A is for 'Arbitrary'

In the last little while I’ve been confronted with a few people, who, masquerading themselves as all-loving, all-liberated, and all-knowing, are really only concerned with their own image and sense of self-righteousness.  Be all that you can, try as hard as you’re humanly capable of, live up to your own personal standard of strengths.  But by no means does a legitimately earned sense of self-satisfaction gained from living life in a manner that upholds these personal standards and make you happy give you the right to self-righteously shame others for not living in that manner. These standards are arbitrary, change from person to person based on a multitude of contexts that you don’t even have the slightest idea of the scope of.
 
This has nothing to do with me lashing out over feeling ashamed over eating meat, having sex, or having smoked a handful of cigarettes in my life, because I most certainly am not.  How dare you shame someone for a set of arbitrary standards that you choose to live up to!  How dare you shame ‘sluts’ based on an arbitrary standard of promiscuity, and how dare you group people into polarised social categories, which are inherently difficult to remain within, and then shame them for breaking the confines of these categories that you created for someone else.  I find that, although these kinds of people feel that they have a far superior moral compass, and are far more liberated than their lowly meat-eating, sexually active fellow man; these people are actually bigots, operating on a rigid, unnecessarily unwavering belief system that is based on one of a plethora of legitimate ways of living as a decent human being.  It is part of life to change your beliefs, to constantly liberate yourself with new information, and to re-evaluate your way of living with every step.  Not doing so is a disservice to yourself, and the pre-frontal cortex that allows us to achieve higher order thinking, cognition, reasoning and logic.

I have a tumblr, which I update with striking regularity.  Though, as self-indulgent as it sounds, here is quieter and my work & thoughts are organised (or as well as I can hope in my present state) and not confounded by the extraneous re-blogs and fear of having someone I actually know reading it...

In any case, having any blog at all merely distracts me from succeeding in life and is a kind of self-conscious diary, whereby I attempt to outpour my thoughts, all the while aware that they're accessible to anyone with an IQ high enough to operate a computer.

Blah Blah Blah.  I have been trying my hand at using Copic Markers and I'm quite enjoying them.

The metaphorical, weighted thud of my inaction is no less a wholly physical burden than the scars that eventuated from it.  I fear at times (and ever more as the present days continue and come to their eventual close), that I will be enveloped in it completely.  That I will become encased in all that I am not, in all that I am incapable of being, saying, achieving.  This is no way to live, though I lament that it is the only way I have ever known.  The more I struggle to regain some semblance of control, the quicker it appears to be snatched from my feeble grasp.  I am constantly aware of my own mortality, of what an insufferable cunt I am.

Works in progress

Although I refer to my sketches as 'works in progress' this is an inadequate description, as I never finish any of them anyway.  I seldom finish the pages in the sketchbooks either, I get a few from the end and start on a new one.  I'm not sure why I do this; possibly it's that I can't stand the finality of it all - the idea of finishing something and it not being perfect.  Empty pages can be returned to, built upon, altered.  They are fluid.  I put too much thought into these things

Terrible scan quality aside, I am somewhat pleased with the way things have been turning out lately.  I'm no artist, but I'm slowly learning that not being perfect is not a fault and that I don't have to be the world's best at something to enjoy it and find fulfillment.

The Secret Garden

I am currently watching The Secret Garden.  The memories of seeing this film as a child have shaped so much of my adult perceptions of romance and beauty, and watching it now has begun the process of corroding my long-standing creative block.  I was stuck with thinking that beauty for beauty's sake was frivolous, but something so simple can be so comforting and have substance far beyond my original expectations.  I always identified with Mary, planting lily bulbs in collared dresses, when really I am Colin, blooming far later, learning to walk and be independent from his illnesses and isolation.

sparks

I am raw and withering.  I don't sleep anymore.  Four of the last forty is not sufficient.  At seven this morning nothing could console me.  3 a.m. now is much the same.  I am flat; I don't even feel what's happening to me anymore.  I exist behind a pane of glass.  I can see everything sure enough, but I am not connected to it, not engaged, not alive alongside everyone else.  I don't even feel tired.

Lita

Much like my previous diatribe over lingerie, I used to think that the comical female obsession with shoes was an exceedingly superfluous thing to concern yourself with - let alone spend money on.  But then I bought a pair of Jeffrey Campbell's and realised that not only had I been living a lie all this time, but also in this shadow of unfabulosity for far too long.  On a related note, I now no longer look like a munchkin when I wear these puppies.

Melbourne

I have been in Melbourne for the past three weeks.  Trams were caught, sights were seen, Rainbow Serpent Festival was attended, and a much needed break from my mundane existence on the Coast was had.  Now I'm back and without sounding too hallmark; the amazing people I have re-connected with in the last month are helping to bring me out of my lifeless stupor for the first time in what has seemed like an age.


Top to bottom: Charlotte and Tessa on the 86 tram; The Smith Street Bazaar; a suave Adam, Josh & Rhys at Rainbow Serpent; and the Life Style section of Rainbow

Agent Provocateur

Like every self-respecting feminazi, I used to think that lingerie was a completely frivolous purchase, one which only aided the objectification and degradation of women to sex-objects. But then i realised how beautiful and complementary some of it can be to the female form. Sure, most ‘lingerie’ functions solely for the enjoyment of men to make you look like a cock-hungry stripper - but I guess if people weren’t willing to buy it, it wouldn’t sell so well…
Somewhat congruent with this; i am so obsessed with Agent Provocateur right now and would do some very questionable things for these Basques.  I don’t want to make any brash statements; but if you bought me one (or all!), I would love you forever!  I would wear it every day under my clothes, which I feel pays far more justice to it’s £245+  price-tag than saving it for a 'special occasion'.
Plus, I find the idea of dressing up for sex kind of depressingly calculated.

'sup 2011?

So many drunken phone calls last night!  All instigated by moi, as per usual.  My friends are all elsewhere, and I'm terribly jealous of their various travels/exploits in general.  Sweet, scattered loved ones, I miss you so.  This year I'm going to live for myself, for what I want, and be the person I know I am capable of being.  Less think, more do.

Cliche, I know.  But perhaps the biggest irony of all is that if I spent less time trying to please people and more time trying to please myself, I'd feel a lot less hollow and would have a lot more to give to everybody.

So here's to hoping 2010 gets its ass kicked.