I’ve decided there is one person on the Planet I’d give my other dragon earring to. NOT YOU.

He’s really pretty, talented, nice and stuff. But also at the same time he’s not reeeeally any of those things. He’s really funny too – which is a better thing to be than pretty, talented, nice or even stuff.

Also I think he’s a genuine medium (and that he realised because of me! … and Abraham Hicks) & it’s nice for me to think that there are men who are capable of the stuff I am. Because y’know, some kind of non-feigned sensitivity/empathy/a mutual understanding of how it feels to be constantly changing and yet have an actual internal identity is quite a significant set of characteristics to have in common with anyone.


I wore these sort of sauntering around London and scuffed them. Life in London hax – if you’re going to wear white in London, get cabs. Fortunately I like my clothes to look a little bit fucked up sometimes so it doesn’t bother me. I mean, it does a bit, but it also doesn’t. I was planning on wearing them to something important and official. I don’t do important or official but if I ever did I would’ve been prepared. I enjoyed owning in-the-event-of shoes that weren’t black. Oh no0o0… I’ll have to buy more.


I scribbled on the train to Homerton and listened to my little Mp3 player that has a collection of songs I’ve sort of illegally downloaded off the internet. I prefer not to download music illegally – even if it is videos off youtube – and usually I end up deleting that kind of media. It’s not a concern much anymore but I do think it’s a form of stealing. I wish I could buy all the songs I like, but most of them aren’t really on iTunes.

This was my favourite scribble, I did it sometime way into my journey on the Central Line to Stratford. I was thinking of the character ‘Spike’ from Tithe. I’ve never really drawn men before so he is quite feminine. I kind of thought of Yoshitaka Amano for a moment which I think is apparent in the eyes, and the hair.


I went to visit one of my spiritual teachers yesterday. Her name is Bernie. I lived with her and Lisa before I moved to Farnham.
I always think it’s so strange that I had ever lived in a place called ‘Homerton’ – on my facebook profile I used to have a quote from the Iliad by Homer – where Hector berates Paris “When you appear as champion- champion beauty – But have no strength, nor character, nor courage.” (Basically every guy I have ever genuinely been into has been a Paris.) Those delightful coincidences. But I actually don’t find Paris archetypes attractive. I’m not into secretive or cowardly people. (This does not apply to women called Paris – obviously. Just the men. Who calls a man Paris anyway?) (Actually as a teenager I fully admired the fact that Paris Hilton could capitalise on the assumptions and stereotypes given to blonde women – there’s a spirit of Dolly Parton here – but do you know how intelligent a person has to be to convince an entire World that they’re stupid?)


Ironic one liners like these can only come from people who think really, really fast.
Conversation in and of itself is an art form – entertaining conversation is gold.

Meme culture has helped so many people cope with their lives, you have no idea. Anyway – this is a small point I touch on later in this post. BE PATIENT. You probably don’t even read my posts anyway. Are you reading this? How are you not bored?


Bernie answered the door barefooted, donning the most beautiful red dress. I wish I had taken photographs but I want to make special efforts to document her at her work.
She let me into her beautiful woman-cave and I skimmed the collection of her various, numerous books, admired her trinkets and the colourful magical posters that adorned her walls – she lit an incense stick, we sipped white wine and read tarot for one another using a few different decks.
For the first time in my life I actually saw something in a crystal ball – and it was distinctive. She had one sitting on a little table surface and it was beautifully adorned in black fabric and placed on a small table to the left of me. She and a friend of hers were sitting on a red leather sofa and I sat on a sequin embellished cushion on the floor opposite Bernie.
In all honesty, I have never – ever – seen something in a crystal ball – but it was very, very vivid and yet also quite subtle an experience. It was black shapes that merged very naturally and became very noticeable forms – a scar, a long eared dog – and I slowly recognised it as being a cocker spaniel of mine, that died. As I moved the dogs eyes gaze would move with me. So 7D. Later I looked at the ball again, expecting some  easy vision and yet there was none – nothing especially extraordinary there for me to observe; but I did see the details of the fabrics that make Bernie’s room.

At one point I went out for a cigarette, after playing an Esther and Abraham Hicks video  for Bernie (We also listened to Gregorian chants) (There’s some connection with the ‘Grigori’, ‘Jared’ and angels – and once years ago a girl I had thought of as a friend was pregnant and I put my hand on her tummy and said “His names Greg, I think” – her boyfriend hated the name at the time and was quite offended by the prospect, but actually I’d later learn of the connection to the Grigori and Jared. Her boyfriend’s surname is Jared… so is mine. I know he used to see orbs and I know he can leave his body, though I’m unsure if he’s ever told her the truth about it. I guess she was carrying a little fallen angel.)

Again I recall Lisa teaching me about Enoch and Eli.

Bernie got into a huge panic at one point because she couldn’t find money she had stowed away, which she needed for a trip to Scotland. She ended up finding the money and also a little extra, that she’d forgotten she had!

She fed me bread and an amazing mushroom sauce and I stayed the night. She went to bed quite early after making my bed for me.
I didn’t have my laptop to keep me company, but I didn’t notice because I had enough battery on my phone to play an Abraham Hicks talk …and I got to properly acquaint myself with and befriend a hoard of fantastic, feral “rascal felines” who would come in through the door of my old balcony.

Here’s one of them. He spent some time sort of napping while lying on my chest and I got the feeling that he wanted me to take a photograph of him but it was quite difficult because he moves so fast. I was amused at the fact that none of the photographs taken of him depict his eyes, and that before noticing the fact – I decided that I’d call him Eye. It was between that and X (ten).


(Also – he might not be a ‘he’, but I found his/her energy to be quite masculine. I have zero inclination to check animals for their gender and decided today that people who do are quite strange for it.)


He and some of the other cats I met (amongst them – one was a fantastic grey one called Nolly) sort of looked like Bengals but they’re not, their fur is just fabulous. Another cat was quite petite and she slept in the little gap between my calves for a little while, and I admired her fox-like tail but had a hard time coming up with a name that I thought suited her. I didn’t get a chance to photograph them all, but I’m sure I will.

This morning, I woke up and tidied a little. The room carries so many memories, even though it looks nothing like it did when I lived there. The walls were blue back then!


I couldn’t bear to walk back home in the heels… I’m really particular about the kind of heels I can wear. These are the kind you look really good in, but don’t actually move around in – unless teetering is your thing, and it’s 2018 – teetering is no one’s thing. If you’re a shoe person – you walk these with your heel/ankle, not the ball of your foot. I’m a tip toe-r. So I was alternating quite bizarrely. Ain’t nobody got time for that.


So on my way home, I wore my terrible/wonderful/actually quite unacceptable Topshop Velvet knot sliders that I coincidentally bought after I negged Pewdiepie on twitter for owning Birkinstocks.
It was a complete walk of shame. I had worn a stick-on bra (the best bra I have ever worn actually) and the stick was going so I hid in a corner of Homerton station and ripped it off – sans any attempt at being delicate. I had a Britney Spears moment I’m sure, where my nipples were probably most definitely pointing in different directions but I had zero shits to give about the fact.

There was a like, twelve year old boy in an open cardigan sitting opposite me kind of napping. When we got to Ealing he approached me with fantastic bravery and I think he was hitting on me although there was some kind of quiet feeling that it was a weird performance. He asked me how old I was. I said “about three times older than you” and smiled awkwardly. He left. Then immediately after someone else came and hit on me in jeans and a t-shirt. He was really nice, but also I felt like he was putting on some kind of performance, and also I have vowed to never date anyone that actively lives in Ealing. Actually the faux-hitting-on-me thing was quite aggressive and I don’t think you can aggressively hit on anyone in jeans and a t-shirt. I did look a mess – and I did repeatedly give him “this is awkward and uncomfortable” signals, but I did feel he was performing, and I suppose it must have been so easy because as I said to him, when he asked me out for a drink “No. I look like I’m on crack.” Eventually I think I said “I like someone” and he said “I can change your mind” and I said “no. I don’t think you can”.
I walked along and within thirty seconds I came across a homeless looking man (the sort I couldn’t not approach) who looked a complete mess, who also had an air of performance about him. He sat on the floor with his hat in front of him, the inside of it decorated with some shiny pennies – and was lighting a roll up. He smelt of alcohol and was quite skinny. He spoke as though he had some kind of alcohol-induced speech impediment and also claimed to be Welsh (although there was not even the slightest hint of a Welsh accent). After some unmemorable attempt at conversational exchange (What homeless person – who has had to experience a cold night on the streets, for example – complains about the SUMMER?) he told me that he had been in and out of hostels – released from a job as a binman (who didn’t operate the vehicles because apparently he couldn’t drive) because apparently Ealing council gives binmen (including the ones who don’t operate cars) routine breathaliser tests. I don’t know how someone spends five years homeless in West London and doesn’t manage to accumulate an oyster (“I jump busses”… the kind of thing you might’ve been able to do years ago, the kind of thing you certainly can’t get away with in Ealing, the kind of thing someone who drives would say.) I asked how he kept his clothes so clean – he said he had ‘found’ them, but felt inclined to point out that his shoes were quite scuffed (no more than my slippers, I pointed out.) I eventually asked to read his palm – his nails were dirty but his hands were impeccably clean. I find men incredibly embarrassing, don’t you?

Anyway – quite sad to look a mess I wandered into Primark to do some light shopping. The bag was sitting quite prettily beside my door.


I bought all the things I liked. This little rollerball perfume was one of my favourites.  Mostly because it brought back so many memories.


When I was studying at London College of Fashion, doing my foundation year, at nineteen – I had “History of Polka Dots” on my facebook profile – people legitimately thought I was actually studying that. I never really acknowledged nor boasted about the fact that I was doing a Foundation year at one of the most prestigious art universities in the World, that it was quite a big deal. “History of Polka dots” was a reference to Legally Blonde – a film where the token idiot girl gets a degree in Law, from Harvard. Actually the significance of that film, to me, was that I kind of empathised with the fact that the protagonist was consistently stereotyped and made a victim of assumptions based on what was apparent in her personality, rather than ever celebrated for it.
(My sixth form college – who used to invite me to Uganda once a year – neglected to on one of those, in my absence they learned that in the previous year that when they had left (a “friend” and I decided to stay behind) I had commissioned a Montessori inspired bookshelf I co-created with a local carpenter, and an elevated Wendy House – which they decided to paint white, with multicoloured polka dots. It looked terrible. I’d have preferred an apology.) for the nursery owned by two female teachers with whom I had become quite fond of.)

Also: I used to buy little rollerball perfumes from Shrinkle that smelt like different kinds of cake – my favourite scents have typically been sickly sweet. Amongst my favourite perfumes, have been Angel by Thierry Mugler (It smells like Chocolate to me), Candy by Prada (hints of Caramel) and Carmella by Benefit which I wore a lot at University. Polka isn’t my usual kind of scent but I love to try new things. I also love Loverdose by Diesel. I also love Manifesto by YSL. And Hypnotic Poison by Dior. And The One, by Dolce and Gabbana… which I used to carry around everywhere with me in spite of the fact that the bottle was absolutely huge.

I love it when a person walks by and their perfume lingers in the air. Not everyone likes that, but I do. (Also I’m a smoker, so it’s a choice between smelling like perfume or cigarettes.)
Believe it or not, tobacco is actually used in fragrances too. Like >> this one << by Tom Ford. When I was little, I remember, in Dubai – there was a shop that allowed you to create your own perfumes… I remember I used to go and play with the pipettes and stuff. And I recall a friend, who has a different kind of synesthesia to me – who once said that he loved the idea of putting a vision to a scent, with regards to perfume adverts. I quoted that in a rush when I was doing my MA and it converted a whole room of people into considering being Art Directors for ad campaigns.

I also bought a £3 polkadot dress that had sort of been thrown somewhere onto a shelf. In some lights it’s a vibrant orange, in some it’s a vibrant red. To me. I’ve updated my >> Flickr << and my >> Style Inspiration << page.

I’d love to do proper Style diaries with full shots of my outfits, but ever since a film lecturer at UCA looked through my photography and noticed that I like to frame using sections rather than the full subject and complimented my doing so, I guess I’ve been inclined to stick to that “style”. I’m a detail oriented person. Minutiae.

Oh wow – I’ve just had another flashback. A lady called Wendy gave me a little toy once, a game called ‘Sandwich’. Then I ecosia’d it and I couldn’t find the game I was looking for but I found an image depicting that childhood pastime of… >> ‘connect the dots‘ <<.


Ohhh, back to Primark.

I played dress up in the changing room. I kind of think that changing-room soft-core porn should maybe be a thing and I imagine thats a thought inspired by Driven by Boredom’s candid party soft-core porn and also the changing-room interaction scenes in Hors De Prix.


Also I’ve never properly kicked anyone but I think if I did it would hurt. A lot. Actually I did once – in self defence; but she was huge. And she’d probably have knocked me out if she had the chance to hit me first.

I’m designing some stuff at the moment – so I’m obsessing a little about the different shapes that fabric makes when it falls.


I didn’t buy this top, but I think the fabric is so photogenic and fluid. I have been obsessed with sleeves since I was a little child – having to be woken up an hour early because I would have a daily tantrum about the choice of sleeves my mother selected for me for school. I did not like Chun Li sleeves (although at some point in my childhood when I was insecure about my legs being muscular – my brother showed me Chun Li in Street Fighter Alpha 3 – and I fell in love with her. She had those sleeves on too…) How Renaissance is this top?


In other news, I’m having a really uncomfortable period… and you can’t see it in these photographs but my pad has been strategically placed to the side in this underwear and I’m not wearing any fake tan – and really people with my physical make up ought to live in hot countries. I don’t suit being pale and I actually don’t naturally tan all that easily either. My genes are latin/hispanic/italian/arab/ultrajew so I need to live in a place where my skin is brown and the little hairs on my body are bleached – and not by a beautician (most of whom do a great job making you think that they’re poor.)

I’m watching this episode of Claymore.

The journey home

I’ve been working on my room some more. It’s a very gradual process. I’ll show you some of my favourite little details.

To the left, is a recycled glass bottle – I bought some reed diffusers and this one was: I think, Vanilla and Cardamom – from Waitrose. I spray painted the bottle.

To the right is a handblown milk carton made of glass – I saw one in the Tate gift shop, years ago by an artist and it sort of stuck in the back of my mind. I sprayed this one too. I think they look better!


They’re perched on a shelf I sanded down from scrap wood – a-gentleman-from-Poland-is-doing-up-my-mother’s-house-and-completely-changing-our-lives (even if the construction work does make her quite grumpy.) and this amazing piece of wood had been placed in the skip in our entrance. I also sprayed it, with metallic paint. Rose Gold.

The ‘shelf’ design is pretty Scandinavian but y’know, better. (You have to see it in person – or video – maybe I’ll video it for you.) (Vikings have phenomenally terrible personalities – I’ve found – but they really do make up for that with their innovation in interiors and street food. Like I can’t cope with talking to you for longer than just a minute but woahhhhh this street vendor’s Hotdog tastes better than your cooking and your home is much more enjoyable than you.)

I also made these shelves! With help, obviously. Using scrap wood and one of those handheld electric drill thingies that – with the click of a button – make you a million times more dangerous. I was taught how to screw nails into wood and it’s not that difficult. If more women knew how to do this kind of stuff there’d be a lot more female carpenters, I imagine.


Adam (The guy fixing ma’s house) taught me something quite fantastic – using a Stanley knife you can strip branches of layers of bark to make them a little smoother, I screwed them in and embellished the bottom shelf.

Here’s a close up, although you can’t see it as well. However you can see the marvellous bokeh from my collection of crystals – which I really ought to display in my >> shop << as soon as I have a moment.


Here’s how it looks from a distance.


Oh! About this painting! I started it MONTHS ago and it’s still not finished. It’s inspired by a ‘Sheep’ hoody I bought, that was designed by iDubbbz.

Here’s a close up.


I am drawn to feel quite unsatisfied with a lot of my painting work – I’ve a few portraits done in a style I find quite similar to Joshua Petker, gathering dust in my bedroom.
The reality is – these paintings aren’t finished. This painting certainly isn’t.

I added gold foil to this painting (years ago at UCA I made an armature sitting on my kitchen floor – a two headed creature I called “Mother” – who was my first attempt at using foil in art) and then, years ago, during my GCSEs, I recall doing a study on an artist called >> Arnulf Rainer <<. He would scribble atop of portraits (of himself, of others) quite emotively – and I remember that my mother and I used to laugh a lot at the annotations beneath the art works. Some of these portraits had taken like, ten years to complete. They’re brilliant pieces of work that I am, until now, deeply inspired by. But I kind of understand and empathise now – why it had taken him so long to know how to finish his work.
I added some stick on pink and purple pearls that I found in a £1 store to the sacred heart and I felt a new attachment to the painting.

“It’s not finished, it’s not finished, it’s not finished“. Remember that every time you look at a piece of art work you don’t like – advice from a person who very rarely gives herself a chance to finish anything. (An art teacher in sixth form berated me once because I used to throw anything I didn’t like very much away.)

I’m sort of working on this sofa too… There’s so much I could do with it! I’m thinking of giving it to someone as a gift if/when I finish with it…


Anyway, I’m going to nap because I’m sore and I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.

Published by KARINITA


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