When I was at art college in the late Seventies/early Eighties, one of the slogans the feminists used was: “Objectivity is Male Subjectivity.” This brilliantly encapsulates how male power nestles in our very language, exerting influence at the most fundamental level. Men, especially Default Men, have put forward their biased, highly emotional views as somehow “rational”, more considered, more “calm down, dear”. Women and “exotic” minorities are framed as “passionate” or “emotional” as if they, the Default Men, had this unique ability to somehow look round the side of that most interior lens, the lens that is always distorted by our feelings. Default Man somehow had a dispassionate, empirical, objective vision of the world as a birthright, and everyone else was at the mercy of turbulent, uncontrolled feelings. That, of course, explained why the “others” often held views that were at such odds with their supposedly cool, analytic vision of the world.
I’m still deeply in love with everyone I ever loved. ‪#‎practice‬

"The Entire City" by Max Ernst
Oil on canvas


"The Entire City" by Max Ernst

Oil on canvas


“The Entire City”, 1934


The Entire City”, 1934



»too late to die young« by aldo chaparro (+)


»too late to die young« by aldo chaparro (+)

I turned 32 today and went to the beach at Bribie Island with beautiful friends. We like it there because it’s close to Brisbane and quiet, and there are dog beaches. Ziggy is a mini bull terrier who belongs to a friend of mine, he’s 9 months old and very excitable but once he calms down he’s a cuddly sweetheart. Today was his first time at the beach, he wasn’t that keen on the waves but had the best time with so many new friends to pat him.

We feasted and swam in the ocean and got sun on our skin and dogspotted and even saw a pod of dolphins, and played with my friend’s baby. I felt blessed and happy. Friends have to remind me how far I’ve come and how much I’ve achieved in the last year and even if it isn’t babies or a house or marriage or a trip around the world: I’ve healed. PTSD Recovery is a brave new world and I am a new person, in many ways. I’m still getting to know myself and what I can do now, without fear. There’s more intimacy and love in my life, platonic and romantic, because I am more vulnerable. Some days are hard, but worth it. There’s so much more joy. I’ve realised that though I have a social personality I’m actually introverted and shy in many ways, and have become moreso in recovery. Today was the perfect amount of close friends for it not to be stressful for me (birthdays make me stressed), people whose company I feel nourished in.

I have become anti-romance because I cannot be invested in romantic love, because this investment is dangerous for my mental health.

Changing room mirrors make me wish I could air brush myself out of existence.


Numéro Deux - 1975 -  Jean-Luc Godard & Anne-Marie Miéville

Happy with this portrait Sia took of me — and how red my hair is!!!

Happy with this portrait Sia took of me — and how red my hair is!!!

Chant of Lamentation by Haunani-Kay Trask

I lament the abandoned
terraces, their shattered
waters, silent ears
of stone and light

who comes trailing
winds through
taro lo‘i?

I lament the wounded
skies, unnourished
desolate, fallen drunk
over the iron sea

who chants
the hollow ipu
into the night?

I lament the black
and naked past, a million ghosts
laid out across the ocean floor

who journeys from
the rising to the setting
of the sun?

I lament the flowers
a‘ole pua, without
issue on the stained
and dying earth

who parts the trembling
legs enters where
the god enters, not
as a man but as a god?

I lament my own
long, furious lamentation
flung down
into the bitter stomachs

into the blood-filled streams
into the far
and scattered graves

who tells of those
disinterred, their
ground-up bones, their
poisoned eyes?

(Source: culturalsurvival.org)

Testimony by Joseph Fasano

If tonight the moon should arrive like a lost guide
crossing the fields with a bitter lantern in her hand,

her irides blind, her dresses wild, lie down and listen to her
find you; lie down and listen to the body become

the promise of no other, the sleeper in the garden
in its own arms, the exile in its own autumnal house.

You have woken. But no one has woken. You are changed,
but the light of change is bitter, the changing

is the threshold into winter. Traveler, rememberer, sleeper,
tonight, as you slumber where the dead are, if the moon’s hands

should discover you through fire, lie down
and listen to her hold you, the moon who has been away

so long now, the lost moon with her silver lips
and whisper, her body half in winter,

half in wool. Look at her, look at her, that drifter.
And if no one, if nothing comes to know you, if no song

comes to prove it isn’t over, tell yourself, in the moon’s
arms, she is no one; tell yourself, as you lose

love, it is after, that you alone are the bearer
in that changed place, you alone who have woken, and have

opened, you alone who can so love
what you are now and the vanishing that carries it away.

(Source: poets.org)



Festooning is a behavior where bees hold onto each other to create a scaffold while they build honeycombs.
Photo credit: girlnextdoorhoney

! work!



Festooning is a behavior where bees hold onto each other to create a scaffold while they build honeycombs.

Photo credit: girlnextdoorhoney

! work!



"Loukanikos" internationally known as the "Riot Dog" passed away today in Athens at the age of 10. His health was adversely affected by police asphyxiating gas and from being kicked from police, forcing him to “retire” from active protest about two years ago.

“He was on the couch sleeping, when suddenly his heart stopped beating”.

Farewell our comrade


this weekend will be pouring one out for comrade sausage and comrade che

The coolest dog. Rest in Power Loukanikos.