The Last Time

So, after the removal of my presence from Facebook, I’ve decided to disconnect myself from Instagram as well. I’ve already had content scraped from the platform, and the events of the last week have served to make me realise that, however attractive a platform might seem, sometimes you can spread yourself too thinly.

Therefore, starting next month, all of my visual content will be posted on Twitter exclusively, before being archived on the various websites I possess. The existing Art Aesthetics project, which is 19 days in, will be finished at the weekend and posted in its entirety to this website on Monday, March 25th.

Thank you for your understanding.

Only Myself to Blame

When I saw the Cambridge Analytica story break on Saturday night, ahead of the expose in the Guardian on Sunday, I made the point to my husband that by this time in the week ahead, it would be all anyone was talking about. Last night, he came and congratulated me for my foresight. I’ve not had a serious Facebook presence for many years, and the only reason name is not deleted completely from the platform is that it is a requirement when one advertises using a Facebook page. There are no illusions when it comes to my presence on the platform. I’m there to build a brand.

The platform, however, isn’t interested in my needs, only its own.


I only have two ‘friends’ linked to my main Facebook page, and sometimes five or six times a day the algorithm attempts to get me to follow somebody they know. I’ve spent an hour some days clicking ‘remove’ until the list is clear, to come back the next day and find everybody is back. This ‘social network’ does not take no for an answer. Saying you are not interested is insufficient. It continues to hassle you until you either give in or stop listening. Those people now wanting to blame the people behind the application for the damage it has caused fail to grasp that it is not just drug dealers who are culpable for addiction issues. Facebook is our fault too.

What continues to strike me with amazement, is the willingness some people accept the virtual world as being fact. It isn’t just fake news either: yesterday, someone popped up in my Twitter mentions, assuming I was an artist because a news article about said individual was linked in relevance to an item I was promoting. The leap in logic that took place was, frankly, staggering, but it also demonstrated an arrogance of perception that should be giving many people cause for considerable concern. Social media makes us believe that major World events are ours to influence, whilst sitting in front of a screen or holding a mobile device.

The truth, of course, is anything but.


The arrogance of many people is now even more apparent than ever before: watching key players in the row trying to blame each other is almost comical when the truth remains that if we as users hadn’t have insisted we all needed this platform, none of it would have happened. If individuals organised themselves better, didn’t think success equated to huge follower numbers and stopped believing the future exists in a cloud and not in front of them… The Internet is a brilliant place when it’s just a library, or a repository for knowledge. It’s totally fine with small groups of people who organise their own rulesets. The problem comes when someone turns up and wants to make money from your ignorance and fear.

This has always been the way the World has worked, people who seem to think this manipulation is somehow new. Religion has used these tactics to subjugate populations and keep the rabble in check for thousands of years. Don’t worry, people of faith, I’m not about to diss your omnipotent overseers. I’m looking at a Catholic Church that would tell people there was no way they’d get into heaven without a payment plan. I’m remembering the Snake Oil sellers and the guy who convinced you he could make it rain simply by doing a dance. Playing on basic individuals needs to be loved, popular and not alone… happened since the Human race came out of the caves. Sure, there needs to be better regulation of such things, but honestly?

Only ourselves to blame here.


Today, I’ll be removing my Facebook presence for good using this Guide. On considered reflection, if it matters that much, then someone can start a fan page for me. Other people can post my links to their pages. If they want me, I’m here, in a place that I regulate under my own terms and conditions. This way there is no need to then get frustrated at the daily efforts to make me be ‘social’ which are nothing more than beating me up and hoping finally I give in to make it stop. That’s not how you make people care, and it is certainly not a future that is either desired or preferable.

Sometimes, the only way you make things better isn’t to hope somebody else solves the issue, but to attack it for yourself.



There. That’s sorted now.]

Experimental :: White

Bleached out, harsh albescent morning:
Bitter wind flattens inner growth
As the daffodils falter,
Spring ironed from their stems;
Crushed hope in winter’s hardened grip.

Too much else to think:
Mind shatters under pressure drop
Let me run away, wrap up
Warm and safe from decisions
Crushed by inability, no understanding.

Washed out, blank consciousness
Bitter apprehension, cold and fearful:
When the body will not rise, deformed
By rough, white contamination,
To little left to give.

Poetry Archive :: There Was No Glory

I’ve spent a lot of time in the last few weeks researching Art History: sculpture is an intrinsic part of man’s expression, from simple carving to increasingly sophisticated works of anatomical complexity and accuracy. It was this desire to record history in three dimensions that ultimately inspired this week’s haiku.

You can find my Art History series on Instagram by clicking here.

There Was No Glory

History, written
In stone across centuries:
Strong, solid stories.

All those deities
Religious diversity:
Bound by common theme.

Struggle to survive,
Wars and conflict: their reward,
Carved as testament.

There was no glory
At moment’s definition:
Simply quiet relief.

Lasting legacy,
Entropy not yet destroyed:
Victory, remains.

Poetry Archive :: Did it Again

It is becoming increasingly impressive how a poem written at the start of a week ends up as being more apposite than when first written. It is almost as if life is imitating art. In this case, this is a pretty accurate representation of the balancing act that takes place between my brain and body, and that the consequences of ignoring one for the other does end up having a physical affect on my life.

I think I might go have a nap after I’ve scheduled these poems.

Did It Again

Waking again before the dawn
With mind racing, ideas unborn:
Creative need inspires the soul,
But is not helping body’s whole.

This always happens, every time
Believing everything is fine,
My creativity demands
Physical cost, out of my hands.

For days the sleep I badly need
Is sacrificed, comfort concedes
Battle to my higher functions,
Causing physical malfunctions.

These bruises, bumps and scrapes attest
Physical status is oppressed:
No need now to co-ordinate,
Make use of brain, before too late.

When finally the moment’s passed
My body’s first request, when asked
Is not for exercise we skipped
But simply for a nice, long kip.

Hymn Before Action

This weekend, it is time to instigate some change in my working space.


The reduction in content and volume has been on the cards for a while: half this stuff never gets used, and I could do with more space. My PC desperately needs a clean, and I can schedule everything needed to publish over the weekend. There had been a plan to do some garden work but looking at the weather forecast, that is highly unlikely. Everything needs a chance to dry out first. These internal changes will very positively impact my working space and (hopefully) lead to far more productivity going forward.

It’s also way more fun than painting a fence.


I’ll document my changes, and be back on Monday with more novel gubbins, some new poetry and thoughts on how to sell yourself in the modern world.

Enjoy your weekend, folks.

Run for Home

For as many days as it has been possible this week, I’ve dragged myself into the Gym. Amazingly, only on two days has this been about exercise to a point. On the others, I’m there to use the treadmill as a writing tool. 

This is probably going to require some explanation.


Once upon a time, I’d have real trouble trying to work out how ideas would develop past that first massive burst of creativity. I then developed a means by which I’d use pieces of music effectively as the backgrounds for ‘narrative videos’ that would run in my head, roughly corresponding with the pace and timing of actions that would then be written down. It is the reason why that whenever I now hear ‘Whoops, I Did It Again’ by Britney Spears I don’t think about the music video that accompanies it, but my fanfic-created Bond heroine Ronni Flemmings bursting out of a control room using a chair as a shield and summarily killing Ernst Stavro Blofeld completely by accident.

I’ve ruined a lot of pieces of music this way, but the destruction of meaning is always worthwhile.

Before I got as serious about exercise as I have now become, being on a treadmill with a musical soundtrack used to be the means by which I’d sort out the kinks and holes in narratives. Returning to my novel over this last six weeks has made me grasp that there was no longer the time to do this: suddenly, whenever I’m doing physical stuff it is to meet a target or complete an objective. The simpler days of just walking and thinking have somehow gone amiss. Therefore this week, re-instigating the treadmill as a writing tool required a massive twenty-five track playlist, constructed in chronological order to match my action. Most significantly, none of the music must have been made after 2005.

On Tuesday I went into the Gym, plugged myself in and thirty minutes later had managed to solve three major issues that were holding me back in plot terms. Today, the last quarter of the book is blocked, with each major sequence ready to write. There’s also been a piece of music added, that forms a vital part of the late narrative, section I’ve been frightened to write for over a decade because of the intensely personal nature of the content. It is the means by which I tie past back to present, and remind the female protagonist of the life she once knew but has lost contact with. This track was the crack which burst the dam of writer’s block, once and for all, and I’ve not been able to stop writing since.

Every writer is different: how you maintain focus and drive as individual as eye colour or shoe size. For me, music is at the heart and soul of every piece written. Without it, I would be considerably less than a whole.

I predict a considerable amount of treadmill in my future.