|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 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 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 November 7, 2014 at 11:55 AM||comments (0)|
I saw my friend unfold his layers.
I saw him, surrounded by friends of friends as he let go of a phase in his life.
I saw, as his best friend had another as best man, perhaps due to curriculum vitae similarities, perhaps because he simply moved on, but I saw through my friends eyes that he had picked another over him.
I saw an awkward boy watch on as speeches were made, stories drawn out and blown through the room on wine scented breath, which did not involve my friend. Stories that told nothing of the married man we once knew in some vague sense of group- I was not part of it, I merely held a strand or two on the fringes and enjoyed the inconsistent meetings- that which my friend had been somewhat pivotal. At least at the time I think he thought so.
I saw him, watch on, as the school boy who had felt intense rejection, clawed to the surface and felt all those rejections again.
When I meet with my friend, in the big old city down the road, where he lives, he is buoyant and happy-ish in his world, we wander and chat. He has various entertainments at his feet, places that I do not know which host and house various interesting things, right on his doorstep. I still live in the semi hick town all in his group left, and I am happy in it. He is happy there, his friends dispersed through the multi coloured spider web map I read when I go there.
He talks of his friends on occasion, to update me, and because I ask. He always seems larger in his frame because he is happy and filling it with more of a glow.
At the wedding,however, i saw something uncomfortable. No event, no particular chat, but I saw him with green rejected eyes. I saw him trying. I saw his friends reserved and partially shun.
It was perhaps something I only sensed, that went by unnoticed and certainly unmentioned.
But I felt compassion for him as he stood by and saw his best friend move into that expected next phase, surrounded by many friends who had no connection to us. Who were part of that funny little scruff bags world with his wife and their lovely touches of song and named homemade mugs to treasure and their stories as a group of ex drama students. I myself even felt some envy because the love that had gone into the dramatic offerings of friends was so obvious, so iridescent I shed a tear.
It was touching and it was lovely.
But it did not involve my friend... Anymore.
|Posted by Tia Price on November 7, 2014 at 11:50 AM||comments (0)|
Since I did some event evenings as 'filler in' I have been bothered by something. I couldn't be sure, for the last two weeks or so, what exactly it was that lead my thoughts backwards over and over again. Constantly blocking those who I actually quite liked and then pondering over the others on another night. I could even still feel the building and could not decipher what it was that irked me so much that my mind wanted to reflect.
Then I realised.
Even in a space, filled with others whose gifts perhaps made them feel somewhat less than the norm, I felt outside. In a place where others who saw and felt and sensed were gathered in, like me, still I felt 'different', and the most recent occasion somehow lesser than.
I could feel, in the presence of those ladies whose knowledge and ability did not exceed my own but somehow it seemed that maybe it did, my inner child clamming, shutting down and hiding away. Nose in book doodling.
Aware of judgement or something else that I hadn't felt in a while being quite a confident being. Here though, I was reduced and small and hidden.
I do not work the same.
I have been taught to pass on what comes.
Not to box and package it as one thing over another- which is allegedly the correct protocol- clairvoyance vs mediumship, tarot vs clairsentience.
Just to pass on what comes.
It's all spirit anyway right?
Apparently the customer chooses it.
But I believed that spirit was in charge here, spirit guides the hands, the words, the tools anyway. It's all spirit......it is....isn't it?
So why do I feel like I'm at private school at eight and running out every five minutes to smoke just to alleviate the heaviness of those eyes that seem to judge and criticise. Why do I feel so very outside of this club of which I'm a lifetime member?
Typical Indigo child, doing it different.
Typically self taught...
Doing it against the rules.
Swearing and saying :' f**k the rules'.....
And feeling like I'm wrong... When I haven't even started the readings.
|Posted by Tia Price on November 7, 2014 at 11:50 AM||comments (0)|
I might be a healer but i am not responsible for another persons healing, be it emotional, mental, physical or spiritual.
Every person is responsible for their own life, their own journey.
My thoughts and feelings are not your responsibility.
And yours are not mine.
How I choose to feel any moment is not governed by how you so choose.
I might find myself responding to what I feel from you, but it is my choice to respond to it.
And really, I should not.
I am responsible, in the moments I am employed as psychic, or seer or carer, in those moments, for the role I am appointed to. Once that time has ended, that is it. I am no longer responsible for what you do with that information.
Or how you later feel.
Or how you are cared for later.
Or how you choose to commit to your healing.
It is not my responsibility once that role has expired for that time.
Your life is your business.
My life, is mine.
In that knowledge I am very free and very powerful.
|Posted by Tia Price on November 7, 2014 at 11:45 AM||comments (0)|
It's the language that holds me, like glue. Suspended and frozen unable yet to utter and mutter.
Eluded by it still.
And I want to communicate. Want to tell you how I feel, what I want and what I'd like to do.
But I'm suspended right now, hasn't quite made the step from mimic to comprehension but ill get there. I Will .
Just be patient with me.
Keep doing as you're doing.
Don't give up, I'm not stupid, I'm not. You know that.
I can make the sounds, and do you know how frustrating it is when the sentence is hovering above my head, just out of reach, and when I try to pull it in then out of my mouth all that comes out is garbled animalistic grunty mush?
Can you imagine how frustrating it is?
I could walk quickly, I could climb immediately. I can open stuff with my mouth and fingers. I love pens and brushes and spoons and. Finally undertand what the boxes with wheels do, they go 'vroom' across the floor . I can point at stuff and you know what I mean and what I want. I like books and I chuckle at the pictures, and I love it when you read and you make those musical noises that make sense, just....I love running and walking and playing and hiding and making you think I've disappeared and dressing up in your clothes and I'm really trying to put my shoes and socks and trousers on by myself. I practice all the time. I can do it. I can.
I don't get the concept of 'choice' yet. But I will.
I'm not slow.
I'm not dumb.
I'm smart, ma, honest I am.
Just, bear with me....ok.