Muzu Creative

I ain't got no home, ain't got no shoes Ain't got no money, ain't got no class Ain't got no skirts, ain't got no sweater Ain't got no perfume, ain't got no bed Ain't got no man Ain't got no mother, ain't got no culture Ain't got no friends, ain't got no schoolin' Ain't got no love, ain't got no name Ain't got no ticket, ain't got no token Ain't got no god Hey, what have I got? Why am I alive, anyway? Yeah, what have I got Nobody can take away? Got my hair, got my head Got my brains, got my ears Got my eyes, got my nose Got my mouth, I got my smile I got my tongue, got my chin Got my neck, got my boobies (just one and that’s ok) Got my heart, got my soul Got my back, I got my sex I got my arms, got my hands Got my fingers, got my legs Got my feet, got my toes Got my liver, got my blood I've got life

I’m am going to the beach now. I decided to go two hours ago and have been distracted. Before heading off for my sea salted meander, I sat down to create a list. The list was 20 ways to get a writing practice going. (I could only think of 10) Twenty ways to create a habit. Then I was going to go to the beach. However, from that list, became a second list, ‘Twenty ideas to nurture creativity’. Twenty things I could do to keep me focussed on writing. (Amazingly, I came up with twenty-three.) During this time, I remembered the names of some writers I liked so Googled them and then connected to their Instagram. Whilst on their Instagram I saw other people of interest and Googled, then subsequently followed them as well. Then a thought struck me. I remembered a book I bought years ago when I was trying to find inspiration and endeavouring to get a writing practice going. Did I still have it? I rummaged through my book case.  I bet you just saw I vision of me crouched in front

I should have written this long ago. I should have thought of this long ago. Should have listened, should have heard, should have followed through. I am seeing my world differently now. Looking with new eyes. Eyes that are razor sharp and discerning. To look objectively at ones’ life is difficult at first, however I have found the rewards far outweigh the awkwardness we feel at first. Should. This is a word well-worn in my vocabulary. I have learned that when I use the word should I am running in the opposite direction to my heart’s desire. I am saying NO to me. Talk to hand I have said. Not going there. I want to write today, but I should spend time with my family. Why? Because if I don’t, I am selfish. I am unloving. I feel guilty. (I am less important. I am not worthy enough of my time) I have been invited to a party, but I don’t really want to go. I am not anti-social and I love the people attending, I just want to do something else. Something that feels b

Sacral and sacred. Warm, illuminating, energising. Aglow with the passion of fire, I give you freedom, freedom to feel. Trust me. Pleasure, not forbidden, essential. Embrace me. The sweetness of Intimacy. Sensual connection. Surrender. Creation. The core of me. I invite you to embrace the artist within. Long languid afternoons with liquid inks and flower pressed paper. Charcoal smudged fingers and paint splattered feet. Prose and print making, creating your mark. Come, I call. Come play with me. Change. I give you permission. Whilst I wrap you in robes of saffron security, I encourage transformation. Feel your way, following your emotional map. Intuition is key. Feel and follow through. Take action. The scent of citrus and sandalwood soothes me. I am one with the energies of Citrine, Calcite and Carnelian. Cinnamon, honey and passionfruit feed me. Associated with water I give you access to flow, flexibility and fun. Second in a sequence of energy centres, not one gr

Pearly Shells, from the ocean Shining in the sun Covering up the shore When I see them My heart tells me that I love you, More than all the little pearly shells . We used to sing this as kids. While doing the dishes. A Hank Snow song sung over and over, passed down through the family. My grandmother would have sung with my mother and her sisters, sometime in the 50’S and I guess they just kept singing it. We sang it, while doing the dishes. Three girls singing, usually in harmony – without even knowing what harmony was. This stopped the arguing, the throwing of plates, flicking of suds, pulling of hair and other shenanigans. I’ve never sung it with my son or stepsons. They – glued to the electronic devices of their era   - do not know about the pearly shells. The dishwasher replaced tantrums of who’s turn it was and the half-arsed wipe down of the kitchen bench was always done with one hand and both eyes distracted by said chosen device. I think of my sist

I’m so wild I could scream! She would shout this often. Wild? I thought. Like the Brumby’s that could been seen grazing on the ridge at sunset? You make me so wild! Directed at me, caused by me. I made her wild. Wild? Like the tiny purple and yellow flowers that grew out from the tree stump down by the creek? Like the orange breasted Robin, who played hide and seek in the crevices of the now crumbling and abandoned quarry? No, not that kind of wild. Thundering black clouds, rain pelting, wind ripping at worn white sheets on the old wooden line, broken branches flying, hundred-year-old glass window smashing kind of wild. Yes. Because I was wild too. Free, untamed and pure. River running, mane flowing kind of wild. Reckless, shoeless, breathless and careless. I ran from routine, from order, from responsibility. Don’t hold me, don’t cage me, just love me. You better do as you are told. They would say. She will be so wild if you don’t. Strap flying, spoon bre

I have a collection of journals. Writing Journals. I do not collect journals; however, journals seem to collect me. It’s true I do write and yes, in journals, however on closer inspection, I own a great many empty journals. Too many. The empty journals are not lying in wait, I did not purchase them knowing that in due course, I would fill their pages with beautiful prose, witty satirical observations, or heartfelt outpourings of emotion. In fact, I did not purchase them at all. The empty journals were gifts. Gifts for a writer. Carefully selected, each one. Some leather, silk and fabric bound. Some hand made with flower pressed paper pages. Recycled, reclaimed, re-purposed. From distant shores, India, England, Thailand. Leaves of possibility, tactile and tempting. I have journals with pages illustrated with moons and mermaids, clouds and clowns, pages tied with ribbons and some with jute. All empty, too beautiful to touch, to fill. When I open their pages…words fail me