(NB: I didn’t make these models or take the photos, I just think they’re brilliant! :p)
Sometimes, whether you suffer from mental health problems or not, you need to take a step back and allow yourself time to enjoy your passions.
Whether it’s running bare foot through dew soaked meadows, battling Ganandorf in Twilight Princess, curling up on your sofa with a loin warming work of fiction or sucking down berry flavoured gelati – whatever you love…just do it now!
One of my passions, as mentioned before, is the human posterior. Given I don’t currently have a woman in my life, I’m unable to indulge in my passion for buttock massages so I have to make do with this rather random, somewhat unexpected, Thursday Thirteen post.
Below the fold (given the NSFW content; unless you have an employer that doesn’t mind you looking at artistic nude photographs :p) I present to you thirteen photographs collected around the theme of the human posterior and pose the question: is it art or pornography?
Personally, I consider each and every one of them superb pieces of art, but you may disagree.
Why not take a wee peek and find out?
Being a massive fan of owls (I used to stroll down Inverness High Street on a Saturday morning just to see the owls at the owl sanctuary charity tent every week) I couldn’t resist reblogging this.
It is quite wonderful :)
This week marks the tenth anniversary of my arrival in Australia!
In celebration, throughout this week I will be sharing some of my favourite photographs of this great country.
One of my favourite places in Melbourne is the Ian Potter Centre, which houses the National Gallery of Victoria‘s Australian Art collection. Back in the day this was a regular haunt of mine, with countless days of my life spent roaming the rooms and corridors of this magnificent building, especially the Indigenous Art collection on the ground floor.
It’s been over a year since I was in Melbourne, over two years since I last had the opportunity of exploring this most wonderful of galleries. Until I get the opportunity to visit it once more I have to make do with the memories of past visits and a selection of photographs I took when I spent a few hours in the gallery to escape a vicious storm when I was homeless.
If you ever visit Melbourne (or are a resident of this fair city) the NGV Australia is a must-visit destination. I guarantee you will not be disappointed :)
CLICK ON AN IMAGE TO ENLARGE
Other images in this series:
There are no words to describe how much I love this :-)
Between the years 1992 and 2007 I was a prolific journalist. And by journalist I don’t mean I wrote for newspapers or reported on current events for dodgy current affairs shows, I mean I wrote millions of pages of journal entries chronicling every single moment of my life.
Each night after finishing my homework I’d dedicate a couple of hours to sharing my innermost thoughts and secrets to a collection of A4 ruled notepads or A5 notepads. Some of those entries were pointless, some profound. There were really bad poems and pretty decent drawings. Never did I sit down and consider what I was writing; I would just lie on the bed in my pyjamas and write whatever was in my mind. There were times I unleashed all the pain I was feeling about my sister, others when I scribed fan letters to Toni Pearen. Following particularly bad days of bullying at school I would write about how much I hated it there, others, following a particularly memorable moment, I would wax lyrical over the beautiful Kathryn before chastising myself in black biro for being so weak and shy.
For over fifteen years I kept those journals. They chronicled my life as I navigated through secondary school, the confusion over my intimate fantasies and the endless isolation of having no real friends during that dark period of my life. When I ran away, every second of that trip was transcribed; every moment of bliss, each moment of pain. Throughout Scotland and Canada I recorded the events of my trip in two simultaneous journals and after arriving in Australia, my journals helped me navigate the intense agony and bewilderment of immigration.
During those long teenage years my journal was my only outlet. I had no-one to talk to about what I was going through, no-one to provide me with advice on what I had to do. My journal was my friend, my mentor and one of the few reasons I’m still here.
In 2007, after fifteen years, I stopped writing journals.
Throughout my abusive relationship they had come under constant fire. They were selfish, self-absorbed, a waste of time, pointless. I should be talking to people instead of relying on my journal. The drawings were laughably pathetic. It was a concrete example of my worthlessness in the world and a prime example of how I was never going to change. In the weeks after the breakdown I tried to write; I drew, I wrote, I bled onto the page – but whenever I did my abuser’s words rung in my ears and blocked the emotions from coming.
In the last five years I’ve never written a journal and I miss it. My blog is different because I censor myself too much. All the aspects of my life I’m scared of being judged over I bottle up out of fear. I allow them to fester inside; eating away at my innards like a vicious, out-of-control parasite. In addition, I can’t sit down with the blog and write random erotic fiction, sketch bizarre ‘artworks’ or take my ‘friend’ on a hike into the wilderness to write for hours in relative solitude about all I’ve seen.
All of that is in the past, lost somewhere in the psychological damage of abuse, leaving only random ghosts of a bygone era.
For todays voice of the past I am sharing some of the random ‘artwork’ that filled my journals through the years. I’m not the finest artist in the world, but however dodgy the drawings are, they are reminders of beautiful moments of my life. They are part of who I am.
And finally, I began drawing this map in my journal but became constricted by space. Instead, I purchased a couple of A3 pads and stuck the pages to my bedroom wall, spending days drawing, sketching, colouring and imagining the Faerie realm that lives inside me, a world that my fictional writing partially takes place in.