Loneliness is what I am, but I can be more

If I stripped away my writing, I’m not sure what I’d be.

If I stopped focusing on writing my book, I do not know what I would do.

Then if I lost my camera and my job I’d be unclear how I’d fit in to this community.

There is this dating site I tried out the other day. Plentyoffish. And it asked me to put in a headline about myself. And I didn’t know what to put down. I didn’t know how to sell myself.

Sure. I knew what I was. I knew what I liked being. I was a writer and a journalist and I liked photography and taking pictures of people and reading. But there’s nothing that makes me sexually desirable. More importantly, no hobbies I can share with someone else.

I’ve learned to be myself by being by myself.

But I can’t just put down ‘lonely’ as an attractive quality.

I told one of my friends about the headline and she offered to list a few of my virtues for me. Didn’t want to take her up on it but she did it anyway.

“Good looking, gentle, and smart.” She said. “Gentle and warm are tied so take your pick on that. You have the ability to make people feel you like them from the first moment you meet, so I would call that warm.”

photo of me.jpg
Meeting emus. I suppose I did give them a warm welcome. 


Soon on Facebook she asked everyone how much money you needed to become a sugar mumma. I said “only a doughnut” and then she gave me one. But it was in emoji form.

So I’m not sure how much I’m to take her at her word. But anyway, long story short, I’m committed to having a sugar mumma. It’s not even that weird. It’s like having a Member of Parliament. You have one. But you don’t have to do anything. Well, except voting I guess.

How do I tie this up into some pensive conclusion? I don’t know really. Just like in real life I flow into tangents, which you could probably tell by my talk about my sugar mumma.

I suppose this is another tangent. It’s 11pm and I just had to go to work because I forgot to take back the work vehicle. And walking back home I passed the pub. And often I hang out there on a Friday or Saturday night. I always walk in alone in the hope I meet friends (who don’t ask me out to join them to begin with) or a girl I can build a conversation with.

And it struck me as I walked past how sad this really was.

If this is what I had to do to try and make friends and get people to talk to me, meeting them drunk on the off-chance I don’t feel alone, then how horrible.

Whatever I am now, whatever I’m doing. It’s not working for me.








Shades and identity


LATELY I’ve been considering an assignment in art class years ago. We were told to copy a famous drawing and then repaint it with different colours. The aim was to reveal that colours can convey different meanings behind the work.


The project fascinated me. I was halfway through slopping on the colours before anyone had finished drawing their works.

I chose the brightest colours for my Mona Lisa.

Her hair was red.

Her skin was purple.

The sky was green.

prisma heisenberg

My teacher gave me a passable mark, and then gave one of the other students a higher mark. He’d been expelled and hadn’t even finished the drawing. When I expressed outrage, she accused me of rushing through the picture as fast as I could.

She accused me of being lazy.

That’s sort of true.


But lately I seem to be better at expressing myself through images rather than through the written word. And I was better at writing than by speaking.

I spent a lot of time using my phone to do it.

heisenberg another

Perceptions of identity for one body interests me. It’s why I love clothes. It’s why I love selfies. I’m becoming more experimental with Instagram and a new app, called Prisma. I enjoy the editing and the cheap easy filtering and photo shopping, because maybe it’s the closest way I can escape my body. I can be somebody else by looking like something else.

It’s about making something into more than what it really is. Perhaps a caricature.

I suppose that’s what I’ve been doing when writing about my childhood so far. I’m editing it, colouring it, giving it tinted and exaggerated shades because it makes it more exciting.

original Heisenberg

I’m not lying. Not at all. I’m redrawing the past. I’m painting it with fresh colours of jokes and tongue-in-cheek observation, and adult experience, and sadness. I haven’t been giving you the original product.

And maybe that’s a good thing.

This still feels honest. It still means something.

It’s just a new and different way of seeing what it is.

This is what I am. Maybe a little more exposed, maybe at an unusual angle, but I just want to show you the difference.

first original Heisenberg