Monday 12 September 2011

Hometown Glory.

I’ve been a bit of a state the last week or so. If the growing collection of home ware in my old room at my mum’s house is to be believed, if the open suitcases and the new bank account and the goodbye dinners are to be taken seriously; I will be moving in a couple of weeks. Really, I’m in a ridiculous way.

People do move, however glorious their hometown’s might be. People do move away and they do have full and happy lives, long distance relationships can work, every other weekend does come every other weekend; I know all this to be true, and yet I can’t help but feel the truth is, in this case, particularly unsatisfying. I read a beautiful sentence a couple of days ago, ‘knowing that your longing is insignificant in the scheme of things doesn’t make it lose it’s bite’- hits my nail right on the head that one.

I think placement plays a big part in most of our happiness. Where we place ourselves, the place around us; we asses our progress on this basis. When people ask me what I’m doing right now, where I am, what my placement is, I’m not sure what I should say; I don’t really have one, anymore. Yet. Here are the things that have made me happy: night time arguments over stolen covers, after-work car journeys discussing mutual hatred for Radio 1 DJ’s, the feeling of that hand rested on my lower back to know that I’m safe and loved and out of harm’s way and will always be if I hold on to it’s owner. Here are the things that I want: language and people and experience and knowledge and independence. So I have two places to tell people about, two lists. My trouble is trying to amalgamate the two.

I know a lot of people who write lists. Words on paper are achievable and much, much smaller than they are in our heads. Here’s hoping that it won’t be long before I can look at my lists and laugh at how small they once were.

Sunday 28 August 2011

newnew

Take a peek at my new project with the wonderful Miss Diplock



Sunday 14 August 2011

Thursday 11 August 2011




Marrakech

This time last week I was stepping out of a taxi in Marrakech, being absconded by market sellers and speaking a ridiculously unsuitable amalgamation of French, English and Arabic. It. Was. BRILLIANT. Turns out shopping in Morocco is not far different from shopping with my Granny at any Yorkshire market; A bit of haggling, a smidge of acting, a few cheeky smiles and bosh, quarter the price. The trouble with Marrakech is the same trouble in any main city anywhere, everyone has a horror story to tell and few have much to back it with. And so when we did step out onto the night time streets it felt strange not to be met with bogeymen ready to bargain me for a camel and steal our camera as they left. In fact, Marrakech at night is hypnotising. Loud, yes. Busy, oh yes. But my was it pretty. A couple of days in and what had been described as a frightening place became evidently wholesome. Weaving through the mopeds, donkeys and men with monkeys chained to their shoulders you realise how generally the same humans are. Most of us just looking to make a dirham, dollar or pound, the rest of us looking to hold on to it, and a few of us just walking scared from silly horror stories.

Wednesday 27 July 2011

Wednesday 13 July 2011

Dessa

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J2_aY9gYTF0

Have you seen what my clan can do

Of all the things that we might ever become a part of, a family is the most strange. The most confusing, most transient and most consistent. A shabby collection, a crucible of ideas, a mismatch of personalities. Characters that might jar under natural circumstances find themselves closer than lovers ; the binds that hold us to our siblings and parents are extraordinary mechanisms.

A few years ago my Mum and I visited my brothers in Hong Kong, we took a boat trip to a lagoon and spent the day jumping from the roof and lying in the sun. My big brothers still exert a strange force over their little sister; for the whole trip I had been eating man size dinner portions and stopped wearing any decent kind of make-up, all for fear of their hilarious girl taunts. This resulted in a stunning collection of photo’s from said boat trip of yours truly in a bikini; chubby, shiny-faced, with a bright red belly courtesy of my conceding to my brothers’ belly-flop dare. The question worth asking is why? And I know I’m not the only one. There have been numerous times when I’ve witnessed my sweetly spoken better half transform quite unexpectedly into some kind of cockney cheeky chappy around his older brother.

Younger siblings will probably always be checking for acceptance, but i don't think that's really what family is for. It’s what you’re growing from, it’s mistakes you might make, it’s obligation and it’s guilt. It’s the first people you meet, and just as survivors of any great disaster, you’re united through what you have experienced together. To feel part of a family is to be part of a powerful machine, and nobody cares if you’re rusty as long as you’re ticking.



Monday 11 July 2011

Worn and Torn

Go peek at my articles written for WornandTorn

http://www.blog.wornandtornmag.com/2011/07/bon-iver.html
Been spending much too much time carrying coffee and not enough reading and writing.
More to come.

Tuesday 31 May 2011

Women.

Some situations are solely possible because of the ridiculous nature of women. Occasionally one might be fooled into thinking they are grown up enough, masculine enough, wise enough, to not unwittingly fall into one of these situations. But one would almost certainly be wrong. Make no mistake, women are ludicrous creatures.

A few days ago I found myself encapsulated in one of these solely female situations, I felt hurt by my fellow female, I felt irate, but I wasn’t hugely surprised. Take a look at any playground, failing that, take a look at twitter, it is how we work. It’s no big news that women have rules and regulations which if broken give way to unfortunate repercussions; confusing and elusive not only to men, but to many of us too. Yes, unnecessary, absolutely counterproductive, but apparently unavoidable.

I recently read an article about a couple in America who have decided to raise their third child, Storm, without a gender. The preferred subjective pronoun for the baby is Z (as in Zee), as opposed to ‘he’ or ‘she’, and the only people who know the real sex are the parents, siblings, a family friend, and the midwife who delivered the child. The parents say it is “a tribute to freedom and choice in place of limitation, a stand up to what the world could become in Storm’s lifetime”. I hope it is a short-term tribute. Gender equality is a good thing; we should be equal, but we should never be the same.

And why on earth would we want to be? Certain female behaviour is without question, baffling, but my goodness is it scary. There have been too many times in my experience when anger has given way to tears, when I have sworn at myself for being a girl. These times are frustrating beyond belief, but for every time I’ve wept with frustration, it has been followed by letters, by game plans and calm, concentrated discussion. If I had been a man, I might have fought my way right out of those opportunities.

In our moments of weakness, we might wish ourselves something that we’re not, I think we forget what we can be. I might occasionally curse womanhood, but it is with concealed pride. I really hope that Storm is allowed a gender, it will be missing out on a lot more than action men and high heels if it isn’t.



Monday 2 May 2011

100 Days

Mims played me this a couple of nights ago, absolutely love it.

Brilliant.

Wednesday 20 April 2011

Wisdom.

Sometimes toilet doors have very sound advice. When I was 16 I worked a few sample sales in Brick Lane, and whilst weeing in one of the ridiculously fashionable bars i noticed a beaut of a sentence; “Don’t sweat the petty things, Don’t pet the sweaty things”. Sometimes things hit you at just the right time. Troubling myself over little things, and the troubles surrounding heavy petting, were two things featuring a lot in my mind as a 16 year old. Scribbled on the back of that door I had a mantra, something to repeat and recite every time either one of those things became a little overwhelming.

I was having a wee in a similar Brighton establishment on Saturday night, and a couple more sentences struck me. “Be yourself; because those who matter don’t mind, and those who mind don’t matter”, again, really nice timing Mr Door. Nestled underneath were a few more words of wisdom “Do everything you said you’d do whilst drunk. This will teach you to keep your mouth shut”.

Basically all these things are true. For however many nice well balanced moments of certainty we might have in our lives, there should rightfully be a few moments of absolute panic. There should be moments when who we are, or were, or want to be might feel like it’s slipping through our fingers. Moments of complete fear at the realisation of our abject insignificance, when the prospect of any other being understanding where we might currently be seems painfully unlikely. It’s at these moments that we should keep our eyes wide open, faith can be found in the most surprising places.



Sunday 10 April 2011

I wanna be yours.

This is very maybe my favourite poem in the world.
We drove down to Hastings last night to see John Cooper Clarke, it was a treat of a night.

I wanna be your vacuum cleaner
breathing in your dust
I wanna be your Ford Cortina
I will never rust
If you like your coffee hot
let me be your coffee pot
You call the shots
I wanna be yours

I wanna be your raincoat
for those frequent rainy days
I wanna be your dreamboat
when you want to sail away
Let me be your teddy bear
take me with you anywhere
I don’t care
I wanna be yours

I wanna be your electric meter
I will not run out
I wanna be the electric heater
you’ll get cold without
I wanna be your setting lotion
hold your hair in deep devotion
Deep as the deep Atlantic ocean
that’s how deep is my devotion




Monday 4 April 2011

Why cleaning is like wanking.

A good clean can be a very sweet thing. I’m not talking about a mundane every day kind of clean, I don’t mean washing up, or having to pick up clothes to see the floor again. I mean an all out scrub, clearing out your drawers, ‘my new life is going to always be this clean and tidy’ clean. This kind of clean can put things back in their place, into proportion, and back in control.

Now I am well aware this all sounds a little obsessive compulsive, maybe a tad catholic, marginally 1950’s housewife. I am none of these things, but I am a woman. Occasionally things have been known to build up, muddle me up and come pouring out of me like a confused and hairy psychopath. It is at these moments I realise it’s time to whip the Hoover out.

The subsequent clean extends beyond my home to my body, to exercise videos and face masks; quite frankly there’s no better solution to morning after guilt than a little self-improvement. But this is where I’m faced with a contradiction, if I am to believe Tyler Durden’s cheeky little mantra in Chuck Palahniuk’s ‘Fight Club’, (and of course I’m going to , because I flipping well love Fight Club) that “self improvement is masturbation”, than all this cleaning and washing and running on the spot is, surprisingly enough, going to get me nowhere. Hmm.

If I’m honest, I’ve never had an issue with masturbation, it might not get you to Cambridge, but I’ve heard it can be quite pleasurable. And if a clean kitchen is going to relinquish some of the mental attributed to my sex, then I’m ok with that too.





Wednesday 30 March 2011

what matters.

I’ve been loath to write anything much lately. Considering recent events in Japan writing much about clothes or music or daily occurrences hardly seems worthwhile. Unnecessary, and insignificant in the extreme. I think it’s worth remembering that the end of the day, the actual subtext of our days mounts up to a collection of inconsequentiality. The return of some sunshine, a tasty meal, an interesting film, these things don’t matter. But they are important. Amongst the debris of their homes, and the lives they might previously have had, those affected by the Tsunami have lost the privilege to enjoy the pleasure of triviality. At least for a while. Maybe it can remind the rest of us to notice the significance of our insignificance. And treasure it.

Wednesday 16 March 2011

Monday 7 March 2011

Beauty.

Granted, Andrej Pejic is beautiful. Men are, in my opinion. But Andrej Pejic is not a woman.

So here lies my unease. Andrej is the newest young thing to grace the catwalks of S/S ’11, he is unarguably stunning; blonde, chiselled and a sample size six. Andrej spends most of his working hours not walking in menswear, but in women’s. And he wears it well.

In my mind Andrej has created an uncomfortable dichotomy. Men in dresses have never bothered me. Some of the best have had dalliances with a smudge of eyeliner or a tight skirt, and I’m not afraid to say I spent the majority of my teenage years holding a very bright flame for Brian Molko. Actually thinking about it, my problem has very little to do with Andrej, and a lot more to do with what he represents.

Whether we like it or not, high fashion dilutes itself into all of our lives. Like music, art and film, it portrays the zeitgeist of our times. What we're doing, what we’re thinking, what we want. A few years ago size zero was where it was at. We wondered at the privileged few that could afford such expensive starvation. As that tide of opinion recedes, the next epitome of a beautiful woman has become apparent. And it’s not even a woman. And that’s my problem with Andrej Pejic.

I reach the big 20 in S/S ’11; my body is more woman now than it has ever been. Bad timing, on my part. It looks like I’ll have to look elsewhere for style advice this year.

Maybe Bella Freud had a point in the recent article she wrote for The Times Style magazine, regarding an encounter with a young Swiss-French woman, “As she talked, her brilliance and resourcefulness sparkled around her, like the aura that surrounds Tinkerbell in the Peter Pan film. I found myself thinking, “Who needs Giselle when you could marry a woman like this?” Someone so clever and constructive that you could bask in the contentment of their competence.” Well put Bella Freud, well put. I might not be able to avoid my body’s development, but I can make sure my mind travels with it.



Beautiful Day!

feels like spring

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZ88oTITMoM

Sunday 27 February 2011

Saturday 26 February 2011

Why we can learn a lot from the Masaai

I’m just going to say it. As far as I’m concerned, if you haven’t been watching ‘Human Planet’ you might as well be a little bit dead. This programme is stunning, and for anyone that cares at all about what happens in the world beyond our sight, unmissable. From the tribe of people that spend their lives on boats, with no nationality, whose children’s eye’s have already evolved to focus better underwater, to the birds eye film of as-yet undiscovered Amazonian tribes, it never fails to amaze.

One of the most surprising stories was that of the Masaai warriors, who faced with hungry bellies, and opposed to spending days hunting, regularly steal their dinner from ravenous lions. Forget brave, this was a display of balls unequalled by anything I have ever seen in my life. Three skinny men hide behind a bush and watch as upwards of fifteen lions fight and snarl over the corpse of a zebra, and when these men feel the moment is just right, they stand up. They look at the lions, and when they’re sure all the lions are looking back at them, the men start to walk, slowly, towards the zebra. Ridiculous. This is unreasonable to the extreme. And yet, astonishingly, one of the lions runs, and seeing this, the others peel away, one by one, to hide, and watch from the bushes. Fifteen kings of the animal kingdom watch as three skinny men steal their meat and walk away.

Clearly, swagger can do a lot. I’ve taken this as a valuable lesson. My boss is an intimidating man, but since watching this episode I’ve started to tell him when there are problems, rather than nod and shuffle away when he has a little outburst, I’ve started to talk back. And sure enough, having done so, I’m reaping the benefits. Monday morning I’m asking for a pay rise.

Now I appreciate that a little blonde waitress showing a little more bluster to her boss hardly replicates the animal kingdom, I’m just saying that there is a lesson to be learnt here. If we ever want to eat dinner, we have to stand up to our lions. And if possible, steal theirs.





Monday 14 February 2011

Love.

I think it’s in general agreement that Valentine’s day is ridiculous. If yours is a truly loving relationship why should it be celebrated on just this one roses and teddy bears day of the year? How can a box of chocolates and a heart decorated mug exemplify days, months or years of affection and trust? The cynicism surrounding the 14th of February is hardly a minority affair.

We could easily apply this logic to Weddings, Christmas and Birthdays. But we don’t. We start saving with Christmas schemes in January so that we can show our love in December. So why is Valentine’s so absurd to us? I’ve had enough of hearing how Clinton’s invented the entire thing for profit, who actually cares if they did? If a card the size of a child and pink fluffy hearts are enough to make someone’s day, I’m all for it.

And yes, Valentine’s for the singleton might not hold such allure, but I can honestly say that my love extends far beyond what I feel for the man in my bed. It would be difficult to go through life without feeling love for those around you, my girls, parents, brothers, and if I’m honest I have an unreasonable amount of affection for my cat. So today, instead of bitching on about consumerism, I’m going to wish everyone I love a very happy Valentine’s Day! Even if it cost's me an extra bowl of cat food.

Sunday 13 February 2011

Friday 4 February 2011

Money.

The beautiful Jessica modelling some bits and bobs I'm selling, go have a looksie.


Thursday 3 February 2011

Sex.

As far as I’m concerned, Rihanna can do no wrong. I think the video for ‘Rude Boy’ can only really be described as perfect, and I literally cannot control my own limbs whenever ‘what’s my name?’ comes on in a club. I think she’s a genuinely talented woman, with an individual sense of style and a magnificent bum. So maybe I’m a little too biased to write anything at all objective about the woman, but I’m going to anyway.

In case anyone hadn’t heard, there has been quite a bit of controversy about the video for her new single ‘S&M’, surprisingly enough it features references to sadomasochism, bondage, and lots of sex. But no more so then many pop videos past and present. Sex and some of its more risqué elements have been an inspiration for high fashion, art and music for decades, so why should this not extend to music videos? It’s not even like it hasn’t before.

I wonder where this fear of sex comes from; we are living in 2011, decades after the development of the pill and female sexual revolution. Sex controls almost every aspect of our lives, so why on earth shouldn’t that be portrayed in what we create? In March of last year Terry Richardson, a photographer known for his overtly sexual images, faced multiple allegations of misconduct and exploitation. The facts however were incredibly difficult to obtain, due in no small part to a ridiculously predisposed media force.

And it’s a shame. Our bodies and our sexuality are gifts. With a weighty history of political and sociological change to bring us to a point where we need not be afraid of them, where in almost every aspect, we can do what we want with them. It’s not only our privilege to show the beauty in them, it’s our duty.