Heart.

When I took this set of photographs I had in mind the part between the head and the hands.

World leaders are the head with an iron lung attached and the 9-5ers are the hands of a daily trudge working in vain for an invisible slave wither they see it or not.

I want to be your heart.

Artists are the heart. Art keeps your soul and your spirit apart. Your soul needs exercise your sprit needs feeding. Feeding…in a different room to your soul.

‘Get rid of the random elements’ you said.
I can’t get that out of my head.
I had to dig to get this far.
If my physical mind and body must suffer to get what I need, they will.
The closest I ever came to understanding myself was when I was taken by the hand and physically dragged to your beautiful land.

You keep my elements in tack and merge my connection between achievement and soul. But mental contact requires practise and patients. But while I’m looking for reasons to create the junkie is angry and tetchy.

I found the situation. It is perfect, a true breeding ground for ideas. It just needs food and thought.

Magick rod

Photo: Tobias

They* say that there are so few spots in the universe where night actually falls at all; it is only where a shadow from a planet is cast by itself.
Could it be that our serious misfortune of suffering a night could over shadow our spirituality too? Where our hours are cut by half maybe our potential is too.
Perhaps the mind is the traitor and reason is an inconvenience. Most visible is imperfection.

We are no longer free.
I will work and hope never to ask questions that in no way concern me, far beyond any conception are the winds of change, to offer anyway suggestion would end in my being locked away, We can save ourselves from the light and the dark, that’s the best I can offer.

*Science peoples.

Change.

Change
Creative pushing is a virtue, if anyone can do it for you consider it a blessing, I know the push is a musing but you are the swing. A theory is only helpful if you can empathise with it, sketch an understanding of what you already realise and apply it if you will feel it benefits a change.

Revision
Total revision is a blessing too. I want to cleanse my head. Forget all the chaff and eat all the wheat like a spring clean that involves lobotomies and corn.

Decision
I like certain people more than others; I remember one man’s conversation had flashes of silence that had made his conversation entirely charming. I liked that.

Revision
If I don’t change I’m likely to witness my own fall with an almond glow of light behind my head whist watching myself extend only the forefinger and middle finger in obscene styles to find myself swearing at my own rotten body.

Apply
It seems no man is strong enough to have no interest at all, therefore all goodness and honour is pure chance and all cruelty is nature. But I'm unsure, is that because all honour is a masculine concept? Like I’m unsure if women are only beautiful in comparison to men?
I would ask the ‘better man’ but I’m scared to keep crying in his ear because I know the salt will fade all images he will come to see.

A coat with eyes.

There are things I need to show myself before I remember the way I used to be. It’s not that I would be regressing but learning how to lie better. Since seeing another angle one thousand destroying winters have evolved in my head.

I heard it said once that to convert minds you have to prove that you are moveable. It’s a common politician’s tactic. Show your strong minded but willing to listen to the people.
I shall compromise for future minds I will meet, mainly because the eventual night is going to cover us all and wake us from waking.

Point the A’s to better understand, everyone with any personal power already knows that they would write just to write their muses name, just as I write to him (only to write his name), so to make a symbol of him with my hand.
I know I love you.

A fur coat with eyes.

Yoni sally bond

Ian Fleming said ‘All women love semi rape’. What a stiff memorial.

Moore-land go explore.

Bored blah blah I’m not blonde anymore 08.
NEW PHOTOS

11

I always fancied being a 'gangster’s mole', the dolled-up type that flits about doing little but working men from the inside.
You know… like, I’d flirt with one of the smucks from a rival gang and when I return from my nose powdering and fiddling with guns in the ‘ladies’
He’d have been ‘snub-nose ozzied’ by a man who is only a man when lost to himself in such acts of violence or O!
Oh…a girl can dream, can’t she?
When feeling obsolete with a lustful nature in a world of masculine power?

What a joy it is to connect all his symbols with a phallus, and laugh at him.
Whist I blot my lipstick, the universe is exhibiting interplay between my lips.
I shall never be bored with such toys as men.

Take a week,

I was welcomed to an imagination this week. I opened the door to a cliff face and watched the mist float in and out of someone else’s unconscious. I have been there now and nothing else cuts it.
Worlds within a world, we have it here in the countryside.
Those lucky enough to live in true British countryside should grab it with their five teeth and all 14 of their hands. I would! I will!
Strange things have happened at sea, but they are stranger still up in the north.

I think for a time (there) I held in my hands a future from my falsification of thought and someone else’s artificial mystery. I rest assured that things are clearer now. Now! In-the-knowledge that an artist (upon seeing an object/person), does not worship it, but breeds a master piece from it. Then the world itself is exhibited as one aspect of the great work.

We were dealt a good hand this week (my love and I).

DR...

My dear friend wrote me this and called it ‘Sitting next to Ellen.’ Whist we were in class one day during our MA. We had been odd with each other all week after an incident that broke out in the pub I lived in, this incident was regarding the two of us arguing about gender roles and feeling. I promised I would illustrate my feelings to it one day and now I have. Just like the man who wrote it I too was blonde once

I was sweating again. Forehead. I knew why she knew why.
I didn’t want to make a point of it. It was urge feeling.
I took her hand in mine. No words.
Her left hand lifted by mine. My right thumb paved in her palm. Firmly.
Perhaps I wanted to look at her but eye contact would be confusing.
As much as I hate communication I understand it.
It was touch this was about.
Mutual experience with no real history of thinking it through.
Action but not acting.
It was simple really her hand told what to do.
External force intrigues me (too much)
Moments should be let to happen and allowed before I doubt and choose to deviate.
If conscience choice was my virgin arsehole I would look for a suitable object and rape it till the point of rupture and feel it bleed to death.
Revision bothers me still, it’s a fucking necessity.
Edit, edit again. Rewrite, retype, rethink, And Re-feel?

Her finger tips with a lack of dry friction picking up the evidence of my self inflicted fuck up.
Regret is ok if only one can learn from it and then actually apply it. It was NOT about this.
It was sweat; exchange; contact-between newly accelerated energies.
Need, want, isolation of a moment. Illusion. Exploration. Energy. Basic, natural I guess you could call it. Unexpected and from a negative sort of intimidation. Questionable they might say. The others. She wouldn’t and if she did I still wouldn’t explain why. Thinking about personal questions is a virtue, welcome all. I never took her hand. Heat. I wish I did. I regret it.

Reader

Words exhaust. Some times I wish the words would leave the page and float in front of my eyes because I can never be comfortable enough whilst reading. It feels like I have too many arms and not nearly enough sides to lean on. I’m a hexagon reader in that respect. Dear me, I’m missing my best friend right now. I have met some interesting creatures recently, who have the ability to write in time to my moods they prick a smile and fill a void.

I am trying desperately to finish something I started story wise. I need to put that unknown warrior to rest.

:)+(:

'To take a photograph is to participate in another person's mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time's relentless melt.' Said Susan Sontag

This is my 'Do something everyday that scares you'...

When Photoshop and I were young, we met a boy who first changed my mind.
I knew there was something in me that others took dislike to and wanted to ostracize but it wasn’t awoken until I met Ryan. Ryan was a friend of mine that I fell out with some years ago when we finished school. We bought out the worst in each other. We had never met anyone like the other so we challenged one another always testing limits. Trying constantly to ‘out weird’ the other one, this culminated in a rather sticky end. I hated him for years after what he did. But I suppose he won. He out ‘weirded’ me. I could never look him in the eye for too long because he would look straight through me and know everything. I still can’t forgive or forget what happened but I’m thankful we met. In many ways he defined me and also raised the bar in mental standards.
Whilst I was looking through some very old files on a slab of a hard drive I found I came across a folder named RYAN. I opened it and found a comic he made for me when we were teens, when Photoshop was young, so don’t judge him. He told me I could show who I liked. And now I will.

When walking all night though the city, after school one day you stared at me and twisted your ear, you kept doing it, again and again. I stopped walking and stared at you, square in the eyes. We stood quite still for about 3miniuts solid, still almost but for your constant ear twisting. Eventually I said ‘What are you doing?’ and you said ‘I’m going to keep doing it until you think I’m a genius’, ‘But I’ll never think that’ I said.
What you did scared me to the core for years and your texts still haunt me but I like to think I gave as good as I got. You were a worthy opponent. It has taken ten years but I finally see your genius. It was always showing.
Keep safe my friend; I hear horror stories about you.

If you want to read ‘Bulimia’ By Ryan, do email.
ellenjanerogers@gmail.com