Thank you all for your lovely comments to this, I am a misery at times and sometimes the whole thing just needs to be let out, for my sanity as much as anyone else’s.  I didn’t expect such comments and they made me feel so grateful that there are people offering lovely words to me when I’m just throwing it all out there brazenly, and moping like a sad sad little creature.


I can’t quite describe how I feel and the rarity in my life is I’ve been listening to music again. Sometimes songs fit the moment so well, but I’m not musical, and I never have been (apart from a brief foray into the keyboard at the age of eleven- disastrous when you’re tone deaf). The music I grew up around has stayed with me, Portishead, Nirvana, Pink Floyd, Radiohead, can you tell my parents listened to happy music? Sometimes a collection of songs sums it all up so well. I made a terrible playlist. You can always follow me on spotify (I’ve shared on facebook too, which you can like here).


Tracey Emin: WHAT (SAUCE:Here)

The other day I read this article in i-d about artists, young artists and drawing. Obviously they mention Tracey Emin, who, you(maybe?) + I can empathise with, the rawness of her feelings laid out in a drawing, it’s poetic and painful all together.

Its re-emergence has something to do with the openness, shareability and personability of Web 2.0. Emin might be one of the most famous artists working today who extensively uses drawing, but young artists are returning to it in their droves, often as a way of connecting digital art to a wider psychological examination.

The article sums up in one how drawing can be so integral, to not just the artist, but forging connections (how-ever much in vain that hope is).

And it’s in this meeting point, between the psychological and conceptual, that maybe gives the best indication of how drawing will survive and thrive in the future, its flexibility allows it to embrace its contradictions between privacy and openness, simplicity and conceptuality, cartoonish humour and psychological evaluation.

Drawing for me is a challenge and my sketchbooks a history of not just my artistic growth, but my life and feelings, my behaviours and things I do, a reaching out in bizarre fashions that doesn’t quite make sense, a jarring- juxtaposition, that may or may not relate on a deeper level to my life and mental health. There is something so simple and delightful about drawing, and it is easier to see a trajectory of improvement.

I haven’t drawn in days, nothing of note. Maybe I should try.

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You Don’t Know About Me

I was going to write a nicely condensed list of things blog readers who don’t actually get my witty personality in real life might not know. (Cleverly titled “Things You Don’t Know About Me”) Then I decided it’d be much more fun if you left me questions and then I can reply to them in a later blog post, or even a FAQ.

Exciting isn’t it?

No, not terribly.

Today I’m doing every bloggers favourite whinge of “Would anyone notice if I didn’t blog?” and expecting the universe to answer with a resounding and positive “Yes“.



You gotta mouth but you ain’t got guts
That drunken mouth you should keep it shut

You don’t know what it’s been like
Meeting someone like you


Do we ever really know people though? I feel so ostracised, at work, in the street. I could stand for hours letting the rain fall down my face watching everyone else, desperate for that connection, the indescribable one.

It’s a bit like static electricity, hairs on the neck, that kind of connection. I hate small talk and thrive from people who I can get down to the nitty-gritty with. Which could be why I have the ease of talking to complete strangers only when I’ve had a skin-full.


I can and do spend hours researching infamous serial killers, and those dregs of humanity, those which were written off as “mad” or “bad”. I keep thinking about writing to Charles Bronson, and how fascinating all these people are.

Those that have seen the boundaries we all live in, and literally smashed through them, making up their own rules and at times, appearing to not feel the consequences of the heinous crimes they’ve committed.

Maybe infamy is easier to achieve than fame? Maybe the narcissism that is in an artist is in all serial killers?



I don’t even feel like an artist right now. If I think of the image the word artist conjures up in my minds eye, I’m not even close. I feel like my heart has been strung out and left to rot. I am completely convinced that at this point I’m never going to achieve.

Maybe I’m greedy for something, because I’m sure everyone is gonna tell me how I have achieved and “you’ve come so far“. It doesn’t feel like that though, and telling me well done for past accomplishes doesn’t make me feel any better about my position today.

Sometimes you get better support stating what you don’t want to hear.


I wanted to post more organically, to give me space to actually write about what I wanted to write, and I’m trying to hold back from posting 30 times a day, as my thoughts feel so alien and my feelings feel detached.

I go crazy ’cause here isn’t where I wanna be
And satisfaction feels like a distant memory
And I can’t help myself,
All I wanna hear her say is “Are you mine? ” 



I’m not adverse to taking risks, I’ve taken some really stupid and dangerous risks in the past, and surprisingly they’ve paid off in the luckiest of ways, and I am terribly unlucky normally. So it’s not that, I’m not someone that goes searching for change, and I hate looking stupid, I’m secretive, believe it or not.

Maybe liking myself is not the start of the journey, it’s the destination.

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Down By The River

Ruin the good moments, it’s all you’re good for, down by the river, down by the water.

The wind is angry today, violently whipping in the trees and taking the rubbish and lifting it high. This is Autumn, a pre-courser to Winter and the world whispers change.



If my soul was 100% when I was born, it must be running at 50%. I used to be so free and easy, leaving bits of myself around carelessly. My hopes, my dreams, my thoughts were taken and warped by those I confided in and adapted for other things. Parts of me were stolen when I laid in a drunken haze, someone else’s bed, someone else’s energies, their space and here was the mess that was Erin Veness filling it up with all her negative aurora.

How many times did I leave parts of me behind? Like mould growing in those who had a tendency to melancholy, I exhausted them, desperately stealing their mind space, that look that became second nature to those who cared, who maybe didn’t understand but could see with their x-ray-spex.

Erin, you’re not going to find absolution there.

Disease of the mind spreading and engulfing myself and those in between, there was me and there was me and neither were truly 100% there.



Just keep kicking until your legs give way.

My life seems to become this quest for all the philosophical questions that no-one can give me a concrete answer to. Reading Camus, Russell et al doesn’t help either. My thoughts struggle to form coherently and I feel like I’m throwing words out there and hoping they come back in a succinct sentence.


No such luck.

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