Get depressed

Amazing. And sickening. Chris Jordan photographed these albatross carcusses (and many others) on Midway Island, to show us exactly where our litter goes.

"These photographs of albatross chicks were made just a few weeks ago on Midway Atoll, a tiny stretch of sand and coral near the middle of the North Pacific. The nesting babies are fed bellies-full of plastic by their parents, who soar out over the vast polluted ocean collecting what looks to them like food to bring back to their young. On this diet of human trash, every year tens of thousands of albatross chicks die on Midway from starvation, toxicity, and choking.

To document this phenomenon as faithfully as possible, not a single piece of plastic in any of these photographs was moved, placed, manipulated, arranged, or altered in any way. These images depict the actual stomach contents of baby birds in one of the world’s most remote marine sanctuaries, more than 2000 miles from the nearest continent."

-Chris Jordan , Oct 2009

What a world we live in.

Old news

Jeremy was the one to find Theresa, on the floor of their bedroom, quite dead. A suicide note, empty champagne glass and scattered pills said goodbye. Inconsolable, a week later he strode fully clothed into the ocean. That was the last time he was seen alive.

The 2007 deaths of Theresa Duncan and her boyfriend Jeremy Blake are still a big dark mystery. They were together 12 years without a night apart, the tightest of couples. Officially, they were surprise suicides, but a back tangle of scientology harrassment and stalking muddies things. You may have heard their story before, it raced through the dry hills of the internet like a scrub fire. In part due to the many fans of Theresa's luscious blog The Wit of the Staircase. She was a fantastic writer, he a well known multimedia artist, together described as "darlings of the art world".

This is one version of the events that led to their deaths. There have been many attempts to discredit Theresa after her death, label her a liar, paranoid, mad. But after delving into her blog, these accusations are a bit hard to believe. Eccentric, yes. Enviably smart, witty, fascinating- definately.

It's a frustrating story because the more you read about it, the more it doesn't add up. And even more frustrating, it probably never will.

The only "new" news is that Bret Easton Ellis and Gus Van Sant are writing a screenplay based on the Vanity Fair article about their death (same link as above). I wish they were taking a broader view of their lives and deaths, and including all the odd bits and pieces that weren't included in the article, but still, Glamorama (by Ellis) being one of my favourite reads of all time- I'm hungry for their take.

The womanly woman

There's a new trend. Big, curvy women are back. Or so I've heard. Apparently, in times of recession, curves are comforting. When people are having trouble feeding their kids, Kate Moss-like bodies stop being something to strive for. Quick, quit weight watchers!

You thought the old-fashioned pin up girls had curves? Check out the toil girls gallery. It's a voyeuristic kick. Les Toil makes modern day pin ups of fat women, "real" fat women, who send him their photos to draw from. On the site, you can see the photo the subject has sent him, as well as the final art.


Meet Cheryl, April & Deirdra.





For photos of them with their clothes on, have a looksy over at toilgirls.com

Last fashion post I promise (for now)

Alexander McQueen's knuckle-duster clutch. I'd give two-black eyes for one of these. They're also available in a snakeskinny red. I don't even want to know the price.

Perfume-clad

Mary Katrantzou's latest range- perfume bottle dresses!

Bangle, bangle, ring.

Designer Anthony Roussel makes jewellery from birchwood. Pretty cool. I discovered his stuff through neatorama, one of my favourite time-killing websites. Unlike me, they update frequently, so they're always worth a visit.

Thanks for sticking around guys. I'll try to update more often.

Boring little post

No mortgage.
No kids.

It could be worse. But I'm sick to my stomach with debt. In one way, or another, I owe everyone I know.

Re-rechecking under couch cushions for enough coins to buy bread. Putting gas in the car in $3 increments. This isn't an interesting tale I'm sorry.

At least we have a welfare system. So I'm allowed to queue. Stand in a crooked lie of tarted up young mothers, old hunched men, the aggressive, the mad, and more and more like me, suited up.

Because the government gives me money, any money I make goes back to them. I had a 40hr week of work, no breaks, an admin job. Paid 18 bucks an hour, after tax, and giving welfare their share, I get $2 an hour. $2, when to buy a loaf of bread and carton of milk costs more than $10. One orange costs $1.50.

Everyone (anyone) who has a job is afraid. Working for less, longer hours, and you're supposed to feel lucky. No sauntering in late with a crumpled shirt. It's redundancy fever.

The situations vacant section of the overpriced newspaper has shrunk to a slim column. Most of these are "Ladies Wanted" ads, shiny euphemisms pressing through. No jobs in my area, nothing even close. Even cleaners need diplomas now.

The shop downstairs used to give me the pastries at the end of the day. Then they started charging $3. Then $5. Now they sell them stale the following day.

My computer has been stacked in the back of a pawn shop, with my boyfriend's cell and mp3 player. That's one of my excuses for not writing. If the pawn shop would have taken it, they'd have our TV too. I hate being a statistic. A boring, depressing, whiny statistic.

It's been so bloody long since I've bought a pretty dress.

Battle on

There were about 30 people in the old wooden hall for the NA meeting. Some have a couple hundred. It must take them forever to do the old "hello my name is & I'm an addict" intro. The hour was thick with the usual. Overwhelming friendliness, clapping, hugging, and people secretly eyeing each other. We're a crazy, damaged lot.

I dodged volunteering too much. But my boyfriend talked about his addiction, so I ended up flaking anyway. I'm a cry baby these days. It can suddenly all well up. Although, taking my anti anxiety meds regularly, and not just kinda-when-I-remember-ish has made a BIG difference. Fancy that.

The bit about getting a sponsor has always put me off. My eyes did the rounds, circling the circle, trying to assess the NA successes, trying to picture who I could comfortably text at least weekly, or in theory, daily. And who wouldn't be a drill sergeant. And who I could be honest with.

There was one woman, soft and plump and kind. A happy motherly looking girl in her early 30s. A three year clean opiate addict. About 80 percent of the group is always male, and I don't want some guy making things weird. The rest of the women were meth addicts, and though it shouldn't matter, it does. I want someone who can say "after a year I started feeling okay" or "I stopped dreaming about it after 2 years" and mean it.

We were accosted as we left, by a veteran member, spit flying as he ranted passionately, giving me flyers and "pick me me or me as your sponsor" hints. I didn't bite. We'd rolled cigs in the last 5 minutes of the meeting and we were past ready to light them.

And then we were out of the hall, and into the blue sky and sunshine, swords drawn, ready to battle another week.

Loser

Yep that loser's me.

Rent day. (Sounds ominous already!) Withdraw two weeks rent, and some, and stuff into my already obese-with-receipts-and-other junk wallet. Squeeze it into my purse, a swingy leather thing with a flap that closes it- and what should have been a crucial piece of foreshadowing- no zipper.

Get a call twenty minutes later. A good samaritan has found my wallet, matched my business card to my ID and has it in her lovely hand, ready to return it. Phew, without even the panic of realizing I'd lost it.

That was quite different to how things turned out on Friday night.

I missed my bus after work, and had to catch one that took an unusual route, involving a good long walk over hill and dale. It was at the fruit and vege store, grabbing dinner supplies, that I dug around for my wallet, and realized. Voila... poof! it was gone.

Tracing my footsteps back yielded zip. Calling the bus company, and asking the driver, zip zip. One carries a lot their wallet, I discovered. Bank cards, library & dvd card, drivers license, and yep that's all my ID. And rarely for a Friday, there was money in my wallet too, 200 unfortunate dollars.

For some reason I lose things I love or need, and I do it a lot. I barely notice my surroundings, it's a blur out there. If I was a witness to a crime, I would be useless. I'm too far in my head, stretched out daydreaming, most likely sipping tea and smoking cigarettes. Sometimes I have to wiggle my toes, just to remind me that they're part of me.

At the A&D clinic I've sat for hours in groups, one-on-one and with pamphlets, all devoted to mindfulness. Still, it's bloody hard.