The Fappening: Reaffirming Man's Ruthlessness in 2014

"The Fappening" happened.

"Finally" some Reddit users are saying. Yes, finally. Finally we have bold evidence that humans are the most inhumane of creatures.

The Fappening is rape from a distance. It is cyber-molestation, a complete expulsion of privacy and a discharge of decency.

The Fappening will be remembered as the day mankind devolved into a gang of horny and greedy degenerates who jumped at the chance to degrade a group of women, worldwide.

This is not pornography, this is a disgusting sex crime in which everyone who views the photos partakes.

I saw some of the pictures yesterday. I observed and commented and even laughed. Can you believe that? I fucking LAUGHED at a fellow human being whose most private moments were stolen from her.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME. THIS IS NOT OK.

I feel so strongly for these girls. This is not just their bodies. This is their minds we are ripping away from them. And I am just as guilty as the rest of you spectators.

So why did I do it?
Shock. Awe. Curiosity and the complete relief that it wasn't me.

Well guess what.

It WAS me. A few years ago, when I was barely 19, I was at a Halloween party and my phone got stolen. Now at this time, I had had a long-term boyfriend of two years, and of course, some photos had been traded between him and I. So what happened when my phone was stolen, and the photos with it? Well the person who took my phone, opened my Facebook (I was constantly logged into my account as it was an app on my cell phone) and uploaded, to MY OWN profile, nude photos of me.

What did this look like to everyone else but a slutty teenager who got drunk and posted nudes of herself online?

Needless to say I was devastated. I ripped around and deleted every photo that had been posted. Luckily (as if anything was lucky about this situation), it was two in the morning on Halloween, so it was not the prime time for Facebook. But believe me, there was enough attention given (many repulsed, and many [repulsively] aroused responses) to really get into my head.

That was MY body. Those were MY photos. And it was me at my most vulnerable, on display for every person I knew to see. It was horrendous. The following week at University and the reoccurring scrutiny that it brought to my loss of dignity made it worse. It took me a long time to get over that violation and rebuild my self-respect.

Now for me to imagine what these girls are going through, how the ENTIRE WEB-ACCESSING WORLD can see them naked without their permission, that is fucked up. That is horrible. That is rape from a distance, and every fucker out there who jerks off to these women is violating them without their permission.

And maybe you think I'm just disgruntled, maybe you think I'm overreacting, maybe you think I'm a self-righteous female, but fuck you for doubting for one second the shame that this brings to everyone abusing this defamation. Fuck. You.

You are an asshole. I am an asshole. We are all a bunch of fucking assholes armed with computers and cruelty.

Take it from someone who's been there; This violation of privacy, even on a small scale, and especially on a large one, is a brutality that deserves objection.

Sincerely Disgusted,

LF

Pond Scum

I'm sick of hearing, "you can't". It's starting to sound like the mantra of the majority.

"You can't live in a 10 X 10 apartment."
"You can't work two jobs."
"You can't up and move to another country."
"You can't just be a writer."

Why?

"Because, because you can't! It's not that easy."

No, it's not. But I don't want to do these things because they're easy. I want to do them because they're worth it. Because the higher the pressure the more liberty you feel once it's released. Because overcoming the challenge is half the fun. Because proving you wrong is inspiration enough to get out of bed, to run instead of walk, to jump when told to sit. Because in a world where the survival of the fittest has become a mere concept, the only true form of freedom is recklessness.

No, I don't want your advice, no, I don't need to slow down, and no, I didn't ask you what you're doing this weekend, because let me guess; you're going to check out that new gimmick restaurant where they lock up your cell phones because you and your friends are a internet-nymphos that can't restrain yourselves from getting off on hashtags in the middle of dinner.

"But why would you want to leave Canada? You don't realize how lucky you are."

Do you want to know, do you really, really want to know why I hate it here?

Because of people like you.

Because you bore the fucking shit out of me. Because you watch reality TV and shop at Victoria Secret. Because you're in a perpetual state of waiting for the weekend. And when it comes, you tip well, and absolve yourself of a 600 calorie coffee with the singular Hail Mary, "It's Friday!".

And as I watch you sacrifice your body to the gods of the Weekend, smearing the innards of an imported danish over your face like war paint, I can tell who you really are. Because, don't forget, I've seen you on Monday.

I've seen you Monday morning when I'm not important enough to even make eye contact with, when you bitch and moan because your 6 figure salary still makes you get up before nine. And for all of the smiles and gratuity that the weekend brings, that's who you really are.
A fucking Monday.

So instead of sticking around and sniveling about my surroundings, I want to escape. To experience, examine and explore. I've taken enough from Canada, for a long, long time.

I see that you're already comfortable here. You've settled in, calm and complacent. Not looking to leave, to move, to run like a river. No. You are happy being still. You are happy being stagnant.

And maybe it's the fact that I can't sit without shaking my legs, maybe it's because I've moved more times than years I've been alive, but I feel more at home in the crash of the wave than the calm of a lake. And you told me that you're scared of the ocean, but while still water is easier to swim in, it's the one that gets pond scum.


never yours,
LF

Hereditary Debt

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and seventeen

It's funny, they say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory, but it's the seeing of other people that most reminds me of you. How different you were from everyone else. And -very rarely- I see a similarity. Like today, I met a man that had your mouth, crooked and broken. Gone too hungry too many times to ever leave leftovers on its plate again.

When we kissed I could taste the coffee on his tongue, and knew that he took it like you had, with too much sugar because that was free. A coffee shop favor, sweet charity.

"Dance with me?" He asked.

But I couldn't, because he wouldn't move like you had, and if we did dance, he would stop reminding me of you.

So we talked for a while, and I watched his mouth. It moved like yours. Parting just a bit. Not much to say, and not saying much when it did. I remember, I used to love you like this.

"A soft spoken monster", you called yourself. But you were my Arcadia. The heaven I never thought I could get into.

I still wear your shirt, not sure if I can actually feel you, or am just imagining your skin woven through the fabric.

The tag on it reads;

50% Cotton
30% Polyester
15% Nostalgia
4% Regret
and 1% ....

What is that last one percent? What is the thing that completes the shirt (and by shirt I mean me)?

People always want to touch the pretty things they see, and debt comes hereditarily to me.

Back then, I knew you were yours. Not mine, not theirs, and only fleetingly would I have the chance to take your poverty away.

I scraped off your barnacles while I could. You, so distant, barely noticed when your leeches became mine; your greedy black monkey, now attached to my spine.

I grew heavy with weight, but had a new, impossible, impervious 1%. I had found it in your lips, your mouth, your kiss.

So, the morning you told me, 'I have to go.'
I made too-sweet coffee and said, 'I know.'

And it's funny I guess, in a sort of sad way, that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. Because try as I might, every. damn. night.
I really, can't think what you smelled like.

Lights Real Low

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and thirteen

You look good with the lights real low

You look good when the music's slow

Tell me how you speak such prose

When all you do is say hello

You smell sweet in the summer rain

And you sound hot when you spit disdain

You curve my mind when you bend your back

and you give me what my body lacks

You feel like butter on my skin

You taste like cake when it's baked real thin

You look real cute when you're smoking soft

You look so nice when your clothes are off

Turn me into what you see

Cuz I can't tell what you see in me

I'm falling here into your hair

Soft and light like kindling fare

It's odd and sweet how you look so sour

When I come home too late an hour

It's crazy how you drive me sane

It's hazy how you clear my brain

Baby I'm just lying here

Wishing you were coming near

Hoping that you'll head my way

From your dimension out in space

Dazzle though, you have your place

and I'll just lie in shadows wait

Fractured prism glitter gleam

like a trick of light off a crystal peak;

You're nothing but a fleeting dream

A puff of smoke;

Dispersing steam

This Heat

365 Days of Creativity

one hundred and nine

It's those summer days you've been aching for since the first snow fall. Where it's too hot to move and there's nothing to do, so you sit, trying to prevent your body parts from touching each other. God forbid you make physical contact with another live human and your skin vacuum-seals together like warm glad wrap. I say live human because I actually imagine touching a corpse would be weirdly refreshing. Nice and cold. Stiff too, unlike everything else which gets insanely pliable in the heat. 

You've woken up late because you stayed up later. Relishing the few cool hours before the sun starts rising again. That determined bastard. Just give it a rest for a day, wouldya? Any rain is a blessing in this desert. But the ground seems to show off with how fast it can suck itself dry. Dirty bitch. 

Your skin is tight from mosquito bites and a sun-scorch from the one day you dared venture out.

It was supposed to be fun by the water, but the lake seems a pitiful puddle in this heat. It's a heavy temperature, flaccid and draining. If you could, you'd do a rain dance or a cloud dance or a someone-bring-me-a-cold-beer dance. On second thought dancing would take energy and what little you have is reserved for collecting enough food that day to carry you to the next.

Your days are filled with movie theaters, shopping malls and anything with chilly walls and bottled water. If you're a girl you wonder why you put up with such long hair and if you're a guy you wish shaven bodies weren't so heavily mocked. You watch tv when you're bored though you can't stand it most of the time. Visions of Marineland and Ice Caps and the new Baskin-Robbins flavours dance in your head. Those childhood sugar plums are now dead.

Remembering that childhood, this season never seemed so hot. Why could your tiny body put up with it back then, but your supposed "mature self" is crying out of every pour? Salty, sticky tears. Your entire body like a skittle held in a child's hand for too long. Sweating out your colour and leaving part of yourself behind every time you touch a surface. 

Without air-conditioning, your best friend is your oscillating fan. Every time the boiling air above you is stirred, you smile (inwardly of course, outward emotions are hard) before another layer of hot cotton settles down from an infinite source. 

Fresh out of your forth icy shower you don't even bother with a towel, trying to keep the water on you for as long as possible. Your neighbour makes eye contact with your naked self through the window, but you can't even bring yourself to be ashamed, so you shrug awkwardly and walk away. You live in the thinnest, smallest clothes you own, sometimes opting to simply wear your bed sheet as your wardrobe.

When you do wear clothes, you pour more water in your t-shirt than your mouth and when your friend calls to say "how's it going?" you just laugh weakly. A series of dares challenging each other to cross the outdoor furnace to come visit ensues, knowing perfectly well neither of you will live up to it.

It's like this for days, weeks, months. Until one day a leaf turns yellow then red and falls to the ground and before long it's covered with snow and the air is so cold it hurts to breathe and all you want is a hot summer day with long hours full of short sitcoms and sweat and so much sun you fear the world's going to melt.

This is the season of heat. This is summer.

World War Z; Hell Yes, A POSITIVE Review

If you didn't enjoy World War Z, you should probably leave now. Really. Just go and be alone with your very angry, unsatisfied opinions. Because I just came out of it, and I fucking loved that movie.

Now from what I've been reading the general upset is about disloyalty to the book and lack of blood and gore, and the latter is the exact reason why I don't watch previews. The usual result from an advert is one of two things; a total reveal of the key events of the film, or a completely misleading three minute thrill-fest. Since I didn't see the preview, I wasn't expecting a uselessly action packed blood bomb. I also knew that Plan B was behind this, and they're not your average gore-boosting production company (excuse Kick Ass for a moment). In case you don't know, Brad Pitt is the sole owner of Plan B, and they put out such dramatic epics as The Assassination of Jesse James and Tree of Life.

UPDATE: I have now taken a minute to watch the preview and honestly there weren't any blood splatters in there, so that was just your own personal wish for violence. I do admit that it's been a sort of guarantee for zombie movies, but I don't think that WWZ needed it as we have had plenty of that for years.

To address the upset fans who wanted to see a loyal rendition of the novel, I sincerely apologize. If I had read the book, I'm sure I would be on your side. Getting mad about the faults of book-to-film adaptations is one of my guilty pleasures, but this time around I'm on the naïve side. For you people, maybe taking this review as an examination of the film as a stand alone product is the only way to see my side. If you don't want to do that I completely understand and fully support your anger. BRAD PITT YOU SUCK. That's for you guys.

For the rest of you who haven't read the book, read on.

Why I enjoyed WWZ so damn much;

There were a lot of scenes that were left out, and unexplained. And that was awesome.

How did the zombies suddenly overwhelm New York? Why was the guy holding up Brad in the pharmacy? Why did we need to see them in the grocery store at all? Why did the RV not start on the highway? What happened to the little boy's parents? Why did they let the people sing so god damn loud in Jerusalem? Why why why?!

Because it was fucking realistic, that's why.

The guy to the right has his priorities straight.

As viewers we were very closely tied to the pov's of Brad Pitt and his family. For the first half of the movie we saw everything this family would see. Maybe the city of New York would have been on alert before everyone went to work that morning, but maybe not. Maybe it had escalated in just a few hours and the family had been in their own nice little family world not paying attention to the radio because they were busy being so cute and lovely.

The guy in the pharmacy and the RV not starting are simply examples that little shit still goes wrong in an apocalypse. To see how fast the frail structure of society unravels when true disaster hits. This is very clearly demonstrated by the two guys trying to rape Brad's wife like ten minutes after shit goes down. Everyone wants to watch the world burn.

What happened to the little boy's parents?

They got eaten by zombies, stupid. Probably sacrificed themselves to get the kid out because they were good people. Or they pushed him out the door to get eaten first and he survived because they were dicks, you pick.

Ok, I agree that people singing at the top of their lungs in Jerusalem was dumb, but apparently they hadn't learned that zombies are attracted to sound. A bit of a reach, and I hate to say that something had to happen to get them out of the city, but that's probably what it came down to.

"Staaaaaahhhhp.... siiiingiiiiiing"

I also loved how from thousands of miles away the love interest still managed to fuck up the day. As in when Brad's wife called him on the satellite phone to tell him to grab some eggs on his way home AND ATTRACTED ALL THE FUCKING ZOMBIES IN THE KOREAN CAMP RIGHT TO HIM AND KILLED LIKE SIX MEN. Women, am I right?

"Little busy, Honey."

But overall the small gaps in timeline were easily filled in by a bit of imagination, and I don't think as intelligent viewers that we need every plot point to be spoon fed to us.

The original twists on the classic zombies. Great. Superb. Probably should be credited to Max Brooks though I'm not positive. You may be pissed off about the "weakness" of the zombies, but I thought it was brilliant. Not too farfetched or gimmicky, but just weird enough to be believable. In fact the whole reason why it was believable was that the zombie's ambition was not for brains, but to spread the infection. Sort of like that parasite Toxoplasma Gondii that infects rats and makes them run around like crazy so that cats will see them and the parasite can move to reproduce inside the cat when the rat gets eaten. It's like the zombie virus is a monster on its own that wants to conquer the world by controlling and infecting humans. Way cooler than dead guys who just want to eat brains in my opinion.

"EAT ME"

BONUS; They actually acknowledge that they are zombies. Stop the presses, the word is really said, multiple times. At last.

I liked seeing the more dramatic side of an apocalypse, (which is why I prefer 28 Days Later to Dawn of the Dead) and Brad Pitt is just a bonus. I say that because he didn't do anything very Pittish, actually none of the roles seemed extremely demanding, but more seemed to take a backseat to the large-scale events that happened. And I was very much okay with that. Basically World War Z took everything that you want to happen in a zombie movie (screaming bitches get their guts eaten, headshots and cheesy one-liners) and did the exact opposite.

OH DEAR GOD, THANK YOU. Finally someone changes the genre enough that it pisses some people off. The big-budget zombie brand has been way too one sided and consistently predictable, and I welcome the change. No, it's not perfect, yes it is still a Hollywood film, but if you can stop over-analyzing for a couple of hours and remember to give yourself to the benefit of belief, you might actually enjoy something for once. And really, you should just be happy that Warm Bodies wasn't the only zombie movie that came out this year.

The Lemon Lady

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and eight

There is a lady like a crayon and she's melting in the rain
She's moldy yellow, streaked and mellow,
drifting down the drain.

But as her fattened thigh hits tide,
she pulls up from the gutter
Out she gets a cigarette,
and a lighter that just sputters.

Standing sadly, dank and dreary,
she flicks her bic again,
a yellow candle without flame,
a waxy tower of chins.

With luck a tiny fire sprite
wakes up to light her smoke,
and there the crayon lady stands
like slimy, shaky yolk.

She covers up her cigarette and forgets about herself,
Her thin hair runs in gross grey lines
down her bosomed shelf.

Like a lemon with grey mold on top
she teeters to and fro,
disgusting people passing by,
with her extra citron growth.

But the lady takes no notice for
She's got a game to play;
to finish off her cigarette
before she melts away.

The Spark; Part Two

This is part two of my first venture into science fiction, if you care to indulge, you can read part one here (it's pretty bad ass).

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and seven

Inter-dimensional travel isn't any easier the second time around. If anything it's worse, because you think you know what to expect so you build up your body for the sensation, and when you're thrown off it's even more disconcerting. This must be what a kalaidescope feels like. 

Back on Earth my feet sunk deep into the sands of Indonesia. The swell was sweet that day, and I was momentarily distracted. Surfers cruised through the ocean pipes behind Mystery, their feet planted on the newest glowing Invisiboards. When they were first released they were great for out of this world visuals, surfers standing on nothing while cutting up and down the waves, but they were terrible to find if your ankle leash came off. Version 2.0's have customizable LED options. Neon flashes, veins fully pulsing, rainbow edges, the night sky, anything you can imagine. It created a whole new market for advertising in the professional sport. Surfers locking into barrels while McDonald's burgers sizzle beneath their feet. Everything is a tv now. All surfaces can be bought by companies convincing you that you need thirty ounces of espresso and milk poured in alternating levels, vertically stripped by pure cocoa and sugar and wrapped up with a caramel ribbon topped by a fucking pink cloud stabbed full of sparklers and cocaine. Which if you buy ten of you get a one free, so you gain six dollars AND diabetes. 

 I came back to Mystery standing in front of me. "Hi I'm Mystery, welcome to Earth." He grinned and stuck out his hand. 

I brushed off his joke. "I was just thinking." 

 "About?" He raised an eyebrow, (which was quite an overwhelming gesture as his thick brows were double the size of a normal one. I suspect his facial hair alone could kill a man). 

"How much I love coffee." Deadpan.

"Ah, how- unimportant." But he smiled, "Well, you're home now, you can go get all the coffee you want." 

"That's it?" I was surprised, I mean, travel to the middle of space with someone you expect at least a cell number. "Isn't there something else we should do?" 

"Like what?" 

"I don't know! You just gave me magical powers. You're Hagrid telling me I'm a wizard, aren't you supposed to take me shopping now or something?" 

He laughed. "I am not your guide. I'm not going to Merlin you so you can fulfill some prophecy. I've given you a small gift and you can choose to use it, or return to your booth," he gestured to the steroid stand in the distance, "and look back sometimes and think, 'That was nice'." 

I was dumbfounded, and also disgusted by the prospect of returning to the convention. "Well what the fuck do I do now?"

Mystery smiled, pulled a black object out of his pocket and handed it to me. "If you need me at any time, just turn this stone over three times and I'll be there."

I took the dark rock, it was cool from his body. "Really?" 

He smirked, "No, not really. Take care Mina." 

And then he walked away. 

There was no smoke, no fantastic disappearing or slipping into the sliver between dimensions. He just walked away, one foot in front of the other like any regular human, only a bit bigger and maybe not as sweaty. 

It was only later that night, as I was sitting on the dark shoreline that I realized I had never told him my name.

I had a tediously quiet week after that, doing nothing much but wave watching. Not being able bring myself to return to the restrictive booth, I sat on the shores trying to open my mind. If I had to call it something I suppose meditation would be closest. Only I'm terribly impatient and almost always frustrated by my own mind so it was sort of like punishing myself. I kept ending up in arguments with me, in which case we would both lose. Unsurprisingly there was minimal magic that occurred. Once, at the climax at one of my internal yelling battles (this one about whether or not I should have followed Mystery that day) I set a small patch of dry seaweed on fire, but this was more frightening than satisfying and I put it out right away. 

Often I thought about Mystery, and whether he had really given me a gift or if it was something for him to fill his time. None of that "why me" or "what makes me so special" went through my head because I don't think of shit like that. There's no point. Sometimes stuff just happens for no god damn reason and that is totally okay. The whole universe came from one little spark. One tiny blip in the black nothingness and all of a sudden there's dinosaurs and people and a million different universes all tangled up in a great big glowing web of life. How's that for fate?

So I never asked why Mystery chose me. But I should have.

One day I emerged from the storm-churned surf (I had an antique board, the kind made from a tree with wax greased over it) a long ways down shore from where I had entered the ocean, and completely lost my bearings. I could see nothing but white sands and palm trees, not such a terrible sight when you're sense of direction hasn't gone AWOL, but to me it was horrifying. I dragged my board under the cover of the jungle and took a deep breath. There's only so many times you can be spun around by the sea before your mental compass is scrambled. Vantage point. That's what I needed, a place of higher ground as to gather my surroundings. 

I headed down the beach, knowing my board would only hinder my steps, until I glimpsed a slope in the distance. Within twenty minutes I was atop a tall cliff, peering in to the distance. The only problem was the sky had been eaten up by clouds, and their hunger shortened my horizon. Salty air bit through to my flesh and clogged my senses. Everything was ocean up here. Ground; damp, breeze; cool. A great chill settled into my innards and my stomach churned as the water did. I should have eaten something that morning. 

Though my glaring at the sky wasn't helping, I couldn't resist giving it a good fist shake and yelling something blasphemes towards Zeus.

Great, now I'm a cartoon character. I huffed down into a sitting position, fuming. 

I absentmindedly tossed some rough sand in between my hands. And as absentminded things are oft to do, the action gave me an idea. I just need a direction. I settled into the hard cliff, scooped up more sand and cradled it in a bowl between my fingers. I closed my eyes and tried to open my mind as Mystery had taught me. There was a red glow behind my eyelids and I screwed them tight to gain complete blackness. Concentrating on my body first, I became completely aware of my surroundings. The wind in my knotted hair, the damp dirt beneath my legs and fingernails, the moist tropic air sticking to my bare arms. Each speck of earth that I was holding became vivid in my mind. I thought up, past myself, high into the clouds. I pushed up and up until I was part of the mist. I willed the sand to see above the storm and give me direction, urging it quietly and with great intention. It was then the sand fled from my fingertips and I came to just quick enough to watch the last of it fly away. In a straight line. A very, very straight line. And I knew which way to go. 

Back in my hotel room I grinned out at the downpour. My surfboard and I were both nestled in, warm and comfortable, with all the sense of direction in the world. Pregnant raindrops cratered the sand and thunder chased lightning around the sky.

"Go ahead Zeus, have your fun. I'm a fucking wizard now."

The Rattle of Bones

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and five

I Did Give You Warning...

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and four

I've something to tell you

my darling divine,

you have become 

unlawfully mine

I've leashed up your magic

and keep it in tow

There's no possible way

I'll allow you to go

I did give you warning

when times were ahead

"Lay with me now,

but sleep not in my bed"

And my poor lover

you list' not my words,

for night after night

you stayed unconcerned

And I regret saying 

you cannot return

for lust me; you'll live

but love me, you'll burn.

We Will Live Like Smoke

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and two

      We will live like smoke. Free and flowing and forever changing. Shaped by the wind and carried by invisible powers. Love will lift us, trust will twist us, energy will enter us and in the dark assist us. We will be tendrils tumbling smooth. Never captured never controlled. If people were fire, you'd be a pyre and we'd be the sparks in the wind.

      We will live like shooting stars. Bright and surprising and ever-enticing. Burned in your sight so even when you close your eyes we shine. When you sleep we will soar, when you're wishing for more, t'will be us that you see out your window.

      We will live like dragons of old. The legends become us, and we become told. You'll hear of our ventures, 'How daring!' 'How bold!', but your eyes only glisten with the flash of fool's gold. We dragons have secrets to uplift your soul, we can strip off your shackles and let wings unfold. If only you'll listen to tales gone untold, we whisper the truth; You're being controlled.

      Just like the mice who are trapped in a maze, you sense out your prize and move on your way. But all routes have been found, to keep you contained, and though down on the ground, you feel unafraid, if you look up and around, you can see that you're caged.

      Even our paper has lines there to rule us, but essence and vapor have no need for cruel 'must'. So if you find out that the chains are unjust, remember that even iron can rust.

      A word of advice, for those who revoke, do not fear fire, once you've awoke. There's no hidden danger, dagger or cloak; For it is us Dragons, that live in the smoke.

The Spark

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred

“Take my hand.”

“Where are we going?”

“Take my hand and I'll show you.”

“But holding hands makes me sweat.”

“All the best things in life do.”

Mystery. The blistering history betwixt him and I was all of one half hour and twenty two seconds long. His name tag said Mister E, but I knew better than to fall for that one.

“Mister E?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Mister E? And what, you have a cat called Miss Tick?”

“No.”

“Oh, because a cat's not mystical enough.”

“No, because that would be a ridiculous name for a cat.”

And so it went when Mystery walked up to my booth on the sweltering shores of Pontianak. It was the bi-annual TUT, the Trans-Universal Travel convention, and I was there handing out brochures about the newest ESP heightener. How they used to have steroids for muscles, we had them for minds. The conventions were always packed full with wizard-wannabes, Joe Blows who couldn't keep their mundane little fingers out of the interstellar honey pot. And 'Mister E' here was no less a scoffing skeptic than I was disgusted by him.

“If you're not going to check out the product, you're gonna have to walk away.”

“I don't need your product.”

“Sure sure, because you've got all the multi-dimensional intelligence you need, right?”

“I have enough.”

“Then why don't you go set up your own booth on space jumping and leave me in peace?”

“You don't seem in peace.”

“How so?”

“You look warm.”

“Well we're dead set on the equator here, it's hard not to be a bit melty.”

“I'm fine.”

He didn't look fine. Mystery looked like the definition of a psychopath. Like a coked-up werewolf. Long black hair, eyes bright as a punch to the face, bulking shoulders ready to burst through his linen shirt. He was right though, not one drop of sweat on the bastard.

“You're used to the climate.”

“I just arrived from Norway.”

“Oh.”

You should know, the only reason I'm here right now is because my brother got himself arrested. On Europa of all places. No one gets arrested on Europa. It's the most laid back of all the available planets. There's nothing to do but surf and dive there for god's sake. A planet full of water, and he breaks the only law; don't feed the Krakens. In their right mind, no human would attempt this. But my brother having the rightest mind there is, will refuse not to use it to it's full potential.

Now, he is a creative genius. A new-new-new age artist. Ever since space-time was fully navigable by us humans, the really gifted ones have started exploring all over our universe. And where there's new material, there's a million artists trying to make it their own. Meet the New Wave of Avant Garde Impressionism. Meet Jean Luc Warhol. This is William S Banksy. My brother won't answer to anything but We. He says it forces people to include themselves in their judgements of him. 'We are so inane.' 'We just aren't normal.' 'We have NO talent whatsoever.' And so on and so forth. You can imagine what kind of shit he comes up with. This time it was to feed the Krakens different barrels of food dye and film their rainbow coloured ink trails throughout Europa. With a planet covered in water, he figured he'd get a good two, three days of footage that he could loop at the next TIFF, (Terra Interplanetary Film Festival; Terra being another livable planet only the most right minded could reach) but his tentacle-painting was cut short when he was arrested. Indonesia lets in anyone, except Kraken Violators apparently, thus, here I am, selling his shit steroids to fund his next project.

And I get to deal with psychos like Mister Mystery E over here. Not very impressed.

“If you want to stay cool, why don't you just let your mind do it for you?”

He meant magic. I can't do magic. I shake my head.

“What, your drugs don't work?”

“To build a fire, you have to have sticks to work with.”

Mystery nodded wisely.

Idiot.

“You can set fire to almost anything, all you need is a spark.”

“Great, thanks.” I shuffle some brochures around uselessly.

“I can give you that.”

I didn't see him as dangerous before, but now his eyes seemed brighter in a hungry way.

“How?”

“Come with me”

“To where?”

“Take my hand.”

“Where are we going?”

“Take my hand and I'll show you.”

“But holding hands makes me sweat.”

“All the best things in life do.”

And so here we are. Mystery and me. Me and Mister E. This beast of a man is about to take my sweaty hand and show me a spark somewhere in space. This is what my life has become. Following random men through wormholes. Welcome to 2013/1006/6781/All Time and Space that has Ever Existed. We can access everything now. Well, the chosen ones can. You and I are just here for the ride.

Wind. Walls of blowing air thicker than possible. Dazzling lights flash by in watercolour blurs. Inter-dimensional travel is like being the light fractured through a prism to make every hue human eyes can capture. You are blown apart into compounds of original skin; Iron, Carbon, Calcium, Nitrogen, a big bundle of vibrating Star Stuff. You can taste the sounds and hear the sights. Just on the verge of forgetting how it was supposed to look, my body slammed back into shape. 

“Mystery?! Somethings's wrong.”

“What?”

“I can't see anything!”

“I know.”

“What did you do? Where are we?”

“Erebus.”

“Great, where is that?”

“Seven hundred and fifty light years from Earth.”

“I could just be locked up in a basement, for all I can see.”

“Erebus is the darkest planet known to man. You're not blind, you're just not looking.”

“I am looking.”

“With what?”

“My eyes, obviously.”

“That's not going to work here, obviously.”

“Dick.” I shook my head. The ground didn't feel like ground, more of a dense fog. As though we were walking on cotton balls. Standing on this alien planet, we weren't freezing, burning, rotting or suffocating. I've heard how they do this, the wizards. (Let's face it, Mystery was no wannabe.) They have the brain-power to reconstruct the molecules of the universe. All that Carbon and Calcium from earlier? If you rearrange it and force it to vibrate at a different rate, it can basically become anything. 
This kind of atom-manipulation is how we aren't dead. With Mystery constantly sorting out the fibres of space we can go to un-inhabitable planets and travel at speeds of light and see in the dark and keep ourselves cool in the desert. Correction, he can do this stuff, I'm just a hitchhiker, a shadow, a ghost. I'm a vagabond girl in his mind-made world.

If you can't tell, I was starting to feel a bit useless.

I rubbed my eyes and stared into nothing.

“The widest eyes won't help you.”

“Neither will you!”

“You haven't asked.”

“Will. You. Help. Me,” It wasn't a question, it was a threat.

“Sure thing. Close your eyes.”

“They could be closed already.”

“But they aren't, I can see.”

“You're infuriating.”

“Close them.”

“Ok, now what.”

“Now, you sit.”

I lower myself cross-legged, “Like this?”

Silence.

“Uhm?”

“Oh, I nodded.” He laughs.

“Funny,”

“Close your-

“Eyes, yeah I know, I got that part.”

“You sure are cocky for someone who doesn't even know where they are. I was going to say, close your ears and open your mind.”

“Right, right. Open my mind. Close my ears. Then how can I hear you?”

No response.

“Mystery?"

Still nothing.

“If you're nodding again that doesn't even make sense.”

I'm talking to no one.

“Alright then, the hard way we go.”

Can you start something cold turkey?

Just like that, close your ears, open your mind. Breathe in, breathe out. Think about nothing. Keep your mind totally empty. Don't think about Mystery watching you in the dark. Don't think about We in his restrictive laser cuffs. Don't think about why this planet is so black. If Mystery is that powerful, couldn't he have just rearranged me a light? There's probably shit-all to see out here anyways. Out here in space. Where there's no one around, not just for miles but for years. That's a whole other level of loneliness. And if you've been left here, then it's just you and this small pocket of jimmied-up oxygen that will last who-knows-how-long. Completely abandoned on Erebus. In the stomach of the God of Darkness. Sitting on a compressed cloud, closing your ears and opening your mind. Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in.

You know the next part.

Breathe out.

Don't

think,

just

breathe

.

.

.

Slowly, you feel not so forgotten. You seem a bit lighter. Little pinpricks of weight are being lifted off of your head. Shard by shard, crystals are appearing in the blackness, like the remnants of a dream shattered by waking. There's a glimmer here and a shine there, and you don't move for fear of losing them. Eyes still closed, you realize you're not alone. In fact, you're surrounded by tiny gems of glowing light. Fairy dust across the sky. And there it is, the Milky Way, a lifetime away but you can see it in your mind's eye. Sitting here on Erebus, I can see a trillion stars with my eyes closed. It's beautiful, breathtaking, I would give my breath to look at it forever. To feel the energy of the Universe, to know the unlimited potential in each vibrating molecule. This is what humans were meant to do. This is what the rest of our brains were built for. This is raw, awesome, magic.

When I open my eyes, I can see everything.

Mystery is there, and he smiles,

“There's the spark.”

About Me, When I'm About You

365 Days of Creativity

day ninety nine

I've got a seahorse on my shoulder

and a feather in my hair

There's a motto on my wrists

that reminds me night is there,

A glass bottle on my hip

filled with sand that isn't fair

and a piercing in my lip

that I bite when thoughts are blared,

I've got eyes that watch with hunger

at what other people scare

and a mind that moves with wonder

at the sounds of Fred Astaire,

In my dreams I am successful

intriguing, debonair

Writing words that will inspire

Open eyes like crimson flare,

I've got notions that could change your mind

if to hear them you would dare

And this broken world led by the blind

with sight, we will repair

I see brighter skies for you and I

and though sometimes we'll err

The goal is not in being right

but to simply, be aware.

Turn off the Lights

365 Days of Creativity

day ninety five

Fucking in the dark because you could be anyone. 

I could be anyone. Two anonymous animorphs moving 

in a twisted pile of lithe limbs and hot breathe. You are the

 Marquis de Sade. I am Madonna on the rocks. 

You are Gaia, I am Nikola Tesla. Our touch static. Ecstatic. 

Ecstatic addicts acting frantic in the deep sheets of each other's

 heat. Noiseless poise-less loyal-less coils; hot&high and never 

flickering only f u c k i n g f u c k i n g feeling love and hate

 and other things you can only feel when someone else is inside of 

you. Thrilling angry unfulfilling like killing things that don't 

want to die. Our sex like masturbation because

 in the dark you could be anyone. 

I could be anyone.

Caffeinated Haikus

365 Days of Creativity

day ninety three

Got a new job at a coffee shop, in between serving the three other people who are awake at 7am, I had time to jot down some haikus. All photos taken on my superdupermagicalcellulardevice.

These haiku pictures are 100% inspired by two fellow bloggers; Kody & Liam you can view their awesome creations here.

This is the Sound My Mind Makes.

I hate commitment but I'm addicted to tattoos.

I'm simultaneously narcissistic and self conscious.

I do not judge individuals, but when viewed as a group I can hate on a grand scale.

I never, ever feel bad for the 'tragedies' in the news, whether it be a tsunami or a suicide.

Even when I'm outwardly excited for something I'm always inwardly expecting it to fail.

I check out women more than I check out men, and not just from jealousy.

I think stripping is an art, but prostitution is a shame.

I don't think men objectify women, I think women objectify themselves. The only way to escape remarks on your physical appearance is to ruin your beauty and free yourself from sexual appetites.

There is nothing more beautiful than standing up for what and who you believe in.

If you're not growing and changing, you might as well be dead.

I do believe in something, but it's not God.

I want to escape technology forever, yet I check Facebook everyday.

The best way to earn my respect is to not care if you have it.

Family, friends, and flames are important, but never forget that you came into this world alone, and that's how you will leave it. Do what makes you happy, whatever it is, no matter what anyone says along the way. Never let anyone hold you back or dismiss your priorities. Don't be afraid to fuck up, and don't be too stuck up to say you're sorry. Help your friends and love your family, but fuck em all if they chain you down. Find your passion and live the fuck out of it, everything else will follow.

onwards&upwards

-foxx

star-dusted souls

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty nine

star-dusted souls

chipped nails

cutting rails

prepping heaven

up til seven

snort it back

we'll die together

re-emerge

as flaming feather

Baby's dancing

lights are flashing

no one sees

her brain is crashing

bodies roll

on waves of absinthe

pure as sin

our bodies chanting

"Take us past the fourth dimension"

you and me

our veins are thrashing

trying to reject the trash in-

-side our minds

we trade our cash

for three more lines

we split the last

it's party time

the cameras flash

sunglasses hide

our pupils wide

take my hand until we fly

Baby's lips are cracked and dry

gyrating hips

rotating time

star-dusted souls

debating why?

innocence

through smoke and pyre

pass the torch

breathe in, get higher

music is

our saviour's choir

we love to live

and live on fire

it's ecstasy

that we desire

and ecstasy

that we acquire

the only things I'll ever need

are you and me

and ecstasy

Suicide Girl Fight Club Fan Art

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty one

the original photo from a Suicide Girls photoshoot, of the "female fight club"

my free-handed drawing of the killer lady

City Life

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty

CITY LIFE

the traffic moves

in a mollasical flow

drags me down

in its undertow

amoeba-like hands

throughout the city

industrial maze

beautiful and gritty

oil stains

like black birthmarks

dashed guiding lines

no longer stark

a concrete wood

with bark like brick

the moss below

unhoused and sick

and critters crawl

let's call them crowds

no smiles found

for they weren't taught how

an open-topped tomb

a great mass grave

where the undead live

and the living slave

so rare

a free-souled bird flies by

but quickly caught

its wings are tied

it walks alone

forever tethered

no rodents see

this rat is feathered

The Curious Case of Influence VS Inspired Self Reflection

The Curious Case of Influence VS Inspired Self Reflection

Influence. Oscar Wilde has said in his novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, that influencing another person is invading upon them a part of your soul. Poisoning them with your ideas and your beliefs, and impressing upon them notions and urges which are unnatural to themselves. 

Chuck Palahniuk wrote in Invisible Monsters, "I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known." He expresses that who we are is just a collection of fragments of features and follies from both our friends and our foes.

Within each of us lies our true ideals and impulses, and too easily are we conquered by the beliefs of others. To me, the more I look around, the more I see this to be true. It's happened often where the thoughts I've expressed in conversation with a friend I've later heard to be re-stated by them as passionately and proudly as if the were their own. And I'm positive such situations have occurred in my own words as well.

You can already tell that while Wilde did not invade me with his statements on beauty, as I'll explain, he did influence me with his writing style. For I do not usually write with such properness and grandeur, but after reading his words I cannot escape the power of his impressions. At least temporarily.

Why is this? How do we stop such invading influences? How do we escape the ideas of our acquaintances? 

I suppose the only way to be one's true self is to learn who we really are. To know what we believe in our souls, and not the ideals of others. I've written before of the morals that we uphold, not because we are truly certain of them, but simply because they've been pressed upon us repeatedly. Until by sheer repetition of words, it has become our instinct to look down on those who lie and cheat, and those who are too bold with statements and insults. But it's these moments of brutal honesty which are the glimpses of one's true self.

Exploring the soul of ourselves is a frightening and difficult task. Looking inward is undeniably harder that looking outward. For a surface example of this, I'll use my own situation. 

I am a filmmaker, or perhaps in a delusion of grandeur, I fancy myself as one, and I spend a plethora of my time watching films. I view at least one a day, usually two, and still often, three or more. But how many films do I make? A pitiful number no doubt. I have made no feature films, but have seen over eight hundred. I ingest so many stories and dramas and messages without creating any of my own. Do you see what I mean about looking outward being simpler than inward? Can you think of something in your life where you act similarly?

This what I mean by learning about others, and how much more common it is than learning about ourselves.

It's not so simple to explore the unmapped terrain of oneself. I for one, cannot simply sit down and say, "Today I'm going to learn who I truly am." This would be perhaps a form of meditation. Maybe the people who do meditate can achieve this immediate state of self learning, I do not know. But for myself (and probably the average person of my young age) solitude in itself does not grant self-exploration.

When I am alone, I do think of many things, often in a fiery and eager state, but usually the ideas I explore are not of myself.

As an activity it may seem vain to sit and ponder one's own soul, and it can quickly lead to doubts and debates of the importance of one's existence, but this is not the dilemma of which I wish to speak.

So you may ask, what does inspire me to delve into the mysterious mountains of my true mind?

Usually, and ironically, it is the outer influence of other's ideals. But it's not the same obtrusive poison of which I spoke earlier. It is not the drop of pigment which, once mixed into the paint of one's soul, cannot be extracted. But it is more a dollop of paint set before you, so shiny that in the surface, a colour of your own soul is reflected.

I apologize if I've become too metaphorical. What I mean to say is that by hearing of someone else's opinions, I am often able to learn of my own. For example, in my reading of the first part of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde has already mentioned much about youth and beauty. He speaks of how Beauty is a form of Genius greater than Genius itself, for it is undeniable and divine. This is something that struck a chord with me. I realized that in my heart, I mostly agreed with his words. That physical beauty, of art, of animals, of humans, and appreciating it is an ideal that I hold dear and truly believe in.

To further explain that this is not something that I've simply absorbed from outward influence, I'll clarify what was attempted to be impressed upon me. The common people (people that I run into in my daily life) have often expressed emotions of hate toward the standards of beauty that we have today. And I have always disagreed. I think that fashion and photography is a modern way of appreciating the human form. And the widespread deliverance of these images of gorgeous people should not be scorned as harshly as it is. 

That is to say, I don't think that women or men should see themselves as unappealing if they're not a likening of the famous beauties. But the "perfect" people do give us something to strive towards, if we're so inclined. They should be seen as a form of inspiration for personal fitness, if one is needed, or at least as a living, human example of art.

The individuals are to be appreciated and celebrated, and not ridiculed for making physical beauty a priority. But enough, I forget myself. 

I hope you understand what I mean about the difference between influence and inspired self reflection.

Perhaps that's another reason why I watch so many films; I hope that some with start the trains of thought that lead me to learn about myself. Because our interpretations of art reveal more about ourselves than they do the works, or the creator of them.

I implore you to look deeper into yourself, and more often. Try to differentiate the seeds of ideas that are yours, and the buds that have been planted by those around you. Try to explore your uncharted terrains, and as you find the hidden coves and overturn each moss-covered rock, share it with the world. Convert what you know into art. Into pictures and books and paintings. Into conversations with friends. And hopefully, the consumers of your work are strong enough not to be influenced, but inspired.