i was taken by surprise. as the sun beat down and the lazy bumble bees awoke from their slumber i was taken by surprise. spring has arrived. whilst i meticulously created resources and perfected my enthusiastic face the seasons changed outside my window. i watched as ants clambered over one another and swallows swoop from the nest they had crafted in the roof of a neighbours house. i thought about it all. all the mess and the noise and struggle of the term. i thought about the ease with which i have completed the teaching. and of the determination i have used up to drag myself home each night. i thought about driving away. about crickets chirping in the oppressive heat. i thought about all the things that make up my life, of all the things that are bought to make up my world, of all the times i think, 'i want.' i thought about how much energy it takes to be 2. about how much energy it takes to climb the rungs of forgiveness and settle down in the fort you have created for yourself. in the sunshine. with the crickets chirping and the bumblebees softly roaming around.
it's funny how flying colours don't apply to the hollow valleys of life.
my hope for you is that you live life, that you breath deep the humid fragrance of mundane chores and wild adventures, that you gaze at the moon each night and journal about the sound of each rain drop as it carelessly tumbles to its inevitable death.
my hope is that you care more about your land, about your history, about the mark you are making, and less about the hair you are sporting or what the next girl is wearing.
my hope, my deep seated gut wrenching desire, is that you life real life, that you love real friends, that you work for real change. that you do not forget the bright lights and brighter still the stars. that feeling of being somewhere that can be all of the above, with none of the pitfalls of technology and waste.
live offline. create real life. cultivate actual change.
Christmas is a tricky one for me. I like presents. I like making my house pretty. I like taking time to think about gifts i want to get my friends and family. I like wrapping things. I like the spirit of generosity and kindness it breeds in people. I like the magic of the season. Reindeers flying. Father Christmas dropping down a chimney. A baby being born to a virign. I like the hope that has to come with it. I like being allowed to watch terrible terrible Christmas movies and spending days not doing much at all. I like my family.
But not all my family is here, and whilst this is a fact I battle with every day of the year, on Christmas day it is made all that more apparent. As much as I love all the things that come with Christmas - all these things are always left that little bit empty because my brother is not here to share them.
I think it is important to remember us at this time of the year. The forgotten ones. The people who find this day not full of peace and joy and love. Who strive to find those things, but who struggle for those things on these days.
I can be glad that there was once a baby and a stable and astronomers and magic. Whether you believe it to be a true story or not, it is still one full of hope and gladness and grace. And on holidays like this one, I am thankful for all those things.
Merry Christmas, friends. New York beckons tomorrow, so I'll be back in the New Year! xoxo
Yes I have spent the last 4 days putting 'le' in front of everything. I loved le Paris. It's a beautiful beautiful city, and I'd go back soon as. I did not love the hotel we checked out of after the first night. It was smelly. And dirty. And I'm pretty sure it had bed bugs. I have no idea why I booked it. NO IDEA AT ALL. We got to the hotel at 6pm and dropped our bags then headed out to the Eiffel Tower. As all good tourists do. We got back to the room at about 10, and from then on. I didn't sleep a wink. Well, maybe I slept two winks. But as we know two winks is not enough to sustain this annoying girl for a day of le Paris in the morn. We changed hotels. Of course. Because really, it was foul. I'm not sure it could even be classed as a hostel. I struggled. Bad. I didn't even take my camera out that second day. Because my shoulders were in such pain, that little Alice would have killed them. I relied on Frost's eyes and lens.
By the time our 7.30am flight came around the next morning, I had had only another half a wink sleep, and my poor little body felt like it was shutting down bit by bit. I had the shortest flight of my life, and the worst. I spent it with my head on my knees the whole time. I got through it by counting every five minutes. Five sets of 60. 8 sets of five. And whilst counting all those seconds I was feeling like I would die. And when I feel so ill I get angry. Truth of the matter is, anger is my go to emotion when anything at all happens. But when this happens, I know what to do. I know through my CBT how to slow my mind and process what is actually causing my anger, and not what I think I am angry at. Except. This is all lovely in theory. To be so centred and meditative. So logical and able to understand the patterns and processes of your own mind. But I was sitting 26,000 feet in the air feeling like I would die with my head in my legs, and possibly freaking out my poor neighbour sitting next to me.
Tranquility and objective thinking were not on my mind. I wanted to be a normal person who can go to le Paris for two days without killing her body. I wanted my body to behave like a normal person, and to stop killing me all the time. I wanted the plane to fly the eff faster. Why did they cut concorde for crying out loud? Why didn't Richard Branson buy concorde out like it was reported years ago? What is wrong with him?! That stupid, rich, bearded fool.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. And why on earth would somebody create a body that can't eat anything without it causing extreme frustration and awkwardness? 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. Why the eff would somebody think a good function in a body is dairy intolerance? AND THEN LET THAT PERSON GO TO LE PARIS. With all the croissants, and pastries, and ice-cream that they can't eat! What is wrong with that ridiclous entity! 21.. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.
It is widely known amongst my close friends, anybody that has taken a journaling class off me, and anyone that has sent me a ridiculous text asking for prayer for sunny weather, I do not understand, nor do I, pray. Not anymore. But 21 years of training has made prayer this go-to thing, that even now, I will not be able to stop myself doing. At the most annoying and ridiculous times. I will catch myself thinking. "Now would be nice for some help." And then I will realise how annoying and selfish that is. So instead I will think of others. So 26,000 feet in the air I was ranting incoherantly at Richard Branson, and thinking of how tired and brave and strong my mother is for living with a dead son and PTSD. How intelligent and amusing my father manages to be through everything. How my brother has survived testicular cancer and can always be counted on to make a joke about balls. How people in Pakistan are dying and fighting for their lives and homes in floods. How children in the Philipines go to work at such young ages to help finance their families. How the worlds poor live on less than £2 a week. And I remembered how small I am. How big the world is. How terrible things are. How this God is still supposed to exist amongst all this. Amongst all these prayers, and crys for help, and sadness. And how ridiculous I am for being angry at poor (although not literally) Richard Branson.
Because really I was/am angry at myself. I know I can not do short trips away where I will feel obigated to spend hours of the day walking. I know I can not do mornings, afternoons, evenings, and night times without napping. I know my body needs kindness, yet I am very rarely kind to her. I am much more often derogatory, and abusive, and downright mean. 8 sets of five in the journey, the wheels of the aeroplane touched down, and I have never been happier to be back in Birmingham.
I do believe my body was being as mean to me, as I have been to her. But I am not angry at her anymore. She had to be mean to get my attention. I have to be kind to her, for her to be kind to me. This is what she tells me. At 26 one would think I would know this. And I do for the most part. But still not well enough. My CBT kicked in, and I was able to determine I was angry at no one other than myself. And once again I was convinvced for myself, we must all spend less time contemplating ourselves, and more time thinking about others. More time doing the things we already know how to do. And give God, where ever he/she may be, a break from all the ridiculous and pointless 'help me' notes.
Whatever is unnamed, undepicted in images, whatever is omitted from biography, censored in collections of letters, whatever is misnamed as something else, made difficult-to-come-by, whatever is buried in the memory by the collapse of meaning under an inadequate or lying language - this will become, not merely unspoken, but unspeakable.
- Adrienne Rich
I'm feeling like maybe I am finally remembering why I photo, and document, and blog. It was a long 2009 of very little creativity, of a lot of questioning what on earth the point of any of it is; of all the journals stacked high with journal entries, and the hand made fabric art journals. It was a year of coming out of a situation that left me worn out and amazed. Despite the lovely friends I had made through it. It was a year of denying and dismissing documenting things, because it had been made to feel so forced and compulsory. It was a year of emotional exhaustions; of cancer and illness and lost friendships.
Yet it was also a year of secret things. Of getting back to the basics; crochet, and fabric, and the written word. And of sharing very little of it. Of keeping it all for myself, just like I used to, just like I started with. Because it is mine, just for me, and I needed to learn that all over again.
But I know some wonderful artists, people who are free and caring and organic in their creations, and it's reminding me that there must surely be a community out there for me to be a part of. A community of sharing and not competing, a community making thoughtful creations not commercialised ideas.
There are big plans coming, these next two years are going to be the foundation of it all. Starting with a trip to Austin, where said plans may just come into fruition.
But, Rhian, you must start small. You must learn your voice again, you must remember to create with abandon, you must not be fearful to share some of those creations, and you must do it all for the therapy.
The Three Story House by the River, Wales, United Kingdom.
Dearest Blog,
I write to you with the sincerest of apologies. I am aware of my neglect over the last month or so, and all I can do is but to ask for your kindness and understanding. You see, I find it difficult to blog when I am overwhelmed with life, I know I know, I hear you crying out for me to blog exactly when that is an issue, but that is just not me. I like to hibernate and seclude myself from this often brash and heartless world. You have my word that I will try my best to better with correspondence. I know you will want updates on everything that is going on, like impromptu trips to London, beautiful new hair, wedding invitation commissions, and forthcoming etsy updates. I will do my best, that is all the words I can give to you.
Please see attached video, I know you will love and adore it as much as me. This young woman they call Beyonce really is kicking it, as they say. From the glorious low-fi esq cinematography of the filming, to the all out overt 50's housewife imagery, the only thing I could have possibly loved more would have been a twist at the end, wherein she threw off this loathsome concept of housekeeper still having to meet extreme standards of beauty. But still, it is a work of magic, sure to be loved by all and understood by few.
I leave you with love and more platitudes of forgiveness, dearest bloggy. I recently acquired a fun new toy in the form of a webcam. I can now have divine internet based video calls with long distance friends, and take ridiculous images like that of below. You are always in my mind, if not always on my fingertips.
Some days and weeks all mix and merge together, where you can feel like life is okay. Where you will look back on things and have a rememberance of the experience, but not be able to feel it anymore.
Then you will have these weeks. Where it becomes overwhelming. Where the point and meaning to you being here is entirely lost, buried and forgotten with the dreams and hopes and eyelashes of his life. These weeks the failure of my job is greater than the air I breathe. My instinct to protect has no where to go. The tears that shine bright beneath my eyes spill over and form pools of disbelief and hopelessness.
My little brother is gone. And I do not know what to do with myself. My pain is too great for my body. Too great for this pen and page. Too great for my house and my streets, it flows faster than the river and grows higher than the trees.
Saturday afternoon Sarah said to me, "have you see gaga's new video?" "No!" I replied, as I searched Youtube and found the thing, then at over 6 million hits in two days alone. As I sat back and watched this 9 and a half minute mini-film there was just one over-riding thought running through my head?
Am I just not clever enough?
I have since watched this video/short film 5+ times, and still my question remains. Am I just not clever enough? Here is where I unpack why in fact I don't think it has anything to do with intelligence, and everything to do with confusion.
I am not going to touch the lesbian/trans/cis themes running through this video, and in particular the jail scenes.
As a straight, white female, I don't feel I have any kind of experience or background to qualify me to make any kind of judgement/opinion on what may or may not be represented here. I can say however, I find it refreshing to see 'butch' females given air time in a video that has reached over 14 million views so far.
What I do feel qualified in commenting on is the over arching feminist imagery running throughout this whole video, the bits I feel completely enamored with, and the bits that make me feel more than a little uncomfortable. The 'ew, that did not just happen', feeling is what leads to the confusion I felt upon watching this video.
Here it is. Hell the to yessssss for lesbian action between gaga and a stereotypically 'butch' female. Things we don't see usually, because everybody knows lesbians are all young, pretty, slim things, running around in their underwear and having pillow fights that lead to highly unlikely same sex entanglements, that of course, the passing male is invited to join in on the action. Scenes like the one provided by gaga are more often than not the fantasy of a creative male, who, whilst titillated by the idea of two women together, can't for one second believe that this kind of encounter can exist outside of his control and direction. Women still need penars! Women are there for his pleasure. Which also means women form that weird blond bimbo clinical image dreamt up by a pre-adolescent boy who doesn't realise femininity is a construct not all women can relate to in any way, and heaven forbid the lesbian have short hair, big muscles, and prefers to wear baggy jeans over cut off bum cheek huggers.
HELLO to Gaga strutting and jumping in a kitchen environment that is providing sustenance for the scumbag boyfriend of Beyonce outside. Yes, you are correct in thinking I definitely read this as a shout out to the 50's housewife, relegated to the kitchen, surrounded by implements and gadgets that are created especially for her to use, in her kitchen, to feed her man, to gain her identity from. That role of housekeeper especially set aside for us, the more gentle and maternal of the sexes, is depicted here with gyrating and biting and flinging things around the room and dancer boys of all colours and and and Oh the joy! The jagged biting movements really reminded me of a video I found late last year. It is an iconic piece of performance art from Martha Rosler, filmed in the 1970's, dealing with the idea of woman as a sign and signifier. Watch it, it's a must see.
These two aspects alone are enough for us to assume there is more to Gaga than elaborate costumes and, what are definitely otherwise, medicore pop songs. This is a lady with something to say, and she is using her self, her body, her videos and costumes and makeup, to say it. For this I respect Gaga immensely.
What I do not respect is the confusion this video leads too. We have shout outs to all kinds of iconic female centred movies, we have women killing men in acts of rage and passion usually reserved for aggressive men, using the environment and implements given to women as their own. There are people of all ethnicity's and women of all persuasions, yet amongst all this we have what is not much more than an all white, skinny dance troupe, twirling and jumping about in their underwear.
For all the messages this video is giving us, the thing I saw first and foremost, and the one that probably most other people saw, was Gaga dancing around in her underwear. Gaga in an all female prison, backed up by all white slim dancers all wearing underwear. This sits uncomfortably with me. For me, and I'm sure there are those that will disagree, this is not a break from the norm at all. This is another portrayal of a male fantasy, young fit women dancing around in next to no clothing. Where is the challenge and critique of what should and shouldn't be on display for public consumption?
A little bit before this spontaneous!dance!moment! we get a full frontal shot of Gaga's gaga.Lesley of Fashionita says far more eloquently than I could,
"But the most sublime aspect of this presentation is the digital blurring. The image is a huge tease that ultimately tells us nothing. There could be a vag there, sure, or there could be the fabled "little bit of a penis", or she could be smooth and slit-free as a Barbie doll. Gaga’s crotch shot says: is this what you want, a look around a woman’s body that is literally incarcerated, the freedom to explore her like she’s nothing more than a doll? Well, fuck you. Some information is still not public property. Some privates, it seems, are still private. Too bad."
I like this reading of that scene, I just can't mould that together with the otherwise predictable, overtly sexual, quite voyeuristic dance squad moment. I get that this is a music video, that is what women do in music videos, they strip down and gyrate before an audience of men who like it and women who know no better. But with everything else Gaga seems to be trying to do with her performance, it just doesn't fit. The average person will not see a channeling of Rosler, nor will they see empowered reclaiming of the female sexuality and body; what they see is a white girl half naked bouncing around. If this is a statement of feminism, it's lost on me.
Along with this we have the obscene product placement scattered throughout all of Gaga's videos, and definitely this one. Virgin, Coke, one dubious dating website, Wonderbread, Polaroids, Honey B's, the list goes on. There is something in Wonderbread being the item that is ultimately used to poison the diner full of people, that overly manufactured, not very nutritional staple the loving housewife would feed her family. Yet, I just can't fully get on board with this imagery, because Gaga got paid for this product placement. You can't mock something, whilst simultaneously taking the money they are paying you for it. That is ridiculous amounts of hypocrisy.
I have read rumours that she wasn't paid for all the product placement, she uses some of it specifically to critique this commercial culture we are part of. I don't know. I'm not sure how much you can criticise a system you are fundamentally benefitting from.
Gaga isn't doing things that differently to be able to criticise a world she has chosen. She can't make overt feminist statements in one part, yet pander to societal norms in the next. She can't construct a video that demeans commercial product placements, yet take money for it at the same time. These two factors are what I find most confusing about this video.
There are of course many differingopinionsonthis. This is just mine. Hook me up with others if you've got them!
*eta* i'm replying to comments in the comments on this one!
If you don't know, Sandra Bullock won an Oscar for best actress in her film, The Blind Side. However, she also won a Razzie for worst actress in All About Steve, and the one that fuels to-days daily rant, a Razzie for worst screen couple, also for All About Steve. It is this Razzie that sums up exactly what people seem to have missed about this film.
Sandra Bullock and Bradley Coopers characters were not a couple. Not only that, All About Steve is not a Rom-Com! It has gained hundreds of reviews slating it as the worst Rom-Com ever to have been created, nay, perhaps one of the worst films ever, and it shocks me just how much the audience seem to have missed the point.
If All About Steve can be put into any category, it would have to be quirky farce. It is a film that has a much bigger message than your average girl gets guy.
It is a brilliant commentary on your typical Rom-Com, wherein man woos woman, delivers an over-the-top, never gonna happen in real life romantic gesture, and wins her over to live happily ever after. Our protagonist Mary deals with all of this within the first half hour, making it clear this is a film that has a lot more to say than overblown romance.
She meets a man, is convinced said man is her soul mate, delivers a romantic gesture that at the end of any other hour and half long Rom-Com would have been deemed magical, and then chases man around the country to be by his side.
Only Mary is 45. Female. She wears bright red boots everywhere. Loves crossword puzzles, and is unapologetic in her uniqueness.
As intelligent and attractive as Mary is, she is thought of as an odd ball because she is happy not trying to fit in with society.
That seems to be an issue that a lot of the critiques just couldn't get over, why does this middle aged woman act in a way that is so inappropriate for her age? And just like with most other things in this world, our first instinct seems to be to dislike or reject that which we do not understand.
The shocking reviews and subsequent Razzies this film picked up, is itself a commentary on how little our culture embraces the Other.
Mary lives life with the innocence and naivety of a child. These qualities that we accept and encourage in children, are branded wrong and awkward if found in adults. At 45 Mary shouldn't be living at home, she shouldn't be writing crossword puzzles for a living, and definitely shouldn't be wearing those bright red boots. All these superficial qualities, that the film is satirising as examples of Mary's difference as much as they are condoning them, are used to portray Mary's difference; Mary's Otherness.
The biggest question that is being asked here is, who makes these rules of appropriateness? Who has decided what is normal for a certain age, and who has judged how we should all be acting and behaving at any given moment? Mary is harming nobody, in fact, throughout the film as she goes along her journey she actually helps people. She makes friends, and shares knowledge that very few other people know.
I am not suggesting this film is a masterpiece. For the most part it could be watched as light hearted viewing, and enjoyed as a quirky, [clever] farcical comedy. A quirky, farcical comedy in which a female leads, none-the-less.
What I am suggesting, is Sandra Bullock nor this film, deserves the high criticism it has been dealt. It is making a statement about the role of women within films. It is making an argument for celebrating our uniqueness. It deals with the absurdity of our modern day media. And it ends with the woman saving the day, more than happy to not have the man at the end 'completing her'.
Mary Horowitz was one of my favorite characters to come out of last year, and it makes me sad she has been dealt such a rude hand by the majority of critiques. I could write a whole essay on this film, but I'll leave it here.
This is just another reason to add to my list of 'Reasons why Sandra Bullock is the best', here she is picked up her Razzie in person.
5"6. 120 pounds. size 5 shoe. 25" waist. and a 34 DD/E chest.
There is not a day goes by that I do not wish for/think about a breast reduction. Bra shopping is one of my least favorite things to do in the world. I can try on multiple styles, in multiple shops, and still come away with nothing. I have tried buying online to no avail. I have even been tempted to live in sports bras. I am uncomfortable in most dresses, dread having to contemplate swimming costumes, love strapless tops but very rarely will wear them. I remember the days of 34B with great fondness.
Breast reductions are costly and damn well scary. I often wonder if I even had the money, would I go through it? Should it even be something I think about? These are mine. These are what I got stuck with thanks to the family curse.
Maybe if I love and respect my breasts as being part of my unique make up, instead of thinking of them as this Other part of me that doesn't belong there, maybe I would feel better about myself in general. Maybe I need to embrace them, and be proud of them. But really, all I can think about is being able to walk into a store and buying the first pretty bra I see, whilst living in strapless tops.
I fear that these things are part of me I will never accept or be comfortable with. And I can't help feel sad about that.
