Thursday, May 28, 2009

Tree pron #3

It's been too long since I dirtied your screens with uncensored footage from the wilds, hasn't it?

Here goes. This week I have mostly ... spreading shots. Erotica Cover Watch Agents, please note that I *am* keeping an eye out for phallic forestry, but lately I have stumbled mostly on:

Which really reminds me of:

The Origin of the World, Gustave Courbet

And also - avert your eyes, those of a delicate nature. This is full frontal, technicolour, close-up gonzo tree pron:

Oh my!

Monday, May 25, 2009



Isn't it a beautiful word? To me it suggests: pulling, untangling, using guile as well as force. It's often described as 'mapping', by which I suppose is meant a process of exploration.

Here are some of Tracey Emin's drawings, from a book that I think I'm going to have to save up for.

"... even though it is an erotic subject, I even felt distant from the sexuality of the pictures. It was almost like I was trying to get to the bottom of something, understand something."

- Quote from Tracey Emin

I like it when women can explore sexuality without creeps presuming it means their sexuality, or they're advertising a free cunt to be fucked. Perhaps sometimes that's why women's work that deals with sex can be quite violent, quite aggressive. It's a pre-emptive strike, because there will always be creeps that presume.

If this looks like a thinly veiled attack, I suppose it is.

Fuck it, lets take the veils off, shall we? I'm tired of being polite.

Recently, someone resurfaced on this blog whose comments in the past have made me uncomfortable. In the past, I moderated comments and dealt with the problem by ignoring it. This time, I shall not hold back.

This space, however small and irrelevant, is mine. I will not tolerate any comments that sit uneasily with me. I define what is acceptable, here. If you post comments that cross the line, I shall pass on your details and have someone else deal with the problem.

That is the final word on the matter.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Pussy power

Wow, look what I found! A pussy whistle!

Cute. I just can't decide between that and a crochet vulva.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

There's sanguine

... and sanfuckingguine. *Two* rejections in one day! Fuck me.

I must have done something to piss off the universe.

Anyway, speaking of bloody words and words rooted in blood, 'sanguine' has just reminded me: here's the gorgeous cover for The Sweetest Kiss, which I forgot to crow about.

This'll be my first paranormal published thing, I think. It was wonderful fun to write. All dark and twisty.

And here is the ravishing TOC:

Midnight at Sheremetyevo by Remittance Girl
Wait Until Dark, Montresor by Thomas S. Roche
The Temptation of Mlle. Marielle Doucette by Anna Black
Kiss and Make Up by Lisette Ashton
The Student by Sommer Marsden
Red By Any Other Name by Kathleen Bradean
Enlightenment by Amber Hipple
Blood and Bootleg by Teresa Noelle Roberts
Fair Play by G. B. Kensington
Advantage by Ciara Finn
The Communion of Blood and Semen by Maxim Jakubowski
Nightlife by Madeleine Oh
Takeout or Delivery? by Evan Mora
Devouring Heart by Andrea Dale
Wicked Kisses by Michelle Belanger
Fourth World by Lisabet Sarai
Turn by Nikki Magennis
Cutter by Kristina Wright
Once An Addict... by A.D.R. Forte

... And edited by the lovely D.L. King

Now, excuse me, I'm going to sit and sniff my emergency cigarette for an hour or so.

A sting in the tail

Your number one useful skill to learn, should you wish to make work:


Mostly, I mean bouncing back. If you want to make work the only thing guaranteed is failure and rejection. I am pleased to say that although rejection will almost always hurt a little, you can learn to handle it better. Maybe almost enjoy it.

I've just freshly been rejected, for the I don't whatth time. Half an hour later, I'm feeling remarkably sanguine. Maybe I've just got so good at failing that I've learned to speed up the process, which generally goes like this:

1. Howling emptiness - 'my work is utter trash, I've never done anything of consequence/value and never will' (make sure to include everything you've ever done, no matter how irrelevant. Hey, why not analyse your interpersonal skills too, while you're here!)

2. Anger and resentment - 'the bastards don't appreciate my skills' (try to ignore that you held the bastards in high esteem up until half an hour ago)

3. More howling emptiness, a vague inclination to self harm, a desire for cigarettes [oh fuck that one I haven't got over. In fact I have my emergency cigarette right here and it's winking at me.] whisky and thumb-sucking.

4. This is a new twist I've just started to learn. Even though you're still hurting and even though you're feeling sulky and lassitudish and useless, it IS possible to get back in the saddle immediately. Use the stingy hurty bits as emotional fuel, use the anger as tinder, use the lassitude as attitude. (And yes, make terrible doggerel if it helps.You may, even, listen to Chumbawamba although not more than once):

5. Send the work elsewhere and meanwhile make more work. More. Keep going. Don't stop. Work harder. Work harder.

Monday, May 11, 2009


Okay, thanks to Alana for this new (to me) idea! (And thanks Shanna for pointing it out). And apologies to the gods of poetry. I wrote this in 15 minutes, and it's been a very long time.

Still life

Try to imagine how it could be -
To know just when you look at the corner
That it’s not a corner but only an arrangement
Of space, one with a cat in it, sweet-eyed and
Angle-tailed, and reaching or sniffing towards
The blossoms, the starshaped white seeds that expand
Across fields, across wet skies and cold winds
Trying to rise but also to stick, wanting at the same time
To swim forever, and be held tight, wanting anchors with wings
Kittens with gills, corners with extra space, the way that arms
Encircle you so far and tight in safety, the solace of slight love
And further in anger, motherlove and murder. How it could all be
contained in a morning.

Friday, May 08, 2009

Once upon a time ...

I split up from a partner of six years. The space that he left behind was expansive and beautiful. I met another man, dark haired, dark eyed, who lived far away.
We wrote every day for months. To tell the truth, I wrote more than once a day, only half the letters I didn't send. I wrote stories for him. Sometimes, I still do.

I moved to the wilds on my own and did up my flat with my bare hands, for the most part. There was an old silvered mirror that hung in the bathroom. I took it away to fill the cracks in the walls, and when I came back into the room, bang, the blank wall, a distance removed, right in my face. So much closer, realer and blanker than a wall should be.

I haven't had a cigarette for two months. Yes, I still want one. Very fucking much, sometimes. My whole family smokes. I've smoked since I was thirteen. I could never imagine myself like this, blank, naked, alone. Addicts are selfish, I only realise that after I give up and friends blow smoke on me, pretending to be happy but secretly missing my habit almost as much as I do.

The dark-eyed man eventually stopped writing back so much. It got awkward. I started writing to a good friend who lived in Japan and might have been lonely like I was.

Even with my daily thread of communication, I got lonelier than I thought possible. Eventually I stopped thinking it was a bad thing. I fell in love with solitude. I really started writing for real, not for cheap immediate thrills, when I finally gave up my correspondences and faced the blank page.

Writing is lonely, fucking lonely.

But maybe it needs to be, at least sometimes.

Blogging and twitter and facebook - they're like laying out your drugs of choice in front of an addict, all shining and beautiful and free. They're the mirrors that give a false impression of a room, they're the crutch that stops you breathing deeply, they're the lovers one is always running after trying to impress.

That is why, dear friends, I've been having a blogging pause. Now I'm trying to work out whether the problem with blogging is the fact that the blank page isn't blank, but made of real living and intelligent people, which means the long, restless desire to write gets gratified too easily - or that the problem is being not honest enough.

To write well, do I need to write less, or more?

Lately I seem to keep bumping against all or nothing decisions. In the end I just have to shut my eyes and jump without knowing which way I'm going. Here goes ...