What Am I doing? That is a fantastic question. The entirely vague and vaguely personal answer is that I’m finally writing this damn thing. Apparently I’ve been pathetic… and in the course of becoming pathetic, I’ve gone completely insane. How the hell did I get here?

This blog… dear Lord, I’ve been saying it was going to happen for years. I said it when I was modeling, then when I started photography, then of course when I became the insane modelographer, the traveling modelographer, the meandering musician (who was also a modelographer), the ultimate modelographer… there were a ton of them (physical manifestations of multiple personalities is like… a somewhat serious and rare mental disorder, eh? Heh… anyhow… the modelographering was unfocused and chaotic, so the attempt at blogging was the same.

So, it’s about time I did something for me that was actually for me and proliferating my ego all over the internet. I am writing this first and foremost, for myself. I have always considered myself a writer, but it recently dawned on me that I haven’t really been writing anything over the last few… decade and some. The last time I had something like this going it was during the Free Open Diary and MySpace glory days of 1999-2004. My FOD was amazing – I had been keeping it since the beginning of my senior year of high school and I continued to maintain and update it vigilantly for the first two and a half years that I lived in Boston – so late 2000 through early 2003 has been very thoroughly documented.

And when I say thorough, I mean that from these journal entries you can actually smell stale cigarettes wafting off of Katya’s UFO pants, sense the delirium that numerous consecutive multi-night stints of chemically induced insomnia will create, hear jazz riffs being played at 300 bpm over… well… any piece of music that existed, experience the deja vu that accompanies so many cocktails of dissociative hallucinogenic methamphetacocaine will facilitate and you can also totally experience the deja vu that accompanies so many cocktails of dissociative hallucinogenic methamphetacocaine will facilitate.Seriously, I could put stenographers to shame with a pen and a piece of paper. Heh, I feel like that sort of attention to detail could have really served me well in some well-meaning society-oriented legitimate profession. I feel like these days of family and children and precious moments and all that crap would be a more meaningful and sentimental record to etched into my brain for all eternity than Katya the Crackhead Cavewoman of St. Germain Street. Don’t worry, she’s still there, she just doesn’t like to leave a paper trail when she rides off into the twisted facets of yesterday’s sunsets. So other than myself, I am writing this for everyone out there with a past, a present and a future. The things that happened yesterday did not happen today, and tomorrow is another day entirely. Seriously, I just said that. But hey, it works. I like it.

As I mentioned before, I started this whole thing initially because I wanted to talk about movies. But more than that, I want to share my writing, my photography and talk about other stuff… and, of course, movies. It would be really exciting if this actually caught on and attracted some sort of a following. It’s about my incessant need to document my hours and random brain storms, and – as with most things – it’s about the art, dammit!

Why am I doing this? There are a few layers to this one. First of all, I’m doing this because it has absolutely nothing to do with Donald Trump and all of the other crap that’s abundant and inundating and… everywhere.

In this era of social justice warriors, the PC patrol infiltrating every aspect of existence, celebrities in office, incorrect biological gender associations, precious little snowflakes and the totality of the population – regardless of whether or not they have actually experienced something traumatic because you know, just hearing about it or having to imagine it can have irreversible detrimental effects on your health and psyche FOREVER – being diagnosed with complex PTSD because it suits them, I am constantly finding myself without a “relevant” opinion. And even more as the time goes by, I am finding myself without compassion for anyone or anything happening to anyone anywhere.

It’s a sign of the times, ya’ll – this is what I call being desensitized. It wasn’t violent video games that did it, it was Facebook (so shocking, I know). I don’t like all of the stupid arguments, I don’t like the media frenzy, I fucking hate all of the Trump jokes/memes/farces/parodies/belittling/making-fun-of/etc. (it wasn’t entertaining when he was running for election, it wasn’t entertaining when he was elected, it wasn’t entertaining when he was inaugurated and now it really is not at all funny, entertaining, clever or anything that could be described as remotely clever or meaningful.

I can’t even watch the news anymore, or go on social media because I’d like to be able to maintain some friendships and, you know, sleep at night. I can’t do that if I’m immersed in the crap-splattering from places where people actually think they’re capable of having intelligent, meaningful and civil conversations about this this stuff if their perspectives vary AT ALL TO ANY DEGREE WHATSOEVER – and on the other side of that equation, I know I’m posting about personal stuff on a forum for people who are just way more sophisticated and socially evolved than I am so I highly doubt anyone’s reading. It’s been years since I’ve tried to find another means by which I can publicly and prolifically advertise my insanity to an audience that doesn’t already have an opinion of me based on the opinions of everyone else. It’s kind of like graduating from high school and moving onto college all over again… except this time it’s all in my head…

… that’s why I am doing this.

And posting my photography uncensored. That’s another reason. All that stuff, and naked photography.

I’ll get inside your head. Somehow, some way. You won’t even necessarily see it coming. In fact, should you find yourself in a state of actively hating my guts, you are on the verge of a love that you may never understand. Just you wait, I’m elusive like that.

I guess this whole thing was really born in a desperate attempt to find my identity after the birth of our second child wiped it off the face of the earth. After my first child was born I was going to write this whole “I am a photographer, I am a mom, I am awesome!” kind of blog that I tended to see a lot from other models and photographers who managed to assume their art without missing a beat after having kids, but I was not feeling inspired or awesome for almost a year after my daughter was born. Then when I finally got back into shooting, there was no way in hell I was going
to spend my spare time writing about what I was doing – it was amazing that I was actually doing anything.

Around the time that I was finally feeling like my pre-baby self – shooting again, modeling again, becoming a much more functional mother and human being – and was starting to reproach the idea that I might actually have a voice and something to say that isn’t completely idiotic, I found out that I was pregnant with my son. A lot of women find pregnancy inspiring, or at least start writing during pregnancy to help with the anxiety. This was not going to work for me, pregnancy brain rendered me incapable of being able to do anything besides watch baseball (let’s go Os…) and cry. And, obviously, I could also watch football and cry when the preseason started… in case you were wondering. But writing, that was far too intricate and complicated for me to attempt to wrap my mind around.

The post-partum year was rough. It was definitely the most emotionally trying year in recent memory. It was a year that was very real, very informative, very constructive in the end, but definitely not a year that would have given me a voice capable of expressing sentiments other than how dark the nights were and how long were the hours… little bleak. But, we move forward. And here we are – approximately nine years after the first time I felt compelled to attempt to write a blog.

I’d like to think that the last decade, my life experiences and the perspective I’ve acquired has finally given me something to say that isn’t completely asinine. I’d also like to think that I may have managed to retain a few bits and pieces of myself from back in the day, I may still have a bit of charisma. I guess we’ll see how that plays out.

I am prolific, dammit. I always have been. My English teacher in 11th grade told me my writing was verbose and I thanked him.

Photo by Maria Smith, Nevermore Photography 2016

But it’s not always (even to me) a good thing. I’m always driven by some sort of artistic passion or desire for some sort of creative expression (like I said, it’s not necessarily a good thing)… it’s actually kind of like a mental tick, but I like to think of it as a skill. I also have a hell of a time letting things go – and that applies to things that I create. I can feel them (yes, I am talking about my creations as “them”) harboring evil intent toward me the longer they sit around unfinished. I create the ideas of monsters, put them into the heads of dragons, chain them down and wait for them to either turn on me or die of starvation. In other words, I need to do something with the shit that I create or else I can’t move on with my life or with my art.

I create the ideas of monsters, put them into the heads of dragons, chain them down and wait for them to either turn on me or die of starvation.

… so yeah, all that stuff, naked photography, and being obnoxiously prolific in a subdued-type manner. Epic.

Posted in Me

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s