I haven't been self reflective in some time. Too much I don't want to dwell on. I used to journal, somewhat regularly, or at least when something was going on with me. and now it's all stuck inside there. rattling around. here. inside my head. but it never gets to come out and have a voice anymore. i remember exactly the time in my life that i stopped writing and started running, metaphorically, from myself. I slowed that sprint to a mild jog, and now and then I can reflect for just a moment. always keeping the feet moving, never standing still inside even a moment. i used to write more than angsty poetry. I used to write about my dreams. I used to write about my struggles. About my mood swings and day to day battles with depression or life's challenges. And now I'm just so tired of it all. There's nothing to say sometimes that hasn't already been said during numerous other struggles, I feel. It's repetitive. It's recycled. I'm tired of the stories. Tired of bringing the stories out into the light to dissect them or debunk them or prove them or analyze them. I can't be bothered, don't have the interest, don't think its worth the trouble. A waste of breath or pen ink or strokes across a keyboard. Even talking about my strong distaste of delving deep into my thoughts and talking about them... is boring me. Redundant. Pointless.

I am falling back deeper into my disease. This isn't a matter of blame at this point.

My hands are stained. I feel irreparably busted. I feel like I will never be clean and pure and whole.

I am on set day after day, talking to people, laughing it up, discussing art or film making or exchanging life stories with like minded creatives. I come home to deafening silence, cold walls, solitude around every corner. My drug of human connection is cut off at it's source and it feels very uncomfortable to be going through withdrawals. I want the warmth and acknowledgement and approval and gratitude and recognition and attention from other human being, to make me feel okay about me. when I get home and don't have any of that, i find myself quite literally itching my veins. I need another hit. I need to be hit.

When I am getting Dommed, owned, degraded, beaten, challenged, and made to serve... I am being pushed to do my best and getting rewarded for it. Instant gratification for the attention whore. Negative attention or positive attention, the end result is a message that says I am worth the trouble. When I'm being tied up it's proof that I am worth taking the time to pay special attention. When I am being fucked it means I am lovable. When I am being ravished and exploited, it means that I am desirable. When I am pleasing, it gives me a purpose. When the scene is over, when the post coital bliss has faded, the cruel torment of coming back to reality is a harsh jolt. The subdrop is slow to set in but lingers once it develops, as I adjust to the empty neglected feeling of being deprived after so much attention. Nothing in life can compare to the safe, nurturing, caretaking that comes with consenual abuse. Nothing makes me feel so accomplished and adored and fulfilled. Then after it's over, it's back to reality, where you are promised nothing, where it is impossible for someone to provide everlasting attention, nothing lasts, moods are fickle and fleeting, and the moments are as uncertain as two bipolar people in love.

What was it I was suddenly finding so appealing in such a gritty, stripped down, and effortless appearance?
Because, I finally realized, it is so provocative in its raw honesty.
It isn't counter culture in protest of beauty.
It isn't the fantasy of beauty that sells you the feeling of being desirable.
It isn't striving for perfection, or striving at all.
It catches you off guard because it isn't trying to be anything.
You don't have to stretch the imagination, or suspend disbelief.
It isn't making a statement.
It isn't beauty, traditional
or untraditional.
It simply is.
And that seems to be the aesthetic that I have found to be the most mysterious about my own image, as of late.

they stood holding hands in the rain waiting to cross the street, and they jokingly made a suicide pact
she promised that if he ever left her she would slit her wrists
and he swore that if she ever left he would shoot himself and fall off the golden gate bridge
well that settled that, now they had both admitted that without the other they couldn't live
openly agreeing that alone, each of them were nothing
that without the other, they were worthless
they pinky sweared and sealed the tragedy with a kiss

she found that she liked to talk about herself in the third person
so she could gain some outside perspective on her situation
or so she could distance herself from reality and tell it like it was a fairy tale
it was getting harder to deny... she was losing touch with reality.

time to go back to basics, she thought.
she wanted to conquer her own world
scrub the kitchen, hang up the laundry, prepare for the work week ahead, do an hour of core strengthening exercises, and read a whole book
she wanted to take back the control
continue deluding herself that she had any control to begin with
she wanted to wither and curl up in the cold and bawl for her neglected self
she wanted to beat the walls down with her rage and tear open her flesh
she wanted to medicate, go numb, go further away, and give up
but she settled for the basics.
bathing, clothing, and feeding herself.
breathing.

the simplest things
that were overlooked while the drama pulsed and throbbed inside and around her
she sat, pondering her inevitable aloneness
and thought back to the eternal promise of a mere mortal man
if only we could predict the always and forever's
and prevent the never again's
if only life offered any certainty

today the tears fell right on cue with the first rain
the grey day drizzled itself away and soon became black
the silence echoed inside her cocoon
the prolonged stillness set in
and that is where the story ends

I've been seeing this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S_vVUIYOmJM
going around for a while and have avoided it, because I could guess the overall message.
This video has bothered me for years:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYhCn0jf46U&


I understand what it's trying to say, yes our perception of beauty is distorted. Yes, celebrities and advertisements are all airbrushed in Photoshop. That's the reality of the Beauty Industry, the irony being that it is unrealistic. However, as someone who perpetuates the beauty myth by applying makeup to people, I can't really take issue with this. It's an industry of smoke and mirrors, it's all pure illusion. Granted, when I apply makeup to people, I will try to let their natural beauty shine through, and not completely mask their features to look fake. But sometimes that is what is called for. Sometimes you want to change your look in a dramatically different way. Models are meant to be blank canvases, and with the tools of makeup, hair, and styling, they get to come alive and play a role. And the allure in this, is that it draws in the viewer because we want to be seduced by this fantasy of beauty. "All the world's a stage", right? The truth is, the public doesn't really want to see untouched photos. We have come to expect flawless features and symmetry. We have already bought into the illusion. We can acknowledge that yes, this is an illusion, and that obviously no one looks like this naturally. But if celebrities weren't airbrushed anymore, they would lose their magic, they wouldn't be seen as these demi-gods anymore. They would be mere mortals like any of us, who have bags under their eyes, birthmarks, stretchmarks, yellow teeth, and blemished skin. The horrors! No one wants to see our celebrities lose their shiny appeal. We hold them up as idols, so we can watch them closely and then judge them when they fall short of perfection. In reality, we don't want our advertisements to be untouched either, because no one wants to buy a product where the cosmetic being sold doesn't make the model 100% flawless. There are a few principles to the advertising industry that we have all known for decades: 1) Sex sells. and 2) Advertisements lie. It's as simple as that. So yes, I, along with everyone else, respond to sexually charged ads, and photoshopped images catch my eye and pull me in. That is how it is meant to work. If you are selling pimple cream and the model has textured skin, no one will believe that the product works! If you are selling tooth whitener and the model has anything but a brilliant blinding photoshopped WHITE smile, no one is going to buy that product.

Photoshop is indeed amazing, because it can make your lips and lashes fuller, your figure slimmer, your color richer, and make any image more balanced. Most of the images in my portfolio have been touched up with the Healing Brush, Hue/Saturation, and Liquify tools. Any photographer I work with is going to process the photos before releasing them, meaning they go in and touch them up here and there with Photoshop, to make an already gorgeous image even more "picture-perfect". If a photographer were to release a raw image that hasn't been touched up, it wouldn't effectively represent their work. There is just as much illusion created in post production, as there is before a model is prepped and put in front of the lens. Without those tools, the final result may fall short of our expectations of a beautiful image. Photoshopping people's appearances certainly can be taken to extremes that are almost comedic it is so ridiculous- drastically altering a person's figure to remove half of their body mass, and really that is just silly. Magazines and advertisements can abuse Photoshop and present us with an awfully distorted interpretation of "beauty", but I don't think we are supposed to actually believe it is authentic. I believe that the illusion serves a purpose. I'm not here to say that it is okay to try and convince young girls, or adult women, or any group of people that they "should" look a certain way, or else they're not beautiful. It would be wonderful if we all simply embraced who we are with all our imperfections. But I think many of us have our own insecurities and self-criticisms of our body image, that would exist even without the invention of Photoshop, even without the Advertising or Beauty Industries. We are all imperfect beings, striving for perfection in some way.


I explain my Make-up Artist services on my website as such:

Beauty can be defined as: “The quality that gives pleasure to the mind or senses and is associated with such properties as harmony of form or color, excellence of artistry, truthfulness, and originality.” Whether that form of Beauty is a simple flattering makeup, a dramatic character makeup that enhances or disguises the features, or an extreme FX makeup, Chrysalis Rose can transform her canvas of the face and body in any number of artistic ways. Chrysalis Rose believes that Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and promises that the make-up techniques she provides will help to open your eyes to your own unique brand of Beauty.

“All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” The Make-up Art Chrysalis creates facilitates the ongoing play, and provides the magic of transformation for all the players as they make their exits and entrances in this life. Chrysalis' Make-up is sometimes used for entertainment purposes, sometimes to help people become something else other than what they were before the artistic application, sometimes to help people rise to a level of being, so that they are free to celebrate or act in ways their natural selves cannot. Make-up can be corrective when necessary, however it is the mission of Chrysalis Rose to use Make-up to enhance what is already within, and bring it to the surface.

He echoes he echoes he echoes he
Said, You have to go away so I can miss you.
The words that wounded with painful reality
And left traces of doubt to haunt her insecurities
Long after it was all said and done with
The poison sealed under the scar.

Push me pull you, come here, now leave
Don't leave, stay and fight
She echoes, ears ringing

Which is more painful,
Living in the reality or the fantasy?
We have to decide eventually, what's it going to be.
When did honesty become an insult?

He echoes he echoes he echoes he
Says, I have to go away [so I can miss you]
And when it's said, it's done.
The separation so painful
Saying only, I love you, in the end

Because goodbye is a lethal wound.

The night is clear and cold in the still of the dark season
Tonight you can feel the icy isolation looming
I put my back to a tree and ask for its strength
My spine against it is a fragile sapling
Struggling to survive, straining to put down healthy roots
I feel the chill all around me, eerily silent and discomforting
I watch the homes around me flicker inside
Inhabited, yet devoid of life
Just as vacant inside as I am, alone tonight
My chambers echo, reverberating within
Caverns of deep dark depths
Unknowing, remaining unfilled
And yet, those same insides are on fire
Threatening to burst forth from me like spitting lava
The fiery core of my depths spewing out
Only to die down and grow cold once more
The cycle repeats, as cycles do

Back on the inside of my likewise flickering home
The candles hastily flicker their lives away
Only to extinguish themselves
Short lived and sadder than dying stars
I flick on the television
And feel the glow of the screen
Administering its drug of distraction
Unwavering, the vacancy takes up residence
The hours pass by, forwards and backwards
and I alone, inside myself
stand, now sit, now stand, now sit
and yet remain unmoved.

Some nights she insists on getting a little too high
just so she can take her leave of consciousness just a little bit longer.
She'll stay out just a few extra minutes to feel her lungs fill with smoke a few more times
until she is stumbling down the sidewalk and the few steps up the driveway and then down her stairs.
And she'll savor every moment in this routine, as a familiar forgotten ritual of habit.
And she'll leave the present so hard to bear,
And sometimes step sideways to look at it all,
And sometimes step backwards to feel it all,
And sometimes step forward to find hope in it all.

And she wonders- her young self- what her old self will be.
And she thinks, maybe the older her is remembering back,
at this same moment as the present self wonders forward.

And she wonders if there is so much more to let go of in this life,
and if there is, what does that look like?
And she tries to imagine a her that is even more stripped down, and boiled down, and bare.
And she laughs to herself, because quite frankly, she says, I don't think it can get more basic than this.

Your child self is crouching down to peer through the curtained windows into what it will look like to become such a grown up.
And the grown up inside is wondering what that will look and feel like.

Ah, how she tires of her self. Self, this present self.
She wants to wish and worry and wonder all the present self away
Until it is no more present
Until it is no more self
And so she wrestles with the restlessness of staying in this moment
Keeping the boredom at bay. Barely.

Maybe the older her is kinder.
Maybe she is wiser.
Maybe she is gentler with her self and gentler with others.
Maybe she has a few more scars, and maybe a bit of well worn softness.
And maybe older she can lovingly forgive present me.
Maybe she would smile to think of present me struggling so in earnest at the time,
Because I just hadn't got it yet. and the big joke, I chuckle,
is that I'm never going to get it, because it's not mine to control.
Not mine to see. Just mine to be.

I can picture this older she who has her shit together,
she still fucks up, falters, picks herself back up with gentleness this time,
and she just moves forward in living.
And she is living life to the fullest, whatever that means, she's doing it.
And she doesn't survive, and she doesn't over analyze, and she doesn't catastrophize.
She just enjoys her life. In the middle road.
For the first time ever in this future fantasy
It doesn't feel... boring.
It just feels like a warm hearth home contentment.
Like the embrace of a room full of family around the fire.
And she can feel that same energy inside her heart radiating out
When she embodies that older mother to herself.
And she thinks, ah. I can't wait to get there.
It doesn't seem so unfamiliar now.
I can sort of close my eyes, and fall in love with myself,
the new self I'm becoming.
And it isn't scary now. Its sad somehow. But its very divine in its happening.

She breathes honey
But spits vinegar
She loves and loves and loves
with the one condition that you love her back unconditionally
If she isn't needed, her love serves no one, serves no purpose
Every night she curls up to an extinguished fire for warmth

Fail again
Wonder why
Fail harder
Use that brilliant imagination
to worry the problems into existence
Create your own reality
Where you are a stranger in this world

Catastrophize Dramatize Over-Analyze
The repetition of 'Relax' responds once more
His daily answer to her questions
He promises an empty 'everything is fine'
And dismisses the bottomless sorrows, that in truth he cannot address
Security slipped through the cracks of a newly built foundation

I've convinced myself everything is breaking
I've felt broken most of my life
I seem to succeed in breaking down my love, his love, our love
Until its unrecognizable

I want to go home,
But he doesn't live there.

The longer I stay here
The more often I find myself compelled to be intoxicated
Just so I can bear the uncomfortable feeling
This creeping feeling
That my heart is incapable of being satiated
That my mind is incapable of releasing
The more convinced I become that this is all your fault
All your doing
Ever present simply by your presence
Does time march forward, or lag behind us?
Can our time together be lost?
Is it actually possible for time to be wasted?
My sober mind can't tolerate the confusion.


You could promise me the world
And I would still want more than the world
Give me the entire verse to fill this void
Fill me with the creation of the universe
The God that we are
Holes become Holy
With understanding
Enter the darkness
And you'll find me there.
Waiting for God, pretending he's not right there.

I fear I've lost him
Lost him to frustration
Lost him to impatience
Lost him to boredom
Lost him to complacency
Lost him from being beaten down with inadequacy
Lost him to stress or depression
Lost him to guilt piled on top of guilt
Lost him to the escape of sleep
Lost him to the comfort and habit of endless screens flickering
Lost him to passive resistance
Lost him to perceived rejection and neglect
Lost him to distance
Lost him to time
Lost him to thoughtlessness
Lost him to forgetfulness
Lost him to attention from others
Lost him to his own pursuits
Lost him to interests outside of me
Lost him to boundaries, healthy or unhealthy

I fear he is slipping away from me
I fear he is almost out of reach
I fear that sooner or later he will slip from my grasp altogether
I fear he was never mine to begin with
I fear that his mind and his heart are his own
I fear that my mind and heart will always be his

Amidst all this fear lies a seed of hope
Waiting in the darkness, germinating.
I am the darkness, and I must tend to that soil
And wait for my heart to return back to myself
Wait for him to turn back to me
Hope is not lost, hope is simply waiting
Waiting for the proof that the seed will take root
And one day, hope will become more than hope.
One day, we will bloom into our own creation
Of being.