at the Fishing Park
‘Oh yes, I do love my child!’
OF COURSE I DO!
OF COURSE I DO!
At the Fishing Park
The beginning.
I began work at a local fishing park, helping people to catch rainbow trout in a small pond. The experience completely healed me of wanting to go fishing and kill fish, as I expressed my way through all the bad feelings I felt about it. And it gave me an incredible opportunity to observe parents, all that helped me awaken more of my forgotten early childhood memories. And being more aware of the child from my healing years, oh boy, what a horrible insight it was into 'loving parenting'.
The beginning.
I began work at a local fishing park, helping people to catch rainbow trout in a small pond. The experience completely healed me of wanting to go fishing and kill fish, as I expressed my way through all the bad feelings I felt about it. And it gave me an incredible opportunity to observe parents, all that helped me awaken more of my forgotten early childhood memories. And being more aware of the child from my healing years, oh boy, what a horrible insight it was into 'loving parenting'.
Referring to the toddler who was toddling past me, his father said: ‘Just push him out of the way.’
I wanted to push him out of the fucking way.
I wanted to push him out of the fucking way.
Now thank James for his help. Say, ‘Thank you James for your help. Thank you for helping me catch the fish’.
The three-year-old dear little boy concentrated hard looking down at the ground, ‘Th... Thaank you James. Thank you for helping me...’
His mother standing over him pushed: say, ‘Thank you for helping me catch the fish’, and look at James when you’re thanking him.
‘Thank you for helping me catch the fish.’
Good. And say, ‘I enjoyed myself a lot, it was fun’.
‘I... I enjoyed myself a lot, it... it was fun.’
Where's the fun in being so controlled?
The three-year-old dear little boy concentrated hard looking down at the ground, ‘Th... Thaank you James. Thank you for helping me...’
His mother standing over him pushed: say, ‘Thank you for helping me catch the fish’, and look at James when you’re thanking him.
‘Thank you for helping me catch the fish.’
Good. And say, ‘I enjoyed myself a lot, it was fun’.
‘I... I enjoyed myself a lot, it... it was fun.’
Where's the fun in being so controlled?
Father: Look at the fish, what colour is it? How long is it? Mother: What do you think, would its skin be hot or cold - touch it, does it feel cold? F: Don’t go over there, stay here. M: What does a fish eat - what do you think a fish eats? Don’t do that, stay here. It’s asleep now, what does its skin feel like - touch it, is it wet or dry? F: Touch it, it won’t move. Touch it here, put your hand on it like this. M: Would you stop it, stay still. F: You can’t play in the playground until you’ve caught another fish. M: Stay here, don’t go over there, we’ve got to catch another fish. F: We’ve got to catch two fish for us to eat, you like fish, don’t you? Put that down. Behave, that’s not yours. Come over here now we’re going to catch the next fish. Stand up, get off the log, do it how you were told to do it. M: Don’t lie on the log, stand up. Do what the man told you. F: Concentrate...
He was the first child, he hardly got a word in. They were such devoted caring parents trying so hard to educate him about life. Yuk!
He was the first child, he hardly got a word in. They were such devoted caring parents trying so hard to educate him about life. Yuk!
‘Put that down, we’re going.’ He didn’t want to go, he started to protest. She quickly took it out of his hand and picked him up before he could grab it again. He started to scream louder that he wanted it and didn’t want to go. She told him to be quiet with stern looks and harsh words - he got the message, but still protested. He tired to bite her. ‘Don’t bite me!’, she forcibly said with greater anger. His eyes of hatred glared at her, his face full of rage, he was holding back straining under the pressure - his eyes bulging. She looked at him with even more anger and a huge NO in her eyes. He violently threw his head aside wriggling and struggling in her arms. He didn’t want to give in, he didn’t want to lose, he started to cry.
And where does all that anger he’s feeling at his mother go? Will he grow up remembering he hated her? It depends on how the rest of his life goes, and probably not. And such rage will get buried inside him, and as he couldn’t express it there and then so he won’t be able to easily express it as an adult. Yet it will still be within him, and he’ll never feel quite right, even if his life goes well for him, even if he can say he loves his mother remembering all the good things she did for him and all the good times they had together. And occasionally he’ll see and feel it rear its ugly head, all that repressed unwanted fear, anger and hatred - all that repressed rage. And he might go into therapy wanting to know why he doesn’t feel right, why his relationships don’t work properly. But only through his feeling-healing will he eventually be able to go back to that time, and all those times like today at the Fishing Park, when his mother hated him and he hated her. Only then will he be able to know the truth of how he feels about her, the truth coming to him directly through his feelings.
And where does all that anger he’s feeling at his mother go? Will he grow up remembering he hated her? It depends on how the rest of his life goes, and probably not. And such rage will get buried inside him, and as he couldn’t express it there and then so he won’t be able to easily express it as an adult. Yet it will still be within him, and he’ll never feel quite right, even if his life goes well for him, even if he can say he loves his mother remembering all the good things she did for him and all the good times they had together. And occasionally he’ll see and feel it rear its ugly head, all that repressed unwanted fear, anger and hatred - all that repressed rage. And he might go into therapy wanting to know why he doesn’t feel right, why his relationships don’t work properly. But only through his feeling-healing will he eventually be able to go back to that time, and all those times like today at the Fishing Park, when his mother hated him and he hated her. Only then will he be able to know the truth of how he feels about her, the truth coming to him directly through his feelings.
I put a big bunch of worms on the weight-less rod and set it in the pool, the three-year-old boy was holding it waiting for a fish to take it. A fish took it, his father helped him bring it in, making very loud and excited yells and hoots. The fish was then on the ground in the net wriggling around. Still very excited, the father continued, ‘Go on, touch it, it won’t hurt you, go on, HEY, WHO’S THE BEST FISHERMAN, YEAH YOU DONE WELL, GOOD GOING, YOU CAUGHT IT, WHO’S THE BEST, YOU’RE THE BEST, TOUCH IT, TOUCH IT, PICK IT UP, OH THAT WAS FUN, WASN’T THAT GREAT FUN, IT’S SUCH GREAT FUN CATCHING A FISH...’ On and on he went, the young boy stood back hesitantly, he wasn’t going to touch the fish, it was still alive! His father then grabbed the fish after I’d killed it and removed the hook. He thrust it forward into his boys face, still loudly and excitedly exclaiming the wondrous fishing virtues of his son. ‘TAKE THE FISH, HOLD IT, YOU CAUGHT IT, WE’LL TAKE A PICTURE, YOU’RE THE GREATEST, WASN’T THAT GOOD, YOU'RE A GREAT FISHERMAN...’ The boy was scared, his father scaring him more with every word and excited over-inflated gesticulation of ‘happiness’. It seemed like the boy didn’t know what to do: either join his father in all the false merriment and praise, or flee.
I see it a lot, the over-eager father wanting he and his son to have a really grand day, a good ‘bonding’ time together doing something he (the father) likes to do, something all fathers and sons should do - go fishing together. The boy continued to look horrified. He was too young. He was scared, but he’s not allowed to be scared - he’s to be a man... albeit a little man. So what’s the point of scaring your own child half to death under the pretext of ‘he’s having a wonderful time’ when the boy is having a shit time and really it’s all about the father having his great time being the child.
I see it a lot, the over-eager father wanting he and his son to have a really grand day, a good ‘bonding’ time together doing something he (the father) likes to do, something all fathers and sons should do - go fishing together. The boy continued to look horrified. He was too young. He was scared, but he’s not allowed to be scared - he’s to be a man... albeit a little man. So what’s the point of scaring your own child half to death under the pretext of ‘he’s having a wonderful time’ when the boy is having a shit time and really it’s all about the father having his great time being the child.
She snatched the rod out of his hand ‘Don’t play with that!’, he started to cry. He’d found something he liked, his very own pink fishing rod, he’d been holding it without causing any problems. It didn’t have a hook on the end of the line, it had been taken off for that reason, so the little people can play ‘fishing’ without the worry of them hurting themselves.
My mother was always snatching whatever I found out of my hands. I learnt, and so my pattern formed, that nothing I found in the world was ever going to be for me. That at any moment it could, and most likely would, be snatched away from me. I’ve never been able to accumulate all the things most people do. At best, such as this computer, I use it, and love using it whilst I can, but still unconsciously I believe the time will come when I will have to give it up. It will break, or I will have to stop writing and so have no need for it, or someone will come in and steal it... whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter, because deep within myself I don’t consider it mine, I don’t feel I have the right to it, I feel like it’s just on loan to me, and at any moment I’m going to have to give it back - give it up. And it doesn’t matter that I bought it with my own money, for I feel the same way about my money, that someone’s just given it to me for a while, or somehow I’ve just come across it, but at any moment it will be gone, I’ll have to give it away, it will be snatched out of my hand. And I can’t buy a new computer, I can only buy second-hand cheaper ones, because I never have enough money, and I’m always fearful that what I have won’t last before I have to give it up. And I never have enough money because I don’t feel I have the right in life to have it, so I can’t go out and make it, I can’t do anything other than hope the government keeps giving it to me. I have no right to life. I can’t take life by the horns and make it my own. How can I do that, when as soon as I find something I like in life, it’s going to be snatched out of my hands.
It seems all so simple, that mother for whatever reasons doesn’t want her little boy to play with the fishing rod. He has no say in his life, it’s all how she’s making it be. She has no idea how much damage she’s causing him, how such actions with their driven unloving intentions are going to screw up his relationship with life. She doesn’t understand how it’s already too late, his life is screwed up... he’s still crying. She’s not going to allow him to have his way.
My mother was always snatching whatever I found out of my hands. I learnt, and so my pattern formed, that nothing I found in the world was ever going to be for me. That at any moment it could, and most likely would, be snatched away from me. I’ve never been able to accumulate all the things most people do. At best, such as this computer, I use it, and love using it whilst I can, but still unconsciously I believe the time will come when I will have to give it up. It will break, or I will have to stop writing and so have no need for it, or someone will come in and steal it... whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter, because deep within myself I don’t consider it mine, I don’t feel I have the right to it, I feel like it’s just on loan to me, and at any moment I’m going to have to give it back - give it up. And it doesn’t matter that I bought it with my own money, for I feel the same way about my money, that someone’s just given it to me for a while, or somehow I’ve just come across it, but at any moment it will be gone, I’ll have to give it away, it will be snatched out of my hand. And I can’t buy a new computer, I can only buy second-hand cheaper ones, because I never have enough money, and I’m always fearful that what I have won’t last before I have to give it up. And I never have enough money because I don’t feel I have the right in life to have it, so I can’t go out and make it, I can’t do anything other than hope the government keeps giving it to me. I have no right to life. I can’t take life by the horns and make it my own. How can I do that, when as soon as I find something I like in life, it’s going to be snatched out of my hands.
It seems all so simple, that mother for whatever reasons doesn’t want her little boy to play with the fishing rod. He has no say in his life, it’s all how she’s making it be. She has no idea how much damage she’s causing him, how such actions with their driven unloving intentions are going to screw up his relationship with life. She doesn’t understand how it’s already too late, his life is screwed up... he’s still crying. She’s not going to allow him to have his way.
‘Are we going fishing, is this where it happens, look at all the fish, can I fish, I want to use this...’ His voice slowly faded away and he stopped talking. Then his father said, ‘Watch the man, he’s putting the worm on the hook’. The little boy looked up at his father. ‘Stand here, look what he’s doing.’ The boy obeyed.
Often I see and hear it. The child is speaking, but to no one. Its parents aren’t paying attention to it. It’s just background noise. The child starts off enthusiastically, but fades as he gets no response, fading off withdrawing back into himself. The world is not listening, the world doesn’t want to hear what he has to say, the world - his parents - don’t care about him. His questions go unanswered. His father speaks and the world listens - he must obey. The feels alone, unwanted, unloved. His life-force and spirit having little to no effect on his reality in Creation. He may as well not be there. Nothing is for him anyway. This is how I felt as a little boy... and it’s still how I feel as I realise that once again I’m muttering away to myself, my voice becoming quieter, just speaking to myself, the walls, the air - to no one. Marion says speak up, you’re not speaking to me. And what does it matter, I don’t matter, no one’s interested in me, no one cares about me. I wish I didn’t exist.
Often I see and hear it. The child is speaking, but to no one. Its parents aren’t paying attention to it. It’s just background noise. The child starts off enthusiastically, but fades as he gets no response, fading off withdrawing back into himself. The world is not listening, the world doesn’t want to hear what he has to say, the world - his parents - don’t care about him. His questions go unanswered. His father speaks and the world listens - he must obey. The feels alone, unwanted, unloved. His life-force and spirit having little to no effect on his reality in Creation. He may as well not be there. Nothing is for him anyway. This is how I felt as a little boy... and it’s still how I feel as I realise that once again I’m muttering away to myself, my voice becoming quieter, just speaking to myself, the walls, the air - to no one. Marion says speak up, you’re not speaking to me. And what does it matter, I don’t matter, no one’s interested in me, no one cares about me. I wish I didn’t exist.
‘No, you can’t go and play in the sandpit.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘You just can’t. I don’t want you to. Sit here, sit there while James gets the rod ready for us to catch a fish.’
‘Mum, can I go play in the sandpit? Will you come and open the door for me? Mum, come mum, open the door...’ ‘What about the fishing?’ ‘I’ll do that too...’
I know who’s family I’d rather live in.
‘Mum, can I go play in the sandpit? Will you come and open the door for me? Mum, come mum, open the door...’ ‘What about the fishing?’ ‘I’ll do that too...’
I know who’s family I’d rather live in.
The fishing was very slow, the fish not hungry - warmer water temperatures perhaps? The parents were intent on catching the fish they wanted no matter how long it was going to take. The young boy was content to play in the sand pit rushing over to pull in a fish when one was finally caught. The younger child remained strapped in his pusher, unable to do anything but cry. The crying went on and on, the parents not being put off their fishing one bit. At one point the mother looked up across the pond to her crying child, and registering no emotion, turned back to concentrate on putting more bait on her hook.
You can’t let your child get the upper hand. It doesn’t matter that it may be feeling so alone, rejected, unwanted and unloved, all such devestating and soul-destroying feelings. You can’t give your child any power, it can’t have its say making you do what it wants - no way, that’s not how it goes, that’s not what parenting is all about. To be the parent you have to be in control, you have all the power, it’s your big change to win, to be dominant; so no way are you going to give over to that little annoying crying thing. And it will learn, it will get the message, that it can’t expect to have everything its own way, that it has to be obedient and good. And it will learn, and that’s the pity of it all; it will learn that it can’t do anything with its terrible bad feelings, it just has to try and ignore and reject them, treating them just as its being treated. It has to deny itself love just as its being denied love. And it has to learn this is the way of the world and then how to survive and cope with life in a negative anti-self state of being. And it has to wait until it’s a parent, and then it can have the power, it can be the boss, it can control and overpower its own children. But in the meantime it has to remain strapped tightly in its pusher, not free to crawl about exploring its world under its own steam. How would you feel to wake up to the truth of knowing that you spent so much of your very early years strapped firmly in your pusher, unable to interact and express yourself how you wanted to. All those horrible moments, minutes, hours, all rolling into one day after the next. Shit I hate seeking the little babies and children strapped in their straightjackets - what a hell-hole we are born into!
You can’t let your child get the upper hand. It doesn’t matter that it may be feeling so alone, rejected, unwanted and unloved, all such devestating and soul-destroying feelings. You can’t give your child any power, it can’t have its say making you do what it wants - no way, that’s not how it goes, that’s not what parenting is all about. To be the parent you have to be in control, you have all the power, it’s your big change to win, to be dominant; so no way are you going to give over to that little annoying crying thing. And it will learn, it will get the message, that it can’t expect to have everything its own way, that it has to be obedient and good. And it will learn, and that’s the pity of it all; it will learn that it can’t do anything with its terrible bad feelings, it just has to try and ignore and reject them, treating them just as its being treated. It has to deny itself love just as its being denied love. And it has to learn this is the way of the world and then how to survive and cope with life in a negative anti-self state of being. And it has to wait until it’s a parent, and then it can have the power, it can be the boss, it can control and overpower its own children. But in the meantime it has to remain strapped tightly in its pusher, not free to crawl about exploring its world under its own steam. How would you feel to wake up to the truth of knowing that you spent so much of your very early years strapped firmly in your pusher, unable to interact and express yourself how you wanted to. All those horrible moments, minutes, hours, all rolling into one day after the next. Shit I hate seeking the little babies and children strapped in their straightjackets - what a hell-hole we are born into!
Two men were fishing with a toddler at the lake - one was the father, the other the uncle. The toddler was free (one in a million!), toddling around, there was no pusher in sight. When I asked the father about him worrying that it might run into the lake, he said, oh he will, you watch... And sure enough he did, he toddled down to the water’s edge, his father right behind him, and in, in up to his nappy. Then he stopped his bare feet stirring up the mud, he looked down at the water, screwed up his face and toddled out again. His father said, he won’t go near it again. And he didn’t. They dried him and changed his nappy. And they said, even if he does go in again, that’s okay, we’re with him, we’re watching him, we can easily go in after him. But the toddler didn’t go in again, he was happy toddling around on dry land.
The mother was sitting on the wooden seat near the lake. The father was attending to the older boy trying to get his fishing rod sorted out. Suddenly their toddler headed straight for the water, and in he went. The father leapt up, plunging in with the boy, desperately grabbing him, which in the process plunged the toddler right under for a brief moment. The father hauled the little boy out grabbing him, embracing him, hugging and kissing him saying it was all right, the boy nearly started crying from the unexpected shock of his dunking. The father stripped the boys clothes off dying him, the mother looked on laughing merrily.
What’s the parenting moral of these two stories? It could all be so easy, allowing the child to work out life for itself. If only it was allowed to. And only if its parents are paying attention to it, ARE THERE FOR IT AND NOT FOR THEMSELVES, and not ignoring it, busying with their own lives.
The mother was sitting on the wooden seat near the lake. The father was attending to the older boy trying to get his fishing rod sorted out. Suddenly their toddler headed straight for the water, and in he went. The father leapt up, plunging in with the boy, desperately grabbing him, which in the process plunged the toddler right under for a brief moment. The father hauled the little boy out grabbing him, embracing him, hugging and kissing him saying it was all right, the boy nearly started crying from the unexpected shock of his dunking. The father stripped the boys clothes off dying him, the mother looked on laughing merrily.
What’s the parenting moral of these two stories? It could all be so easy, allowing the child to work out life for itself. If only it was allowed to. And only if its parents are paying attention to it, ARE THERE FOR IT AND NOT FOR THEMSELVES, and not ignoring it, busying with their own lives.
‘Can I help?’ ‘Yes, all right, you can use the net, how about that?’ ‘Great!’ The young boy’s eyes gleamed with excitement, his body visibly vibrating with anticipation. He ran over to the net swooping it up into the air nearly taking his sister’s head off ready for action. He netted the other customers fish around the pond then we progressed to him helping me hit the fish on the head with the ‘donger’ to kill them, remove the hooks and re-bait. He was so eager, so willing, so enthusiastic, dashing here and there, seemingly to be everywhere at once. He was having great fun, even asking me if he could give people fishing lessons and show them how to catch fish like he’d caught his three, and I was having great fun watching and being with him. Then a man’s voice called out summonsing him. Words were spoken. The boy suddenly looked as if he’d been beaten. Crestfallen and without looking up at me, he walking into the sandpit area and started to unenthusiastically play with his younger brother. I got back to doing all the work myself without my little helper. About ten minutes later suddenly at my side were those eager big brown eyes again. I nodded and he moved to take up his position with the net. The fun had begun again, although somewhat subdued this time.
I loved the vitality and zest for life of the young boy. Vicariously living through him I felt the pains of my long lost zest and vitality, feelings I were never free to express, not like this boy. I didn’t envy him, having healed all such repressed feelings in me now, so I could just enjoy being with him. But I hated his father when he ‘donged’ him on the head knocking the stuffing out of him, not as yet having healed all my repressed anger to do with my father’s treatment of me. And after speaking to Marion about all my feelings, she helped me to see how the boys father couldn’t allow his child to keep going in his freedom, because he wasn’t allowed to be so free when he was a child. However, unlike my father, at least when some time had passed and the boy had served his time, he was allowed to come back to me to pick up from where we left off. It’s all so terribly sad how limited we are in our freedom to express our natural feelings of our enjoyment in life. When we’re a child we can’t be ‘overexcited’, we can’t be ‘getting in everyone’s way’, we can’t be an ‘annoying nuisance’, we can’t be ‘too loud’ - we can’t be a child. We make our world an anti child’s world. We don’t like children how they are. We have to ‘discipline’ them, make them conform, make them be obedient. However an obedient child, such as I was made to be, is an all but a dead person, with all the fire in his soul and twinkle in his eyes, long since donged out of him.
I loved the vitality and zest for life of the young boy. Vicariously living through him I felt the pains of my long lost zest and vitality, feelings I were never free to express, not like this boy. I didn’t envy him, having healed all such repressed feelings in me now, so I could just enjoy being with him. But I hated his father when he ‘donged’ him on the head knocking the stuffing out of him, not as yet having healed all my repressed anger to do with my father’s treatment of me. And after speaking to Marion about all my feelings, she helped me to see how the boys father couldn’t allow his child to keep going in his freedom, because he wasn’t allowed to be so free when he was a child. However, unlike my father, at least when some time had passed and the boy had served his time, he was allowed to come back to me to pick up from where we left off. It’s all so terribly sad how limited we are in our freedom to express our natural feelings of our enjoyment in life. When we’re a child we can’t be ‘overexcited’, we can’t be ‘getting in everyone’s way’, we can’t be an ‘annoying nuisance’, we can’t be ‘too loud’ - we can’t be a child. We make our world an anti child’s world. We don’t like children how they are. We have to ‘discipline’ them, make them conform, make them be obedient. However an obedient child, such as I was made to be, is an all but a dead person, with all the fire in his soul and twinkle in his eyes, long since donged out of him.
‘Smile’ - click... ‘Stand there, no come forward, hold it up’ - click. ‘Hold the fish out, out in front of you, look at me... at me... at me!’ - click. ‘Wait, don’t put it in the bucket, wait... oh the dam thing... wait... nearly... okay, now put it in the bucket’ - click. ‘Okay, now James can you stand next to her, together, yes, hold the rod, yes, that’s right’ - click.
Click, click, click - life has become one big ‘Hold it!’ - click.
It’s a pity the little girls father didn’t spend as much time with her as he did with his camera. She and I had a very personal time. She was very articulate, she was very keen on catching her fish, she laughed a lot. But always there was that dam photographer - her father. He wouldn’t allow her to be free to do what she wanted. He was so controlling, always making her stop and smile, to put on that ridiculous false obligatory smile. He couldn’t have just been in the wings taking real shots of her, if he had to take pictures at all, no, he had to make her pose for every shot. And I couldn’t begin to imagine what damage this would have done to me had my parents been always click, click, ‘Hold it! Not like that, come closer, bend forward... click’, at me all day long with everything I did. And so many of the parents are like this, their cameras and all the ‘fun memories’ captured of the day being all they are intent on doing. But what fun it is, you can’t actually enjoy being together having fun doing what you’re doing, you’re supposed to have the fun at home when you have sit through the zillions of photo’s of all the fun you didn’t have. It’s another gadget that comes between people. We’re so cut off and separate from each other accepting and considering it normal that we relate through other mediums other than in our direct life experience. Through my healing I uncovered huge amounts of anger and resentment at mum for always stopping to touch up her lipstick wherever we went - so many fucking times, nearly every time the car stopped at the traffic lights. She attended to her red artificial lips before she attended to me; she preferred her lips more than she preferred me; she gave her lips more love than she gave me - god that pissed me off!
Click, click, click - life has become one big ‘Hold it!’ - click.
It’s a pity the little girls father didn’t spend as much time with her as he did with his camera. She and I had a very personal time. She was very articulate, she was very keen on catching her fish, she laughed a lot. But always there was that dam photographer - her father. He wouldn’t allow her to be free to do what she wanted. He was so controlling, always making her stop and smile, to put on that ridiculous false obligatory smile. He couldn’t have just been in the wings taking real shots of her, if he had to take pictures at all, no, he had to make her pose for every shot. And I couldn’t begin to imagine what damage this would have done to me had my parents been always click, click, ‘Hold it! Not like that, come closer, bend forward... click’, at me all day long with everything I did. And so many of the parents are like this, their cameras and all the ‘fun memories’ captured of the day being all they are intent on doing. But what fun it is, you can’t actually enjoy being together having fun doing what you’re doing, you’re supposed to have the fun at home when you have sit through the zillions of photo’s of all the fun you didn’t have. It’s another gadget that comes between people. We’re so cut off and separate from each other accepting and considering it normal that we relate through other mediums other than in our direct life experience. Through my healing I uncovered huge amounts of anger and resentment at mum for always stopping to touch up her lipstick wherever we went - so many fucking times, nearly every time the car stopped at the traffic lights. She attended to her red artificial lips before she attended to me; she preferred her lips more than she preferred me; she gave her lips more love than she gave me - god that pissed me off!
‘You’re bad, stop that, naughty... you’re a bad fish, bad!’ So the little girl said to the fish that was wriggling around in the net on the ground.
So many little boys and girls accuse the innocent dying fish of being bad and naughty all because it’s flopping and flapping around on the ground, not being how it should be in their eyes. And why do they say such things? Because it’s what their parents have said to them accusing them of being bad. And so like we do as children growing up to be as our parents are, we try to be the boss and dominant one, controlling the lesser one. Yet isn’t it a pity the children aren’t loving the fish, seeing it in a good light as a good thing, and not being negative about it and unloving. Wouldn’t it be nice if such little children were emulating their loving adoring parents, loving the fish how they were loved. But I guess if that were so, then such children and parents wouldn’t want to be hurting the fish in the first place. There’d be no Fishing Park. And wouldn’t that be good, no such things to use and abuse nature with.
So many little boys and girls accuse the innocent dying fish of being bad and naughty all because it’s flopping and flapping around on the ground, not being how it should be in their eyes. And why do they say such things? Because it’s what their parents have said to them accusing them of being bad. And so like we do as children growing up to be as our parents are, we try to be the boss and dominant one, controlling the lesser one. Yet isn’t it a pity the children aren’t loving the fish, seeing it in a good light as a good thing, and not being negative about it and unloving. Wouldn’t it be nice if such little children were emulating their loving adoring parents, loving the fish how they were loved. But I guess if that were so, then such children and parents wouldn’t want to be hurting the fish in the first place. There’d be no Fishing Park. And wouldn’t that be good, no such things to use and abuse nature with.
The fishing was very slow, the pool crowded. Suddenly there was a little person standing beside me, ‘Can you help me catch a fish?’ I squeezed her in. Then her brother called out from the other side of the pool for her to come back as he would help her catch one. She called back: ‘No, I’ve found my own helper.’
Gorgeous. If only I had felt so free when I was young.
Gorgeous. If only I had felt so free when I was young.
I killed the fish. The young boy asked me what I’d done. His father said, 'he's put it to sleep'.
We can’t tell the truth, particularly when it’s about death. Death is the ultimate no, no - our greatest fear. So we can’t talk about it. Instead the child is made to believe that I have some mysterious power being able to put fish to sleep. And when the boy asks when will it wake up, he’s told it won’t. So now that’s very confusing, and potentially full of fear, for I can imagine in the child’s mind him thinking: if I go to sleep will I never wake up? Everything adds to the confusion. Nothing is straightforward and just how it is, it all has to be made into something that it’s not. That’s the evil. All to avoid bad feelings. No wonder we’re all so fucked up.
We can’t tell the truth, particularly when it’s about death. Death is the ultimate no, no - our greatest fear. So we can’t talk about it. Instead the child is made to believe that I have some mysterious power being able to put fish to sleep. And when the boy asks when will it wake up, he’s told it won’t. So now that’s very confusing, and potentially full of fear, for I can imagine in the child’s mind him thinking: if I go to sleep will I never wake up? Everything adds to the confusion. Nothing is straightforward and just how it is, it all has to be made into something that it’s not. That’s the evil. All to avoid bad feelings. No wonder we’re all so fucked up.
The toddler was shaking with unexpressed rage. His parents wrote him off, ‘he’s upset, he’s a toddler, there’s nothing you can do’, they were so unfeeling, so unkind, and they were wrong, there was a lot they could do.
To start with, they could treat him like a real person, that he mattered, that he had his own life that should be respected. And that he had feelings, and their barbaric insensitive controlling behaviour was slaughtering him.
To start with, they could treat him like a real person, that he mattered, that he had his own life that should be respected. And that he had feelings, and their barbaric insensitive controlling behaviour was slaughtering him.
I asked the little boy if he’d like to put the fish in the bucket. I got the bucket and put it at his feet. So far he’d done all I’d suggested. He was just about to put it in the bucket and his father having overheard me, grabbed it out of his hands plonking it in the bucket, saying: ‘Put it in the bucket!’ The little boy was left empty handed, denied yet another life experience.
It may seem only a small thing, but they all add up. To keep having your will overridden by your unloving moron parents is soul-destroying, let alone will-destroying.
It may seem only a small thing, but they all add up. To keep having your will overridden by your unloving moron parents is soul-destroying, let alone will-destroying.
I couldn’t work out what felt strange. Why was the father standing over there away from the mother and son who were fishing with me. Then I realised he was attending to their toddler who was playing in the sandpit, I hadn’t seen him. The mother and older boy caught their fish as the father followed their toddler around. The little chap came and saw what we were doing, climbed up on the log to look in the water, then toddled off over to the other people, his father always with him. Then the next thing I know the toddler is sitting on his father’s lap, they happily being together. But still there was something strange about it all - something missing? Then I got it, they didn’t have a pusher! I couldn’t believe it. The toddler was free to toddle. I asked the mother, ‘Where’s your pusher?’, and she said, ‘Pusher, we don’t have one’. ‘Why don’t you?’ ‘Because then he wouldn’t be able to wander around and do all he wants to do. Why would you want to strap your child into a pusher?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, what planet was this woman on? No pusher!
Yeah! There is at least one family in the world that doesn’t believe in pushers.
Yeah! There is at least one family in the world that doesn’t believe in pushers.
The Indian family’s children were hard to be with. They were tenacious in their approach to life. They wouldn’t let go of the rods while I set them up for them. No, they protested, no!, and held on tight. A child’s grip is like iron when it’s determined. So I adjusted my way of doing things, setting the rod up with the child hanging onto it. It worked. And as hard as it was with them, for all of us, the parents included, still to my amazement the parents never reprimanded, chastised, criticised, dominated or controlled their children like most parents do. Usually at the first sign of difficulty I might have with someone’s child, they’d be into it telling it to ‘Let go! Stop it! Let the man do it. He’ll give you the rod when he’s finished!’ And then they’d tear the rod out of the child’s hand. And if the child protested then down they’d come hard on it bringing it into line. But not this Indian couple. They were taken to the threshold numerous times, but they didn’t break. And it all worked.
I actually enjoyed the wilfulness of their children, instead of getting angry with them wishing they were the well behaved over-controlled children I’m used to dealing with.
I actually enjoyed the wilfulness of their children, instead of getting angry with them wishing they were the well behaved over-controlled children I’m used to dealing with.
The little boy had climbed onto the roof of the plastic house in the sandpit. Delighted at his achievement he called out to his father and brother who were by the pool fishing. They looked at him, laughing and praising him. Then, obviously satisfied with their attention of him, he proceeded to slide down off the roof judging his fall to land on the slide sliding the rest of the way. I said to his father that only a few hours earlier another little boy had done the same thing, only to receive stern angry and frightened calls to get down, to not climb up there, with both parents dropping their fishing rods to rush over and haul him off the roof. The roof being all of about one and half metres above the sand. And his father said, you’ve got to give your kids some freedom, how else can they find out what life is about. And I agreed with him. Then his little boy having left the sandpit, was standing near us and started to climb up onto the wooden bench to look at their fish that were in a bucket. And as he was climbing he paused to play with the bait, some bright orange balls of Powerbait, to which he promptly received stern commands of not to touch, to get down, to leave everything alone, to go back to the sandpit.
So it would seem that he was free to do all he pleased when by himself, but wasn’t free to do anything when he was with his father. No matter which way you go, it’s all fucked - we’re all fucked.
So it would seem that he was free to do all he pleased when by himself, but wasn’t free to do anything when he was with his father. No matter which way you go, it’s all fucked - we’re all fucked.
Here comes the Great Man - the FATHER. He comes with his boy, he comes with his wife, he comes with his other children, usually daughters. He wants to have a close, perhaps bonding, time with his son. He feels he has to play a role and his son has to also play his part. The father tells the fishing man (me) that he knows what he’s doing, that he doesn’t need his help, that he and his son are there to catch the fish together. The fishing man knows it’s going to be yet another father and son disaster. He gives them space, he waits. The boy grabs the rod, ‘No, don’t touch it, not like that, hold it like this, don’t do that, let go, wait, not that way, like this, stay here, you can go play in the sandpit when you’ve caught a fish, now let me do it, I’ll do it, I’ll catch it and you can reel it in, STOP IT!, not like that, let go, this way, do this, wind it in fast, stop, wind again, stop, stop, stop winding! No, you can’t go, you can go when we’ve caught one, stand still, here, hold it like this, not like that, stop winding you have to wait. We’ll get one in a minute, be patient, how can you catch a fish if you’re not paying attention, look here comes the fish, it might be eating the bait, I can see it eating the bait (a lie, as you can’t see the fish with the light as it is), it won’t be long, stand still... All during this the mother if present is nervously hovering about. The daughters assisted by the fishing man have all caught one or two fish each and are very happy with their achievements. The father won’t - can’t - let go, he must press on. The fishing man knows it’s time to assert himself if for no other reason than to let the boy off the hook and get rid of the father. Finally they catch one. The fish is hooked, the father winds it in with the boy being told to hold the rod which is now all but out of reach above him as his father, who really is still the little boy himself, delights in catching his first fish. But he can’t tell everyone that he’s so excited at catching a fish, so when it’s netted he’s all praise at his son, ‘well done, you caught a fish, you’re a big boy, you caught your own fish, good boy’, when we all know that the boy had nothing to do with it. Relieved the torture is over, DAD having proved that HIS son can be a man, they all leave, the mother and daughters if present giving knowing silent thanks to the fishing man that he helped to cut short yet another tragic episode of being out with father and son.
‘Can I kill the fish?’, the young boy asked. I passed him the ‘donger’ or killing stick. I make sure the fish are already dead by saying I’ll hit it first and then you can. It was now his turn. He hit it, and hit it, and hit it, and hit it, and would have kept on hitting it, harder and harder each time. Then he belted it as hard as he could all with such excitement and glee. The boys parents stood looking on aghast, obviously not knowing or understanding that their beloved son would get such enjoyment out of killing something, out of pounding to death an innocent creature.
I’d seen it before, nearly every boy who asks to hit the fish with the donger is the same: filled to overflowing with repressed anger, all of which is very quick to surge to the surface when given the go ahead by authority. And I ask myself: what happens to all that rage when they grow up? And I look at myself and I know what happened to mine, it’s all still raging around inside me, only I have the lid locked down very tightly on it. And only through my feeling-healing does it surface, but no longer wanting to be so violent, but as annoying persistent rashes, there for me to scratch and scratch over the years. I have so much buried and repressed anger in me, I had no idea. And know I understand that I have deep within me a burning need to punish, to hit out and be as nasty and mean and bad as I can, just as they, my parents, did and were to me. I want to be them, to have such power. I am like the young boys, who shout out as they are hitting the fish with all their strength: ‘Naughty fish! Disgusting fish! Bad fish...’ All that they have been called by their parents. There is nothing loving about it, because there was nothing loving about it when I was young, just as there is nothing loving about their young lives.
I’d seen it before, nearly every boy who asks to hit the fish with the donger is the same: filled to overflowing with repressed anger, all of which is very quick to surge to the surface when given the go ahead by authority. And I ask myself: what happens to all that rage when they grow up? And I look at myself and I know what happened to mine, it’s all still raging around inside me, only I have the lid locked down very tightly on it. And only through my feeling-healing does it surface, but no longer wanting to be so violent, but as annoying persistent rashes, there for me to scratch and scratch over the years. I have so much buried and repressed anger in me, I had no idea. And know I understand that I have deep within me a burning need to punish, to hit out and be as nasty and mean and bad as I can, just as they, my parents, did and were to me. I want to be them, to have such power. I am like the young boys, who shout out as they are hitting the fish with all their strength: ‘Naughty fish! Disgusting fish! Bad fish...’ All that they have been called by their parents. There is nothing loving about it, because there was nothing loving about it when I was young, just as there is nothing loving about their young lives.
The Asian toddler had the pink rod and was waving it about and putting it in the water. His parents didn’t stop him. Other parents would have very quickly taken it from him treating us all to the distraught and angry cries of a child having its will interfered with.
I remarked to his mother about her lack of exerting control over him, and she laughed saying he was very determined, he had all the power over the six adults (five of whom where men) that were with him. It sounded good to me.
I remarked to his mother about her lack of exerting control over him, and she laughed saying he was very determined, he had all the power over the six adults (five of whom where men) that were with him. It sounded good to me.
Would you like to hold the fish, I asked the young girl. No she answered looking unsure and afraid of it lying dead on the square piece of red towel. I didn’t push her, nor did her parents. Many parents do, forcing their children to do something they don’t want to do, something they are scared of doing.
After the next fish had been caught and dealt with I asked her again if she’d like to hold this one, and willingly she came forward with her little hands outstretched to receive my offering. Then gleefully, now with no fear, dropped it towel and all into the bucket!
I see it time and time again, and not just with children but adults as well. If they are unsure about something and feel free to say no at first, often change their minds coming forward and enjoying doing what they had been previously scared to do. I do it now with myself as well.
We all need time to make up our mind and do things when we want to do them. Too many parents push their children into doing things making them scared and forcing them to deny their fear. It’s horrible to stand by watching the protesting, crying - even screaming - child be made to do what it doesn’t want to do.
I was pushed and forced into doing things I didn’t want to do by my parents. They scared me about so many things to do with life. I was never free to do things in my own time and in my own way. My mother never had the patience for that.
Now as an adult most of the time I don’t know what I want to do, I don’t have enough of my true self to make such decisions with. And most of what I do I do to please the other person doing what I believe is expected of me, behaving how I was trained to behave.
I wish I could have said no at first and then changed my mind. I wish I could have been free to express my fear, doubt and apprehension - my bad feelings, and then if things didn’t seem too bad, have come forward and experienced life on my terms. I wish I had been allowed to stay true to my feelings. I wish my parents had respected me, treating me with care, kindness, acceptance and love.
After the next fish had been caught and dealt with I asked her again if she’d like to hold this one, and willingly she came forward with her little hands outstretched to receive my offering. Then gleefully, now with no fear, dropped it towel and all into the bucket!
I see it time and time again, and not just with children but adults as well. If they are unsure about something and feel free to say no at first, often change their minds coming forward and enjoying doing what they had been previously scared to do. I do it now with myself as well.
We all need time to make up our mind and do things when we want to do them. Too many parents push their children into doing things making them scared and forcing them to deny their fear. It’s horrible to stand by watching the protesting, crying - even screaming - child be made to do what it doesn’t want to do.
I was pushed and forced into doing things I didn’t want to do by my parents. They scared me about so many things to do with life. I was never free to do things in my own time and in my own way. My mother never had the patience for that.
Now as an adult most of the time I don’t know what I want to do, I don’t have enough of my true self to make such decisions with. And most of what I do I do to please the other person doing what I believe is expected of me, behaving how I was trained to behave.
I wish I could have said no at first and then changed my mind. I wish I could have been free to express my fear, doubt and apprehension - my bad feelings, and then if things didn’t seem too bad, have come forward and experienced life on my terms. I wish I had been allowed to stay true to my feelings. I wish my parents had respected me, treating me with care, kindness, acceptance and love.
The End
It’s finished, I’m no longer working at the Fishing Park, no longer subjecting myself to all the unloving parenting, no longer subjecting the fish to my unloving hands. Finally I am out of it, I’ve seen all I need to see, and that was too much - too much of what we consider just everyday life. I don’t want to be a part of it or party to it. I don’t want to work in a place that kills nature for peoples pleasure and profit. And I don’t want to work for a man who treats me like I’m his child, he being one of those controlling and dominating parents who tells their child it’s all great fun when all they are doing is telling the child what to do and how to do it. I no longer want to subject myself to someone who is mean and unfeeling and only concerned about himself and his business. I don’t want to be with my parents any longer.
It’s finished, I’m no longer working at the Fishing Park, no longer subjecting myself to all the unloving parenting, no longer subjecting the fish to my unloving hands. Finally I am out of it, I’ve seen all I need to see, and that was too much - too much of what we consider just everyday life. I don’t want to be a part of it or party to it. I don’t want to work in a place that kills nature for peoples pleasure and profit. And I don’t want to work for a man who treats me like I’m his child, he being one of those controlling and dominating parents who tells their child it’s all great fun when all they are doing is telling the child what to do and how to do it. I no longer want to subject myself to someone who is mean and unfeeling and only concerned about himself and his business. I don’t want to be with my parents any longer.
STOP screaming
STOP crying
STOP complaining
STOP whinging
STOP yelling
STOP snivelling
STOP FEELING BAD!
STOP IT! DO YOU HEAR ME! STOP IT NOW!
That's what it's all about - denying your bad feelings.
STOP crying
STOP complaining
STOP whinging
STOP yelling
STOP snivelling
STOP FEELING BAD!
STOP IT! DO YOU HEAR ME! STOP IT NOW!
That's what it's all about - denying your bad feelings.