I knew I loved this family
from the very start
It felt like I’d always been there
and we’d never been apart
With our delicious little secrets
and our family photo art
Boisterous family dinners
and cheeky, jeering remarks
Mum’s delicious orange chicken and
her cinnamon apple tart
I knew I loved this family
from the very start
© Kait King, 2016
Society
What can we do about child abuse? Phase One – Sexual
I would just like to say this is purely my opinion based on the knowledge and research I have undertaken. I would like to also note that I have absolutely nothing against consenting adults indulging in whatever they agree upon but this is not the case with child abuse. Apologies in advance if I offend anyone, although, not if you’re a paedophile or an abuser or violator of any kind!
1.) Understand the Paedophile
There is no race, country, religion, creed, colour or status that child abuse does not touch. With or without; money, love, two parents, exceptional education or anything and everything money can or cannot buy, will not identify who will and who will not be touched by child abuse. The innate behaviour of a paedophile can’t be changed. I use the word innate as it is – it is a preference that a paedophile is behaviourally, innately (not by choice – like being homosexual) attached to and can’t change. For example, I am a straight female – heterosexual. There is no amount of counselling, medication, psychiatric, religious or any other kind of “help” to be offered to me to change the fact that I am heterosexual – you cannot counsel me into being a lesbian or a fetishist or to like B&D if that is not part of my reptilian brain sexuality and not who I, innately, am.
Perhaps if we took more of an attitude that paedophiles cannot be rehabilitated (as science realised with homosexuality – it is their sexuality and not a choice), perhaps then less harm would come to our children. The majority of paedophiles who go through rehabilitation programmes re-offend again and very quickly. How would you go through life without sexual gratification, particularly during the peak of your hormonal life without any sexual gratification even though there are numerous opportunities for you to fulfil that desire – and yet you can not. This is irrational and unreasonable to expect of someone’s sexuality. Sexuality is what we are hot-wired for as human beings. It is what makes the world turn. So with that being said, with sexuality such a massive part of our being as human beings to survive – how on earth can we possibly expect a known paedophile not to re-offend?
We look at the paedophile through our own eyes and perception – a “non-pedocentric” view, whereas we need to know how a paedophile perceives the world and his opportunity, his innateness and where he can be tripped up. We need to do extensive research into common identifiers paedophiles use to select a child to groom, whether on-line or in the real world scenario. They will be very different scenarios, also whether familial or non-familial grooming. The majority of offending against children was familial, but now with the internet and the availability that strangers have to our children, this is swaying. We need to do everything – not something – but everything to protect OUR children the world over. A society should be measured by the way it takes care of its’ vulnerable populations, not by how many meetings/summits/discussions a country pays for to discuss which assets should be sold or a lot of hot air where nothing changes but the hotel break was lovely and the food was great! For who’s benefit?
This is just the start of something I would like to continue writing about – this is Part One of goodness knows how many pieces, as this topic is fricken massive, but needs to be addressed. It is something that eats away at my heart and soul every day and so I hope whether you agree, disagree, have other stories, please share, please get involved because the more we talk about this, the more we find out, the more we can change. I mean, imagine if we could find out that the majority of paedophiles pick children who, for example, don’t make eye contact or wear the colour yellow – we would at least have something to work with. We must empower our children and remove power from the paedophile. I believe in the 35c solution for paedophiles – or use them for testing instead of our innocent animals – either way, they are taking up OUR kids air that they should not have to fear breathing anywhere at any time.
© Kait King, 2015
In Phase 2 I would like to continue with addressing the innate behaviour of the paedophile and the impossibilities of changing this, but with regards to desire and not just behaviour.
Child Abuse: Phase Two…from behaviour to desire
Understanding the Predator – Desire
Previously I discussed the behavior of the pedophile. Now I’d like to address the desire that spurns the predator into scarring our children.
Take, for example, the standard human relationship of a male and a female, or homosexual relationships as well, the straight adult male seeks a woman with say, an hourglass figure, long hair, big boobs, and maybe a small butt. Or what about a homosexual male relationship? He may, for example, be looking for someone who is tall, bulky and muscular or perhaps for someone who has an athletic build. Regardless of their sexuality, the desire to be with someone is created normally, from attraction to the adult physique – the physical is what attracts us all initially in the realm of adult relationships.
The first thing we are attracted to is what we see. That has been the norm since forever. As a woman I desire certain physical male attributes – I want a hairy chest and armpits, I like my man to be strong – have strong arms and chest, I like it that he pads around my house like a big cat – these are desirable physical attributes to me, as a straight female. We are talking purely physical attraction/desire so please keep this in mind. Straight men will have other triggers, which I’m sure we are all familiar with, like when she bends over, the way she flicks her hair back, her boobs when they squish together when she bends over, when she bends over…you know the drill! 😉
Anyway, let us assess what a paedophile must see as desirable in a child. Babies, toddlers, preschoolers, primary school kids,pre-teens – the majority of these age groups do not have a shapely figure and no breasts, no butt, no adult conversation. So is the pedophile attracted to those little cute, pudgy bodies, plump little cheeks and wispy head of hair etc? Physical attraction is what first triggers that desire, right?
What about those individuals who claim it is about control. Is it really about being socially awkward and being unable to talk to a grown woman/man? Is it then that every paedophile suffers with Asperger’s or Autism of some kind? Why don’t other socially awkward people become pedophiles then? I think it’s because it is not about control but about attraction – same principal as in the first part of Phase 1 – you cannot counsel, medicate, talk or religion me out of my sexuality – it is innate and this is why a paedophile cannot be rehabilitated.
All they will learn to do is hide their sexuality better, they will learn to be better skilled at obtaining silence from their victim/s, they will become better at saying what the professionals need to hear to let them back out into our communities. It’s a fault, it’s not fixable, you cannot rehabilitate away an individual’s sexual preference. It is that simple. The 35c solution is that simple. Parents and families who have lost kids to pedophiles, both spiritually and in life, also know it’s that simple.
Is what we have been doing so far working for us? Are our kids safe?
Pre-Occupancy
Pre-Occupancy
So nobody’s home
Just cardboard cut-outs
posed in my brain
Memories I can’t let go
Pre-Occupancy
A way to survive
Somehow to numb
the pain
Somehow to stay
the child
Pre-Occupancy
Merely a distraction
Something to hide
any connection
Anything to avoid
taking action
Pre-Occupancy
© Kait King, 2017
No Expectations
Presumed guilty
before proven innocent
the unwilling participant
Assume the best
and prepare for the worst
Expectation costs nothing
but disappointment hurts
© Kait King, 2015
Last thought in a Playground
She’s beating the
crap out of me
I want to be
retaliatory
But I can’t find a gap
to even try
and hit back
She kicks me in
my side
Everyone there wants to see
me cry
I can hear their
jeering calls
of magnified echoes
charging through halls
This strange metamorphosis
in sound
is my ticket off
the gravelly ground
And I can see myself
lying there
The group of bystanders
shout and cheer
My body, I see
crumpled like
a sack
And I never even got a chance
to throw a punch back
© Kait King, 2015
Sometimes a word
Touching many
or touching none,
the joy it brings
just touching one –
with a torrent of words
cleverly writ,
from the coolest phrases
in ancient Sanskrit
or perhaps a scribe in
a guttural foreign word
is the sweetest thing
anybody ever heard
And the English language
with it’s redonkulous rules
where no matter how good you are
it still makes you a fool…
sometimes
© Kait King, 2016
Kings Seat?… or Hell Hole… Part 1 and 2 now…oh and here’s 3 – ok I promise this is the last bit…no really…
This is mostly a true story!!
A long, long, loooong time ago….well it certainly feels like that, I sort of stumbled along into acting and modelling. That had to be said as I was doing some extra work on a vampire movie out in an area I live not far from now, Kings Seat. Typical film day, we had to be on set at 4-fricken-am, and in make up after signing in. So it’s cold and wet and windy. The location is an abandoned insane asylum. Big luminous floodlights are set up inside and outside of the main empty building. Spitting rain plays invisible/visible as it passes through the light – gusts of dark wind causing frenzied flurries – mesmerising, hypnotising, vampirising – so yeah, it was perfect for filming a horror/vampire movie.
A bunch of us headed up to the gloomy entrance of the building – I was desperate to take a look around and needed to find a partner in crime. Somebody else who liked having the begeezuz scared out of them. Everybody clattered into the front hallway and across to where the lamps could be seen and bizarrely enough, the smell of bacon was coming from. Trestle tables were scattered in some haphazard order, if that’s even possible and there was hustle and bustle going on where breakfast was being prepared. The area was huge, with warped wooden floors – dusty as hell, doors hung off hinges as did cobwebs off every corner and chandelier or light fitting. I wasn’t hungry at 5 am but I could do with coffee and anyway I needed to convince someone to come exploring with me. Someone who didn’t mind if they missed getting picked for some opportune moment in the movie because they were missing…
So I settled in next to someone who looked friendly enough and sipped on my coffee – it sucked, it was not real coffee and I don’t do imitation anything if I can help it – and coffee is a miracle and should be treated as such. Anyway, I’m listening quietly to the discussion I’ve intruded on. I recognise a few faces, the “usuals” and I guess I was one of them too… we swap a few early crinkled grins and raised eyebrows as acknowledgement of each other. Fuck knows what your name is but I usually don’t forget a face.
So it turns out, besides an abandoned insane asylum being creepy enough, it was haunted too. Haunted with psyche nurses who had killed themselves apparently in absolute despair. Now there were two kinds of people sitting around sipping crap coffee listening to the ghost stories. People who get more and more creeped out and just want to cling to the fluffy teddy-bear image they have of life, and then there’s people like me. People like me become more entranced and fascinated with a bad, never done before, you will never make it, you can’t do it, story… and I was sold. When you’re wired like this, you learn to pick out others who see the sick fascination in everything bizarre, unusual and usually incomprehensible. And there they were – two of them who seemed to know each other already. I had never seen them around any of the other jobs I’d been on. So I kept quiet and watched and listened and learned. They were funny and adventurous, curious and tough – I liked them and we all clicked as soon as we started chatting. I introduced myself and as we chatted away and started talking about the creepy old place, a very effeminate, obviously gay man dropped into the conversation and also fitted in perfectly with our twisted fascination of ghosts and things not of sound mind, or body for that matter.
So we slunk off to have a look around at this grey stone, intimidating building. We were in one of many – there was a place where only children were kept. The bunks lined the wall, not two up – but three. The bunks were so close together you would have to be a pretty skinny kid to squeeze your way down to the floor. The so called play ground was a fenced area with one dead, leafless tree or a twisted skeleton was sitting sadly in the middle of a patch of dirt which had become mud now, in the drizzle. The area seemed way too small for all the kids that might have filled all of those bunk beds at one time…even half of them would be a crowd. You could almost see them standing in the rain, clothes dripping, hair clinging to their unloved unwanted skulls. A great sadness hung around this area and it made us all pause and be grateful that we were on the other side, even though Kings Seat was empty – even though it didn’t quite feel like that.
Behind us was the building for the criminally insane. Razor blade wire sat on top of a chain link fence glinting dangerously at us in the flickering lights from afar. I wondered how many desperately crazy people had dreamed of being able to slice their arms on that wire and escape the hell they were in. This place was for those charming individuals who danced around with their mother’s skin draped over them in the moonlight – naturally Ed Gein springs to mind.
We held our mobile phones up to see where we were going and to read or look at things that caught our attention. We moved up to a general patients building. Were they just generally insane? Or did they generally behave under medication? Generally harmless? There was a broken window at the back above a walkway area – possibly made for wheelchair access. We all managed to clamber in after chunking bits of glass off the windows’ edge with a stone. It was incredibly dark and scary. The four of us clung together like shit to a blanket – I didn’t care if I was the blanket or the shit, I just wasn’t letting go come hell or high water.
So there we huddle, like a pack of startled rats. I wanted to make a circle out of us, y’know so we just could shuffle around but our backs were always protected. This started out as a good idea but became obvious very quickly that it was impossible to move through doorways, use stairs or get down hallways with any stealth or logic. We file behind each other and end up in a big open room with huge dormer windows. Bird poop, dust and time had smeared the windows to a level where it wouldn’t have mattered if the sun was shining, nothing was getting through those. The rain against the windows didn’t even manage to make a running pattern against the concreted bird shit and grime. Scattered over the floor were pictures, pictures that had been drawn by the patients who had once lived here. As we wandered through the open room and our eyes became a little more acquainted to the bad light we could see pictures still pinned to the walls. Tendrils of wallpaper hung around the pictures pinned indiscriminately with sometimes only one pin. The paper was yellowed and brittle, the pictures childlike – perhaps used as some sort of therapy. The room looked as if someone had just torn loads of pictures off the walls or out of cupboards and scattered them over the floor, leaving just the odd cluster of those who had time to be pinned. As I looked through some of the pictures I noticed some that were drawn in black, red and purple crayon – angry, hurt drawings. It was weird, standing there, looking into personal demons of strangers. Wondering why there are so many stories of the people who care for the crazy ending up crazy themselves or worse still, dead.
You could almost see a body hanging in a doorway, someone scratching on a wall, another rocking back and forth in some vortex unknown. We took our leave and headed back out through the window and out into the dank dark morning. As we crunched our way around the weed riddled gravel roads we came across a pen type building. There were hoses attached and metal bars that looked like they would pin a human against the wall. We all agreed that this felt like a place where people had been forced to be cleaned or washed. It felt desolate and wet, cold and unforgiving. As we moved through the property we found ourselves in a very oppressive place. We walked through a heavy metal door, we didn’t want to touch it and all of us managed to squeeze through it’s unwilling opening. I stood in the dusty darkness, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I was in a narrow low corridor, about ten rooms ran opposite each other with steel doors on each. The rooms themselves were all made of cement – the floor flowed into a cement bed, up into a cement wall and a grater type covering sat over a small oblong window. You wouldn’t be able to put your face up to it or look out onto anything. The whole room was cement, nothing movable. I could feel so much pressure on my body it was weird. As we walked down looking into the rooms we found sad memento’s of those forgotten. A filthy comb on a cement bed, a piece of hopeful rope, a blood smattering, or smear in just about every room. These dungeons stank of pain, sadness and death – death of spirit…
It was so oppressive we all became desperate to get out, panicky – overwhelming stuffiness and cloying glue air. Clambering and squeezing through the impossibly heavy door we fell out of the corridor into an open room and looked at each other, exclaiming how awful that was. We had all been frightened by this creepy old building and the grounds. We had all felt the sadness and suffocating oppressiveness but for some reason it was overwhelming in that close, dark corridor of cement rooms. We made a hurried journey back to the main building, strangely quiet in the slowly iron grey morning. Once we got there amongst the lights and bustle we kind of relaxed a little. The thought of anyone being locked up in those cells made of cement, like a tomb, it was incomprehensible. So with a hot drink in our clutches we tried to warm up a little. Some of the people who had been chatting to my new found friends came over to our huddle and asked us where we had escaped to. After telling them in great detail about our scary travels around Kings Seat we were all called to set and had to stand around for a while in silence most of the time – very tiresome. Anyway at morning tea it seemed that a little tour guide gathering had decided we were going to take them to the creepy tomb-like cells where the insane must have thrown themselves against the walls, clawed at the grater windows till they bled, banged their heads against those concrete walls and some would have killed themselves in there too, no doubt.
We arrived at the huge concrete and steel door into the corridor to the cells. We couldn’t move the door either open more or closed so those who were able and willing, slipped through the gap and into the squashing atmosphere of the tomb. There were lots of ooOOoo’s and aaahhh’s – a shriek and giggling. Slowly people dripped back out of the tombs’ corridor and into where I was standing, unable to go back in after the way I had felt there. No one seemed to be too fussed, I think there were too many of us to feel or allow anything to feel.
We returned to the main building – the adventure had been creepy and mysterious to all of the others but they had not felt what we had felt. The four of us had made surreptitious eye contact, realising that no one else had experienced that suffocating horror, or silent desperateness to get out. None of us had spoken while we had been in that corridor, looking into the cells – it was almost out of some religious or spiritual reason or respect that we were unable to do anything initially and then just want to escape a split second later, with absolute needy desperation…it was strange.
We continued filming after the morning break and lunchtime rolled around. One of the research guys from the crew invited me to sit and have lunch with him. We had met before and he always knew what was going on and when. So I told him what we had been up to and that I thought the place where the psychiatric nurse would have committed suicide would be in that tomb room that the four of us had felt strange in. He looked at me with a slightly confused look on his face.
“Which psyche nurse was this?” he asks
“Well, I think there was more than one who committed suicide because of the patients…” I said, trailing off. He was shaking his head. “Uh uh…that’s not what happened there. You have the wrong story.”
So I ask him to tell me the real deal. Apparently that cement cell block held the most dangerous patients – and was generally full at any one time. The ratio for patient and nurse was one on one due to the nature of the beast. Somehow one of the patients overwhelmed his nurse, a male psyche nurse and suffocated him. He then stealthily crept to the next cell and helped the next patient kill his nurse and so on and so forth until all ten severely violent and disturbed psyche patients were free. As the gathering group moved down the cell block the killing became more and more frenzied as they realised there was nothing that the nurses could do when there was seven of them and only 3 nurses left. Some patients threw bodies against walls and smashed the victims heads open, dangled brains over themselves and ran around screaming.
No one would go in there. The staff believed they would calm down when it came around to meal time and the nightmare could be dealt with then. Well the patients managed to hole up in there for 5 days, eating the bodies of the dead nurses. Then they turned on themselves. That is why there is no Kings Seat Asylum for the Mentally Insane any more – they ate the staff and the clients – real bad for business….
The End
© Kait King, 2015
Mod-Rock-Vintage-Glam
Say what?
Edgy, I get
but perhaps it’s time
to give a name to this
retro-mismatched
misunderstood era
of a better time
clung to with the echo’s
of laughing kids on bicycles
a dog barks and sprinklers spit
on the thirsty, but well-kept lawn –
you know the drill
Now we watch TV programs of that
magical but oh so dangerous era –
as never before or after the 70’s
has there been a true A-typical
serial killer – at least that we know of
Corruption and destruction
non-existent moon-landings
And milk that lasted outside for weeks
We thought we were moving forward
But there were glass-ceilings and
“no choice” let alone the freedom of speech
The Vietnam war left more bodies
falling over time, or walking like the dead –
than the count of the actual battle
Hate was not something of the past
activists and advocates battled for what’s right
and still there are the odd crosses found
burning in the night
© Kait King, 2015
Society’s Perfect Human
Don’t know why I’m here
but finally I see
there’s a few hard lessons
to be learned by me
And it doesn’t matter what I
think I’ve learned
I give so much
and still get burned
So how do we turn ourselves
into someone new
It can’t be the easiest thing
to do so
why do we try so hard
to be
society’s perfect human being?
© Kait King, 2015
Just Because….
Just because he’s fat
you can’t leave him out
like that
And even if it’s so
inside he’s like you,
y’know
And even when we’re angry
and think we are not wrong
it’s best to love and forgive
and learn to get along
Just because she’s different
and cannot see by choice
take a moment to listen
to her gifted singing voice
Because everyone’s born perfect
from different points of view
and the world would really be
quite boring
if they were all like me
and you
© Kait King, 2016
Foot in mouth disease
I loved university. I loved being up to my eyeballs in something I was fascinated with. The challenges and deadlines were all bonuses on top of the actual subject and I rose to greet each one. Anyway that’s by the by, so I’m in the lecture theater and the lecture is about to end. I know I’m getting a phone call very shortly so I excuse myself to go outside to wait for the call.
I get outside and there’s a kid doubled over, sitting pretty much folded over on the side bench. I wander to the bench, my phone out, texting and looking up as I walk. And I sit down on his right side. He shuffles over a little to make room. He is not moving much and my curiosity gets the better of me and I surreptitiously glance sideways at him. Yep, he is totally bent in half, but I do see his phone in his hand and he’s got his left hand side of his face plastered to his phone. Not the left hand side as in, his ear and talking, I mean like with his eye and not talking. Possibly taking a picture of his eye? Or the pupil of his eye? So without thinking for another second I pipe up with “I think you need glasses by the looks of things!” and chuckled a little, breaking the ice and everything. And this is my problem – my brain doesn’t engage with my mouth or vice versa – they work independently (against me!) so this is where I have ended up with this Foot in Mouth Disease – I’m a a frequent flyer.
Well, this kid looks up at me and one eye is covered with that cloud, the cloud that means that they can’t see much of anything out of that eye and the other one is scarred too.
He says, “It’s the only way I can see my texts – glasses won’t help…” I’m sitting there like an idiot. But I did what I usually do and chose not to ignore the elephant.
“So what happened to your eyes?” I asked.
He looked up from his phone again – well, as best as he could, and explained that he had been walking down Queen Street and it was winter. A super stormy day, and Queen Street can become like a wind tunnel on days like that. He had a jacket on that zipped up and as he grappled in the wind with it, the zip sliced across his eye, blinding him totally in his right eye and severely impinging on his sight in his left.
“I’m so sorry dude – really impressed you’re at university…I didn’t mean to be rude by the way….” I trailed off. He smiled, “It’s OK,” he says to me, ” at least you didn’t just walk away – that’s the worst. Everyone knows something’s up with my fricken vision. Lots of people don’t know what to do when they’re confronted with something unexpected…”
We were silent for a split second.
“I’m sorry this happened to you…. but I see in spite of a universal fuck-up in your life, you’re still here, still givin’ it all that!” he laughed at me and I laughed too.
“Often people so let the wrong things define who they are, or the worst things. The fact that you rise above this defines who you are.” He looked at me with a serious frown, somewhat created due to his lack of vision.
“Thank you for that, I needed to hear that right now…” he said.
I didn’t know his name but I did know much more about him than just some letters to identify him to his friends, family, fellow students and work colleagues. Not only that, but I found out even more about myself, or maybe about people. We all share commonalities – common likes, enemies, feelings, injustices etc. We all share bonds and those deeper threads of what make us who we are are far more interesting and important than your name, your clothes, your home, car, bank account…we truly are here to fill our souls and not our wallets. I take my soul with me when I go – I will leave my earthly belongings behind.
© Kait King, 2015
Lyrics to “Welcome to Hollywood”
V1. So you’re gonna tell me
that all that money
really makes it worthwhile
Yes, you’re here to say
that for a little more pay
you’re happy to change your style
V2. And it doesn’t matterfor worse or for better
it’s dollars in the bank you say
Well you’ve packed all your bags
No champagne, streamers or flags
Yes you’re off to be a star and hey –
Chorus: You can get to Hollywood easyShow them what you’ve got
Even though it can be cheap and sleazy
I know that you are not
V3. Now you live up in the Hillswith fast cars and faster pills
Something to get you through each day
Red eyes and a bag of bones
But it’s just for the money you say, Hey – Chorus
© Kait King, 2016
I Just Wanted
I just wanted
to be happy
As baffling as
that may seem
I just wanted to
spread Kindness
Remove the idea
of being mean
I just wanted
to have Peace
As impossible as
that seems
but it’s ok, they say,
to always have dreams
There is no need to
“stand your ground”
It isn’t yours, for a start
It will still be here
When we’re not around
It’s much better to leave
a piece of your Heart
© Kait King, 2016
No Problem
Any time and everywhere
when you’re thinking people stare –
you’ve got a problem
If it doesn’t matter what they say
And you think yours is the only way –
you’ve got a problem
When you think you’re doing fine
Everyone else says you’re out of line –
you’ve got a problem
And if you think it stops right here
I don’t think you’re thinking clear –
you’ve got a problem
When a lover walks on out
saying your’e just a lay-about –
you’ve got a problem
© Kait King, 2015
☆WTF!??? I’m just so disappointed…I loveD Ellen deGeneres (Ellen theGenerous)
Ellen deGeneres
I feel like you’re one of us
When I see you on TV
I really feel you’re talking to me
And you say life is
not easy
when yours just seems
so breezy
and It’s not money that plays that part
but the love
beating in your heart
UPDATE: Was I so so wrong….💔
© Kait King, 2015
The Writers’ Blogk: Observation 3
- If you are unable to move your perception around, then you may only be able to write one-dimensionally.
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