There are too many people, wet people, dry people, all bang bang banging in like a pack procession of zombies at a door you must plank up fastly, running to the door with bolts and nails. You must understand I am not one of those misanthropists for they in fact love people-dribbling, scrabbling they rat mouth on and on of their contempt of society only when there is an audience, oblivious of the exhaustion that is engagement, a true misanthropist would not call themselves such a thing as they would not speak to you at all.
I am beautiful and young and I have long dark hair and I am beautiful and young and I have long dark hair because I am my own muse as well as author, man as well as woman, I can love myself and love myself I will do. (And well).
I ate French toast with maple syrup and bacon and she asked me if I ever doubted myself and I said no because I didn’t but also because I had no intention of being myself with her. It is a world war one anniversary and a Canadian says he doesn’t care for it but no one cares for him so it doesn’t matter so much. And the rest of my notes are badly written as my motor neurons are badly written and all I can make out is ‘dirt and amputation to sound impressive and a teddy bear farting in an old fashioned picture book’. So make of that what you will guess.
Matt asked me if I bought my Mum a father’s day card. I said no. I told her the story. She laughed. Of course I have to be both mother and father she said.
And criminality is a sort or originality, a sort of economic artistry, so I can say that my families are blue bloods in that sense. I think I am my own both. My body is for me only. I am a self-sustaining organism, a plant cell splitting in half to form a whole.
When I went North, North, North. I saw a mountain that looked like a mountain that looked like a story that looked liked a woman that was a story and also a person and also like actually just some rocks that tourists pointed at and took pictures of. And I write down in my note book with the bulbasaur stickers on ‘a mountain woman, bushy breasted, twin peaked: the Scots would marry the land if they could but I am an Englishman thru and thru, tho I am neither English nor a man. I lick the toes, kiss the soles of blighty, my puke green pleasant land and tip my imaginary top hat and say bury me in blighty old bean to no one in particular.’ I won’t type the rest out as it is not words, just pictures of clouds and sheep and flowers.
Wednesday, 30 December 2015
My sole aim for 2k15 was to not successfully commit suicide, which i achieved, and if u are ready this u achieved it to! GO US!
15 nice things for 2k15-
5. Not giving up with CTW and now its out there and that’s cool!!!
6. Getting a full scholarship for pHD and starting PHD!!!
8. Going to Iceland!
10. Teaching my first class at central saint martins to undergraduate students about folklore and horror and internetting!!!
11. Working at a mental health museum!! Being in an art show about mental health!!!
12. NOT DYING!!
13. Writing the things i need to write!!!
14. New friends!!! I was so lonely this time last year….
15. NOT DYING!!!!
Monday, 14 December 2015
My essay for Doll Hospital Issue Two! Also like obligatory there are 150+ pages of content and 99% of them don't include me talking about my deep personal connection with Jesse Pinkman so like go read that instead.
artwork by Mikael Hattingh
content warning suicide
I don’t want my tumblr to be deleted when I (eventually) kill myself. To ensure this does
not happen I post a tweet that reads: When I die I want my tumblr to be a UNESCO
world heritage site. That should do the job nicely. I am not good at doing jobs. I am a
slacker. Like the song Slack Motherfucker. Like the tall blue bird Mordecai in the
Regular Show. He went to art school too, you kno. The cartoon bird I mean. And
an unpleasant incarnation of his gum ball machine boss tells him, “You’re just another
slacker who went to art school to feel like he accomplished something!” This is not my
psychosis. I have screen shots of the scene. Proof. I even posted it on my blog saying
“Mordecai is more me than me” if you want the receipts.
I suppose I am a part of a particular dashboard of perpetually stoned,
permanently unemployable, working class girls of colour with my bullshit blogging
and low self esteem selfies. (You could call hat a movement, slackerdom at least has
anti-capitalist intentions, and I am not only spoonless but hopeless too). I am ridiculous.
And slightly nauseous. When my stomach disease was bad in January I shit my pants
in a Holocaust memorial service. (I kno!) And I think maybe I should rewrite The Old
Man and the Sea about my trichotillomania, with a deeply rooted hair follicle in place of
the big fish.
My tumblr url is bernard-beth after Bernard Black. I am both dysphoric and
psychotic so fictitious white dudes on TV are an interesting model of myth-making. I
think. I guess. Disassociation can turn even a muggle like me into an Oscar winner. And
the bonus of never having accomplished anything is that no one will ask me to
write my memoir as I honestly don’t what is Netflix and what is irl anymore. The
movie Spring Breakers is on Netflix and it gave me nightmares and white weaponised
femininity does not float my boat. Me and Lil talk about the Runaways after the
Huffington Post article on that nasty rapist man comes out. I love my survivor sisters
more than anything else in the world and I do not want abuser aesthetics in my house.
But as much as This Bridge Called My Back is my bible I am interested in occupying
these white guys’ characters. Stealing their toys, their clothes, their lines. Jackson
Pollock said ‘I am Nature’ and I reply with ‘I am Jackson Pollock’.
I am also Jesse Pinkman. Because Jesse survives. And is fictitious. I also survive.
And am ficticuous. However, the Jesse Pinkman blogging hashtag is less popular
than the Bernard Black blogging one. This is most likely because it centres around
substance abuse and takes place at 5am. Jesse is a survivor and Bernard is a survivor. But
Charlie Kelly is the most survivor, the most me. The dude survived his own abortion.
When I was suicidal the other week I wrote:
“It’s not that I want to die. I want to go further. Suicide is still a selfhood, the
ultimate in fact. I wish I had never been conceived. I don’t want to exist even in
idea form. Everyone said I should have been aborted – the family, the doctors. they
were quite right. They were quite right. Noun. Noun. Noun.”
So we have the abortion thing in common. Also his learning difficulties, his
trauma, his cats, the absent fathers and dodgy literacy skills. His height and high-
pitched voice. His mania. His army jacket and neurovariance. I also used to clean up
human waste for money. (Though being a cleaner of colour carried a different context
I suppose). Charlie responds to childhood abuse not with a TED talk but with a
magical musical written in crayon. I use crayon in all my artwork. I offered to give
one to my mum and she said no thank you. Suicide attempts are horcruxes –
you lose yourself one try at a time. But horcruxes are also fragments of the soul.
Containments. Parts lost given back to you in unexpected packages. Your writing, your
pet, a TV character on a strange sitcom that is yours too you kno, you just didn’t realise it
before you hit play.
People say I am strong. But I am not strong. People say I am inspiring. But I am not
inspiring. I am not an MIA gif set. Or a pair of Frida Kahlo socks. There is a particularly
colonial thumbprint on the caricature of the strong woman of colour. For I am not strong,
but suicidal. And I do not want my perpetual debasement to serve as a catalyst to the very
model of white authorship that made me sick in the first place. I do not want my vomit
chunks used to paint masterpieces. I do not want that one bit.
Charlie Kelly is not a strong woman of colour. He eats garbage out of the trash.
Bernard Black is not a strong woman of colour. He has mushrooms growing out
of his hair. Jesse Pinkman is not a strong woman of colour. He is well...he is Jesse
Pinkman! Survival is not inspiring, it is repulsive, and it is always the rats that run
first, the cockroachs that survive. I am a rat. A cockroach. A parasite. (Parasitic lifestyle
blogging is another hashtag that is dear to me.) And Charlie crawls around the sewers
of Philadephia with no clothes on.
And a bonus playlist! Again made into ART by Mikael. He couldn't actually fit all the songs into one playlist so consider the extra like 34 songs a suprise?!
Wednesday, 9 December 2015
Long time no speak! Hi! hello!
I'm still a mentally ill blob with an enthusiasm for mood boarding but I'm now a mentally ill blob whose finished their first term of PHD and just launched DH Issue Two.
Yep. Doll Hospital Issue Two IS OUT NOW!!!!!