An old friend that interestingly – the worst he did was snitch on me, when I lied about my age – so LOVE YOU – but I’m concerned (really – thats the correct word here) I wasn’t lying about my age at all, because the age I gave people when I lied about my age (which I didn’t do to real-friends that I’d of introduced to my relatives) were exactly the years I spent sleeping non-stop, to escape hell. The hours I spent awake those years I lied about my age were conveniently when I wasn’t at university trying to get a degree that many people tried their hardest to prevent me from getting.
Actually if we’d of stayed friends we’d of ruled the World from his bedroom. Mine was too small. I’ll leave it there. Anyway
Al had read the book of this film, and I hadn’t. There’s a scene where Astrid’s mother illustrates this point that continued to plague me – because all I’d wanted to be was an artist or a performer of some kind: that there was a difference between art and cartoons. The actors that I liked could do everything from singing to acrobatics to theatre and I cannot begin to explain the associations I have with acting. The mayhem scenes kill me inside but if you can’t cope with the embarrassment, it’s unlikely it’s the career for you until you learn how to. I don’t really feel embarrassment anymore.
It is the truth though. Life drawing versus illustration. And it isn’t coming from insecurity, it’s not faux humility either.
I’ll go on. As I do. But this is a movie to watch to understand and this post is more of a – play-list for people who are in tough phases, these are songs that resonate and also very easy movies to get through if you’re feeling overwhelmingly alone. When you learn how to cope with feeling alone – it’s a eureka moment of sorts, some soulmate or other will surface somehow and if you want them in your life you have to keep walking away. Don’t fuck them. They’re probably your bestfriend.
I imagine the scene with the oleanders in milk inspired this song.
and this piece, which will take years.
The moral of the story is: you have to think about it FIRST. You have to develop the talent first. You have to do the work. Or it’s just a mum-at-home-coping-with-loneliness-by-pretending-she’s-not-obsessing-about-her-husband-and-her-lost-one-night-stands hobby.
Feminists who have studied what women have been put through for generations can probably better explain this than I can, but women didn’t have occupations until the last fifty years or so. And monogamy has never ever ever been a reality but a cheating wife was the worst kind of female criminal to men that had been encouraged to believe that they were the superior sex. As a teenager I considered myself a chauvinist of sorts and I’ve gone full circle and perhaps thats with the realisation that my female relatives wanted my penis cut off. I was born with both sexes. I’m not especially upset about it, why would I be? It’s really just the idea that they’d of allowed me to be left alone with doctors removed from any kind of emergency – women I find – are prematurely trying to emancipate themselves but we need to know what we’re emancipating ourselves from. And the only way to do so is to pursue an education. That’s the only way. And enslaving people like me, so that you can remotely acquire an education in the Arts was wholly fucking wrong because, if only because: I am an introvert. That means I lose energy in the company of others and I HAVE to spend time alone not to be exhausted. I mean without people watching my dreams or using me to time travel, you’ve ruined my life doing this to me. I haven’t achieved 1% of what I could have done, if I’d of known the truth. Have you noticed how much the World has changed directly because of my learning the truth? How your parents for example, aren’t waiting to die but are considering the gravitas of parenthood and actually want to live their lives again with what they know? That they are being encouraged (probably by the influence the adult industry and my granma, who had make up tattooed to her face at eighty with ZERO shame -) to get plastic surgery – if only because insecurity keeps people from living their real dreams? Love yourself as you are, sure, but if you have the cash – get hot.
The alternative to women pursuing dreams, is the idea of women like Emma Watson, who sought an education in something she had no interest in, in a first league University because she had a Hermione-persona that she was pretending not to be perpetuating but actually, she really did. Or otherwise she heard my spiritual teacher Lisa tell ME that I was to head a FRATERNITY – and so that she could compete with men under that illusion of something that she had no business with. You have no business competing with men Emma. Or me. And most men have no business competing with me, especially when I’d rather be friends with them. Which is the idea of fraternity, by the way. It’s sort of the point.
Years ago I watched a documentary about this flamenco artist. His uncle was a flamenco dancer and Joaquin Cortes said to his uncle “I want to be a flamenco dancer, like you” and his uncle said “then you go to the royal ballet first” – you have to study technique in the arts, before you are an artist.
Ed Norton was told that before he could ever consider himself an actor, he’d of had to of coped with RADA. It’s just whats done, you might aspire towards an art like that of performance, but you have to study it first. I did speech and drama, I did the embarrassing – the MOST embarrassing – plays – but I avoided ever studying it and I know the real reasons why I justified it to myself.
First of all: I didn’t feel pretty enough to be in films and I knew that was a big deal. I got my lips done and I lost some weight – so I feel a bit better, but that doesn’t mean I’m removed from that – you have to do the psychological work – does someone insulting your appearance bring up memories of not being good-enough? Well acting for the screen means you’re okay with being called told you have cankles. Especially if you actually have cankles. I don’t have cankles, I have big calves. I’m okay with that because I wanted athletic roles. I’m okay with being insulted, my first boyfriend did the damage. I told him I wanted to act and that I didn’t feel pretty enough and he said “Kathy Burke is an amazing actor and she’s not-pretty” (She can afford to be, though.)
My memory for learning lines was not good and now I know why. I know that girls were using me to time travel so that they could cheat on their exams and their homework. That affected me in every respect, including that I couldn’t do a lot of subjects that involved the use of my memory. A very abusive one night stand was very aware of the fact that it was possible to erase my memories and he suggested I had an illness. No one’s perfect, weirdo. (No you actually deserve to be shot in the head for that, but that’s on you. You arrange it. No notes for me.)
Even if you’re a very talented portraiture artist, and I’m not – at my most dedicated I am a talented illustrator, which is a form of cartoon work – theres a lot that comes with being an artist and there are reasons why your work isn’t being sold in galleries, even if you’re technically some kind of master (this is specific – to the person that used to sit in Camden with his spray paints and tinfoil and create masterpieces – you’ll return to all of that but you have to do the hard stuff first. SAME though. So do I.), if you haven’t gone through the shit that the artists exhibiting their work in galleries have, you won’t survive in that World for very long.
Thats how I was raised too. First you have to learn from the greatest people, and you don’t ever remove yourself from the people that paved the way for you. Hole have a lyric that I once wrote out in a mirror in Syria before taking nudes (I should’ve kept those, they weren’t that flattering but they were very brave) and it’s “spit on mirrors” – oh thats not the one it’s “it’s okay to kill your idols, just pretend you have no rivals”. It’s not. It’s really not. I get angry at my heroes and my teachers because I felt abused by them but I suppose I’m reminded of a brief chat with a guy called Dom. I was I think, important to him because one time I had an image of a mother in my memory – I was looking at a friend of his and I described her and he said “thats not what my mother looks like” but I had described Dom’s mother. He didn’t say so outloud. Later he was watching a Muy Thai fight and he asked, without my knowing that he was testing my claims of being psychic – who I thought would win. I didn’t use my “psychic ability” (that thing that people assume psychics have – that should tell them the lottery numbers) – I looked at the men and said “the latino guy, obviously”. If you saw him I’d assume you’d of said the same, but if you knew who the fighters were, perhaps not. I think he was Brazilian – but um. You don’t really survive in my world – what I know of it – if you compete with Latinos. I mean the kind that come from the streets, because the posh ones do not pursue careers as fighters. I was using what I understood as logic. Now I’m concerned that I abused my abilities as a solipsist, or that someone time travelled to tell me, but where I can show my working: I know what I was thinking of when I said what I thought. I can show my working. I can validate the claim without using information acquired out of thin air.
It’s difficult though, when you know that every mother that attempted to have you over many many generations would have you stolen from them because you’re a hell of a snitch.
If you want to know who my real mother is, right now I’m going with Mary Magdalene.
There are plenty of women that I could (and would, also) call my mother and I have plenty of synchronistic reasons for doing so but it’s an insult to every single one to pick only one of them.
Lisa told me that I’m an elephant totem person (an ex ‘best friend’ said it was ‘cultural appropriation’ to use words like that but she forgot that I have two women who called themselves my African mothers and who initiated me into a tribe – they do not like her very much and that should serve as a warning.), and the beauty of the idea is that elephants are matriarchal animals that raise one another, they stay together throughout their many generations and share what they learn. There’s a video of an elephant mother pushing one of the baby ones out of a ditch and I have a feeling it’s because she saw me having to push my cockerspaniel Goggles (the first creature I’d ever seen in a crystal ball, and what a delightful friend to spot – and anyone who had seen Goggles would’ve known immediately that was her.) up a ditch as a child. I felt very military-proud of myself that day because it was raining and very cold, and muddy.
And yes: I have no doubts that Mary Magdalene been preserved somehow and that she’s alive. That’s sort of the thing about the templars and eternity of life. I invited her in and I felt nothing of a chill but I looked at my noodles and my chopsticks and laughed to myself as if somewhere to her it was ridiculous that I thought she wasn’t always around me.
Watch the Fountain, that’s what I’m doing today.
It’s a deeply important film about reincarnation and it was released in not-too-long-ago but long enough ago for it to have been a really difficult film, I imagine, to arrange the release of because didn’t follow the narrative structure that sold very well at the time. People are into crystals and reiki healing and a lot of holistic stuff now, but that was wholly weird then. This film would’ve come across, to the majority of audiences, as a fairytale art house film. Much like real life, you go through experiences with particular friends that come to you in different bodies and often you’re reliving the very same struggles. My story, I could only exit when I learned that people were so desperate to be loved that they thought defending a blonde would fix their problems – and that I kept not defending myself against compulsive liars and people who used their looks to manipulate boys in my life that had not removed themselves from unrealistic standards of beauty. I kept not really walking away at the right time, or walking away at the wrong time and under the wrong circumstances.
So… I was thinking about the demon Balthesar, I have been for afew days. One time before I was whisked away to a terrifying collection of experiences in psychiatric wards – and it is one of the most undermined of my experiences around about the time I got a chill down my spine when I read the words “I am Lucifer” (waiting for it, there it is, happened again sort of and isn’t it fun for us all to know that you can feel it too) …
was that I did this coin trick. I am not a coin trick person. It was something I’d never done before and if you watch closely, the coin in my version is moving by itself.
I posted this, and watched it until it reached Papa Midnight and in half Lisa’s and half Mrs Hyde-Gyatso’s voice I thought to myself “we’re waiting for thisss one” and the birds chimed in with a half laugh and a half “YES WE ARE YES WE ARE” – I can’t imagine soul 17 would enjoy going out unless it was to clubs that demanded you perform magick tricks like this to enter. Her trick would probably involve asking the bouncer ‘do you want me to use your eyes to see the card? I can do something better’ and she’d use a fluid of some kind, she’d take the card and rub it on the fluid and get an impossibly perfect image and she’d either be copying me or the artist that used spray paints and tin foil in Camden (she’d tell him she was copying me, she’d tell me she was copying him) (a bird outside screamed with laughter quietly)
I remember it because it was with a £1 coin that read the words:
(Also my stomach made a creepy noise, and I’m used to those)
Imagine if this – not the actor, the personality – was one of your dads
The jobs where I don’t advise that you follow that advice: mercenary, self sustaining farmer (because your animals know what you’re planning on doing to them: and they’d rather kill themselves), politician, diplomat, hunter etc
This is a self portrait by Arnulf Rainer.
[ref image accessed earlier than this but it’s now 9:43 AM on Tuesday the fifteenth of October 2019 and it’s a self portrait by Arnulf Rainer]
I haven’t clicked on the host-site to research the piece but apparently this image was hosted by the Tate. I have so much to say about it that I’d prefer my commentary to the research, but that is a kind of obnoxiousness that contributes a lot to the artist identity I’d like to cultivate years from now. His artist statement would matter much more, on this piece, than my observations of it. But I think he’d enjoy hearing what it means to me. So I’ll say.
I’ll now tell you what I know, based on A Level research. This portrait probably took him about twenty years. It probably inspired this Sia music video.
I’m being a little bit sardonic, a little bit bitchy, but it’s important: because when I was doing my A-levels, I was very harsh about this artist. I included his work in my artist research but I did so with tremendous irony towards the fact.
I just thought of this youtuber, who I do believe is an artist of sorts, and I thought while-thinking-of-him, to look closer at the shapes made by the paint strokes. I can see the grim reaper in Rorschach like inkblots and even a scythe. Scroll up and you’ll see. Then come back here.
I’ll tell you what I think of, what I’ve always thought of, when I’ve looked at self portraits of distressed artists. (Apart from trying to understand myself.)
[polaroid taken by Catherine Sparrey in 2015]
A response to this song.
These were self portraits I’d taken for my GCSEs.
A sort of homage to Gingersnaps, too. The idea of Gingersnaps was to create a narrative that drew parallels between the female experience of puberty and werewolves.
This is a scene I particularly enjoyed.
A photograph I took of a barbie doll I’d purchased in a charity shop, in 2005. I’d placed some red nail polish on her mouth to indicate smudged red lipstick and on her hand to indicate blood, I placed a Sephiroth wing I’d taken that had fallen off an abandoned sculpture of an angel my “sister” had in her room at her back.
I believe I might’ve been emulating images I’d seen of Cindy Sherman’s, certainly stylistically. She’s important to me because she worked almost exclusively with self portraiture and she never really looked the same in any of her photographs. She wasn’t trying to model.
My A-level artist research considered the works of international (but mostly American) female artists that were very drawn to portraying women on the poorer side of the middle class socio-spectrum, women who had been trapped in the domestic housewife role by societal expectation, or who worked so-called-menial occupations who – culturally at least – had nothing to do all day but sleep, clean or cook for daddy and the babies.
I really think I must have been more drawn to the clothes and the interiors, than the artists documenting them would have wanted me to be. I blame this.
I was particularly the adoption of late 70s, 80’s and 90’s use of cosmetics ad packaging to brighten up their homes (how else did they introduce the colour pink, for example, into their homes – save for having a daughter because until now I find so much beauty in that. What the fuck did these women really get upto when they weren’t sleeping? That’s the significance of the idea of art versus crafts. Crafts were the occupation of bored women, and removed from the insult of the idea of that – you cannot emerge into a male dominated industry which the Arts have always been – without
I know there was a piece she did that incorporated graphic design and typography, though I struggle to find it.
and on livejournal, various members posted photographs of their Blythe dolls in scenes.
And Mark Ryden too.
That wing was an ’embarrassing’ motif in a lot of my scribbles and watercolour paintings. The truth is I was very bothered by the fact that I struggled to illustrate two wings that looked identical to one another.
Here’s an embarrassing one, a candy, a heart, blue and red. A crescent moon and five stars. A strange S. An ex of mine got this tattooed on his neck, and then he got it covered with a blue rose. Blue and red were really important to me.
I used to autistically feel happiness when I saw blue and red together. I confuse happiness for laughter now. I do experience happiness, in the buddhist sense of the word. I’m very content. With very little. Which is good because as far as the state of life in this country is concerned, I’m living on the poverty line. Which isn’t good, I’ve made a lot of people that pretend-to-be-decent a lot of money, and all they had to do to get it was abuse my trust.
But it all amounts to this. A piece I’d seen in my brothers room.
[ref accessed 09:37 AM, UK time, Fffifteenth of October 2019, | Edvard Munch, The Scream]
The point of this painting, which tied in nicely to my philosophy a-level, was to depict existential angst. EXISTING IS TOUGH MANG. (why is it though?) (well, we all have a struggle of our own.) (that word – ‘why’, is funny, to me. My mother would have me stand facing a corner for hours every time I attempted to defend myself, trying to work out a reason she’d like to hear for my being ‘rude’, when I told her the truth she’d send me back while she went back to sleep. I’m sure the time passed in seconds for her and perhaps even you – but it didn’t for me. Years later I realised what she was really upto while I had my face in a wall and then people defended her. HAHAHAHHAHDKGHSGKOHG) (The only person that can defend her, is me, and the only motivation I’ll have for doing so is when she tells the truth. She doesn’t even need to say sorry. She only needs to outrightly tell the fucking truth.)
So, at the time I was studying existentialism.
(Life is meaningless and your life is given meaning when you die. An ex of mine once likened people to cattle, which was a very grim suggestion but it came from a place that affected a lot of goth kids, this idea of not wanting to be the same as everyone else, not aspiring to the same things and not wanting to liken ones entire life experience with the rife possibilities that )
But: that painting doesn’t need a learned philosopher – it’s about ‘existential angst’, the anxiety of existing. And notice those white scribbles.
It isn’t a great painting if you’re comparing it to this. This is a painting by George Romney, of a woman called Emma Hamilton – who changed her name to Emma Hart. Footballers wives used me to time travel to her time because one of their names was Emma, she did/has done nothing interesting with her life to be able to insult this woman with any kind of comparison but I’ll get to that so much later.
She is portraying the Goddess Circe in this. It would be pretentious to draw your attention to the paint strokes and the textures and colours used to create the illusion of depth and dimension so I WON’T. That’s BORING. I’m more taken by the white scribbles.
The thing about paints is that the ingredients can sort of have a life of their own, especially waterbased ones.
Years ago, and I am proud of this: even if it involved cruelty. Which is sort of the running theme of this post. Forgive me because I do know that my variety of cruelty is the worst kind.
I pointed this piece out to my mother. I said “apparently this took him about ten years” and to me, it was a portrait of Marilyn Monroe and some scribbles atop the portrait.
Why are the scribbles important?
Well I’ll tell you what my seventeen year old self was really thinking about those scribbles: Why do they make this guy a famous artist and not me?
Well, on the scribbles: they’re emotive? The use of colour? I get it – that is sort of the issue that people have with modern art. It’s somewhat of an insult when you compare it’s nature to renaissance art. BUT IS IT.
Give me a million years (and I do have it, the time. That amount of time. Actually I have much more time than that and it should be terrifying but it isn’t, at all. Sometimes it is a bit upsetting but whats worse is that I’m starting to not need to drink much water – especially as I’m drinking boiled water everytime I eat right now – but soon I’ll have to accept that I am thirty and not in the euphemistic sexualised way but in a very real ‘water isn’t making me not-thirsty’ and I’m a vampire, and I’ve vampired a lot of people – and when vampires go to sleep hungry the ones that read the news learn that a lot of people have died.) to think about it, and to be honest, not having the patience to listen in on teachers and lecturers offering their opinions and definitions of art has been really important to my journey as an aspiring artist. I still cringe when I suggest I’m an artist because I know that I am but I also know that if I accept that identity at this point of my personal development (long story short: going to art school ruins your chances of being an artist and destroys you as a person, but if you can survive that you can return to the dream with experiences that you can transmute into your work later when you’ve grown up a bit.)
Want to enjoy a coincidence? Here are two images of me, cropped out, so that Sabel can be the main character. I did not mean to do this, actually it was entirely by coincidence. I should probably be offended that he is so narcissistic but I’m tremendously amused by it and I’m grinning as I type.
To the right and beneath a magnifying glass, only so that he is more visible and not because he is in anyway affiliated with glass (actually we’ve thought to adopt glass and make it our thing, there’s no need for glass to be associated with 9s,) – actually he’d say that I am the origins of glass to him because I come from the desert. (As in I have a decent amount of memories that are entirely occupied by drives through sandy terrains, as you probably know. Iunno.) and he is a unique form of one of my spider friend Sabel’s children, I found the body on the bottom fhelf (what a typo, I meant to write ‘shelf’ but I prefer ‘fhelf’) of a three tiered mini cabinet that I bought for my art stuff. I’d been thinking to use it to house a snake but I know that any pets that I invest in hence forth will be very snobby and expect that I make this flat or whatever place I live in as beautiful as possible. I talk more about Sabel here.
It’s funny, after all of that maggot research I did this summer (it was only months ago but it seems like years ago because every single day of my life is so different) I walked into the Warhammer shoppe and I had a quick chat with one of the staff there, who told me he had studied philosophy so we briefly discussed the psychologies of a few varieties of the kinds of beings that occupy the Warhammer-(uni)verse and amongst them are insect people, which he said operate with a single mind. So it is a form of Sabel’s, rather than one of his children. He works very hard to be the head-boy-spider. I return to the discussion I had with the Warhammer boys because I’ve so much more to contribute to the discussion. I think that some of the greatest conversations are those that you return to after a period of thinking, not ones that are easily improvised.
I know that Abraham Hicks is capable of accessing all manner of thought that already exists through a connection to the Universe, which is how he answers his schools questions: but imagine if we gave him wayyyy more time?
After a one night stand of sorts with a glass maker I’d been pretending not to be in love with for years (one night stands ruin everything – do not for one minute pretend that someone you slept with the night you finally got a chance alone with them will ever be anything more, even if you marry them, even if they impregnate you – it’s a one night stand. Even chances of ‘genuine friendship’ are over. Blame it on prudeishness or ‘strict parents’, or my, therefore your spiritual teacher Lisa, or the School of Economic Science – Love first: then the other stuff. Love is spending two weeks with a person non-stop without expecting to put your genitals inside of them or vice versa. But mincing about the subject of why getting to know each other first with pleasantries or romantic verbosity makes it easy to evade the reality of WHY thats so difficult.)
Long story cut short: a girl I loathed became pregnant with the first hobbit and I went right back to being entirely alone, while he went on a holiday. It was a repeat of sorts of something that had happened ten or so years ago, apparently I hadn’t learned my lesson.
My response to that lesson is that I’m apparently done with having one night stands with humans.
And I would not risk that with aliens unless I was desperate to get off this Planet, because if human men have managed to avoid getting to know women by simply making arrangements to rape them rather than getting to know them, I imagine aliens that want-to-have-sex are much worse.
Anyway, here is what I have been upto. When I’ve finished the concepts I will consider it a section in my future toyshoppe. I know that I can’t stop people stealing my ideas, but if I find out you’ve done it: it doesn’t take much for me to embarrass you.
If I were sneakier, if I could be: I’d email the people who had made these Poopsie Unicorn toys – an attempt at competing with me over my decision to design toys (in no small part, a result of being little and being bored of the toys available on the market – and that I’d never find the toys my ‘friends’ had when I went to the shoppes. And Kanye West – who said toys were boring, I think buying his kids toys was depressing if he spoke about it publicly.)
and I’d ask
“Why do they have such colourful hair?”
I adore the colours. I’d ask because I’d want to hear what they had to say about the use of colours. I’d ask to embarrass them.
I know that the person responsible for this would say that they were inspired by starbucks, slushpuppies, iced gems, emojis and those gelatine sweets that anorexic people are encouraged to consume to avoid hairloss and they’d avoid mentioning my illustration style, animes like Rose of Versailles.
[image accessed via google on 15th October at 16:56, URL reference]
You don’t need to credit all of your influences, you might not even notice you have influences, you might think that no one would notice. I do think that I was supposed to notice this work though, I think it was supposed to make me very upset that there was a toy depicting a bloated unicorn and that the suggestion of it was that this unicorn exists to shit and to go out and drink starbucks. I think I was supposed to be outraged and that I was supposed to advertise it on my blog, at worst I would ignore it and that’s great too. These women have a lot of money and high hopes, trying to sell these toys for those prices. But I would’ve bought these toys if they’d admitted that they were inspired by me, the GodsGirls only forum and The Last Unicorn. Would these women of even known that there is a unicorn on the one pound coin if it was not for me?
If it’s an >independent business< or >twenty< that you’re running, and if you’re selling something to children – I think perhaps you ought to be able to offer some literature to accompany your identity.
they’d avoid mentioning Sara and Lola Al Saud’s label. I don’t like them but that doesn’t mean anything to semetic, we all despise of one another and our families. It’s normal for us. But this is theft.
It’s tremendously creepy.
If you asked the women responsible for ‘you will get everythink what you can see in the pictures‘ (I imagine they put them on ebay too)
“what inspired the body proportions”
“what inspired the ‘poopsie” unicorn?”
“what inspired the colour scheme?”
“what in particular inspired the use of words like ‘magic’ and ‘sparkle’ and ‘shimmer’?”
You wouldn’t really need them to answer but it would be so funny if they tried to.
Then theres ‘Le Toy Van’. These are not unattractive pieces. They are Montessori inspired ergonomic designs with the influence of Fisher Price. When I tell you that they just ‘appeared’ on the market, I’d encourage you to believe me. I KNOW TOYS. There were years of my life where I only ever left my street to go to TOY SHOPS. THATS IT. I’d go to school once or twice a month and once or twice a year, my dad would take me to a toy shop.
When Louise Pentland posted ‘Le Toy Van’ pieces on her youtube I was actually pretty livid about it. They marketed themselves as a business being run by a man and his son, and that the CEOs name was ‘Mr Le Van’. They’d apparently existed for many years and were initially based in Surrey (they’ve since moved to London, according to changes on their site, if I’m in Brighton for long enough I’m sure they’ll move if they haven’t already rented a local place) and