Category: life
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I quite enjoy the challenge of combining a photo with 200 word limit to go with it. Finding the right words to express what I want succinctly is tricky and a useful way to try and find my writing muse again. -
So short they tease me cruelly with their far too brief full dark.
When I can’t sleep,
then the cheerfulness of eager birdsong announcing dawn’s imminent arrival
feels not just unpleasant, but an act of torture.
I rub at my dry eyes, which are beginning to sting from the lack of proper rest,
already longing for the rich and full nights of winter.
The cold of those nights doesn’t bother me, unlike the muggy dark summer brings.
Another torture. More useless tossing and turning.
So many write in throes of ecstasy about the beauty of such nights,
but for me they are a cruel cheat.
Even when I do close my eyes long enough for a dream to find me,
too often they turn into nightmares.
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Today I experienced something new, although I’m sure the many women pioneers in photography experienced rubbish like it all the time over the years, and worse.
What I experienced was misogyny. What are you, new? You may think. Women experience misogyny every day.
Oh, I’ve suffered along with every other woman on the planet when it comes to casual sexism, internalised sexism, and every slice of misogyny you can think of (bar anything related to race, since I am white.) That wasn’t the “new” part.
What I am not used to is misogyny regarding my hobby. Actually, I will amend that a little: this was my first time experiencing such negative sexism regarding photography. I’m not dumb enough not to realise those men who smile and let me take a photo are probably being old-fashioned “gentlemen” (although I still thank them for it. Politeness is politeness, regardless of where it came from, and it’s harmless).
Back to the incident that occured.
As I’m photographing some large, gorgeous daffodils, I hear a loud voice just down from me:
“Fucking disgusting. Putting on “Maccy” and going inside thepm
church to pose, I’ll bet.“
Actually, I’ll be fair to The Judemental Fool. That would be a dickish thing to do.
If that was what I was doing at the time
I took one photo of myself, as part of my Visual Diary. I took it nowhere near the church and not out of vanity.
When I got home, I complained to Mum that I wish I weren’t such a chickenshit and had confronted that woman. However, having had time to calm down and think it all over, I realise now that that would have been a terrible response for two reasons: 1. It would’ve escalated a situation that was not an argument at that point and 2. caused a scene where I probably wouldn’t have come out looking good. If anything, it likely would’ve made that woman look correct, as I was causing a scene after all. I
Although honestly, the idea I could be some sort of influencer is still hilarious to me. I couldn’t influence a potted plant.
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For every star in heaven
There’s a sad soul here today.
– Queen, Long Away.
…
The end is here at last.
I know it’s the end because I don’t care anymore.
I don’t care who my actions will hurt. After all, they don’t care about me.
I heard it and knew it the other day “fuck her.” I’m an epileptic. He meant he didn’t want anyone to come home and look after me.
He meant if I fell and broke my neck, he didn’t care.
He didn’t care if I died.
Mother just sat there quietly, as always.
Sister. She lit the flame. She never said sorry.
I’m sorry to the online friends I have. The people I loved who never knew me. Rami. Michael. Chris. I hope we meet some day.
But this sad soul is joining the stars. My only friend. The end.
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I ran until my legs could barely hold me up.
I ran until I could feel nothing but jelly anymore,
If that makes sense.
I ran unti I had could no more longer breathe.
I ran until I tripped and could run no longer.
The chase was over.
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When is an Impossible Dream a Dead Dream
I spent a good portion of this evening typing up my entry for the Impossible Dream collaboration. I will eventually post it, if only because I made the effort to write it up on Cheetah Corona (my Corona electric typewriter), to I feel I shouldn’t waste it. A lot of ideas of mine get abandoned and wasted, which brings me to what inspired me to write this.
While it is nice to vent my feelings on all that seems impossible to achieve in my life as an artist and as a person, I also found myself excavating some unpleasant thoughts that I try to ignore a lot of the time.
It was not a pleasant excavation.
The biggest discovery? As a creator (writer, artist,delusional buffoon, whatever you would like to call me), I feel my window of opportunity is, at best, nothing but a tiny crack lit by sunlight on occasion. I’m nearing 40, I have little money, no connections to open any doors in life, and my struggles with mental illness and – more recently – epilepsy mean even finishing a project is difficult. Depression tells me I can’t do it, that no one will like it, why bother because I am useless. Anxiety is the sane tune played in Paralysing Fear of Mockery. Epilepsy is often triggered by stress, which all of the above bring on.
The best I can often manage are a few mediocre drawings of people I admire and abstract vent pieces. Writing happens in dribs and drabs. Most of it remains hidden.
I create so little of value, and I feel my dreams are dying along with whatever skill I may have posessed once. But I have nothing to move on to. I already know ordinary jobs are like being trapped in a cage to me, a cage that drives me slowly mad. No matter how good my coworkers and boss are, it feels the same.
I’m stuck here in a hole I dug for myself. I often ask what will happen to my work after I die. And the truth, save the few that are better than average, is they’ll be heading to a landfill one day. And that will be when I am truly dead. -
I often wonder what will happen to my work after I die. Will my family bother keeping it? Or just shove it in the attic with the rest of what they consider junk. The only art that gets “saved” in a respectful manner is by the well-known. The 99% of us who don’t qualify as such…our work is forgotten, destroyed, and eventually nobody will know it existed at all.
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Why I Make Art
I meant this as a response to [other person’s] post, but it didn’t go through, and all attempts to write it as a new record on the site wouldn’t work either. So copy and pasting from a writing app. If it doesn’t work I’m giving up and fucking off again.
I started creating because I liked to draw. It really was that simple. It was the same with writing, the only subject at school teachers and other students said nice things about. My drawings were “stupid” and admittedly, it’s not my greatest talent. Do I even have a great talent? Probably not. Few do. My original ambition was to act, but my father did everything he could to make sure it never happened. People told him I was good at it, but he just wouldn’t have it.
My point is that not everyone gets the chance to even find out whether they could ever get anywhere at art. I’ve made a tiny bit of money from it. I’m dirt poor. I buy art materials bit by bit because I can’t afford actual sets of decent materials. I buy camera joblots to get 35mm cameras (most are broken). If I really cared about attention, I wouldn’t waste my pitiful income on any of this stuff.
But I can’t lie and say I don’t want to make money from it. That I’d like to hear I make good stuff. That I’m not a talentless loser.
But life doesn’t work that way. I have no connections in the art world that could ever help me. I often think of my great aunt – a truly wonderful watercolourist who died completely unknown. I lost the one piece of hers I had. It was beautiful.
How many beautiful pieces of art were seen by no one? Too many, I imagine. Too many.
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I’m having a tough time with everything right now. My health problems have been numerous, I made a suicide attempt in the summer (which She Who Shall Not Be Named claimed I faked, then just huffed when I posted proof of my hospital admission which explicitly stated I had attempted suicide. And she still claims I’m a liar. Fucking christ) and I’m still using drugs.
In all honesty, they do make my life more bearable, I can do things on them and not feel so useless. Presses are the exception – I had 100 a week or so back, and they were gone after a few days and I couldn’t figure out how the hell they all disappeared…until I realised I blacked out and probably took the lot. Thank god these didn’t have fentynal in. I fell out with that plug anyway, the other guys charge more, but it’s the real stuff and that’s important in an age where fentynal is goddamn everywhere.
I know they are no good for me. But then what future do I have that’s worth fighting for here? I accept I’m a loser. I don’t accept I’m a bad person, as some people like to claim. I’ve done and said regrettable things, I own that completely.
I find myself thinking about death a lot again. I have no money for presents. I’m useless.
I’m writing this because my family just ignores me these days. I’m a junkie they tolerate. I do appreciate their frustration and anger about it, and my mum doesn’t have to provide me with housing. I’m not ungrateful, but it hurts that she can hear me cry at times and says nothing.
Bloody Roses 