atmosphere. No stains of mistakes here yet. Its a clean slate, and that is unnerving.
WE filled that flat, as you said, before the kids. WE were just us there and just one look into the living room i would have an old photo reel of film going through my mind.
Playfights, real fights, laughing, chatting, sex in each room.
So many readings, even before my readings took off as they did.
Emotional outbursts and revelations.
Cuddling and crying.
Everything... every true bit of us, together when we began, was housed in hideous stained carpets, awful magnolia walls and shelves that broke off the wall, still covered in the incense ash from when we first moved in five years passed. Silly phrases you had written on the doors, lino, rotten and old coming away from the bath, the grot i have noted, logged and done little to in the left corner by the door in the bathroom. I can see it all, i can walk through it in my mind and know every little bit, clean or dirty or in need of replacement.
It was our home though.
In just two years so much can change, and did change. We've only been parents for that long, isn't that crazy?
And still, who we were, what we did and the time we spent is what i can hear as i close the front door for the last time.
When i went to clean it, alone, that penultimate evening. I felt like i did when we moved in. Empty, it was as it was when we chose to live there. Without all our stuff, it was that place again.
For that couple, not a family, which is exactly what we are now.
We had to move because four people and three cats could not live in a one bedroom crud hole- but letting go of our crud hole, where it began, that was hard.
Still is though I miss it less.
My memory log has already began, and its mostly to do with our boys.
We have boys, plural, Stef?! Isn't it mental.
Its also lovely, and awesome and right.
And i love our new home, but its for our family.
|Posted by Tia Price on April 11, 2015 at 3:45 PM||comments (0)|
It not that first touch, with skin on skin.
They tell you this first time round. ‘Oh that first touch. The first time you hold your baby’. That love, its like nothing else.
No, not for me, when the midwife placed that wriggling wet and smushed up creature on my flattening tummy. His head all lopsided from that vacuum skull cap and me, cut and bleeding forty hours in. I didn’t feel it then.
Too tired, too drugged out, too spent and awaiting the extra birth of after birth. All I thought was ‘Hello little one, you must be cold’. I felt only concern for this little thing that stared at me so bewildered and probably frightened after such a journey. So numb from so much sudden stimulation and I the same. I didn’t feel it then.
But I feel it everyday now.
When he had his first few showers and lay giggling on his tummy in the bath playing with the plastic fish, his beautiful little face scrunched up in concentration.
When he fought a paper bag to rip it.
When he stood up in toddler group, on our second visit, shortly after the sweet Polish lady enquired is he walking yet, and ran across the room.
Its when my son first started, a little later than anticipated, saying ‘Hello Mama. Hello Daddy’. His lovely high little voice emphasizing my importance to him with a simple greeting.
Its when he leans his little face forward for the goodnight kiss before scuttling off to bed with daddy trying to repeat ‘I love you’ back at me.
Its when he gets so frustrated with his duplo because the little plastic man has come away from the round little pegs again and he demands my help.
Its when he cuddles up in a blanket that he calls ‘nanky’, says ‘soft’ and makes a satisfied ‘ahhhh’ sound as he snuggles down.
When he recognizes toys from TV in shops and surprises me. When he recognizes that he was given one, but he wants two and blows my mind that he can comprehend numbers. At only two.
He can spot a balloon a hundred yards away, where even the shop assistants don’t know they exist. And damnit, he wants it.
He’s the kid that eats the paste and licks the radiator. That opens the fire door and obsesses over the toilets in nursery.
When he wakes from his nap and mooches into the living room on tippy toe his hair a white blond birds nest. He can run and run and you mustn’t overtake or he’ll have a tantrum. He doesn’t walk, he runs.
The fact that when the other kids at toddler group don’t share, he doesn’t understand and he comes to me for a hug. Then when he goes back he gives them a toy, because he does share.
Its his ability to remember something from a year ago that I thought he must’ve forgotten, but no, he’s smart.
Its everything he does.
My blonder than blond blue eyed perfect toothed mischief maker.
My child of the corn or Hitler youth ideal.
The little boy that so many said has been here before.
The creature that swam in my roomy womb, that I love with every single bit of my heart.
He’s Newton, and he’s awesome.
|Posted by Tia Price on March 4, 2015 at 3:00 AM||comments (1)|
I have always had an avid interest in all things spiritual. I loved witches, the paranormal, ghosts. A natural empath I always felt things and have made a career out of it, working professionally as a psychic and tarot reader for the last eight years. I love giving healing and messages of love and guidance to people, and the beautiful vibration that comes from spirit never fails to lift me and help me and keep me working with it.
This said, I didn't always work with the light.
It's not that I was particularly 'dark' but at seventeen I went through some very difficult and life altering experiences, things that would catapult me onto this path. But, you can't know the light until you know the dark, especially that which comes from yourself.
As a naturally empathic and emotional person, I became nihilistic, very selfish and interested in magick. I was drawn to Winchester to study, the Druid capital of England, and on my third day found a broomstick whilst walking back to halls. When I went to University, and in those first six months I 'bumped into' three mediums who were studying in the same year as myself, all gave me messages of encouragement, and from a specific person that at that time I very much needed to hear from. I even attended a few Pagan moots, but found that particular group uncomfortably elitist. I also encountered a girl who claimed was the great-great-great granddaughter of Aleister Crowley, a renowned and controversial occultist, known for his work with the Golden Dawn and Gerald Gardener, the father of the modern witchcraft movement- that which is referred to as Wicca- and for the various dark arts he broadcast to the world he engaged in.
Though I was somewhat doubtful, on looking at this girl she actually did bear a resemblance to the man. I found myself talking about magic and Wicca and specifically the art of voodoo. I had once or twice attempted a poppet or voodoo doll, but nothing too big and quite half hearted. This girl then told me to add another ingredient to my basic poppet, as it would bind it together ( for the sake of safety I don't wish to disclose it, as I found very quickly that it worked). She also outlined the importance of intent, what I put out be it love or not would return to me times three. I was 18, selfish and self indulgent so my intentions were not at that point filled with love.
One afternoon, all my housemates, myself and a few visitors were crowded around our kitchen table, we were all smoking and the table was filled with dirty glasses and mugs as we weren't particularly tidy. The windows were wide open however so the smoke was drifting out. There was one particular girl there who I didn't like, for no real reason aside from being a little brash she didn't really have any outstanding quality that I would dislike, aside from monopolising conversation. Still, her presence was wearing on me and when she pulled her hair and out to re tie her hair I noticed an opportunity to test out the advice I'd been given. I took some hair from her hair band and then replaced it, due to all the detritus on the table she noticed nothing that I set up as I placed candles around the dolly and added the other ingredient. I then proceeded to blow smoke over the dolly, pure cigarette smoke just constantly. She turned to me and asked if we could open the windows wider as her eyes had begun to stream and it was too smoky. No one else was affected and the window was as wide as it could get. Amazed I thought to do something else and placed a pin into the side of the head of the little poppet. I watched. A few moments later she turned to me and asked if I had any paracetamol as she had a headache. I was astounded as I said no. She left shortly after, and I dismantled the doll only to excitedly babble to my housemates what I had done.
Naturally, they were skeptical and demanded I do it to one of them. I happily obliged but told the person in question to leave the room so that she couldn't see where I was placing the pin so as to fake it. I placed it into the centre of the face of the dolly where the nose would be. We called her back in, having hidden the dolly from view, seconds later and blood began to gush from her nose. My housemates were now unnerved as I dismantled the dolly. I was amazed, and a little frightened that so easily this could be done.
A friend of mine called a few days later, she was devastated as her boyfriend and first love had broken it off and was seeing someone else, though still sleeping with my friend. I asked her to come and stay so she could clear her head and she agreed. When she arrived I saw she was depleted and so sad because of this boy who I had always liked, but my friend was broken and he was treating her unfairly.
She spent a few days and seemed a little clearer and returned to our home town to work out her options.
A few weeks later I returned for the summer period and my friend and I met up a few times. On one occasion she brought me a hair she had found from her on off ex and we decided, as he was still playing with her feelings, to do a dolly. We arranged it all accordingly, and placed a pin in the groin and in the head. However, foolishly, we left the house still leaving the candles burning and had to return to blow them out a lot later than it should have been left.
For the next three weeks whenever they were together and attempting to be initiate, when he was aroused he would have a blinding migraine and could do nothing.
I am pleased to say that I do not do this sort of magic anymore; thankfully I was not interested in holding anyone by my own power but I definitely had my own comeuppance from doing such things- the law of three times three- as the years passed and I would warn anyone to avoid magick of this sort. It is always so much better to send love and forgiveness, always.
It was only good in one way, to have such proof that magick, intent and the occult are very real indeed and to mess with it, or those that practice it, is very dangerous indeed.