gut honest faith

Month: November, 2014


The church is called a Bride in the Bible. Much like a Bride on a wedding day looking all superbly beautiful and yet, coming home, we know that this is not the final stage of that lady. Let me tell you, my bridal make up took effort. A bride is a sign of beauty, yet it is not a perfect beauty, for any Bride will eventually age and be sick and be far from the perfect form. Mostly, any Bride will finally die. Gosh, yes. Sorry for ruining your wedding day, but you, too, are going to die.

In a same way, people making up the church are far from perfect. Yet we are called the Bride. What can it mean? A Bride is a wife in the making, she is not yet it. I love that, we are not yet there. We are, similarly to a Bride, awaiting a promise, something that will have lasting impact. Imagine the legal implications alone that a wedding bring. You now own half.

I love my church. Not quite as much as God loves her, true. In fact, I find myself get bothered about that pore showing, and the nail polish not being applied quite correctly and those bobby pins showing. And look at the hem of that dress? Not appealing. Yes, there are things that are far from perfect, yet, I love my church.

So here, church, thanks for being made up of imperfect people, for how else could I possibly learn to love those that are unlovable? How else can I possibly see that I am actually one of them? And understand that I am loved regardless? Imagine a husband running off due to some flaw in the hem of the dress. See!




A very merry unbirthday

Some months ago the hubz turned thirty. Yes, I am somewhat of a cougar, having snatched a younger man. Not complaining=) So, his whole family invited themselves over to our studio flat for a little coffee before going out for a birthday dinner. Oh, my, I broke out in sweat. The whole casual nature of 15 people in our shoe box eluded me. It would be a disaster.

Planning started a month ahead of time, what cakes, what ingredients were needed etc. No, I am not a control freak so I tried to delegate as much as possible, yet to no avail. No one was able to make a cake for me, even for pay. Yes, surely I could have forked out something way above budget, but yeah, you don’t live in a shoe box for no reason.

The day before the big party I stood in the kitchen a total of eight hours. During high summer season, sweat dripping off every inch of my bodies surface. Early the next morning the decoration started, a Cheshire cat fondant cover for the cake, try drawing with liquid sugar with sweat dripping down your hands and the rabbits clock ticking away. Ah, the horror.

I called dad to come early to help decorating the cupcakes. A good eighty cupcakes in total. He agreed and soon there were two people sweating away in the heated shoe box. Schroedingers cat was certainly dead by now. Once the first guests arrived the hubz was no where to be seen. He had disappeared, so I had to entertain his grandparents whilst franticly planning my next steps in my head.

The kitchen was a disaster, and, his family not being too discreet, enjoyed the entire shoe box, walking around and taking in the whole view, with trashy balcony which served as our cupboard to chuck stuff in in order to cram sufficient chairs into the box. I was making small talk about the flowers on the balcony whilst sweating yet some more since one could have not missed the pile of trash blocking the view to the flowers even if one tried.

Well, it was a great success, everyone liked my cakes and cupcakes and decorations and the hubz finally showed up and we were all sweating in our box, hoping to follow Schroedingers cat soon to a better place. In that sense it was an unbirthday, as it surely will, unlike a birthday, never be repeated, at least not in the real world. Frankly, I don’t care what Alice does, I won’t. End of story.

Call me onion

She was delicate and plain, nothing about her appearance would make you want to take a second look. Her theories were quite the opposite, though. She had strong, outrageous and bizarre theories. She carried them like statement jewellery.  One of them was that she admired onions for being self-reliant to the highest degree. Although, whilst cutting onions, she would always wear proper wintery gloves.

At times she would voice envy towards the pot plant standing in the corner. In fact, it was the only pot plant I ever managed to keep for a while. Well, it is dead now. It is dead. I suppose this is what happens to entirely self-reliant entities, they whither and die. The hubs and I discussed the interdependence between individuality and the collective just yesterday. Can they co-exist or are they by definition at odds with one another?

The church speaks of itself as having many members, yet being all part of one body. This poetic depiction may not offer up much of insight to some, yet it captures perfectly an aspect of reality that is mostly overlooked in our times of individualistic living.  You and I can never be self-made, as we are by necessity a product of our preceding gene material and our surrounding.

Your brain would be incapable to have formed without an environment giving it impulses. And, without parental genetic material, well, fat chance there would be any brain ready to receive any environmental input at all. Yes, you can be a tube baby, yet this applies to you. Of course the same applies to your clone. Your original source genes must have come from somewhere for you to make a clone off.

Of course various issues arise with receiving of unwanted genetic material. You perceive yourself as you, yet you have never put in a clam anywhere asking to be a certain height or being born at a certain place. Yet you perceive yourself as you, and not just as a bundle of reacting physical matter. The question of individualism vs the collective is one of essentially the freedom of the will, something that will forever be impossible to answer.

So, back to my room mate onion. Her desires may not be all her desires after all. Surely some experiences marked her to be shy of human contact and reliance? Sorry, onion, solipsism collapses and simply can not hold. The hubz by the way was in favour of the collective, yet, this is not in accordance of an idea of love which claims that your concerns concern the other. In a truly collective world there would simply be no room for love. No, that would leave me full of tears, as though I was living with an onion.

In my head

Roughly a year ago the hubs and I gave some money to the church. Well, we oughtn’t boast in our giving, and so I won’t give you any amounts, all I can say is that it was a sum leading us to live off of about 25€ a week for several weeks. In that time we began to pray for my debts to disappear. My husband paid a great price for me, quite biblical, don’t you think?

I started to believe for the very sum to come in, yet the hubz was pushing bad. Over the course of roughly eight weeks my boundaries were going from a five figure sum up to a double digit million sum, at least in my head. I encountered several walls in my head, a real fear of big money, and I saw the hubz fearlessly marching ahead.

He surely has no fear of big money, there, I said it. Over the following year we really dug deep into the subject of big money, what to do with it, where to invest it, how to behave, who to bless etc. I started making lists on where the money would go, and they changed quite considerable over the year. Big money truly does not frighten me any more. Quite a step from thinking that money really is what’s wrong with the world.

The two years prior to that I worked in the most luxury store around and I served the richest and most powerful people this country has to offer. I got a great insight in what not to do with big money, let me tell you. Ripping people off is one of them, and rubbing it into other peoples faces is another. One more is trying to impress others, the biggest waste of money there is.

Now let me tell you, I feel as though we are the owners of a double digit million sum, imagine. This pondering on the big money has opened my heart, for I began to consider that I do not have to have the big sums in order to bless people, I can use the little I have. And let me tell you, nothing makes me feel richer than giving money away. Strange paradox, for sure. And the day the double digits arrive,, we simply have more to give away. Like the hubz said, it’s only a tool, like a hammer, nothing more, nothing less.

What’s underneath

When you were to meet this Nick Veasey you’d most likely imagine him to be a mechanic of some sorts or a plumber. The fact that he is an innovative artist is hiding underneath the surface. He represents what his work is trying to do. Enjoy!

Dumb, smart, weird

Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, Alf’s Title Music, Real Housewives Quotes and Southpark Quotes, LAMB, The Doors, Rachmaninov, Debussy, Camille Saint-Saens, Simpsons theme song, Madonna, Michael Jackson, Nine Inch Nails, Hillsong Music, Blind Boys of Alabama, Erykah Badu, Lauryn Hill, Whitney Houston and on and on it goes.

There would be muffled prayers, screaming prayers, prayers drowned out by heavy sobbing, ecstatic prayers, arrogant accusative prayers, speaking in tongues, loud and under my breath, yes, countless prayers, convulsively sobbed prayers, repetitive prayers and none of them ever went unheard.

Most importantly there would be the occasional silent interim, akin to a black screen, with absolutely nothing. During the day I have taken to closing my eyes for short periods of time and this little death from sensory input has done wonders in resetting my soul to semi-normal. In other words, “Have you tried turning it off and on again?”

Please hold the line

The perfect day would certainly not contain those words uttered over the phone. Any day not holding this experience is nigh perfect. When arriving in London in 2000 for the second time, some of the luggage would have been too heavy for me to take onto the bus with me. Oh, look, here is a rabbit trail. So, said journey, my friend was supposed to pick me up. Despite having sent quite a fair bit by post, I still had a good 40 kg’s with me. I step outside the bus and? No one. Not one single soul there, apart from the anonymous masses frequenting Victoria Station.

So, with my few coins I get on the tube, literally dragging my one hockey bag on the floor. I would have never managed to pick it up, let alone carry it. So, I did have a mobile, but it was close to running out. I scribble down the address of my new abode and try a few times to call my friend. No answer. Can you believe I never even found out what happened that day? So I go to the nearest stop, please remember pre-smart phone. No cash, not knowing where to go. Some cab driver has a heart and promises to take me to where I need to go. Surely someone there can lend me some money?

We go to the address which turns out to be the wrong one, of course. Battery dead, me slowly dying.  Of anger, frustration, disappointment, tiredness. A bus ride takes well over 24 hours. The taxi driver is beginning to loose faith in me. And, also, to this day I don’t know what happened next. I simply can not remember. In London are several streets with the same name, yet located in different area codes. I do not remember if the cabby took me there, or did I walk the rest? I vaguely remember to have done some walking with that horrific bag.

As I arrive at my new flat share I do not remember what happened there either. Anyway, I get there, and the next few days I literally spend hours every day with holding the line, chasing up the parcels that, too, gotten lost in some vague unidentified place in space and time. Mostly Scottish accents greet me in the kindest manner, yes, what tragedy I have to call in due to such a terrible reason. After two weeks I give up. I literally have done everything, from travelling out to the entrepot of the delivery company to holding that line still.

The day it arrives I am informed that it had been by that very door I had gone to to check. Funny how none of those things are with me now, as they all seized to be of importance to me over the years. My friend, too, seized to exist. Not in general, only in her being a friend to me. Out of sheer anger I found it impossible to talk for a good six months. My life would have taken an entirely different route had she only been there awaiting me by the bus. I literally would be a different person now. The crowd I got into from that fateful day onwards truly took me places I never even knew existed.

Certain things exude an appeal and have this air of value, my luggage for instance or those parcels and my friend. Over time everything is subject to change I guess. One day I may even consider it to be a day well spent holding the line. Good to know some things do not change. Actually, Mikha, you know, had you not ignored me I would have probably never gone down that pit yet would have never gotten to know that Saviour who got me out of it. Thanks girl for being there for me by not being there for me, wait, one minute, hold the line please.


He looked like a hipster before it was unhip to be one. His name was HO, short for Hans-Otto, pronounced Hah-Oh. As kids we loved him. In the eighties he chatted with people from all over the world by radio. An aged, rattled box tossed into the back of some dingy room in his house. He had a broad, fleshly face, actually, he looked a little like Bukowski. Maybe he was a bit like him, too. Conventions did not interest him terribly, and shock was his favourite means of communicating.

Him and my aunt lived in a house with a pool, and, since they had no children the place had the aura of a factory hall to us. Mammoth! His beard was constantly unkempt, and at times I wondered if he had morsels of food from last Christmas still stuck in there. One day he set out to bite my tummy, and I literally imagined he would move his head back with a huge shred of torn flesh stuck to his teeth and obviously his beard.

He was a baptist pastor who was unlike any other baptist pastor.Although he and his wife have not been living together for years they remain married, yet another thing no one really understands. I miss him at family gatherings. He made us kids laugh. I wonder if now, thirty years on, he would still have us in stitches? One saying that would make us choke with laughter was what he said before excusing himself for the loo: I have to abseil something. HO! Hohoho!


We went to watch Interstellar yesterday. What a movie! Time and space is bent, and, yes, I won’t give away much more, just in case you want to go see it. It spoke of the idea of peeping back in time, looking at a younger you from today’s perspective. At times, one does not need a wormhole to do so. We can manage quite well by ourselves. Yes, I have had moments where I wished those days back, before, you know, the rape took place.

I was a happy-go-lucky girl, popular, student body president, on my way to pursue a career as a model. And, wham, in an instant, all that was changed. Instead, I developed an eating disorder, my mind played tricks, separating me from my former group of friends, things basically went haywire. Those carefree days I would often yearn for, when life was simple. In no way can I make sense of what happened, but, I have stopped trying to figure it out.

It was a long process, spanning several years. Some things simply won’t make sense in this life time. One pivotal point was actually something as banal as exercise. I began to view my body as less of an enemy and made a peace treaty with it. Tracy Anderson actually interviews a psychologist somewhere who advices their clients to use exercise as a means to get out of the victim mentality. I can confirm that.

At times I wonder what my life would be now had none of this happened. Well, it did, and I frankly don’t know if I would go back in time to change that. I would certainly go back in time if I could change only that, but I suppose many things I enjoy today are a direct result of this heinous crime that was committed. For instance do I enjoy my mind a great deal and I doubt I would have developed it had I become a serious model, no offence.

If I could bend space time, I would go back to the creation of the world, easily! God asks Job several chapters worth of questions surrounding this very moment in time. If I could go back to peek, wow, that would be it. The mighty awesomeness of it all, and me, hanging overhead, in some safe capsule, watching it all unfold. I must say, that truly would be supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

Quit playing games

A key to someone’s heart, imagine. Of course, I would not abuse such power. Ever! Come to think of it, I probably would! At some point this key would serve a purpose not entirely pure and the havoc caused would maybe span over several generations to come.

In Dostojewskis’ Сон смешного человека, Son smešnogo čeloveka, The Dream of a ridiculous man, he describes marvellously well how even one person’s evil intention would have devastating effects on the entire planet. At times I wonder how it will be when we see the real impact of all our actions, how far reaching they really were?