and you, you bitch
with your prison guard keys
you followed me home
and you spat demands
in my face

stop! fall! lie! (lie)
silent. still. (still)
breaktheunfuckingbreakable

so i shot myself
in the head
in the heart
in the mirror

lips worn pale
drinking your poison
the taste of us both
on a sliver of ice

in the head
in the heart
in the mirror

and all i can think is
i am so out of focus
i am so out of focus

seventeen, i was
seventeen, when i met you
seventeen times you
broke my heart

seventeen dreams each
night, then i wake up always
and forever, still
seventeen

Sometimes it’s fun to play with make-up and imagine troubled spirits and the source of their discontent. It’s strangely therapeutic. The lighting is from a flashgun on the hotshoe. The face in the picture is mine.

As much as it’s driving me crazy not being well enough to work in the studio or be involved in photoshoots with other people at the moment, I am really enjoying using limited kit and shooting at home while the cats give me strange looks.

In case anyone has had a common sense bypass, the blood and gore effects in this are created with MAKE-UP and are NOT REAL. Obviously. If you want to make your own gory face, the materials used here are:

Texture on and around lips: Make-up International Liquid Latex
Nosebleed and blood on mouth and cheek: Kryolan Fresh Scratch Blood Effect
Skin tone and shading: Ben Nye Death Wheel
Blood in eye: Kryolan Eye Blood

Pablo was posing for me today. For some reason he likes posing when there’s a flash involved, even though he closes his eyes as the flash fired. When I try to take photos of him in natural light, he gets all snooty about it and walks away.

Cats are strange. But they’re also fluffy and cute, so it’s all good.

Miaow!

Self-portrait. Wintery. New(ish) hair colour.

You talked me to sleep last night
I hadn’t felt that sad in years
Your eyes like glass mistakes
They moved me close to tears
You speak those favourite fables
Which I am yet to live
And casually confirm my fears
That I’ve got nothing to give

I take it back, all of it
Those names I called myself
The heros of my childhood
Like hardbacks on the shelf
I take it back, those promises

I wish I could say I’ve clung to time like gold
But as you said goodbye, I almost died

- from ‘Nothing To Give’ by White Lies

Bleh. I’ve gone from completely wiped out to angry to frustrated to whatever this is now. A dull ache of inconvenience and wishful thinking, all over, inside and out.

Annoyed because I can’t shoot. Annoyed because I can’t stand up for long enough to have a shower. Annoyed because it’s completely impossible to find a way to stand, sit or lie that doesn’t result in losing the feeling in one or both legs.

Last night, or very early this morning, I finally fell asleep with the words my knees hurt so fucking much I want to cut my legs off bouncing around in my head. I feel like my spine is broken in a hundred places.

My ears and nose are bleeding (just a little, nothing serious), my face is itchy and painful and swollen, and I have really unnerving subconscious reactions to more than one thing happening at a time.

If there’s music on and the phone rings or someone speaks to me, I instantly become so over-loaded that I can’t do anything more than huddling in the corner crying until the noise stops. This is very much unintentional and I feel so stupid and childish when it happens.

I’m still ok to do studio hire sessions because D, god of support and patience, learned how to set up all my kit and comes to the studio with me to get the lights and everything sorted out before the client arrives. I am beyond lucky, I know.

I can also do work at the computer, online things, processing, administrative bits and pieces. deviantART is helping to keep me sane.

But I can’t do anything else. I have a list of shoots to book as soon as I’m able to shoot again. I am sleeping 12-14 hours a night and even the time when I’m awake isn’t as productive as I’d like because my brain and body are both working in slow motion on about 25% power.

I know this happens to people with M.E. I know it happens to me. Hell, it HAS happened to me regularly for the last five years but every time things go from bad to worse it comes as a surprise and it’s hard not to take it personally.

I know it’s temporary. It might last for another day, another week or another month (oh god, another month, or months!) but it will lessen eventually. There are ups and downs, peaks and troughs.

I keep finding encouragement in the words of a very interesting artist and visitor to Scotland, who I have had the pleasure of meeting and emailing back and forth with recently. He said,

Feel better, TS! It’s really hard for me to conceive of someone with as much abundant energy as you down with ME. Seems totally incongruous. Or, you do a lot in spite of it.

So it goes. It could be much much worse and I am grateful that it isn’t. I am always grateful that it isn’t.

The elegant and beautiful model is Morrigan.

This was taken while we were shooting a set for Zivity and I love it to death. It makes me feel all bouncy and happy. Yay!

If you love it and want it on your wall, you can buy prints from Fotki and deviantART.

Nothing to do with photography, but today was the first day this week that I’ve been able to walk unaided and actually managed to do some food shopping.

Trolleys are like stealth walking sticks, allowing creaky bodies to make their way round the supermarket without so much as a stare or gawp.

As you can probably guess, this week was not a particularly eventful one. I did however buy an awesome adjustable laptop table thingy from Ikea. It’s Ikea product name is Dave, which totally cracks me up.

It was a wonderful purchase and I’m already feeling the benefits of ALWAYS being able to work from a comfortable position, no matter where that comfortable position may be.

Even though I haven’t been able to leave the house this week, I’ve been super-productive.

I can lie on the couch and doze when I’m too tired to sit up, but then when I wake up and am ready to work, I don’t even have to move.  The difference this is making is just…wow.  Is it wrong to love a desk this much?

I’m going to go eat some mint choc chip ice-cream.

Happy halloween!

This is the first of what I intend to be a series of blogs about every-day experiences which are totally shat upon by having M.E.

This is not written to garner sympathy or to whine about my terrible life (cause my life isn’t terrible). It is written to perhaps open a few eyes a little wider and encourage people to be thoughtful towards friends who have chronic invisible illnesses.

It is also written for those of you out there who have the chronic invisible illnesses. It makes my day when I read about someone else’s experiences and realise Hey! I can relate! I hope I can give a little bit of that to some of you. Maybe we can have a giggle together, connected for a moment through the ether.

So, a night out with M.E…

First of all, there’s getting ready. A shower involves standing up for at least 3 minutes (usually longer), leaning down to wash your feet and legs and closing your eyes at least for part of the time to wash and rinse your hair. Standing up with eyes closed is not easy when standing up itself is making you feel sick and dizzy.

Then there’s shaving your legs, almost always a night-before activity because it involves way too much leaning down and putting sharp things on your skin to risk doing it at a time when dizziness might be more likely.

Washing your hair isn’t too bad. Drying and styling is not only difficult but can result in injury. Holding a blow-dryer up above your head can be beyond uncomfortable, setting off arm cramps and possibly a couple of bruises when your arm decides it isn’t going do what you want it to do and the blow-dryer drops on your head. I just did that, like 5 minutes ago. It hurts.

Straightening or curling irons add another few minutes (at least) to the time your arm has to hold something up above your head. Dropping a set of GHDs at their maximum temperature on your head or bare legs sucks. I am beginning to embrace having curly hair instead of risking injury by frequently straightening it. It actually looks pretty damn good curly.

Make-up actually isn’t too much of a hassle, providing that I’m not too run down because being too run down results in my skin spontaneously becoming allergic to anything that comes close to it. I rarely wear mascara these days because the weight of it on my eyelashes makes it hard to keep my eyes open. Yes, seriously.

But the joys of brightly coloured eyeshadow (Urban Decay = awesome!) are many, providing you can use eye make-up remover later without your eyes stinging and burning. This is not possible very often.

Getting dressed. Choosing an outfit is often a night-before activity for me because the act of getting dressed once is exhausting enough, never mind having to do it a whole heap of times to see what looks good together. Because of this, I have safe outfits that I know look alright and are comfortable.

Getting to where you’re going. Walking is out. Getting a taxi is nice, but usually too expensive. Catching the bus is probably out too, because walking to the bus stop guarantees a painful and sweaty (ick!) start to the night. So I usually drive.

Arriving at the venue, there’s finding a seat because standing up for any length of time is obviously out. Finding a seat is not the same as finding a seat that won’t result in an aching back and losing the feeling in your legs. Cinemas share this issue, but I’m not going there this time around.

So you maybe get to sit down and you maybe get to sit down in a seat that doesn’t cause too much discomfort. If you drove, you’re on soft drinks all night and even people who know you well, know that you have M.E. and know that you drove to the bar will still keep asking if you want a drink. Those with less tact will ask (often repeatedly) why you aren’t drinking. This isn’t too bad when it comes from strangers, but really sucks when it comes from people who supposedly know you well.

But maybe you had enough money to get a taxi to the bar. Drinking any more than one or maybe two drinks is out, if you can drink at all, because a) alcohol and medication don’t mix well, b) a body that is already exhausted and sore doesn’t appreciate the addition of another substance for it to deal with and c) the recovery time usually makes drinking totally not worth it.

Dancing is not likely. Walking from your seat to the toilets is awkward, especially if you’re not very mobile to start with. A supportive arm from a significant other or helpful friend is totally do-able walking from the car to the bar, but not so convenient to help you fight your way through drunken crowds to drain the tanks. If there are stairs involved, add about 200 difficulty and pain points. Add another hundred or so if you are walking with a stick or crutch.

Getting home. Walking is obviously out. Getting the bus is probably out too, unless the night bus departs from right outside the bar you were in and drops you off at your own front door. Getting a taxi may or may not be possible, depending on what time it is and how much money you have. Leaving early generally makes it easier to get a taxi.

Home. Yay! Often the relief of arriving home far outweighs any positivity in the experience of being out in the first place. Get undressed and changed into comfy clothes or pyjamas isn’t too difficult, or can at least be done slowly, while seated. Making some food may or may not be possible. Go to bed.

Wake up the next day after about 14 hours of sleep broken by pain in your legs and feet from walking, pain in your back from sitting, pain in everything else from the exertion of being upright and sociable the night before. My brain takes at least a day or two to get over even a sedate night out. My body takes almost a week.

Next M.E. and my life will probably be about sex.

Admit it. You can’t wait.

Finally, issue 001 of Sublime Rush is completed and online!

I was kind of amazed to see almost ten thousand unique views since Sunday night.

Big pimpage has yet to begin, but it looks like things are off to a good start. I am vomit-on-my-keyboard excited right now.

Big huge hearts and hugs to everyone involved in making the first issue happen…

AnaBelle
Keith Caputo
Paul at Coolworld Photography
Jeff Koromi
Jo Vallance at Room Thirteen
Joshua Hoffine
Leyla Rose
Danielle McKay at deviantART
Susan McKivergan
Kate White
Kristen Santel AKA Hannah Bel
Micropenis
The Resistance
Alex Kelly
Lorna Currie
Fourthletter
Theodore Mander at NeveaH Jewelry
Christer Eckermann AKA Ecker00
Trppl Johnson at ABRA Tribe
Teari at Electric Jungle & Unsigned Rock TV

SublimeRush.com

ROCK!

Every time I ask myself why I write a blog (which isn’t that often, since I try to avoid talking to myself), I come up with a different answer. Yes, there’s an element of emotional exhibitionism, of catharsis achieved through this small act of openness and honesty, but 99% the sensation of satisfaction and relief comes from simply setting these thoughts free into the ether rather than from the communication with friends/e-friends/total strangers that may or may not follow.

Then there’s the issue of reciprocity, the comfort found in absorbing in detail the lives and opinions of others, and in returning this experience to the readers who regularly visit, those who pass through occasionally, the ones who arrive here by entering some obscure search terms into Google (my top search terms? gas mask and pumpkin soup recipe) and those who crash through my virtual walls, finding their way here in a fit of rage at me, at someone or something I’ve talked about or even at someone who has commented on one of the entries.

And it’s those extremes – from blistering anger to profound sadness, from the mundane to the wildly abstract – that fuel this blog.

Sometimes I write about things that I’ve seen in shops or photos I’ve taken at work that week, but a lot of this blog is simply an out-pouring of my emotional innards that fall from my head, through my hands, on to this screen and out into the wild blue yonder where they reach people who may be able to relate, people who will vehemently disagree and people who will read two lines and discover that the result of their late-night Googling fruity pussy has only led them to a blog entry about confectionary packaging and cats.

I’m rarely as violently pissed off as I seem here, rarely as broken or as manic for any length of time after getting it all out of my system. I’m not saying that I don’t tell the truth here, because I do. Always.

This is somewhere I can vent about the more-than-occasional suckage of having M.E. (including dealing with assholes like this guy) without steeling myself against a potential response of it could be worse, at least you don’t have cancer or there are starving children if Africa, you know. It’s somewhere I can ramble about the size and shape of my body, without bracing myself for a roll of the eyes and a but you’re so pretty or a don’t be silly, you look great.

This is also a place where I can be excited about new projects, good days and fantastic experiences. There are ups and downs, peaks and troughs, and I am not a writer, a documenter of existence for posterity. I am just one person, filling the boat with good and bad and what-went-on, and pushing it out from the shore.

I’ve just uploaded a pre-release preview of issue 001 of Sublime Rush magazine, with a full table of contents so you can get a taste of what’s to come in the first issue.

Go to SublimeRush.com and check it out.

You can register with the mailing list there as well, and you can find Sublime Rush on MySpace, Facebook and Twitter as well.

(I am very very excited!)

Two Go Fuck Yourself Awards this week? Yes, cause sometimes there are just that many assholes in the world. Today I received this email in relation to my photography business website…

Hi Tanya,

Kind Regards,
[someone who could do with some training in marketing and communications]

I think that email speaks for itself, really. Never one to complain about something without offering suggestions for an alternative, I replied…

My website and branding is exactly the way I want it to be, thank you.  If it wasn’t, I would have it done differently and based on your portfolio and website, I wouldn’t be hiring you to do it.  I believe your website and branding could be improved, as could your initial contact with potential customers (although ‘potential customers’ might be a little optimistic).

To the spam filter, Batman!

I’ve noticed this strange trend extending to cold calling/phone spam as well as email. Instead of being warm, polite and professional, sales people are aggressive (or passive aggressive) and condescending. I am desperate to know if this approach EVER works.

I suspect it doesn’t.

Digg HERE
Reddit HERE
StumbleUpon HERE

For a quick introduction to what I’m about to rant about, read this entry.

Ok, so after the last time I was shouted at in front of a shop full of people for being a drug addict, D and I have understandably avoided going to any branch of Boots unless it’s absolutely necessary.

Boots and Asda both sell very cheap antihistamines, which D needs cause he has crazy allergies which need continuous dealing-with (all verified by a real live doctor, no self-diagnosis happening here). Asda is a car journey away. Boots is a 5 minute walk away. So sometimes, Boots is where D gets his antihistamines.

Never again.

He went into our local branch of Boots earlier to buy painkillers for on-going dental work (that applies to both of us) and because I’m crap at remembering to reorder my prescriptions. Upon approaching the counter and ordering aspirin and codeine tablets, he was informed by the educationally-sub-normal 12 year-old behind the counter that since he was ‘in here buying painkillers every week’ he would have to be referred to the pharmacist.

The pharmacist did his best to look busy and hide until D actually called him over and explained that no, he wasn’t even in that branch once a week, never mind buying painkillers. The only time he goes in there is to buy antihistamines, and that isn’t even on a weekly basis cause we usually go to Asda and tend to get more than a week’s worth of antihistamines at a time. Hell, we almost never actually BUY painkillers from anywhere since I get them on prescription (which I do not get filled at Boots, for obvious reasons).

It seems that this is simply how the bottom-dwelling scum who work in Boots treat people. They accuse them of being (oh my god!) regular customers and while they manage to remember seeing a person in the shop more times that the person has actually been in the shop, they take wild artistic license with their accusations about what the person actually buys.

After D explained that the painkillers were for on-going dental work, the dumbfuck pharmacist told him to get painkillers from the dentist. Seriously. He then told him to go to his doctor about needing painkillers following dental work. Seriously.

Has anyone out there ever gone to their doctor and said “I’ve been having dental work done and need painkillers which I can easily buy in a shop, but I would like a prescription for them any way”? Exactly.

And following that steady stream of verbal crap was the condescending lecture that seems to flow like raw sewage from the mouths of the faulty robots who spend their days behind the counter of Boots, alienating their customers. Then he sold D a packet of paracetamol and codeine after some half-assed mumblings about aspirin. Cause the ASPIRIN is the issue.

ALL this was done at a great volume in the middle of a crowded shop. This approach seems to be company policy. Amusingly, Boots are currently running a TV advert about how many different kinds of painkillers they sell over-the-counter and how it’s not that women deal with pain better than men, they just remember to buy painkilers.

The advert actually shows a (weak pathetic forgetful useless) man with a headache and an office full of women handing him the huge range of painkillers they all kept in their desks.

Hypocritical bullshit motherfuckers. I have now ordered my repeat prescription and will never EVER be buying anything from any branch of Boots ever again. From now on, I would crawl over broken glass while listening to the soundtrack of High School Musical to get to a different chemist.

In honour of an astounding track record of hitting customer service rock bottom and keeping on digging, I would like to give a second Go Fuck Yourself award to Boots the chemist, staffed entirely by judgmental cunts who probably sit in the back room of the pharmacy during their lunch break feverishly masturbating over imaginary scenarios in which they reprimand people for wanting to spend money in their store.

And on special occasions, they make photo-fit pictures of what they imagine to be stereotypical drug seekers, roll up the pictures and fuck each other in the ass with them while gasping out the magic words…
“We…see…you…in…here…every…WEEEEEK!”.

prosopagnosia
pros·o·pag·no·sia (prŏs’ə-pāg-nō’zhə, -zē-ə)
An inability or difficulty in recognizing familiar faces; it may be congenital or result from injury or disease of the brain.

I taught myself to memorise faces diagramatically like beautiful wireframe sculptures…the tilt of a chin, the meeting of lips, the curve of eyelashes sweeping a blink, the angles of hairline-browbone-cheekbone-jaw.

My own reflection, a formula wrapped in dysmorphia, painted on canvas scrolls and carved into stone. The mirror is a biblical master, a vengeful god.

But a photograph, a portrait, is hearing my name whispered in a language that was excised from my mind by a quiet stranger who follows me, always arms-length behind.

Self-portrait in the studio. I heart floaty fabric, coloured light and creepy masks.

I miss the girl I almost was. She sits lightly on the edge of the bed at 4am and brushes my hair back from my face with a touch like spiders’ footsteps.

Her breath is like ice and her wishes are weightless. She wraps a strand of promises around her fingers and kisses me goodbye again with lips like polished crystal.

She waits for me at crossroads. She is always cold.

So the identities of the people who tortured and killed Baby P, Peter Connelly, have been released.   They are Tracey Connelly and Steven Barker.  I’m not going to tell the whole story here. If you have no clue what I’m talking about, read this Wikipedia entry (but be prepared to read some horrible things).

Anyone who knows me or reads this blog regularly will know that I am child free by choice. I don’t have the urge to coo over babies or feel the persistent womb-beat of a ticking biological clock. My blog entries will never start with “As a mother…”.

But giving birth is not a prerequisite for giving a shit.  I find it so hard process the fact that there are people out there, fully-grown adult people, who torture children. Lets say those two words one more time, so that they sink in. Torture children. Torture. Children. Most of them start out by torturing animals. Got that? They torture animals. Torture. Animals.

These are people who can look at something tiny and defenseless and make the choice to cause pain to and destroy this living thing that they not only shouldn’t be hurting, but should be looking after and protecting.

To put things into perspective, I want to share with you a few sentences from this news article:

The toddler…had more than 50 injuries at the time of death. Social workers, doctors and police failed to notice the abuse despite seeing him at least 60 times over eight months. Two days before Baby P died, a doctor failed to spot he had a broken back, eight fractured ribs and was paralysed from the waist down.

He had been punched so hard he swallowed a tooth. The subsequent neck injury that affected his breathing was probably the fatal blow. Among his other injuries, Baby P’s ears were torn, fingernails and fingertips were missing and his lips were ripped.

I can’t read those words without crying. I’m not an emotionally delicate blindly-optimistic soul who desperately hangs on to the disillusioned belief that nothing bad ever happens in the world. I am fully aware that shit happens and that there are some people out there who are screwed up beyond normal human comprehension.

But fuck…”fingernails and fingertips were missing and his lips were ripped”. Read that a few times. Take it in. Remember that what you’re reading was inflicted upon a SMALL CHILD. Tracey Connelly, the MOTHER of this child, tortured him.

Steven Barker, Connelly’s partner, had plenty of experience with torturing people and things weaker than himself, including his own grandmother and a pet guinea pig which he skinned alive. Barker’s brother, Jason, was already in jail for raping a two year old child. Raping a two year old child. Raping. A child.

I don’t work in social services or the justice system. I know that both these areas can be vastly under-funded and often are unable to protect the victims of crime. I don’t feel qualified to apportion blame. Kind of. I feel quite comfortable laying some of the blame at the feet of the doctor who didn’t notice the broken back, fractured ribs and paralysis that Peter had two days prior to his death.  I would’ve thought those things would present in quite an obvious manner, especially to someone in the medical profession.

To finish, I’d like to share with you some words from an article on the BBC’s website,

The notoriety of the Baby Peter case is such that all three convicted people are likely to be given new identities upon release to protect them from vigilante attacks.

This article, from TheTelegraph.co.uk, says of Tracey Connelly,

By claiming that she had the right to a life free from vigilante attacks or intrusion by the media, she would be given a new name, moved to a home equipped with panic buttons and provided with round-the-clock police protection for the rest of her life at an estimated cost to the taxpayer of £1 million a year.

Of all the words I’ve read about this tragic case, those are the hardest to stomach.

Urgh. Toothache in the extreme caused by an infection in a tooth which has had half a root canal treatment done. I am filled with antibiotics (barf) and pain medication, but it still hurts like hell. I’m reasonably good at pain but this is absolutely fucking horrible. I want it not to hurt any more.

Kitties are good for cheering up so I figured if I was going to inflict a whiny post on you all, I ought to provide something more happy-making to look at. Shai posed for me for a fraction of a second. She hates my camera.

My body is being all M.E.-ish and it sucks. I had some weird kind of exhaustion paralysis yesterday which totally freaked me out and now I just feel completely worn out. I don’t think I’ve been this wiped out since I first got sick. Not being able to talk or move was fucking terrifying. I’m trying not to let this disturb me too much.

My nails keep breaking, my hair is growing at the speed of death and nothing will heal, which is really irritating. I’ve had a bug bite on my chest for over a month. The annoying thing is I’m eating super-healthy food and sleeping a shitload but it’s still not enough.

Bleh. I just needed to have a bitch. I’m sure the world will look better tomorrow morning.

I hadn’t taken a photo of myself since dyeing my hair pink again, over a month ago. Now I have. It seems fitting to start an emotional vanity session with some visual vanity.

If you’re a regular visitor, you may remember this post in which I spoke of steps forward and leaving behind insecurity, of letting go of a lifetime of discomfort and fear about my appearance, my weight, my body, my face.

It was a fucking revelation, a light-bulb moment, eureka-i-found-it. And now, after the revelry, light-bulbs can go off as well as on, and maybe, just a little, I lost it again.

So I was eating whatever the hell I wanted to eat and not freaking out about it. This was nice for a few months. Looking back, I think I had two reasons for going this route. The first was that I needed to prove to myself that putting on weight is not going to cause the world, my world, the world around me, the world in my head, to come crashing down.

The second was that subconsciously, this whole putting on weight business may just have been a grand act of self-sabotage wrapped in denial. Because having put weight on, I am now in the perfect position to want to lose weight again. Which also is not going to cause the world to come crashing down because it’s a perfectly reasonable thing to do. To lose weight after gaining weight. And who could argue with that?

I keep typing and deleting. Everything is either too personal or not personal enough. I don’t know. I can’t find the words I want to say and I have no idea why I feel the need to say all this so publicly.

I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a starving skeletal shadow of myself and it is extremely unlikely that I ever will be again, unless world war three kicks in and I end up in a concentration camp for people with facial tattoos.

I am eating really healthily right now. Seriously. It disturbs me a little when I stop and think about it. I am hooked on Pink Lady apples and fat-free yogurts and rye bread (although not all at the same time). I know how many calories are in absolutely fucking everything, but I always have. I just tried to forget for a while, but it isn’t that easy. Sometimes you remember things in spite of yourself.

I am keeping a food diary and it makes me feel better, a way to keep things in order and feel in control without taking drastic measures. Yes, I sometimes compete with myself and I try to eat less than the day before but then I tell myself to stop being so fucking stupid and remind myself that in order to be able to work I need to ensure that I actually feed myself enough to provide my body with the energy it needs.

I have accepted that I am not indestructible and that as satisfying as it may feel to go a day (or two) without food, I can no longer do that kind of thing because my body and my life do not allow for it. I have also accepted (most of the time) that what I see in the mirror is rarely what other people see when they look at me. Like to a ridiculous degree. Delusional body dysmorphic disorder, if you like to label these things.

I wanted to end with another revelation and I’ve been trying desperately to concoct one but I just can’t. More typing and deleting and typing and deleting. I am very much without a revelation. I can’t even make one up.

…ok, more like 30 days but 28 sounds cooler.

It’s been a month since my last entry. A month. A fucking MONTH! It’s not that I haven’t had things to write about. I have. Lots is happening and it’s all good stuff which I shall link-whore about in a minute if you want to check out the new bits and bobs. Ok, so in chronological order…

I moved in to my new studio last month and have had a functioning electricity supply since the end of June. I am completely in love with my studio. I mean, I have nostalgic fuzzy memories of my parents’ house and I feel emotionally attached to the flat I live in at the moment but I LOVE the studio. When I’m in there on my own I keep having these moments of joyous disbelief and dancing around with a big gigantor smile on my face.

My first shoot in the studio was with the gorgeous AnaBelle, while she was visiting Scotland.

My first self-portrait in the studio. The gorgeous crinoline petticoat was a gift from Leyla Rose who always looks glamorous.

Speaking of Leyla Rose, and with a quick step out of chronology, I had a (very cramped, as it was while I was between studios) shoot with Leyla and Missy Malone to promote their show at the Glasgow Cabaret Festival.

My parents came to visit at the start of July and we went to the Falkirk Wheel. This is something that D and I have been meaning to do since we moved to Scotland but it’s one of those things that feels better to do in a touristy way, with people who don’t live here.

My summer photography kicked off with lots of swearing and loud laughter during a shoot with Dave Arcari, just back from a European festival tour and squeezing some photo-taking in between a radio interview and a gig that night.

Last weekend, I shot with Anna and Frances for Elvira Beaumont Corsetiere. I have total corset-envy right now!

And press-y stuff…this month my photos are in RevolutionArt, Replica, Blues Matters magazine and various other music-performance-related thingies (thanks to Dave’s busy touring schedule!).

AND…big exciting news! I’m working on a new project – Sublime Rush Magazine – and I am so hyper about it. It’s still a baby and there’s nothing major to report just yet but in the meantime, if you want to keep up to date with the release and get your free digital copy of the mag, go to the website and register with the mailing list.

Today I’m feeling relieved because Pablo the kitty had a collision yesterday with the metal thing that laundry hangs on to dry, had some sort of weird seizure and ended up with a kitty-concussion. He has been checked over by the vet, is totally ok and I just about managed to avoid having an “Oh my god, that cat is broken!” panic.

It feels too weird to get all personal and headshrinkery after such a bulletin-esque post so I’m just going to shut up now. And it won’t be a month before my next post.

…it would probably be pretty much the same as it is now because the personality traits shared by big bosses and uberleaders are not gender specific.

Don’t people GET that by saying Women are better leaders because they’re more in touch with their emotions than men are, they are being sexist.

I’m not getting into ‘male/female brain types’, the place where potentially useful science meets gender socialisation and cultural constructs. I just felt the need to say SOMETHING on the subject after reading this in the July 2009 issue of Marie Claire as part of an article called Could women rescue the world?

Visualise Cheryl Cole, Oprah Winfrey, Michelle Obama, Victoria Beckham and Cate Blanchett all sitting round the cabinet table. What would they say?

They would probably say We’re 2 ’singers’, a tv presenter, an actress and the wife of the president of the USA. We aren’t politicians. What the hell are we all doing sitting round the cabinet table in the first place?

This would all happen after they oust the current leaders of world politics – Robbie Williams, Jerry Springer, Denis Thatcher (ok, he might be dead but you get my point), Duncan from Blue and Keanu Reeves.

The people actually sitting round the cabinet table are POLITICIANS. Regardless of their gender, they are still politicians.

If we lived in a society where people ran countries (or companies) instead of there always being the male/female divide, the people stamping their feet and demanding equality while vomiting mars and venus bullshit all over the place might actually find that they have less to stamp their feet about.

I get that The Big Question section in Marie Claire perhaps isn’t the font of all serious journalism. I like Marie Claire. The models in their Beauty section have skin texture and that matters to me.

Plus, I would rather live in a world where someone can spout sexist crap under the guise of progress than in a world where opinions were censored.

If you’re wondering what the saga of assholery is, read this entry first.

Lucky me. The phone rang and when I answered I was not-so-fucking-delighted to find that the person (and I use that term loosely) on the other end was one of the professional bullies at LBM phoning on behalf of Orange.

When I repeatedly explained (slowly, without using any big words) to the ‘person’ on the phone that I STILL didn’t have any desire to talk to them and STILL wanted my details removed from their database, I was shouted at until I gave up and put the phone down.

Since there was no way to contact LBM without handing over more contact details I attempted to pursue Orange for some kind of resolution. Orange has no corporate phone numbers listed anywhere so I called the business support line as they seemed the most likely to know where to refer me to for help.

According to an obnoxious man in Orange’s business sales department, the only way to contact Orange to make a complaint is in writing. There is no way that I can speak to someone about the issue.

He told me to contact LBM and when I explained that this was impossible without handing over more personal contact details, he suggested that I register an email address solely for the purpose of making a complaint. Seriously. Hear that dull thudding sound? That’s me banging my head off the wall.

Orange are basically paying another company to harass people on their behalf so that no-one anywhere ever has to actually take responsibility for what is happening. If you want to read other people’s unfavourable feedback about the fucknuts that populate the world of ball-suck that is LBM, check this out.

With any luck, Consumer Direct and Watchdog will be able to help, or at least point me in the direction of someone who can.

One of the downsides of being listed in business directories is that I get spam phone calls. Every day. Numerous times a day.

Anywhere else in the UK, I would be able to opt out of such things as I’m self-employed rather than being an actual company and could therefore register my phone numbers on the national Do Not Call registry. But not in Scotland. Well done Scotland.

So today I got a call from some phone monkey at LBM calling on behalf of Orange. As I was explaining that I have no interest in receiving calls from strangers trying to sell me things, he hung up on me.

So I called back, this time on my landline as it was an 0800 number which is free from landlines but not from mobile phones, to ensure that my details had actually been removed and I wouldn’t get any more phone spam from them.

BUT…simply by phoning them again, they assume permission to register my landline number on their database. Then the recorded message gave another freephone number to call if I didn’t want to have them contact me again. Again.

The second freephone number did basically the same thing, although it gave me an option not to be contacted again, which I chose. I was then informed that my phone number would be removed from their database in 4-5 working days.

So I went to their website, determined to find a way to actually speak to someone and ensure that I wasn’t going to have phone spam ad infinitum. The same thing happened when I called the customer service number on their website.

Basically it’s impossible to phone them at all without the number you call from being saved on their database, at least for the next week or so. I’m sure as hell not emailing them.

All I wanted was to talk to a human being to ensure that I wouldn’t keep getting phone calls by people trying to sell me things that I’m perfectly capable of finding and purchasing by myself, should I want to.

Nowhere on the website that I can see, does it say that by contacting them at all I am giving permission for my number to be saved and used by them however they see fit. While this may be in their smalltinylittlewee print, it really ought to be somewhere visible. Somewhere it can be seen before you phone them.

I did consider calling their Sales Enquiries number, since that’s probably the only number you can contact them on and actually have a person answer the phone but if I speak to another fake-voiced wank-stained shite with a phone strapped to his head I think I might start eating my own hands, just to have a pleasant distraction.

So this week’s Go Fuck Yourself award goes to LBM Direct Marketing and Orange. Congratulations. You suck.

Want more information about the depths LBM will sink to? Check out this info on Dynamoo.

In honour of Refugee Week Scotland 09 (15th – 22nd June 09) I’m thinking about what home means to me and asking you to do the same.

This is my husband D. We’ve been together for seven and a half years, married for six and a half.

I’ve always been a commitment-phobe and have perpetually itchy feet. I’ve never felt settled in one place, whether that was one job or one city. I always looking for the next place to go, the next thing to do. As yet, I’ve had no desire to settle down.

The thing is, being married is not the same as settling down. We’re childfree by choice (although we do love our cats), we rent our flat and one of the things we share is the urge to keep moving. Now we both have someone to keep moving with.

Having a partner in crime, a soulmate, makes the world a more beautiful place because I see it through someone else’s eyes as well as my own. Home is not a place. Home is anywhere with my husband because I’m safe and loved wherever we go together.

This is Lisa, my best friend. We’ve known each other for eight years and I knew as soon as we met that Lisa was someone I would feel close to, someone I could really trust.

Weirdly, we went to the same school but were a year apart. Then we went to the same college but were studying different subjects. We knew the same people. We’d been to the same concerts. I’m convinced that we met at exactly the time we needed to meet.

Lisa has been there for me through the toughest times of my life and she’s been there through the awesome stuff too. She’s the hardest working person I have ever met and she inspires me constantly.

Wherever we’ve been, whatever we’ve been doing, however far apart we’ve lived, Lisa has been my anchor and just hearing her voice on the phone makes me feel like I’ve come home.

A bloody shower does not mean home to me. But my work does. I adore what I do and can’t imagine doing anything else, so taking photographs is a huge part of who I am. No matter what else is going on, I was always have art and it will always make me happy. Home is feeling inspired to create.

I should mention my parents, who brought me up to feel secure wherever I was because home is not a place – home is the people you love and the people who love you, no matter where you all are at any given time.

If you would like to download a pdf of forthcoming Refugee Week exhibitions in Glasgow, you can do so here.

If you’re on Flickr, you can join the Flickr group and add your own pictures, links and stories.

So…what does home mean to you?

This is an open invitation for you to answer that question in your own blog. Encourage others to do the same. And don’t forget to send me a link so I can read about what home means to you.

Do you ever have one of those bizarre moments where someone says or does something overwhelmingly sweet and you suddenly feel panicked that this is the last time you’ll ever see or speak to that person?

Part of me thinks that it’s a sign of caring deeply for someone, of finally having the capacity for emotion necessary to care deeply for someone.

Part of me thinks it’s probably just hormonal or something to do with anxiety or depression or a throw-back to an eating-disordered craving for control and order or a fear of being punished by some divine being that I don’t even believe in.

Maybe it’s the recognition of how lovely life can be made by small honest statements that people make by accident.

that I would be loved
even when I numb myself
that I would be good
even when I am overwhelmed

from ‘That I Would Be Good’
by Alanis Morissette

I’m sitting here watching The Truth About Online Anorexia (ITV1, 2009) presented by Fearne Cotton who I’ve never really had an opinion about before. I’m starting to like her. This is the most genuine investigation of the subject of pro-ana/pro-ed websites I have seen yet.

When it comes to the rise in eating disorders in children and teenagers, I don’t believe that the media is ‘to blame’. I don’t believe that any one thing or one factor is completely at fault.

But when I haven’t been in a newsagents or supermarket for a while and I walk in past the floor-to-ceiling magazine racks, I genuinely shocked every time because I find myself faced with literally a wall of publications informing me that 120 pound celebrities have ‘piled on the pounds’, telling me how to eat like so-and-so who slimmed down from a size 6 to a size 4.

This is very fucked up.

I rarely go into town to shop. I don’t enjoy shopping for clothes or anything else and I certainly have no desire to make it a day-long experience. A few months back, I had time to kill while waiting for my car to be repaired so I wandered down Princes Street.

After a while, I started to feel uneasy. I realised that every muscle in my body had tightened. I was holding my tummy in, holding my back straighter. And I felt FAT. I had spent the last half hour seeing (without really noticing) window after window filled with mannequins with 18 inch waists.

This is also very fucked up.

Back to the magazines. Have you ever noticed how after a certain point, once a famous young woman has passed through the stages of being enviably thin, through being inspirational (although we don’t like to admit that) to the point where the nation is worried.

The nation and the friends and family of the young woman in question frown in concern sliced through with bitter envy. She’s so THIN. How did this happen!? So off she goes to rehab and gets fixed and comes back looking slightly less emaciated talking about how supportive everyone has been and how much that has helped her to feel better about herself and her body and her life.

And the magazines drape their covers in gauzy fragile beauty once again…now she’s ok. She’s cured. She has recovered. She now weighs 100 pounds instead of 80. What message does that reaction send, even subconsciously?

Fall apart. Fall apart publicly. First they will envy your strength and self-control. Then they will become worried. Then they will pick you up and love you and fix you and everything will be ok here have a pair of over-sized Gucci sunglasses to hide your hollow eyes behind while you float delicately from cover to cover of all the magazines and people will stare and you will be perfect and you will be LOVED.

This is very fucked up indeed.

I want to make something clear. No matter how deeply I submerged myself in the murky waters of eating disorders, no matter how skewed my perception of my body was (and I am truly thankful to finally be saying that in the past tense) I NEVER looked at a famous person and thought “I want to look like her”. I sure as hell never looked at a mannequin in a shop window and thought “I want to be that size”.

I always just wanted to be a smaller, thinner, prettier version of myself. For every time I read “starving yourself won’t make you lose weight” there was a moment of joy when measuring my waist-chest-hips-thighs-calves-ankles-arms-wrists-neck and discovering that actually starving myself HAD worked thankyouverymuch.

It never crossed my mind that what “starving yourself won’t make you lose weight” means is that starving yourself won’t make you lose weight in a healthy and desirable manner. People with a realistic and sensible view of health and weight do not need to have this explained to them. People who fear fat more than death do need to have it explained to them.

There is a certain invincibility that can go along with being young and a definite sense of being indestructible which comes as a delicious gift from the eating disorder that you have invited into your life and your head and your body.

Combine this with the sheer amount of uber-thin imagery we are bombarded with every day. And the massive and ridiculous mainstream diet culture which is actually frighteningly similar to the pro-ed movement. And our mothers and aunts and sisters and friends who are all trying to lose just another 5 pounds, to drop just another dress size (even though they’ve been doing that for your WHOLE LIFE and you’ve never known them to be any different).

It becomes glaringly obvious why so many people have such a fucked up view of how they look, how other people look, how we ’should’ look. It is not down to an actress, a model, a fashion label, a website, a shop, a film, a music video, a magazine, a tv show, a mother, a sister, a best friend.

It is down to the entirety of the immensely visible and intensely emotionally damaging culture of making sure that nobody ever feels good enough just the way they are. It is down to how much we willingly submerge ourselves in the culture and perpetuate it’s myths of beauty and acceptability.

This is the most fucked up of all.

Why aren’t we doing more to fix it?

Pablo (top) and Shai (bottom).

It’s sunny and warm and things are good. I will write eloquent and interesting things soon. Probably. Until then, enjoy the fluffy kitties.