So here’s a funny story. My mother’s name is Ana right – and ages ago she was working for a psychiatrist called Chris. People have confused her and I with this, ironically. My first name is A- DOUBLE N-A and my middle name and the only name I acknowledge as mine – is Karina. Sooo if your “Ana Steele” character and your “Christian Grey” character had a kid, it me. A Christian Grey fragment with an understanding of both archetypes, ideally from a non-sexual perspective although I guess when you have two characters that associate love with sex (THEY HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH ONE ANOTHER. AND WHEN THEY DO – AND WHEN THE WOMAN ORGASMS – BABIES ARE MADE. A STORY FOR ANOTHER TIME – BUT YOUR CHILD BELONGS TO WHOEVER THE PERSON YOU LOVE HAS FEELINGS OF LOVE TOWARDS AND WAS PROBABLY FANTASISING ABOUT DURING THE SEX, WHATEVER THE CHILD MIGHT LOOK LIKE.) you’d struggle to truly know how their child might turn out. (As humanity evolves, so too must science, so too must spirituality and “religion”.)

It’s funny to me – knowing personally the kind of fucked up script people who are into Shades of Grey use to pursue women (I’ve neither read nor watched, don’t intend to. And I’d imagine anyone who conceived a child as a product of that kind of romantic-script would feel the same kind of revulsion that I do. Also: I value the time I spend watching stuff – I’m particular about the kind of narratives I’ll engage with in lieu of doing “other stuff”. I take film/narratives/stories of any kind very, very seriously.)

I’ve been called lazy all my life – when that laziness was actually the kind of ~sad story that goes back to a seven year old spending up to three weeks or more literally in bed, in a dark room – being too physically tired to do ANYTHING in spite of an embarrassingly early bedtime.
I’d pretend to have migraines (although I did have them sometimes) to get out of going to school, and often otherwise pretend that I was in pain, when I wasn’t aware of being in any pain at all. I was just tired and I needed sleep.
It meant a lot of trips to the doctor, and I developed a kind of weird resistance to pain killers too – pill popping stuff like codydramol/codeine etc as a little kid will do that to you. And later when I really needed those painkillers to work – they didn’t. (Morphine – something I joked about wanting to have, as I was about to have a surgery to remove a lipoma on my side – and it didn’t work. TEN doses of morphine – didn’t work.)

(Weed would’ve worked. Legalise it. Weed gives people spiritual awakenings, helps them learn personal truths. It does not give people psychosis – but their response to their personal truth may appear as psychosis to you. In any case, people have a right to not feel physical pain.)

Although I look back on my childhood now, especially after a chat with a spiritual teacher I found on YouTube – and realise that I was always in pretty fucking terrible pain that I thought was a normal part of life.
I was suffering with like, chronic constipation, and constantly waiting for the death sentence that taking a shit is to a little kid who eats a LOT and hasn’t taken a crap in three weeks. (Basically I can take pain physically and non physically – and I think people who think “playing” with pain as a means of expressing their sexuality are sick. Really fucking sick. And for the most part that isn’t my business – what you sickos do with your own time is your business.)

The thing about 50 Shades of Grey that I’m aware of, is that for the most part – some guy adopts a cowardly anonymity and uses his more-money-than-sense to essentially target and stalk a woman who is just trying to live her fucking life. Maybe/probably targets lots of women, I don’t know.

My mother would never admit it – but she had a huge crush on this psychiatrist Chris.
She, at the time, was walking with a cane. She broke her leg on the day that I had that surgery, I woke up from a dream where I watched my then-boyfriend and a friend of ours fucking, and I woke up in pure pain. I kept asking for more morphine which the nurse begrudgingly administered and eventually my then-boyfriend would show up. I was pissed off with him for being late and he didn’t want to give me a hug, for some reason. I was wheel-chaired out of that and into a taxi to head for my mothers, absolutely depressed and catatonic I lowered myself into the car and out of nowhere my mother’s leg just snapped in two. The doctors said it was osteoporosis. I think she’s healing from that now though.

She’s had a tough life and people who’ve had tough lives don’t really look how they might’ve before their lives got “tough”. I assure you that when she was younger she’d have destroyed any girl’s life –  by merely being in the same room. Look at her.


Whenever someone is mean about my tough ma, I think… Imagine meeting her then, she’d have ruined your life.

Then you think – how does a mediocre dude get someone like her? Well. It’s a process, isn’t it. I’ll run it down for you.

First – I guess you make sure she’s too poor to maintain herself – y’know, too poor to do her hair/nails/get waxed etc. Too poor to buy nice clothes. Get her to look as bad as you can. If that doesn’t work – y’know, if she looks good in ANYTHING – encourage her to get fat. It’s easy to make fat people feel bad about themselves. (And then later you can create a list of foods that you’ll let her eat.) Fat people have a harder time looking good in clothes, too.

Then – you make her think she’s bad at everything she’s actually better at than you are. You kind of eat into her sense of self – anything that gives her self esteem – take that away from her.

Then – you work out her “hard time”. What was difficult for her? Did she have daddy issues? Did she have brother issues? Did she not-get anything she wanted as a child? Don’t bother getting to know her as a person because, iunno, thats one of the potentially nice aspects of life – enjoying another person’s company. Because really you don’t care about her personality – you just want someone who is “perfect” for you. And ideally if you do this right – it doesn’t matter that you’re completely wrong for them. Who cares what SHE needs, it’s all about ME. Right???

Does she have money? Where does it come from? We’ll be having none of that!!! Make her broke.

Does she have friends? Close family members? Lets create some issues there. She doesn’t need friends.

Okay – now lets put her in a situation and create a false sense of trust by providing to an unacceptably minimal extent what she needs. That’ll make her like mediocre me. (FYI – this works for a few years – max. And you’ll both come out of all of that looking terrible.)

This man invited my mother – at the time a completely broken person – to an event, knowing she fancied him. She was doing volunteer work for him – organising a fucking horrendous, embarrassingly poorly organised system (her sense of self comes from taking control over things and making them better. She doesn’t know it but I do.).
It terrifies me the way that people’s personal information is kept and dealt with by “government funded” (tax payer funded) organisations/entities (like we pay for the police to work and think it’s normal that they get a sense of power from essentially making us feel deeply uncomfortable) (does a policeman ever watch a person buying something in a shop and think “wow, that person is paying my wages”?), it infuriates me that there are systems that have my personal details in.
You probably think that the NHS offers you “free health care” but I assure you that information is extremely valuable – you are offering yourself and if you have children – your children – as test subjects when you engage with the NHS. But when you’re broke.. you have no choice. Actually I find that the NHS makes lab rats of us all. But I don’t think someone in a country with some kind of debilitating illness who can’t afford “healthcare” would necessarily be bothered by the fact. That too is an aspect of the medical profession I find appalling – I think that if you are a doctor it is your absolute fucking responsibility to offer healthcare for free. My spiritual teacher is a healer – and if someone can’t afford to pay her for the energy she expends, she does it for free. You might think that sounds like hippie nonsense – but it’s not. After a healing session she’ll take a bath and the water she sits in will turn BLACK. After some healing sessions she’ll be struck with the kind of liquishits that someone might get after eating raw chicken. That is negative energy – she is obsessive about hygiene, tidiness and cleanliness. She takes the pain for herself.

So – my mother asked me to come to this event, and I brought along a friend of mine. He and I are no longer friends but we both share some qualities – a heightened state of empathy that comes as a result of experiencing real suffering in varying degrees. Pain has many forms – embarrassment (I don’t feel it so much – I can sincerely laugh it off), guilt (I’ve only recently learned to stop feeling this, especially important to my personal development because I’m the kind of person who can feel guilt for something I’ve not even done. Being “guiltless” – a great quality for a hitman/woman etc – is only really admirable when you’ve learned the absolute importance of it, in my personal opinion), physical pain (which is also an important aspect of life – as a child you often learn not to do stupid things because you associate doing those stupid things with pain.) and I imagine many more kinds. So this “friend” – he’s the kind of person that can watch something like “The Office” and really feel embarrassment for the characters on the screen. I’m the kind of person who can watch someone doing something that physically hurts them and somehow feel the pain as if it were happening to me. (I do however, enjoy watching people injecting themselves.)

Iunno – its not a competition but I promise you that if it were – I could sit with anyone and describe in detail how much more fucked up I am, than they are. And I get that 50 Shades of Grey teaches men that being “fucked up” gives them masculinity points of some kind – well if you’ve read enough of my blog you’d know that four year old me has ALL the masculinity points.

This sad little psychiatrist donned some snake skin cowboy boots and played the most fucking embarrassing instruments – some kind of horn bagpipe – truly this event was mortifying beyond all belief. Bagpipes meets salsa.
I initially thought it was admirable that he was hosting something for the disabled people he took care of quite selflessly – but even “good” people are capable of being complete fucking assholes.
It is not often my inner asshole comes out – but when that bitch does, I really do ruin people’s lives. Like I said, when I was little I sat on a bench with a girl far younger than me, and she was studying martial arts. She had a little book that said it was wrong to hurt people unless it was in self defence.

The thing about my mother is that technically, she might’ve been doing volunteer work for the disabled and unfortunate but she had also quite successfully caused this psychiatrist to forget that she was both of those things.

His first mistake, was having me watch him parade his blonde haired wife around my mother. She was wearing heels and some boring outfit, the two of them playing some saintly game. Oh look at us – we’re helping all of these unfortunate disabled people. They wouldn’t get to go out if it wasn’t for us – etc. You know. I’m such a good person vibes. Mortifying to observe, to say the least.
Well I guess my inner asshole unleashed herself. Some kind of quiet competition with this man. I saw the entire event as a terrible “David Lynchian” farce, awful music, boring as fuck performers (my friend and I excused ourselves to smoke weed by the staircase outside and stare into space, and I took a moment to explain that I was pissed off that it was entirely obvious – what this man was doing to my mother. Trying to make her feel jealous.)

So I took a video recording of some of the disabled people enjoying his festivities. The David Lynch in me couldn’t not have done so.
Actually no different to what the psychiatrist was doing to my mother, who was quietly sitting on a barstool by herself. Observing her watching people dancing and him parading his boring as fuck poncho-donning wife, playing some kind of Christ like figure and her, his Mary Magdalene. Making all these disabled people so happy.
I’m not my mother’s baby sitter and I’m not interested in watching this man perform his bizarre talent-fantasies. She thought he was amazing, she even thought his wife was amazing (although I imagine her younger self – the kind of woman who spent a minimum of six hours a day training as a ballerina, having eaten nothing more than a bowl of alpen and perhaps an apple would’ve probably found her incredibly dull.)
(My mother was once rejected from a position in a film, because she was “too sexy” to play the virgin Mary, isn’t it ironic that that was a past life of hers?)

He wanted to watch my mother suffer. That is the sad and unevolved aspect of the Christian Grey archetype as I’ve observed time and time again. That unexplored motivation behind enjoying watching people trying and trying and suffering in some form, in their doing so.

The only saving grace of that terrible moment in time, was a black girl reading a piece she had written about her experience of being black. I wanted to be her friend but I actually didn’t feel cool enough. My friend and I excused ourselves after the piece and thought about how amazing it was to hear such a sincere reading that obviously came from a really vulnerable place and I think we joked about how talentless we are compared to her.

So back to me.
When I was younger I was obsessed with a guy in Cold Mountain – a psychotic blonde guy with messy hair who was quite dainty on a block of wood. It was a really brief part in the film but I think it was amongst my favourite performances in the whole thing. It’s a really good film. I think it’s underrated. So yeah, he does some nifty footwork on a wooden fence, in boots. And then he one shots, I think. If you watch you’ll know who I mean without a moments doubt.

I guess that brief cinematic moment must’ve been quite significant to me because I have a scar on my leg – from a moment in childhood where I had placed a block of wood across a pond – it had a nail sticking out of it. I used to do gymnastics and acrobatics lessons (I went to about five lessons, so I say ‘used to’, I mean I did literally about five lessons) and I was trying to walk across it like a beam. You step/balance and your other foot goes across the otherside of the beam and you dip/bend and place the other in front. Well the wood wasn’t stable and I ended up with a pretty deep scar on my leg (fortunately I am into scars.) from that nail, that was sticking out. Also my leg went into the pond… and that grosses me out to think about because I knew there were all sorts of tiny worms and insects in that pond that might’ve gotten into my cut. But it’s irrelevant. I fancied this psycho guy who was all ~dainty jumping on a piece of wood and he was pretty good with a gun.

I’ve always been into psychos. My first boyfriend was a total psycho and was probably the only guy aside from my brother that actually got to know me. The kind of teenager to get stabbed, and tell his girlfriend about it only really to point out that he was shitting both blood and shit and didn’t bother to go to the doctors to get it seen to. We both laughed and of course I said “you should’ve gone to the doctors!” I imagine he didn’t because his mother would’ve thrown a wok at his head for being so retarded. (She was the kind of woman that wouldn’t indulge victimisation – if he got stabbed it was absolutely his fault.)

The thing about psychos is that they can’t trust anybody and they are really good at identifying genuine and sincere people. I get that there are some predatory people who are also like that, and that many of them can be called psychos too. I get that I am portraying “being a psycho” as something attractive – it’s actually not, really.
That ex and I watched Hannibal together and it was nice to do so – we observed that Hannibal was only ever dangerous to people who mistreated him. Who were impolite. (He apparently found someone ruining a perfect orchestral performance to be quite impolite. And I suppose to an extent that would’ve been accurate for their co-performers – and also it is a movie.)

So. Psychos. The kind I’ve known. They know too much about the darker side of human nature. Predator verses prey. They make the best kind of friends, we make the best kind of friends. We’re protective and we generally value everything we believe is ours – even if it doesn’t appear that way.
When a real ‘psycho’ actually values a person, (not a person pretending to be a psycho to compensate for their at-some-point undermined masculinity) they actually have no desire to watch them suffer. My brother is different – he bonked himself on the head. He’s like, by all accounts, technically a damaged person. My ex has just experienced a kind of vulnerability that really affected him, but more importantly had learned to laugh at himself.

Interestingly… he shared a namesake with the Arabian Prince my mother cheated on with my Father. That Prince is dead, now. He died flying a plane I think.

When a psycho can sense a person who deserves their trust, they don’t want to watch them suffer. They probably don’t want any kind of responsibility over them either. My ex, as an infant, watched his father beating the shit out of his mother, and probably doing a load of other stuff too. That is where he learned how it feels to be ‘powerless’, I understand that Christian Grey was abused by a woman, with whom he was in a BDSM Sub/Domme relationship. It makes no sense to me that he’d go on and do that shit to someone else.
It terrifies me that he was authored as MARRYING the poor, inexcusably stupid woman as some kind of reward. (Does she stab him/slit his throat on their honeymoon?)

Do they go on to have a kid like me, who has a terrible time growing up with people who think human relationships are supposed to be some kind of strange power struggle and grows up to find them both tremendously stupid and/or horrendously embarrassing? Some beerbelly Christian Grey in an ironed shirt with a dungeon of sex toy mementos…? ……? *stands beside some bizarre contraption* “Ah, is this where you X, Y Z’d my mother????”

But yeah – It was really funny to my boyfriend at the time, that I fancied the psycho blonde in Cold Mountain – because on first appearances I’m actually a ridiculously nice person who can’t tolerate unnecessary violence.
Abuse upsets me. I have in the past, often let people do unacceptable things to me and done nothing to “even” it out. I watched a girl who so reminded me of my mother (not as pretty/talented/interesting though) berate me for not wanting to smack my dog for going to the toilet inside – in spite of the fact that I had grown up being threatened with physical abuse for inane shit. Ironically I had never been toilet trained as a child – so perhaps it made some sense that I had no idea how to toilet train a chihuahua. (Actually anyone who has ever owned a chihuahua will tell you that they are nigh on fucking impossible to “toilet train”.)

I think about it now, how her friends once picked up my dog and blew smoke in his face (some two weeks later or so he came back from a skiing trip with a dislocated shoulder) – and also how she might’ve felt if I had hit her for fucking my boyfriend. Of course I would never do that, I’d probably break her fragile little bones and it wouldn’t make me feel better. I prefer knowing that what she did to me will be done to her – but worse.

But most of all – because I am a spiritually minded person, I have the utmost belief in the fact that what comes around, goes around. Sometimes abuse is unintentional – sometimes we don’t know that we’re hurting someone. Or we think that if they don’t know what hurtful thing we’re doing, that it won’t come back so hard. Actually I did know, and I got called all sorts of names for it. Paranoid. Insane. So I kept quiet and bore the anxiety instead. And sometime after my mothers legs snapped in two – I saw that this girl was walking around with crutches, something had happened to her legs too.

I truly believe that the nature of life in the Universe – is that the Universe senses it’s own awareness of the truth from every possible perspective that no human mind is capable of – and with that, being carried in your vibration, you attract experiences that teach you your lessons. I’ve paid more than what is acceptable for every terrible thing I’ve done. So I say this quite confidently.

I think there’s something weird in hindsight, being the kind of fifteen year old that could walk into a boy’s room in some East London council house that slept with knives beneath his pillow, and gasmasks hanging from his bed posts, and things like that. Nothing like that was out of the ordinary or frightening to me even then – but I was realllyyyyy nice. I am really nice. My mother told me that once, a boyfriend of hers showed her a gun in a box and that she found it frightening. Embarrassing displays of “masculinity” like that, with the intention of controlling a person… make me feel sad. “Your fathers gun? Impressive.”
My mother has a friend – a woman I call auntie. She has feet like mine. She is sweet and adorable, and extremely polite, very feminine. Her own father, he was an actual president, and he held a gun to her head with the intention of shooting her. And he’d have gotten away with it if he had chosen to, I assure you. “Nice girls” like me are fucked up.

For some reason I cannot comprehend – this woman is single. She’s beautiful, she’s well dressed, she’s a domestic Goddess. She’s a dream mother in her own right. I don’t know the details of her love life but I can only imagine the kind of men that would’ve been interested in her and feel further sadness towards an entire gender that I find pitiful.

The aforementioned psychotic blonde guy from Cold Mountain – it turns out – plays Christian Grey. I never really realised til sometime earlier this year – and it sucks he doesn’t look the way he did in Cold Mountain. It sucks he doesn’t look like me (I’m joking, he’s obviously a great looking guy, or the movies would never have been such hits)

Back to my mother. My mother is – without even the remotest awareness on her part, or doubt on my part – so into BDSM and “needing” people to control her. She was that mother that says things like “Wait til your father comes home!” as a threat or punishment (one I’d eventually learn to laugh at hysterically) – and actually my father never really “came home” until years later and I think he’s slowly learning the aftermath of being a coward. Stepping into someone’s life twenty eight or so years too late and really thinking that it’s right for them to call you “dad”. He recently said to me sadly “IT’S TOO LATE FOR ME!” and broke yet another financial agreement he had made with me – failing once again to establish any trust between he and myself. And once again, it’s something I laugh at. (Funnier yet – is guys still thought I had daddy issues – so they’d do the same thing he did – thinking that would make me love them unconditionally. There is no man on this Planet I have publicly humiliated more than my own father. Apart from maybe Russell Brand, with that ‘chode’ picture. Scroll down if you’ve not seen it.)

But yes, I’d have liked it if he did sometimes show up, only because we’d be in shops and I’d want to buy something and she’d also say “When your father comes to London”. Although I had some quiet knowing in me that fathers weren’t there to be buying you gifts etc – I was taught that is all that men are useful for. No male friends ever really did anything substantial for me, especially not if I NEEDED them to – unless they were getting something in return (someone to rape in their sleep, etc).

So – yes – I grew up basically, for the most part, NEVER getting anything I wanted. My sister was bought designer clothes, I was sometimes given them as hand me downs. I hated shopping and only ever got to do so around my sister because my parents had decided she had taste and I didn’t (I couldn’t disagree more) andddd I had a direction problem which meant it was quite easy for me to get lost. Shops never had the clothes I saw myself wearing, in my head, either.
And it’s easy to resent my sister or even feel jealous, but the reality is doing so makes no difference and also she had a hard time too – growing up was really hard for her. You’d never know because of how she carries herself and thats probably because she went to schools like Queens Gate, that taught you the kind of femininity that people don’t really go for anymore, that I guess involves being very quiet about unpleasant stuff like a difficult childhood you’d rather forget. (I did not go to schools like Queens Gate. And if I had I couldn’t of coped with the kind of often – obnoxious and disingenuous – people that do. But there has to be room for every kind of person on this Planet, I believe that wholeheartedly. I am grateful for every kind of personality, especially terrible ones that have some new lesson to teach me about the kind of humans not to associate with. Haha.)
My sister once told me about how my brother, as a little boy, once dipped her head under a swimming pool and kept it there. She thought she was going to die. Gotta hand it to her, theres a really tough survivor in there – the kind who could wake up in a hotel surrounded by used condoms, knowing she’d been gang raped and get up and walk right out. Rape is worse than death.
Every time I see that people are watching football, or talking about football, or in any way indulging that culture – particularly people that know me, who know in detail my feelings regarding what has been done to my poor excuse for a family (a bunch of people possibly related by genes but definitely related by a correlated series of life experiences) – I think “you don’t give a fuck that they’re rapists? that they abuse women? that they’re protected for abusing women?” – and the truth is, they don’t care. No one gives a fuck. My own family know what was done to my sister and they continue to watch football. I wasn’t the one that woke up in a hotel, knowing she’d been gangraped – but I know how knowing that happened to someone affects me.
When I was younger, if someone hurt one of my friends I would go out of my way to destroy them for having done so. Never for myself – always for the people I care about. That shocking audacity.
The artists I follow online – who know I’m a fan or something – and who talk about football or encourage people to watch or even publicly admit that they’re watching – who pretend not to know who I am or who my family are and then talk about football make me sick. But that all created shit like “50 Shades of Grey”. Paved the way. I think it’s at a point where people know that football/footballers upset me, and they enjoy my response. They enjoy showing me something that upsets me, they enjoy embracing that culture.

So it’s important to me to be the kind of person that writes such personal shit on the internet. I’m telling the truth. And I know that at the very least there will be some child belonging to a footballer, who will come across what I’ve written or hear about it – and if I’m lucky she’ll look her father in the eyes and ask if they knew about the gang rape and what they had personally done to state it was unacceptable.

Cos y’know, what you do to the mothers of your sons/daughters will probably be done to them. (And if you pursue the spiritual education that I personally have – and I recommend whole heartedly that you DO – you’ll know women carry their children around with them before they’re even born. So if you’ve ever raped your wife, or observed strange changes to her character – it’s very possible you were interacting with a the spirit of a child hovering around her and occupying her.)

The School of Economic Science – a spiritual school in the UK – teaches people not to have sex (including married couples.) unless they’re specifically trying to get pregnant – for this very reason.
So imagine that… that you might’ve been abusing the not only the people you’ve abused – but their kids too.

Karma is generational. It is a spiritual truth, it’s a truth apparent to any psychologist or counsellor.

Our family arguments were so terrifying that they’re the kind of arguments that leave a person with PTSD. That’s what happens to people like my mother – people with abandonment issues. So when you go looking for someone with abandonment issues and think “I’m gonna teach you to be alone” – no offence but you’re fucking up a lot more people than just her. A lot of people did that to me – thought “I’m going to teach you how to be alone!” … I’ve spent more time alone than anyone. All they did was teach me to be alone and fucking like it. And now I can probably never really be in any kind of functional relationship – I’m all “functional” now, the kind of person who could probably attract some kind of healthy relationship with a person who actually wants to be around me and I’m not fucking interested in sharing my space with anybody. I do not want friends, I do not want a relationship, I do not want a family.

It is not your fucking job to teach anyone anything @men. Think of all the people that I really could’ve probably loved – who really needed to be loved – and they will never experience that.

Anyway. So, my brother. Well my spiritual teacher Lisa once said to me “Your brother hit his head as a little boy, at a party.” – I knew nothing of that, but I’d later talk to my mother and she’d confirm it as being true. I wasn’t at that party because I probably hadn’t been born yet. But for one reason or another – my sister and I grew up with the coolest/absolutely fucking scariest older brother that you can imagine. An intense mother with abandonment issues who created an argument any time I wanted to go out, a scary brother who only had to look at you to make you want to run for cover, a father who uh, “worked” a lot and a really pretty sister who people fell in love with on first sight. So hanging out with me, you’ve got a person who can out argue you (I once joked that arguing is an art), a person who only really needs to look at you to make you feel like an absolute fucking tool, a person who very seldom experiences jealousy over other women (and who quite happily acknowledges when they’re prettier than her) and a person who kind of resents cheap/cowardly men who knock women up and then run off and think they’re doing them some kind of favour by paying for their kids clothes, etc.

My brother though – like, if you pissed him off he’d give you a look – and you’d run for your life. It was like, this kinda gun shot instinct. He went to a lot of military schools – got bullied at military schools – he couldn’t cope with normal schools because of his being inclined to misbehave. The hospital he lives in says that there’s damage to the part of his brain that helps him connect his actions to consequence – they say it’s the drugs he did that caused that, my spiritual teacher would disagree. (I don’t personally think people who aren’t incredibly psychic should be looking after people like my brother – who is a spiritual master of his own.)

So. My ma. Not the best ma but managed to raise three complete psychos within their own right. People who have had everything, but had a lot more of nothing and whether other people admit it or not – are all the kind of people in their better moments who can piss a whole room of people off by simply being in it.

My mother has diabetes but she’ll eat piles of chocolate cake – sugar makes her sick. Some people in this life – other people find – function better when they are being in some way controlled by others. And to an extent I think my mother feels loved when people notice she’s not eating properly, or somehow not taking care of herself properly. She’s kind of BDSM loser bait.
When I think about what I’d do if I met my mother and wanted to be with her – I’d really just give her everything she wanted/let her pursue everything she wanted.
I’d probably give her as much of the thing that was hurting her as she wanted.
I’d do nothing but try and make her laugh. Happy, laughing people are awesome.
I wouldn’t want to ditch a person who was happy and laughing, and made me laugh all the time. I’d pay her the attention she needed, to the things she did.

Anyway so – the story is – condensed – if you want the real Christian Grey to “teach” you something, it’s not to find happiness in anything other than thoughts because there are under-evolved people who will find a way to steal that happiness from you.
Basically my ‘Ana’ is my ex twinflame. He had me come to a performance (I even paid), I laughed at a few of his jokes, watched him insult the fuck out of his wife’s post-baby vagina and felt nothing but pity for her, joke about the fact that his infant probably isn’t actually his at all, let him make me feel insecure blah-blah and didn’t react at all. I think he’s great and I love him a bunch – that’s the unconditional love he must’ve really, really wanted – but I have zero desire to control him or be in his life or ever even really see him again.

My mother was so happy to be useful to people, so happy to be in the company of a person who offered her great conversation, so happy to have a reason to dress up and go out. And that psychiatrist literally took a big fucking shit on all of that good he had done in her life by parading his mediocre blonde wife/girlfriend? around like some kind of bizarre trophy – and pretending not to know exactly what he was doing. Did he think she was going to compete with that woman? How would she have done that exactly? Re-develop anorexia? (actually she’s done that, but you couldn’t tell – she’s overweight and has a slow metabolism and has a fucking hard time eating because she’s picky about food – oh and she can’t actually exercise because that’s kind of tough for a person whose legs are damaged)

Did he, as a psychiatrist, think he was doing a good thing? Did he not think that he was a huge fucking freak for it? He thought it was just AWFUL of me to video record all the disabled people dancing to bagpipe salsa but I was really just mirroring his behaviour. I imagine he must’ve thought oh she’s bringing one of her daughters – her daughters dad was absent – “Oh she’ll meet me and think “THAT COULD BE MY NEXT DAD” EHEHE I’m SO DEVIOUS!!! TWO DADDY ISSUE GIRLS!!

Actually little man donning dem cowboy boots… you better trash that oxbridge degree. My dad can confirm this: I ruin “daddy”ieses lives. My fathers absence didn’t leave any holes in my life that I desperately wanted someone to fix – at best I searched for men worthy of respect and that had fuck all to do with wanting a father figure. (There are about two men I feel any kind of respect towards, my brother and Levi – my male self.)

Was that some kind of passionate play? Psycho code: Don’t look for people who have suffered more than you, and make them suffer some more – to validate yourself. Someone will do it to you, and it’ll be worse.

You can’t control other people as a means of helping them – I have tried by the way, it doesn’t work. I know men like to feed women weird things… do you know how I do that?
I make it for MYSELF. I learned somewhere along the line that people want the things I want. I once sat opposite a girl a bit younger than me – who loathed seafood and had suffered with serious anorexia. I served myself a plate of Salmon (that I couldn’t really afford) and some samphire (that I couldn’t really afford) and drowned it in lemon and salt. She tried some and liked it and I was so flattered someone enjoyed something that I enjoyed that I let her eat the whole thing. So here’s a little sex tip along that vein – don’t ask someone to do something you couldn’t have done to you. I wasn’t trying to get her to eat either – her eating habits were/are none of my fucking business.
More about this girl – she saw me doing some martial arts thing when I was channelling – she ended up going to study – I think – Kung Fu for a bit.

More about me and girls – girls learned I could carry really heavy stuff. Back story: I worked for a bar for a bit – they’d give me really tough jobs that people usually give to men. I think they wanted to make my life hard/humiliate me. I ended up doing all that stuff without once asking for help – I walked through Farnham with some huge iron pipe thing I thought would make a great piece of furniture. My then-boyfriend walked my little chihuahua while I carried the thing. I wasn’t trying to emasculate him, but it all came pretty effortlessly.

And intentions matter – if you love someone, you have zero desire to control them or their lives. The only way you can fix someone elses life is by living your own.

Men are stupid. And words don’t teach, but here they are. I like writing in any case.

Don’t steal the blue print from “love stories” to construct your own. Chances are the author and you have the characters all wrong. Thats the thing about “acting” – you have to really understand how the character you’re playing happens to be good at it. I guess that in my life of being attracted to good actors/thespians it must’ve come out of a place of believing that people could understand me without my having to explain my life for them. The problem with actors, I guess, is that it gets them a lot of fame (often not for being a “good actor” but simply because they’re really, really, really good looking)

As far as spirituality goes though – and this is of the utmost importance to me – Ana Steele or whatever would probably have a little Christian Grey child and do to that child everything that was done to her, and think that was love. And how could Christian Grey tell her to do otherwise? It’s his fault

Think about it like this – when you look at baby mush food and think “this is fucking disgusting” and then shovel it into your child’s mouth expecting them to eat it when you’ve just poured out all that awful thought-energy into the food.. you’re already setting them up to be fucked for life.

So this is Buddhism/BDSM lesson one sort of – the “golden rule” – don’t EVER do something to someone that you wouldn’t want done to you. Or at the very least – don’t do something you wouldn’t want done to some child version of you.

This came into my thoughts – my ex and I went to this “Reality TV” show thing about Surrey. All the people that were going to be used for it had already been picked. Ridiculously wealthy kids who wanted to copy the blueprint of their show from other Reality TV shows.

So bop along me and my ex. Living a side of Surrey in Farnham that was a much more important truth about Surrey. At the time – Farnham was known as being the easiest place to source drugs in the UK. We were smoking at least an eighth a day, all our friends were either drug dealers and were technically drug addicts. Do you want to know something?

Being open about doing drugs, y’know, even making doing them look good – being honest about it, basically doing as people like me have done – working towards making it all socially acceptable – actually means that “addicts” feel quite comfortable being honest about their problems. I’d rather people got addicted to weed than getting addicted to drugs like heroin, and I’m pretty sure my lecturers at University at the time – who had friends at University DIE from heroin addictions would’ve agreed.

Aren’t I sort of dressed like a fancy buddhist nun here?

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I had my own story planned out in my head – I’d get to talk about drugs, the impact drug addiction had on my life (my brother), I’d get to talk about all of my clothes, I’d get to talk about my weird life, I’d have gotten my lips done on the first episode, I’d get a cute revenge on my cheating boyfriend who stole lots of my weed but did a great job babysitting my chihuahua – who is literally more gangster than any gangster you have ever met – and I’d have probably ended up with a cute wellspoken toyboy drugdealer who actually went to UCA so he could meet me. I’d probably have ended up doing the nudey-suicidegirls thing and talked about webcamming and how that gets so many women through their educations.

(How funny would it have been to have a TV moment of him coming back from his job at Hobby Craft and me smelling his fingers and saying “YOUR HAND LITERALLY SMELLS OF VAGINA!!!”)

I’d have probably eventually explained that technically I’m the closest Israel has to Royalty, in spite of the fact that I was pretty fucking broke. (But y’know, hard to tell when you’ve been raised by a diplomats daughter and a family of generation after generation of criminal lawyers and a Grandmother who went to finishing school. Something I can’t imagine any of the selected cast could’ve boasted, for all their money.)

Also for the most part, the parties in Farnham that I attended would’ve made excellent TV.

What I saw of this day was really a chance to trigger a lot of people with huge egos for entertainments sake. And I guess to some extent that is also what people THINK BDSM is. IT’S NOT.
We were told we were “VIP” when we were asked to wait in a *GASP* queue – which we were fine with. The fancy alcohol set on the table was just a prop.

Someone asked that boyfriend if we’d get on a yacht? with them but apparently he said we’d be going to good ole home instead. Haha.

Anyway – that show never got made. What those people did to all the people that wanted to be on their show was done to them. That’s karma.

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.

I’m going to share something important to me – I’ve been pursuing a spiritual education for my entire life. I have spent most of my life meditating – and I do not mean sitting cross legged in silence in the absence of thought. My form of meditation is most often questions – answers – inspiration – creation – ideas – problems – solutions – throw in some memories – throw in some hindsight – throw in some super bitchy responses – things i should’ve said – some kind of thing i could/should(n’t) feel bad about – some kind of thing I could’ve done – etc. The way that a person’s final moments are depicted in movies is how my brain works when I’m not sleeping or doing drugs. I haven’t done drugs in a long time, a really long time – well – I think cigarettes and coffee are drugs but I mean I haven’t done any kind of recreational drugs in a long time. A lot of magical stuff happens when I do drugs – a lot of magical stuff happens when I do not.

The majority of my spiritual experiences have happened when I’ve not been on drugs – and if they happened on drugs I probably didn’t remember them or notice them to be unusual. (A lot of fire stuff happens on drugs – one time I managed to light a cigarette by intending to use someone elses – the fire literally transferred from their cigarette to mine in a proximity that science would argue was impossible.)

It was intention that mattered. AND THATS WHAT THIS IS ABOUT. ART AND INTENTION.

But before I move onto that – if you’re interested in meditation but you aren’t so great at it – I actually have a great video for that. Abraham Hicks has mostly been a source of validation for my experiences and although most people I know won’t admit it – theirs too.

So in making art – and the idea that intention is important.

(A.) whether it’s erotic (and while I don’t think I or anyone else should have to explain themselves for anything – I will say – I personally like erotic art because I enjoy the female form. That is point one.
Not sexually. That is point two.
I am not personally aroused by a naked body. Ever. (Actually I usually think about the way light might show on their bodies, or perhaps what kind of fabrics/outfits/make up would look good on them)

I just think women are a source of beauty, sometimes. A source of inspiration.
Not often – but occasionally.

I grew up around women, sort of.

I was subject to a lot of ideals of femininity, I was subject to a lot of opinions regarding what was beautiful and that in and of itself had an affect on my own personal experience and relationship with my own body, art is ultimately – for me – a form of catharsis or a form of self expression. But that is so basic – of COURSE art helps you express yourself and get out what you’re keeping in.

It does no justice in explaining the importance that artists have on the human experience.

At some point in my later years, I felt compelled to a sense of responsibility, with thanks to sites like SuicideGirls – that celebrated female beauty that didn’t adhere to the established ideals of beauty that we were, at the time, force fed. Actually, we still are. Force fed, mind controlled, influenced.

Everything we do – walking the streets, surfing through crowds of people, standing on a bus etc – influences other people. And it’s something that functions with the human subconscious. We learn from each other without having the slightest awareness of the fact. I began to notice it when people at University would use words or phrases from my blogs – they might never have admitted to being an audience of some kind but their vocabulary was ample evidence to the fact. Well that was extremely flattering but also kind of insulting – people who would read the things I’d write or look at the things I’d post and yet decline to acknowledge me for doing so. I know, I know, it’s called “lurking” – but it gets offensive when you “follow” someone and they don’t “follow” you back. Or it did then – I’m not interested in mutual exchanges like that anymore. If I like something I’ve observed you doing, or you’ve inspired me, you’ll know about it. Well – ideals of female beauty work like that.

I’ve written this before – at about twelve years – maybe thirteen or fourteen – I hardly think my age matters in this because I see anyone younger than thirty five as being “under eighteen” – I told a doctor that I wanted to have the muscle cut out of my legs.
And it was through observing a woman in a fighting game, and finding her beautiful, that I was able to eventually be okay with my legs.
The girls I went to school with were either hugely fat or ridiculously skinny. Regardless of their weight I often found things about them that I liked – I often found them quite pretty. Girls are pretty. Usually. Some aren’t. Inside or outside. (You feel at liberty to author cruelty like that when you’ve been bullied as much as I have, actually)

I was bestfriends with the token fat girl in Primary School, who would years later teach me the word “feminism” and then perhaps a week or two later tell me I had “thunder thighs”. She was a nasty little girl but she was hilarious. Like – we’d do some really fucked up stuff to one another (she’d sneeze on me on purpose) for example and we’d find it funny. None of those exchanges, I considered bullying. And I could have called her fat – but I never did – because that was … cheating? A low blow? Kind of like kicking a guy in the nuts or fucking an unconscious girl. She was obsessed with Courtney Love – and that obsession passed on to me. We thought she was ridiculously beautiful – we used to walk around Camden in “sexy” spagetti strap nighties and bright red lipstick with fucked up/messy hair and god-awful shoes (Courtney Love is actually amazing at shoes) and we romanticised the feminist heartbroken rockstar she-chic and found beauty in her heroin addiction and rejection of feminine ideals of the time – that said, she simultaneously adopted an exaggerated form of femininity (heartshaped love candy, that submissive dolly pose,  and a comfort with nudity and stripping and a reclamation of the word “slut” and that wave of feminism known as riotgirl – which probably couldn’t of happened without her connection to Kurt Cobain (although it’s said that she was more famous than he was at the time of their meeting)… and all of this from the daughter of a Jewish Psychiatrist.

I know there was some teenage statement in not idolising or enjoying a person – but the music that they were making. I liked a few select songs – but admired her personality.

Look back on this… who could get away, now, in this time and culture, with writing a song about rape – and get such notoriety for doing so? Apart from Antoine Dodson (a Levi fragment, actually) (He once said to me “team REDS are MINE)


Here’s an old piece of art I did. It was a “response” to a Courtney Love song. I should’ve photographed the whole thing. There were black handprints on the dress and I smashed a mirror and created a heartshaped mozaic in it. This polaroid was shot by a girl I called Cattie.

But yes – that infamous Hole logo – in that infamous Barbie font.

Depicting “weird” looking women as beautiful is a service in and of itself to humanity. I learned a lot about the female body from reading candid blogs of women who were comfortable writing about weird stuff. I remember seeing discharge in my underwear, genuinely thinking there was something wrong with me – and telling my mother and her looking blankly into space. We still exist in a time where women are expected to work when they’re on their periods – where I probably, once, lost a job running a cafe due to anorexia, serious PMS and a vomiting episode due to severe pain – that was mistaken for a hang over.


(B.) whether it’s for children (my childhood experience was quite dark – I had communication issues, a deeeeply damaged family, – the people/experiences that liberated me from all of that were in cartoons, films, music videos and were often pretty fucking weird.)

In addition to that – walking in the streets this weekend I saw a lot of little kids wearing ‘football’ attire. When you delve deeper into football as a cultural phenomenon that overtakes the media – both entities in and of themselves, are completely anti-female. Kids need better heroes than footballers. I was sitting on a train, and a white woman with a mixed race little boy came and sat next to me – actually, she sat down first and then I moved up a seat so he could sit next to her. She thanked me for moving up. He was completely oblivious to the fact. I was actually very offended that he didn’t thank me. I thought he hadn’t been properly raised, and obviously his mother knew the word “thankyou” – so there was some other parent not-teaching him basic respect.

He was wearing a t-shirt with a footballers name on it. Some people think it’s shallow to put so much focus into clothing, but that is me. I am shallow like that. I find significance in clothing, and anyone who has ever acted in a play/film/some kind of performance will confirm that garments carry an energy and contribute to your identity make up.

This is one of my favourite animations. Do you think she’d be perceived as the same character if she was wearing a ruffled miniskirt and high heels?? Of course she wouldn’t. (Actually I think the importance of a character like Korra was essentially that she is an archetype that doesn’t adhere to what many people perceive as femininity. She’s not nice, she’s not meditative, she’s a bitch when she’s pissed off, she’s not a caregiver at her core but also serves others, she is not interested in the law and challenges the government and people in authority – and FYI these observations I’m able to make are things I observe about myself and have actively done and it takes a kind of strength that most women have not learnt.)


I sat and thought about all the things I’d have liked to ask that little boy if I didn’t think it was inappropriate to speak to a stranger’s child – like “what do you really know about that footballer?” “what has that footballer taught you, how have they inspired you so much that you’d wear their name on your chest/back?”
For all I know, that footballer could have designed that top – that top could have been a work of art. (I’m being sardonic, it was a bog standard tshirt with a name and a number, being paraded as some kind of statement by a little child – an ultimately faceless perpetuation of celebrity worship – an infant beacon of the easy admittance into a culture they know absolutely nothing about.) And it begins in childhood, it really does.

Okay – we have David Beckham and Victoria Beckham, who are both interested in Fashion and the Arts but Victoria was celebrated for her beauty … while she suffered with Anorexia. And yes, it is important to tell people with anorexia that they’re beautiful (BUT ONLY IF YOU REALLY THINK SO) but the most crucial aspect of doing so was that there were kids looking at her and being told that that was beauty. And yes, she’s posh spice and a forever beauty icon but at the time there were no chubby women being celebrated for their beauty.
David Beckham was mocked by the media for his femininity.

The women these footballers date are often ridiculed by the media – the kind of media that is owned by the kind of men that fund football culture from the sidelines, if not footballers themselves. Footballers have the kind of money to be able to have their wives protected from the abusive media – but the truth is that the culture as a whole relies on abusing these women and keeping them in the public eye, to be ridiculed for – for example – having a bit of post-pregnancy weight.

Football culture selects and handpicks little boys and essentially prematurely removes them from female influence in crucial stages of their personal development. This creates rapists. I’m not saying that only footballers are rapists – there are numerous rapists throughout every kind of industry ever. I’ve been raped by my own friends – a bunch of times! And they sure as hell aren’t into football (they’re more academic/nerdy types that would’ve probably been the source of football fan amusement at some point in their childhoods actually) – but no children are hero worshipping these so called friends of mine. No little kids are going to walk around wearing ‘HARVEY WIENSTEIN” t-shirts anytime soon.

The people that children look at, the people that they look upto, are essentially archetypes that influence them later in life. As someone who didn’t speak very much in her childhood – I can quite honestly say that the majority of my vocabulary came from brief but memorable conversations, books, music, film and art. I was lucky enough to be born in a time when Courtney Love and Nirvana still had some kind of influence over teenage culture – the trainwreck archetype was still cool. Brittany Murphy was cool. Famous women who were comfortable being photographed near-comatose on club floors were still admirable. Now – women are forced into this absolutely boring state of sober perfection – they have to go out looking impeccable, they have to be sensible, they have to be modest. They have to have their nails done perfectly. They have to walk perfectly. They have to have “perfect” mermaid hair (actually – “perfect” mermaid hair is an afro that doesn’t succumb to waterwaves – Ariel’s hair would’ve been flat as fuck. Have you ever worn a pair of goggles underwater?)

I am so fucking bored of the behavioural human cycle that comes from hero worshipping the same archetypes that do the same things.

I am trying to create a form of media that celebrates women who are a bit inept, a bit messy, who aren’t santa-on-prozac happy and anorexic. When I was at University I applied to be on a kids TV show – and I joked on my twitter that they’d find all the pictures of me naked on GodsGirls or flickr or whatever site I was posting naked pictures of myself on (The very worst is an ex female friend of mine, a “feminist” ofcourse, one of the very well read ones – who refused to take photos of me looking pretty/attractive and claimed it was the nature of her work but she really doesn’t post photographs of herself looking fugly.) and I think at this point in my life, it’s abundantly clear that I don’t care if that’s ever done to me. I’m not interested in being a celebrity, I’m not even all that great an artist. I’m a creative, and I’m a conscious person who understands people in a way that they often don’t understand themselves. Art I make doesn’t get validated. People do their darned hardest to pretend not to have seen the stuff I write/post – and I’m 100% okay withthat. I’m not okay with the fact that people are inclined to hero-worship people like Bill Cosby, inclined to vote in people like Donald Trump as a president (I’m not judging you as a PERSON – you are an accurate representation of your country’s true ideals and are exactly what they want – but it terrifies me that the American people aren’t even aware of it and that they’re convinced that in being hateful towards you they are truly making America great), I’m not okay with the fact that kids TV of today is essentially women doing make up tutorials and shopping hauls – and not because those creators aren’t capable of making something incredible – but because of the weird “culture” of control that is impressed onto those creators by everyone from their secret male-fans who are over twenty one and too cool to admit that they like those women romantically, or preachy parents who, realistically, bore the fuck out of their kids and think its acceptable to make demands out of people who are essentially surrogate parents – because a majority of those women don’t actually express their real personalities or desires or whatever it is that makes them an individual and that is fucking kids up. It really is.

One time one of my lecturers said to me “THATS why you’re so fucked up” – in front of a room full of people he knew full well were consistently discussing me behind my back, bitching about me etc – and knew that I was strong enough to think nothing of it. And I said “YES”, quite comfortable at the idea of being fucked up. Ofcourse that was gossip fodder – but actually all of the people in that room were fucked up, more so than I ever had been. They were boring AF, lacking inspiration or creativity, mostly lacking in any kind of sincerity. And that is normality. That is what normal people are like. I am really, really, really fucked up – and I promise you – that’s a good thing. But back to influence.

Fuck ups like me are the best influencers.

Let me explain how influence REALLY works. I’ll use myself as an example.

I really like pockets in handbags – I like storage space – I like boxes.
Do you know why I like POCKETS? There was a kids show – depicting a little puppet girl and a puppet hen with a heartshaped memory board with lots of interesting little things inside of the pockets. They’d pick an object and that would be the focus of the episode. That is how intensely our adulthood is influenced by small things, later in life.

The stuff your kids watch is absolutely important to their development.

Spending lots of time “meditating” meant that I was able to learn things that people don’t learn unless they spend lots of time alone. And through observing me, often without any kind of permission (that kind of karma, I pity in others – honestly I do) I managed to teach people a lot of that stuff that I’d learned. I don’t want kids to see me naked or read my blog – not because I think there’s anything on it that they shouldn’t see or read, but because it’s actually pretty boring. Kids have all the luck – at worst I’d think a kid could read my blog and if they were intelligent enough they’d learn from my mistakes. At best they’d learn a few words they didn’t know before and that there are some grown ups out there that don’t act like grown ups at all.

Have you seen my Miss Kittie videos? You can see a provocative shoulder but you can also see belly rolls. Is one okay but not the other? Belly rolls are considered pretty attractive in some cultures. But who teaches people to sexualise all that? Why does it even matter? (actually it does matter – sexualising people that do not want to be sexualised by you causes them physical pain.)

Kids really value people that tell them the truth. By the way.

The idea of being sexualised by ANYONE generally makes me feel pretty uncomfortable – and I’m saying that as the kind of person who comfortably posts naked pictures for free. I know that people think its a compliment to sexualise a person’s body – but to me it isn’t.
But that is my personal life path – I don’t identify as a sexual person at all. I’m not A-sexual – it’s likely I’ve had more sex than you I think – (unless you’re one of my rapey ex-friends/one of the ridiculously good looking sex addicts i’m into that don’t need to be rapey because women genuinely do probably throw themselves at you and you’re not all that interested in being sexualised either – 2 words – ASSU PAIN)

(and no, I do not personally think that eroticism and content intended for children should ever be combined  – although I do think that it’s not only important but a matter of responsibility for artists to comfortably express all aspects of their experiences – and I know that there are plenty of Japanese artists that I like, that are quite successfully provocative in creating pieces of art in which children are acknowledged as both physical and sexual beings – and that the West, who are preoccupied with Pedophilia (and quite rightly so, too – although thats a topic for a whole other blog post, not this one) and as the Japanese quite comfortably depict naked and or bathing children in many animes, so do Westerners.
Actually, you even see little cherubs on cathedral walls.


Actually this topic has come up a lot to me – trying to work out why there is such a shortage of interesting content for children. I’m sure there are plenty of kids shows, like blue peter etc – on TV. I don’t know though, I don’t really watch TV. I feel like the only women that want to do kids tv are really, deathly fucking boring or are happy all the time. And I think that the kind of women who ought to do kids TV are probably the cute porn star girls – because they’re not embarrassed to put on ridiculous, FUN outfits and show kids they don’t have to look like their boring ass parents when they grow up if they don’t want to.

(My opinion on women doing kids TV that have lived lives outside of kids TV is to mind your own business and be glad that there’s someone trying to entertain kids you probably shouldn’t of had – and if you’re really petrified that someone is going to abduct or rape your children – learn to comfortably dialogue with your children about personal safety protocols (including the “look, we’re your parents – but that doesn’t mean anything unless you want it to mean something – so – if we make you feel uncomfortable in any way – you need to learn how to say so. If you cant call US perverts – you won’t be able to call OTHER people perverts, and that is pretty dangerous”), and in doing so, teach them how to look after themselves in your ultimately inevitable absence – and also to accept that everyone has a life path and experience of their own that isn’t your business. Even “your” children aren’t really your business, unless they say they are.) (Authored as someone who can reflect on a lot of her life experiences and interactions with grown ups and children and think “wow, I was actually a victim of pedophilia as a child! A million times over! And no one caught on!) (For the most part, I look back on it and LAUGH.)


FYI – there is no kids TV presenter to this day that would risk saying this ^
In which case they should not be presenting kids TV. My opinion.

I’m not doing celebrity culture – I’m sort of trying to reinvent art culture. We live in a time when sex and the female body has never been less of a big deal to society, and for some reason people think the next phase of development is publicly abusing women, as seen in 50 shades of grey. And worryingly it’s because of people like me… who made naked women socially acceptable. And women – and some men – are too polite to actually verbalise not wanting sex/to be sexualised. You can tell, really you can.

Here’s what I’d say to my kids: “some people are damaged. sex is an energy not an act – if someone touches you inappropriately, if you feel like you’re being visually sexualised or you feel in any way uncomfortable, simply remove yourself from that person’s company.
I certainly wouldn’t encourage them to think that it was someone’s job to rescue them. That’s truly not real life. There’s no spiritual truth there. Speaking from experience.

if another kid ever hurts you or touches you inappropriately, remember that it’s highly likely that someone has been hurting or touching that child inappropriately.
I’d tell my kids to dialogue with a child that touched/hurt them sexually if they could, and probably to make friends with them.

Although from there, I’ve no idea where I’d go – because karma is karma. So, when I think of Madeleine McCann, whose parents were obviously extremely damaged (you can read it in the books/hear it in the interviews) – I feel like the kind of people she’d have been taught to trust to later discuss what was going on at home – if she eventually identified it as unusual – would’ve probably had her transferred to people who were eventually a much worse form of her parents. One particular abusive friend of mine used to tell me stories about how they and their siblings had been sexually molested in a foster home. Whats funny is that I had always stuck up for that abusive friend in some way – and eventually they turned on me.

But if you can have these chats with your kids – if you can do that – if you can totally empower them with terrifying honesty – neither you nor they need to be scared of pedophiles. Get one of your kids to pull one of my Mr Bean faces at a pedophile, or to learn how to comfortably psychotically laugh (most pedophiles have some sort of embarrassing issue) no one will want to abduct them.

Have you seen South Park? Who would abduct a child like Eric Cartman? Apart from aliens, who’d only do so because like, he is some fantastic anomaly.

Germaine Greer has on numerous occasions written about children having sexual identities (if you ever encountered dolls as a child, were you not inclined to see what they might’ve worn beneath their clothes? were you inclined to undress them??),
Here is a Cupie Doll. It’s not mine, but I do think they’re epic pieces of art.
>> Image Reference <<


(also – I read recently in “The Whole Woman” – a book I’ve pasted onto various furniture – Germaine discussing briefly things like that the relationships between women and their children – perhaps regarding breast feeding – is inherently erotic – and that actually many little girls stick objects/appendages into their own orifices! Though I’ve never been so unfortunate as to encounter a child doing that. I’d probably want to throw up)
and that actually if you were to pay attention to many of our favourite animations for children, particularly Disney Classics – there are a lot of characters who are fully comfortable with expressing themselves – even if that means being alluring. I actually wrote about this in my University dissertation – Cleo the Goldfish in Pinnochio is a complete slut-hussy). (This is actually quite important a trail of reflection for me – my “Miss Kittie” alterego is sort of gay-man effeminate and flirtacious and I think it’s important for me to analyse why I think that character would be good entertainment for children – and really I think it’s because she’s so comfortably “expressive”. Thats it. And perhaps you’d think “why is that important to you?” and I’d say “its obvious, I was a child mute that mostly communicated with her eyes.”)

Also – I’ve tried to create a visual structure where kids who don’t speak english will still sort of be able to understand what they’re watching.

But yes
– whether it’s creating a shop so I can sell items that filter in some quiet dialogue about the meaning of that which we surround ourselves with – it’s all motivated by an intention much greater than any you’re really prepared to observe.

I have been stopped from doing anything I’ve ever wanted to because of insecurity. But I’m pretty tough… being bullied the fuck out of at 5 by my older brother and his friends (and pretty much every group of friends I had after that) did that to me. It’s okay – all of these people are sooooooo boring. All the women look the same, buy the same things. All the men in Denmark – omg – I had a joke for this. “ONE LOOK”? “ONE LOOK”!!??!?!!

There are women who worked in the adult industry that I used to either know of or be acquainted with who were prevented from going on to do work that involved being seen or associated with children and I think that is terrifying. My favourite women of all time have been the kind of women that women in the public eye are scared to be.

The women I see on YouTube or TV nowadays are often super boring women – also often women with eating disorders – women who’ve worked in the (ALT) porn industry have for the most part been celebrated for their weird bodies. I think it’s really important for kids to be able to see women of all shapes and sizes, wearing weird clothes and being quite comfortable in their skin. It’s important for me to say this – there are some really unflattering shots of me in the video I’m making.

Did I say this already? I was going to apply for Big Brother – I used to abhor reality TV and think I was above it. I’m not, at all. I recall Emma Watson once saying that she thought it was absolutely embarrassing to sell celebrity perfumes and I imagine she might at some point have some new found appreciation for tacky celebrity culture because ultimately the best of them can at the very least boast some personality. And I decided against being in big brother it because my spiritual teacher said that would change my personality.

That sad, sad 50 Shades Of Grey culture has destroyed women with personalities. BDSM is cringe. Big Brother is some fucked up BDSM game. So is life I suppose – for some people – and I pity them as much as I lack any genuine interest in them

There’s these two particular TV moments I enjoy – Katy Perry being asked for a hug by a kid and her being completely grossed out and also Russell Brand being an asshole about her not liking kids very much. When you think back she was really, really young and also I don’t much enjoy hugging other people’s children, she’s not a fucking disney princess. I imagine that little girl will grow up to be a don’t fucking touch me esque rockstar.

One time I applied to work in a shop selling clothes to babies – and I didn’t get the job. I am the kind of person that can look at a baby and make them stop crying… sometimes. Which is good because I can’t STAND babies crying. I said in the interview for this kids shop – “AW I LOVE KIDS”. I know thats why they didn’t hire me. Ha. As if Pedophiles realllyyyyy apply to work in shops frequented by kids and their families and say “I LOVE KIDS!”

When I last went to Brighton I bought my friends girlfriend some gifts – pink roses sprinkled with glitter, and little shiny chocolate pearls – I was on the train and this really little girl was staring at me. I knew she was a fragment of the angel Gabriel – and my friends girlfriend. They looked exactly the same. I told her mother basically – “it’s so strange, I’m just going to meet up with a grown up version of her!”. (I instagrammed the words “Know Thyself” – I know that irritated my friend’s girlfriend. My friend instagrammed something he saw some days later.. the words “Know Thyself”. This friend had a moment in his infancy where he woke up and saw a goat above his bed… the head of a baphoment. ME >:) I’ve since given him a baphomet tshirt illustrated by Levi.)
The little girl’s mother was sitting next to her and I said to her mother – “oh I’m sure she’s a little fairy!” and I took the chocolate pearls out of my bag and gave them to her mother to give to her later.
It reminded me of being on a train with my mother when I had first come to London and staring at a woman in the highest heeled boots ever and saying “DOESNT IT HURT YOU TO WALK IN THOSE?” and she said “Actually when I was younger I was a ballerina so it doesn’t really hurt me to walk in these shoes, at all”. And I wanted to wear high heels all the time. I uh. Well it turns out I have the feet for heels and ballet shoes and not much else. I don’t wear heels because I’m uncomfortable being taller than the guys I hang out with. That is grim isn’t it?

I do not remember the women I watched on TV … Apart from like, Zoe Ball and she was not a kids TV presenter. (I think I preferred her co-star Johnny)

The guy who wrote Dr Seuss’ stuff was amazing and inspiring in a very subtle way – I once read something about how he had this imagination that afforded him being able to write really exciting books for children – but that if they had ever met him they’d be really disappointed because he was pretty boring upon first glance.

It is important to me that people are really comfortable being themselves… and if people were really being themselves they wouldn’t be boring at all.

In Denmark I was around two guys I knew – on their own – could be fun. But they were super boring. Boring is why we have 12 souls on this Planet… It’s upto fragments to be themselves.

I’m kinda repping the fragment team by doing everything I want to, and I know people like to think they can tell you who you’re supposed to be – but that’s not their job, not their calling (Enter psychics like me and my teacher Lisa… we can remind you of who you really are and if you can own that guiltlessly and forget about being “attractive” or “marketable” or “nice”)

Ugh I can’t stand the people I’ve grown up thinking of as my family – but one time at about six or seven I walked in on my cousin illustrating women with HUGE breasts and I said “SHE HAS BIG BOOBS” and she said “yeah, I always draw women with big breasts” and I think that was a really important moment in my development as an artist. I remembered this when a girl in Denmark told me that the mothers in Denmark were disapproving and hyper aware of how she took care of the kids she was teaching art classes to. I hate her too though. But the story matters.

My motivation for this mini tirade is I know that when you start being a dick on sites used by men with money they end up using their money to ruin your life – which is ultimately really sad. Don’t be offended, take a hint, develop a personality. Go on. The girls you message after all of that will be much more interested in you for reasons that have nothing to do with your cash.
Putting me in publications beside my naked photos would probably be some massive disservice to your kids (if you have kids) because otherwise all they’ve got is Zoella. And I really like Zoella – but I think there’s room for people who want to create other kids of content. Like LEAFY.

I grew up listening to Alanis Morrisette – like I went on angry car journeys through the desert with my mother listening to THIS SONG.

I grew up watching – and I mean six/seven year old me – Blackadder on repeat and repeat and repeat. I learned words like “diplomacy” and how to speak english properly.
I think Mr Bean perfected the art of voiceless comedy – you don’t need any dialogue – you can tell what he’s thinking by the faces he makes. I credit him with almost ALL of the weird faces I can make. And I remember Cate Blanchett once said in an interview that she’d never have botox because it would stop her being so expressive.

Some 2 inch dicked drug dealer (a great dealer, would recommend – terrible company) once told me I should “practice” making faces in the mirror cos apparently they’re really weird. Actually my faces are awesome and I hope I can make people laugh with them. Cos hanging out with you for months on end was the start of me forgetting how to (laugh)

Is Quentin Tarantino the person to really think about when you’re trying to edit a kids show? I think so

I took these today instead of tidying my room, which I generally try to do before I work


I’ve joined a dating site hoping to find a good looking guy whose as generous as I am and also not boring. I even messaged old men because, I mean, like, surely in old age you become at the very least not-completely-boring?  One was really – really funny and weirdly genuine, and would probably make a great friend. Mostly because he also wasn’t really wealthy enough for me to not want to crush on other people. (If I can reallyyyy have anyone I want – and I can – why you?) (why ME?!)


omg this chat tho

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So.. Still crushing on Ragnar.. who i was sort of thinking of throughout perusing that site. which is probably a little unfair on that collection of alfalfa males

Edited on 10th of July to add

Oh god when strangers on a dating site have already stolen quotes from your late teens to early, early 20’s tumblr… and used them to flirt with you

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When I was little I had a few very serious male celebrity crushes.

Leonardo DiCaprio – because Romeo and Juliet.

Keanu Reeves – because of the Matrix.

Brad Pitt – because of the Mexican.

Vin Diesel – because of Chronicles of Riddick and xXx.

The Rock – Scorpion King

Also Ralph Fiennes in everything he has ever been in, ever

Only two of those made it into my personal hall of fame though – an old sort of friend called Amber (Actually I was just totally adoring of her mother – who was the coolest mother I had ever met) and her family had a laminating machine… Amber laminated pictures of Keanu for me into an A3 waterproof poster with Microsoft word hearts.

The other was Vin Diesel. I stole a little promotional thing of him as Riddick from Blockbusters and cut the pictures out and put them in my bus pass.

SINCE THAT I think only Ragnar has made it into my crush hall of fame, maybe. In character most likely. Maybe/possibly/potentially/with deep reflection and careful deliberation – but not too much
ultimately doubtfully …but y’know… not entirely so.
He’d have to take elocution lessons and stuff to be tolerable and I don’t know that his roles are well paid enough to afford that kind of tuition. Also I’d have to style him because I’ve seen how he dresses for interviews (they accidentally came on when I was listening to Fever Ray, I didn’t youtube them or anything) and uh, yeah, when your viking alterego is sharper looking and better dressed than you are, y’know. Y’know maybe make some choices about your character identity. He’s quite funny though. Wearing flipflops in public and not even, like, by force – out of actual choice. Actually the flipflops and the australian accent are specifically why he’s “undecided” on my crush list

But other than that all of my crushes are animated characters like Sesshomaru, the defining picture of our concept of masculinity probably wouldn’t let a man get away with that look/those vibes though – and so I’m grateful for that because it’d fuck my game up.

My female celebrity crushes were Jennifer Aniston as Rachel (from Friends), Angelina Jolie (As Lara Croft in Tomb Raider) (I was once in my dad’s flat and I said without thinking “WOAH SHES HOT” really loud.), Gemma Ward (I think theres an I.D issue of her in a flower crown that is completely unforgettable and actually thats probably why I actually ended up studying fashion – although I know I was drawing dresses with kimono sleeves back when I was 4/5), Courtney Love, Manko Suicide and Helena Bonham Carter

Oh also one time, me and this girl whose dad is a director or someshit for RADA were sitting in the cinema watching ‘My Summer of Love’ and we both were AUDIBLY obsessing over Emily Blunt – who went to Hurtwood House with my sister. Apparently she found the lesbinim scenes awkward which is deffo the only reason we’d never work. (im making a joke)

And… The Queen Bee in Earthworm Jim. Iunno if it counts but one time my friend (basically a babysitter, he met my teacher Lisa a few years ago who said he’d do really well. I think he’s pursuing some kind of doctorate in psychology?) Dan was blow-drying my hair for me in front of a mirror and I looked absolutely awful and I think I stuck my hip out and said “IM BEYONCE” as my hair blew across my face and who else could play BDSM Queen Bee???

FYI I’d want to play Queen Slug for a Butt

Levi fragment. Boots. The colour red. The stupid, epic curtain hair. Not being the lead singer but stealing the lead singer’s (I think a Blood fragment) thunder, all the same. Every shot is about Levi. I DOTE

I actually find it admirable that this video came out a million years ago and he doesn’t look remotely stupid. Like most low-budget goth videos are really embarrassing but he makes this one super cute.

>> image credit <<

Facts: A million years ago – this guy had an arctic fox and it was unwell – so he asked for donations online for the extortionate vet bills. I donated!

Facts: I donated through a link on his vampire freaks account. >:p

They released a song in 2017 that I didn’t get to hear til’ today!

omg, it’s like they know

I have a few favourite books. They’re not really the kinds of classics that I think educated people would be inclined to discuss in conversations but I think they’re strangely the classics of my life. If someone asked me to make a list of books I think it’s important for people who are interested in magic to read – I’d say Martin the Warrior and also Redwall by Brian Jacques, The Harry Potter books, Good Faerie Bad Faerie by Brian Froud, Tithe by Holly Black and The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown.

This one was really important, if only for the bits about telepathy between twins. One time when I was “ill” – I was compelled to put my ear phones in my ears and at some point through the ringing I heard myself thinking. I actually heard my own voice audibly – which is not synonymous with schizophrenia. I heard thoughts I consciously thought and I was like “OH NO IS THAT WHAT MY VOICE SOUNDS LIKE” and closed my eyes and didn’t want to hear anymore. It immediately stopped.


And this one…

When I was about eighteen? nineteen? I guess my age is deeply unimportant in this story – but I was in Ealing Broadway Station and about to go on a long and boring journey to see my then-boyfriend who lived in Royal Albert – on a council estate in East London. I was perusing through the books and only one really caught my eye. I saw “The Book of Night Women” – and I picked it up thinking it was some kind of novel about prostitution. Having always been obsessed with Mary Magdalene I picked it up without thinking and read through the back. It was this cover.


I suppose to some extent that I’m inclined to credit Marlon James as one of my spiritual teachers – I initially wrote “it turns out, I guess, that through reading this book I manifested abilities that I have no idea that Marlon James taught me” but actually I think he really just made me aware of what was going on in my own head.

This is him ^
He’s awesome.

When I was “unwell” I carried this book around with me – I took it to the psychiatric ward but the medication I was forced to take made it impossible to read for much more than a few pages without having to stop and sleep. This is another of the covers.


Some part of me thinks it’s dangerous to encourage people to read books like this – at least I think my teachers might passingly consider that truth. There’s a bit in the Marlon James video where he says “dangerous? I hate the word”. I agree.

I’ve just seen Beyonce’s and Jay Z’s new music video and did the almost-tearing up thing – this painting and the Mona Lisa features in the video. I fucking love Beyonce and Jay Z. Lovelovelovelovelove.

There are more books I can’t think of.

Some time ago someone I know was writing a character who lives in solitude and he jokingly said “I still don’t even know what she does all day” and I said “stuff that makes her feel.” Strong feelings of any kind – especially love – create visible changes in the World. A lot of people learn about magic through being angry – it’s people that get a particular build up of energy that leads them to do things to themselves often, like cutting themselves. I upset my previous twin flame once and then there was a blood bath on the news – though no one seemed to take much notice of it. But his name was on streets surrounding the thing and it was clear to myself and him that it had something to do with him. The last time I’d ever meet him I essentially sat and thought about what it’d be right to say and I left it at “welldone” – for finding the ability to feel. Then I fell down the stairs before he said thanks and that was it.

The thing about “magic” is it firstly requires the ability to feel. And many people have no ability to feel – it’s something that they switched off in order to cope with their life path.

I remember aaaages ago at Uni I bought a Jason Atomic poster – Jason Atomic is an artist that was dating my favourite suicidegirl, Manko. It was a poster he had printed.
When I was sixteen I remember being obsessed with Manko – not sexually – just enjoying her using herself as a muse, incorporating influences and homages in her favourite pieces of art and literature to create “porn”. I fell in love with Jason’s art of her – in a piece called “passion play”. I’ve referenced it before. At some point someone had stolen a hat of his – that he had strong feelings of attachment towards. I even used his work as an influence for my GCSEs – I loved his scribbles. I remember reading in his blogs about how he would essentially fix his gaze to a subject and illustrate it without looking at the paper.
He flyer posted a self portrait with the dripping words GIVE ME BACK MY HAT – it was all over London, but I noticed it on the Picadilly line. (The Blue line.) Years later I bought a book from him – and that poster – and for an extra £7.77 I added to my payment, I requested a biro illustration of a scribble… which he kindly sent over. I remember one night during the start of my terrifying experiences I was thinking of him late at night – I might even have briefly seen him in a dream. Just his illustrated and dripping face – and then the poster, which I had hanging above my bed, fell on my face. I messaged him and at some point he told me that “visualisation” is perhaps the most important aspect of making magic. It’s nice I had him to speak to about it because I had lost touch with anyone I trusted enough to discuss the connections I was making with the things I was experiencing.

Since that a lot of people I know had belongings mysteriously go missing.

I had a crush on this guy in primary school – I’d later call him “fairy boy” – I’ve said I give nicknames to all my crushes, throughout time. He met up with me once outside of our primary school at some stupid o’clock in the morning after sending me this song – my favourite lyric was “my voice is quiet but my thoughts are loud”

In Harry Potter – theres a bit about an unforgivable spell called the “imperius curse” – where a caster basically controls a person and often uses that to indirectly commit crimes. It’s a delicate way of describing a truth – that kind of “possession” is actually very, very possible. My brother, sister and I have memories of my mother that she doesn’t share. It’s different to sharing energy – for example, girls who hung out with me back when I hung out with girls were inclined to dress ridiculously well and look beautiful all the time. Even the ones I didn’t like. They’d buy clothes that were sort of inspired by mine without really thinking about the fact that they were doing so.

Then I stopped hanging out with those girls and how I dressed changed, eventually it was just me and some terribly dressed wealthy hippies in overpriced fugly as fuck harem pants and I started looking un-cute. (If you are wealthy and you choose to dress like a hippie – YOU AREN’T UNDERSTANDING A FUNDAMENTAL ASPECT OF THAT CULTURE)
/cringe aside

It’s weird – my mother showed me a photograph of her before she was introduced to the queen of England – she was gloriously dressed all in black. As if going to some terrible quiet death. So lets call this “BEFORE”


She was some epic 70s goddess if you’ve seen her in her youth – “BEFORE THE BEFORE 1”




and then some pictures after you see her with my brother and sister, tiny and at either side of her … and she’s wearing the weirdest fucking outfit I’ve ever seen. The fuck is this????? My grandmother dressed my mother – my grandmother was asked to be a model and looked like Audrey Hepburn in her youth. As if you think this could go unnoticed????



These images are about three years apart – she was supposed to marry an Arabian prince. He went on Holiday and she ended up with the biggest loser ever. There are moments of her life she just doesn’t remember.

I’m not stating anything outrightly but I am inferring the fuck out of it. 🙂

I guess it’s tough meeting people who have less than you but are a bigger deal than you, huh?

I fucking LOVE Japan

Today I asked my mother about Japan – My grandparents were asked to live either there or in the UK. My grandfather was very outspoken about the living standards of the poor in Paraguay – and the Guarani people – they wanted him out of the country. He was offered two places – the UK or Japan.
They were in high demand by the Japanese Emperor (who had a HUGE crush on my grandma :p – which I imagine is why he chose the UK.) and today, acting quite uncharacteristic – she told me a radically different story from the one she’s been telling me my whole life. As if someone else was sitting in her body.

She claims she was left at home on my Grandparents trip to Japan… Though she’s also told me in the past that my grandmother berated her because she refused to eat sushi. She could also recall the name of the Japanese emperor – somethings not adding up, huh.


My grandfather was a diplomat – secret royalty too.

Someone joked once, after looking at the back of my head – “Karina you have a double crown” damn right

Jordan AND Israel. I’d love to meet Lizzi, I feel like she sort of raised me! :/ 😡