... “If you haven't cried ...

... your eyes can't be beautiful.” -Sophia Loren

Sometimes, I wonder if people can see my pain .. my sadness.. in my images. Do you love me for the beauty of the photo.. or do you love me for the reflection of the void in my heart that you feel in yours?

I have chronic, mild to severe, joint & back pain. Always. Modeling was one of the most incredibly painful things I've done in my life, without fail. A good portion of why I had to stop traveling was due to the increasing level of pain that being on an airplane or in a car would cause me... still causes me. I am forced to seek steady, "real world" employment in the hopes of finding something with insurance that will allow me to have these issues diagnosed and treated on a regular basis.

Though.. sometimes I think giving up the "traveling model" identity .. might almost be more painful then the reason I had to let it go.

I deeply miss modeling. I miss the creativity.. the connection.. the flow of movement. I adored being the "chameleon", and the pleasure of seeing new images I helped create. It's an addiction.. a craving.. a need. There's an old superstition that cameras consume your soul. Every photo takes a piece of it until, eventually, there's nothing left of you except what's in the camera.

I suddenly understand why the story came about.

Modeling is a consuming, hungry, gluttonous thing. You give to it because it needs to take, and because you need to give. You feed the camera what you have inside of you, so that you might become the image .. the art.. the wonder of what it will give birth to. You become the blank canvas .. the hand, the eyes, the body .. you are no longer the name on your birth certificate. You are "Model".. and it will ravenously feast at the banquet of you until you become undeniably altered.

Am I better for this? I don't know.

I occasionally catch myself pining for it, like a lost love .. a heartache that throbs just enough to remind you some deeply engrained piece of you is missing.

Eyes are beautiful because they cry. Models are beautiful because they give, change, grow, become. 

.. Sometimes, the world ...

.. sometimes, the world really is flat.
Two sides and an edge that drops off into a deep void
with no air and nothing but my own heartbeat to hold on to.
So I spin 'round as quickly as I can,
faster and faster, 'round and 'round,
because if I spin fast enough
there's no edge, no finite place.

But I have to stop eventually.
The dizziness, the momentum, gravity
conquers again.
I fall.. the world falls.
Flat.
The sky is spinning, but the world has stopped.
I lie on the edge, crying as the sky spins overhead.
It's supposed to be round. It's not supposed to stop.

Why I can't I make it round? When did
Santa stop being real
the Tooth Fairy become my mother
Jack Frost stop painting my windows
circus clowns become old guys in paint
princesses become politics
the magic fade away?
my glass become harder to fill?

They don't tell you
that the dragon slayers
come home from battle with nightmares and
hollow spaces you can't fill.
that the sidewalk really does end
and you can get lost over the edge.
that sometimes Cinderella doesn't find a prince
and might just have to climb the tower to
rescue Rapunzel and slap Snow White for
sucking down poison to escape reality.
how the prince drinks and tickles the scullery maid
when he thinks you aren't looking and
leaves bruises that won't heal
and broken souls behind him.

How do I make it round again? make the
fairy tales have happy endings and
write my own.
I don't know how
but I will. I must. I can.
I believe
in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy,
carpets can fly, fairies still dance.
that the hero can slay the dragon, slay his dragons
and be okay.
that the prince will get
what's coming to him
and the princesses will
save each other in the end.
I will have
snowflakes on my window
and sing silly songs in the dark
read stories to my cat
and blow bubbles in the rain.

Live flat. I won't.
My world is round.

 “I do not believe that sheer suffering teaches. If suffering alone taught, all the world would be wise, since everyone suffers. To suffering must be added mourning, understanding, patience, love, openness and the willingness to remain vulnerable.” -Joseph Addison

Eve..

“Eve was not taken out of Adam's head to top him, neither out of his feet to be trampled on by him, but out of his side to be equal with him, under his arm to be protected by him, and near his heart to be loved by him.” -Matthew Henry

It's been over a year ..

Do I dangle myself over the edge.. praying that whoever is there to catch me can catch me, hold me, carry me, and keep me safe from myself..? Or do I just wait .. and keep on with this life as it is, hoping that I'll be able to find someone eventually who makes my world round again?

Going to be featured in the January 13th issue of Karin + Raoul magazine thanks to John Klukas and Aeric Meredith Guojon<3 http://www.karinandraoul.com/blog/2011/01/07/john-klukas-featured-in-karin-raoul-magazine-issue-no-3-addiction-%E2%80%93-jan-13/ 

It is set upon me..

.. to be who and what I am with the best of my ability, the most of my creativity, and the entirety of my heart .. to lose myself in it time and again, and to bring myself back from it with the knowledge that I may repeat the experience endlessly til the day I draw my final breath in this world.

This aching in my bones ..

the cold makes it hurt
makes it creak and groan.
So tired of long days, long nights
coast to coast flights in full planes.
Weariness I wear like a skin,
loneliness a bedfellow.
So tired.

Dreams again..

My book collection. Walking into my room and having my pick of a hundred or two beautiful masses of words to wrap myself into.. anything I want.. Philosophy, History, Fantasy.. any world I want. Pulling a story to read to someone, to share something that means so much to me...

Waking up next to someone special.. the warm, smooth arch of a spine under my hand.. the soft musk in his hair.. the gentle sound of sleep lulling me back into slumber. Long nights awake, so much shared with so little spoken.

Nightmares sometimes..

Loud, angry. Waking up with tears streaming down my face.. as if I could just cry enough, it'd stop .. please stop. Stop please, it hurts. You're hurting me, let me go.. please please god please just let me go. Whimpering, sobbing, begging, pleading, crying, screaming. Please let it be over soon, please. Feeling useless.. worthless.. as if it were my fault.. it had to be my fault .. I must have done something wrong, I made him angry.

Waking up..

some scars heal slowly. Painfully.

Breathe. In .. out ... again. Rinse, repeat.

See my scars?
They're there, I swear.
Criss-crossing my body, over arms, under thighs
lacing like spiderwebs over my hands
layer upon layer over my cheeks and eyes
small ones, fine ones
longer, thicker
caressing my stomach, my hips
gentle kisses and harsh screams
small tears, angry voices
some broken hearts and a few lost hopes
small hurts carefully plotted and planned
one here, two there, maybe one more next to these
hurt me, hate me, leave your mark
I'll carry your scar upon my heart
she hurt you, let me take the pain
he hit you, I'll make it go away
lost friends, lost homes, lost lost lost lost lost
it hurts to see sometimes
to look in a mirror and see these scars
twisted flesh, burnt and burning
ripped skin, careful cuts
marred surface, rippled with pain
everywhere, face, neck, shoulders, back
over my ribs, down my arms
so many scars, too many scars
can you see them? how can you not?
I see them. every day I see them.
everywhere.
They're there, I swear.

But you can't see them. Because they're inside.
These are my life experience. My "youth".. childhood tortures, teenage nightmares. Lost things, broken parts. I carry them because they mark a record of my life... so much life in such a short time.

These are my courage. My strength. My dreams, hopes .. the things I've survived, given up, taken back, given away, broken, healed.

These are my age. The record of who I am.. who I've been.. I can count them. Recount them.. stories, memories .. some hurt, some don't. Some are tears .. hot, painful, choking me. Some make me smile, laugh, sigh.

My heart feels old. So old.

These bones of mine. They ache.

I still feel you..

your heart beat, your breath
the hair against my skin
sweat and muscle flexing, pushing
the shake of your body
when you push into me, pull from me
the hurried moan
closer, further, harder
my nails digging, ripping
a hard thrust
my breath catches in my throat
your name pounding through my blood
pulling you closer, tighter
dragging you into me
fucking me, holding me
breaking me
bearing into me
release

I can feel you
in my sleep, in my waking
every morning
every night
I try not to
but still

I can feel you

I'm running out of glue..

.. I scrap it, start over, and it breaks again.
I try to glue it together, but there's pieces missing,
or they aren't fitting properly, or the glue isn't working just right.
So I have to toss it and start over.. again.
It's frustrating. I feel clumsy, awkward.
My hands shake every so often, and my coordination is just..
not quite right.. for what I need.
I get confused, trying to figure out where to go with it,
what to do with it.
For a few blissful moments, sometimes, I can forget about it,
focus on something else. But I can't.
Because some things just have to be done.
So I do them.
I'm tired now. My back aches, breathing hurts some nights.
I promised that when it wasn't worth the tears, I'd move on..
so it's time. Time for a new try. To scrap the mess and start over.
Take some old parts, some new parts, a bit of glue, paint, string,
a little spit, a lot of luck, and hope.

Hope. That tiny, fluttering thing that can almost be unbearable
sometimes to carry around. It swells and grows at the least word or
gesture. It betrays sometimes.. that false beacon from a lost and lonely lamp.
It hurts. The pain .. I need it some days. Because I'd rather hurt, even to the
utter core of my being, then feel nothing. Be nothing.

Because if it hurts, there's still a chance. Still Hope. Still something there to break and bleed and crack and crumble. So I hurt.

And start looking for more glue.

What dreams are made of ..

Her message:

"Hi Natalie, thank you for accepting my friendship. I was drawn to your photo for a reason I wasn't sure why until just now. You are a beautiful model and soul. I had a long run in Mary Kay where I loved working with my ladies doing makeovers and was taught by many artists through the years. Also, I have had a strong inner urge the past few weeks to get back into the world of being a make-up artist. I believe now, that through my connecting with you, I have my question answered. Thank you Natalie for answering my prayers. ♥ ♥ ♥"


My rely:

There are things, sometimes, that remind us why we do so love what we do, what we dream of, what we hope to give of ourselves to the world around us.



And sometimes, there are things that make everything we work for worth the tears, the struggle, the laughter, the joys..



Thank you. For answering my prayers. For showing me that somewhere, this was all worth it to one person. That it inspired and encouraged the dreams of a dreamer to change their world just a little.

I'm dreaming.. again..

Night after night.. different dreams, but not different.

---

A heavy breath.. rushing across my skin
lips touch mine, a tongue, a taste.
A push, an arm.. lifting, pulling
sliding me along a counter, then quickly
so quickly
onto the bed.
A soft moan, a soft growl, fingers fumble
then catch.. a button, buttons, a zipper
cloth slides off with a whisper.
Teeth pulling, biting, scraping
a moan, a sigh, my back arching
bending
your arm pulls closer.
My hand wraps across your neck, pulling
begging for that taste, those lips
My fingers search, find, grasp
you growl softly, I squeeze
pull, stroke.. firmly,
softly
you groan again and lift my head to you.
A taste.. soft lips wrapping softer skin
down, into the warmth, pinning my tongue
then up again, gently, firmly
and again, squeezing
and again
you push me back.
Hands pulling at my skin, digging
scratching, spanking, pinning me in place
legs parted, wrapped around
you push, I moan
deepest, hardest
and out
and again, back inside, harder, faster.
I almost scream, biting it off into your shoulder
bite harder, digging my nails down your back
pulling, dragging, you thrust
again and deeper
bury
yourself in me
fuck
me harder, faster
please
harder, deeper
more
oh god keep going
and you go
deeper
harder
faster
teeth and nails, hard muscle, soft skin
fisted hair, searching mouth
a taste, lips, tongue
you swallow my moans, my sighs
muscles tense, you growl
i whimper, you groan
what? you ask, harder. I say
faster, harder
more
fuck me
more
more
harder
SMACK your hand on my ass
as I
RIP my nails down your back
so tight. you say
so hard. I say
and we go
longer, harder
more
pushing me into the bed
pulling me to the edge
on my knees, i push
you growl
i push harder
you go deeper
i moan
harder
you
fuck
me harder
faster
so fast
so hard
AH FUCK
a growl, a groan that rocks my heart
i move, you grab me
i moan, you fall into me
into me, onto me
we breathe, you sigh
a heavy breath, rushing across my skin.

the dream fades.

---

I'm sitting in a chair outside the front door. The sun has mostly set.. there's a faint splash of color left in the clouds and a soft night breeze brushes the hair across my face. I'm waiting, anxiously. I jump a little at the barking of a dog as I hear the sound of an engine coming closer. It gets close, idles for a bit, then dies as a door opens and shuts. I'm looking at my knees, my hands shaking with small tremors. A pair of boots step into my line of vision.. a voice starts to speak, then stops suddenly, silently, as attention is brought to the small box and the smaller piece of plastic in my hand. A soft grumble, somewhere between a whisper and a growl, as callused hands reach forward and take mine. I hear a voice .. it sounds so small and quiet, I don't realize it's my own at first.. "It's positive". I look up slowly, a smile gently crossing my face as tears blur my vision..

the dream fades.

---

I'm standing in front of a mirror in a bedroom. It's a long antique mirror, tall enough to reflect my body from head to ankles. I'm standing in front of it, nude, and simply looking at myself.

As I watch, the reflection shifts. My body shifts. My hips grow a bit wider, my belly begins to take on that familiar form of life quickening inside. My breasts grow heavy and rounder, my back shifts to accommodate the change. I can see the faint stretch marks as my skin flexes and grows to take on this new shape. As I watch, seeing nothing but the change taking place, I hear a voice, calling my name.. lower and stronger then my own. It sounds like velvet, and I can feel my pulse quicken, my heart warm with the sound of it, as I gently run my hand over the weight in my belly. I reach out to the mirror.. as if to brush a speck away..

and the dream fades.

---

The next.. I'm sitting in the grass, leaning back against a strong body. Arms encircling me and the soft bundle in my arms. A laugh, a soft squeeze, a chin resting on my shoulder and tickling my neck as I look down at sigh happily at a small, sleeping face. A hand reaches around and runs a finger along a tiny cheek, and we both inhale softly as big eyes slowly open and try to focus. A big yawn from a tiny, tiny mouth, and as I shift my body to bring that face closer to the larger one behind me..

the dream fades.

---

I'm sitting on a sidewalk, completely covered in colored dust. I can feel it on my face, my clothing, my hair. A small hand comes into view, picks up a piece of chalk, and begins to crudely scrape a daisy into the gray expanse before us. She turns, and looks at me proudly as she surveys her handiwork, and I hear her voice for the first time.. "Mommy, can we draw a horse too?" I laugh, and pick up another piece of chalk .. "Yes, but you have to help me, you make the best ones". I lean forward onto my palms, and can feel the rough concrete working it's way into my skin, sending up a small cloud of dust from the rolling sticks that scatter as I move forward. I lean forward to catch one as it attempts to escape..

the dream fades.

---

They repeat, every few nights I have one or another.. not always exactly the same.. but almost..

It scares me sometimes.. the surety, the realism of them. I've woken up with tears running down my face and an aching emptiness in my arms. I run my hands over my torso, wondering what's real. I'll sit, for hours sometimes, playing it over again in my head, grasping as much as I can as the details begin to fade. You create yourself in dreams.. wishes, hopes, worries, fears .. sometimes ones you never really thought you had.

I find myself. I've found myself. That person I am, and the one I want to be. Where I want to be.

Now. The hard part.

Getting there.



Daughter.
Sister.
Friend.
Muse.
Artist.
Student.
Teacher.
Dreamer.
Hopeful Lover.
Someday Mother.

女兒。姐妹。朋友。藝術家。學生。老師。夢想家。有希望的戀人。某天母親。

A relic...

No, you are not a relic.. not some lost piece of something gone past. You are here, wholly and truly a part of this world, this age, this day.. and the next.

You are a living reminder of what it once meant to be human.. to be man. The love, the passion, the duty, the honor of a world that barely clings to existence.. mostly forgotten.. a world we ache for, yearn for.. cry out in the midst of our dreams for.

A memory that makes us fear that we are less then we could be, less then we should be.. of the aching need in our souls to leave our part in this life changed, better, for us having been here.

The warrior of our hearts, the hero of our songs
our dreams, the audacity to not be afraid
to embrace ourselves, to know ourselves.
To love, to loathe, to sing, dance, fight, fuck, to cry
with the honor of our own spirits,
the courage of our hearts,
with the desperate need of you
in deepest fantasy, furthest dreams, darkest fears.

The muse, the desire, the idea that pushes us
to be human, to be mortal and immortal.
To bear the burden of the pain, love, passion, fear;
to try, to fail, to try, to try harder, to live.
The rock we lean on, stand on-
river we follow, drink from-
wind that speaks to us, pushes us-
the fire, the burning aching knowledge
of what a man, a friend, a lover, a love, a person
could be,
would be,
should be.

You are human, you are here, now, with us.
And we are the better for it.

I'm naked..

bare, cold
wrapped in a broken heart and invisible scars
mourning a chance not given
tired, lonely, empty

I feel old.. too much life in too little lifetime.
bones aching, joints creaking
constant pain, followed by too many painful memories
I just want to be warm. safe. loved.

I ask too much, I'm not enough.
it tears.. hurts.
but if it makes you happy, in the end.
I'll be okay.

You asked me if I loved you.
I said I didn't know.

I do. and I do.
though you'll hate me for it.
I'll keep it in a box.
but

I do love you.
and I hate me for it.

I can..

almost hear you, feel you, taste you, touch you
haunting my thoughts, my dreams
unvoiced fantasies .. aching flesh
arching, begging, crying
for your hands, lips
I want your thighs between mine..
hard muscle, pushing, pulling
filling me..
bind me, bite me
fill me deeper, harder
I dream of you on me, in me
pulsing, throbbing painful need
your voice in my heart as you bury into me
dark, moist, yielding to you, enveloping you
I need you.. to hold me, hurt me, fuck me
trap me in your body, tangle me in your hair
swallow my moans, my screams, feed me yours
Pin me into the bed, grind your hips into my skin
bruise me, tie me, eat me alive
harder, faster, until I

SCREAM

your name to the stars and make the gods quiver in pleasure
clench your hands into my muscle, bury your face in my throat
shoving into my body and I dig my nails into your back

FUCK

me .. harder faster deeper HARDER
make my heart gallop along the shore
ride me, lead me, whip me til I cry for you

PLEASE

more, please, fuck me hold me tear me apart
I will beg for you, cry for you, bleed hurt scream for you
need you want you crying begging pleading for you

FUCK

me til you melt into me, pulsing, throbbing
slow shuddering melting breathing
Collapse into me..

then smile, laugh.. hold me close and envelop me in your arms, smell, touch
soft kisses, touches, laughter
a sigh, a squeeze..

sleep.
dreams.

I can almost hear you..

Follies..

“I cannot cure myself of that most woeful of youth's follies--thinking that those who care about us will care for the things that mean much to us.” -D.H. Lawrence

“Of all follies there is none greater than wanting to make the world a better place.” -Moliere

“Every man has his follies -- and often they are the most interesting thing he had got.” -Josh Billings

I'm in a mood today. I'll write something delicious in a little bit :)

Connotative Meanings..

So some people fuck.

Some people lust, romp, hokey pokey, horizontal mambo, make whoopie, knock boots, bump uglies, get "biz-ay", have relations, make some nookie, shag, hump..etc.

Some people get intimate, make music together, make love, make babies, etc.

In the end..

people feel love, lust, desire, passion, attraction, chemistry, animalism, aphrodisia, appetence, appetition, avidity, carnality, concupiscence, covetousness, craving, cupidity, desire, eroticism, excitement, fervor, greed, hunger, itch, lasciviousness, lechery, lewdness, libido, licentiousness, longing, prurience, pruriency, salaciousness, salacity, sensualism, sensuality, thirst, urge, wantonness, weakness, yen, adulation, affection, allegiance, amity, amorousness, amour, appreciation, ardency, ardor, attachment, cherishing, crush, delight, devotedness, devotion, emotion, enchantment, enjoyment, fervor, fidelity, flame, fondness, friendship, hankering, idolatry, inclination, infatuation, involvement, like, mad for, partiality, piety, rapture, regard, relish, respect, sentiment, soft spot, taste, tenderness, worship, yearning, zeal ....

or whatever other damn word they feel appropriately describes the feelings that cause flurries of coitus with another.

Whatever feelings or actions a word may describe to YOU isn't necessarily what it describes to anyone else.

Get the hell over the friggen connotative differences.

Falling Apart..

“Anyone can give up, it's the easiest thing in the world to do. But to hold it together when everyone else would understand if you fell apart, that's true strength.” -Anonymous

You aren't worth falling apart over. That's what they tell me. You made me happy ... and then decided to be classy and brave and dump me via email for the ex I helped you cry over, and have the nerve to give me the friend speech.

Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck loneliness, heartache, and fuck this empty rotting feeling I carry around inside me every day.

I'm fun. I'm cute. I'm sweet, loving, caring.. I bleed, I cry, I sleep, I breathe. I'm a little crazy, but I'm not psycho. I'm a girl with a 85 year old soul, a 5 year old heart, and a pretty damn decent body. I'm in constant pain almost all the time, but I still laugh and move and fuck and scream even though every second of it tears my body in half.

I'm strong. I'll live. Without you.

Someday, someone in this world will love me. Really love me, without doubts, fears, or hesitations. Someone won't take me for granted. Someone will love me as much as I love me, will respect me as much as I respect me, and be strong enough to take me for who and what I am.. and love me.

So fuck you. Fuck everyone else who can't love me, respect me, cherish me, and stand next to me in this big scary, wonderful world. I'll live. Without you.

A Brief Female Biology & Anatomy Lesson

From the top to the bottom:

"In human anatomy or in mammals in general, the mons pubis (Latin for "pubic mound"), also known as the mons veneris (Latin, mound of Venus) or simply the mons, is the fatty tissue lying above the pubic bone of adult women, anterior to the symphysis pubis. The mons pubis forms the anterior portion of the vulva." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mons_pubis 18+)

The mons pubis divides into what is called the labia majora which surrounds the labia minora, clitoris, vaginal opening, and other structures of the vulval vestibule.

All of this is part of the external female genitalia (see diagram: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Vulva_anatomy.jpg 18+).

As a female, your pubic area is generally a description of the area that would typically be covered by pubic hair (this applies even to those who do so choose to remove said hair). This includes your mons, outer labia, etc.. even if the inner labia and other more enclosed regions are not visible.

This is your anatomy as a female. Many are aware of this, but some people need to pay better attention in health class next time.

It's about how you look.. sometimes..

It is entirely about how you look... in some opinions.

“The fact that an opinion has been widely held is no evidence whatever that it is not utterly absurd.” -Bertrand Russell

The truth of the matter is, it is about how you look, yes, but it's more about how others look at you, and how you see yourself.

There are numerous older & very continually successful models... whatever genre you look at. Fashion and Commercial genres are much more strict in some ways, but only sometimes.

Here are (http://www.zimbio.com/Supermodels/articles/t7CvTGDqynx/Supermodels+Without+Makeup) your supermodels... all of whom are in their later 40s (ish) and still working. They're still famous, iconic, and amazing because people still see them that way. They still see themselves that way. They've got saggy skin, droopy boobs, stretch marks, etc... but are still the unequaled & unmatched top supermodels. You don't have to be young and amazing forever.. just amazing.

There's also a goodly number of older fetish models, art models, and you-name-it models that are over 30 and still going quite strong.

There's no reason your world ends when your hips are wider then they used to be, boobs a little lower, or skin a little less resilient. Your world as a model simply then needs to be redefined.

Yes, for a good amount of time, you can coast your modeling based upon your youth & general appearance together, but the fact of the matter is, whether or not you've the skill and determination to retain your beauty and develop your skill enough to be in demand as your youth is slowly lost to time.

There are a number of models who will burnt out hard and fast. They party too hard, drink too much, hurt to much, and don't care enough to take care of themselves, emotionally or physically. They ride the world of youthful immortality. Shit catches up, and they learn lessons and life the hard way. Some learn enough to re-try, a new way. Some don't learn and fade away, run away, or go out kicking and screaming and cursing the world to the very end of their days.. constantly clinging to the lost yester years of their lives.

Some models age gracefully.. focusing on enhancing their skills and widening their abilities while caring for themselves. They get those lovely lines from decades of laughter and tears.. stretched skin from giving life, losing life, and loving life.. and there's something lovely about it still. They work, well and often, because they embrace their time in this world, and flourish in it. The world continues to see them as powerful, strong, beautiful women.. and desires to continue to see them as such.

You can not gauge your worth by your age, measurements, experience, etc. They're all factors in it, yes.. but in the end, you gauge what you're worth by what it's worth to you, and to those who observe, admire, desire, and are inspired of you.

My rate, Anna's rate, Cindy Crawford's rate... are all relative to each of us. Our appearance, skills, ages, sizes, etc.. are small factors in the over all whole that each one of us is.

As Raelyn stated.. you can choose to work with someone for the love of it. For lunch and a bus ride.. for garments you enjoy, shoes you obsess over, cash you need.. but in the end, each and every single individual arrangement and transaction is a variable of what it's worth to you and the person you're arranging with.

I've made $1000 in the same amount of time, doing the same amount of work, in the same genre, as I have in doing it in exchange for cookies, lovely work, and a hug.

It's all case by case. Take the dreams of art you make, the dreams of sex, the dreams of style, the dreams of torture.. and put a price tag on it. Then look at that dream again, as it changes for each shoot, each artist, each job, each day.. and tell me that it doesn't change.

Price tags are simply starting points. Pick yours.. but don't be afraid to sometimes forget that it's there. Sometimes, prices aren't worth the cost... and sometimes the cost is greater then the price tag.



--
Re-posted here because someone asked me to.

In regards to "Epic"..

The definition of Epic:

ep⋅ic
  /ˈɛpɪk/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [ep-ik]

1. noting or pertaining to a long poetic composition, usually centered upon a hero, in which a series of great achievements or events is narrated in elevated style: Homer's Iliad is an epic poem.
2. resembling or suggesting such poetry: an epic novel on the founding of the country.
3. heroic; majestic; impressively great: the epic events of the war.
4. of unusually great size or extent: a crime wave of epic proportions.

... I don't claim to have "epic" anything... I don't want to be a legend because of my tits, ass, or other sundry parts.. I want to be a legend because I, as a whole & as a person.. am worthy to be so..

One can't truly label oneself as "epic". Legends and heroes aren't made because some floozy decided to call themselves such. Legends are made because a person, whoever or whatever they may be.. became more then themselves. They, a mother, a father, a pet, a child.. whoever, became legends because of their feats, their love, their honor, and their courage.

In Japan, there's a statue that serves as a meeting place for many people. It's just outside of the Shibuya Station. It's a very simple statue, honestly rather normal looking. It's a bronze sculpting of an Akita breed dog. His name is Hachikō.

(as taken from the Wiki article, which details the story better then I can: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hachik%C5%8D)

In 1924, Hachikō was brought to Tokyo by his owner, Hidesaburō Ueno, a professor in the agriculture department at the University of Tokyo. During his owner's life Hachikō saw him off from the front door and greeted him at the end of the day at the nearby Shibuya Station. The pair continued their daily routine until May 1925, when Professor Ueno did not return on the usual train one evening. The professor had suffered a stroke at the university that day. He died and never returned to the train station where his friend was waiting.

Hachikō was given away after his master's death, but he routinely escaped, showing up again and again at his old home. Eventually, Hachikō apparently realized that Professor Ueno no longer lived at the house. So he went to look for his master at the train station where he had accompanied him so many times before. Each day, Hachikō waited for Professor Ueno to return. And each day he did not see his friend among the commuters at the station.

The permanent fixture at the train station that was Hachikō attracted the attention of other commuters. Many of the people who frequented the Shibuya train station had seen Hachikō and Professor Ueno together each day. They brought Hachikō treats and food to nourish him during his wait.

This continued for 10 years, with Hachikō appearing only in the evening time, precisely when the train was due at the station.

(story continued on the Wiki: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hachik%C5%8D)

This is an "Epic" legend. And the only thing it took to become so was unfailing love and loyalty from a dog, for his owner.

Another story..

Author and lecturer, Leo Buscaglia once talked about a contest he was asked to judge. The purpose of the contest was to find the most caring child.

The winner was a four-year-old child, whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there.

When his mother asked him what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy replied,
"Nothing, I just helped him cry."

Love, of the most simple, and unselfish kind.. makes a legend. Of a four year old boy.

Legends of industry, of society, are created because they love, passionately, who and what they are. They strive, constantly, unfailingly, to create and inspire.. to shine as brightly as they can. They make music that changes our hearts, films that bring our nightmares, fantasies, heart aches, and dreams to life.. they bring new, wonderful things into this world, and remind us of things that were always here.

Heroes, heroines, myths, legends, and unfailing character aren't something you make yourself into. They're something the world makes you into.

You don't become a true legend.. a real, honest, and inspiring occurrence in the annals of mankind's history by screaming that you are "Epic" at the top of your lungs. You can't "fake it til you make it" at life. It doesn't work that way.. because in the end, when everyone's gone, when it's quiet and lonely.. you still have to be who you are.

Helen of Troy .. the "face that launched a thousand ships".. the "ideal beauty" of the world.. became "epic" for the sole fact that her dazzling grace, iconic beauty, and unfailing stupidity sent the entire Greek world into the fires of Hell. Deceit, adultery, shallowness, and the destruction of an entire people.. all because some guy couldn't keep it in his pants over some pretty chick. So yeah, I guess if one wants to be "epic" based solely on their face, boobs, ass, etc.. you can. Just make sure you cause the complete annihilation and horrific deaths of every man, woman, and child in your nation when doing so. Sure seems like a great way to be remembered.



So go ahead.. scream.. shout.. beg.. and cry. Run from yourself in vapid, dizzying spirals of self destruction. Never fail to point your finger at those you've created into cheap copies of who you are, despising them for showing you your failings and miseries. We always despise most in others what we hate most in ourselves.

And when, if, the day comes that you embrace these doubts.. accept your failures, your limits.. face your nightmares, and conquer them.. then, to someone, if even only to yourself.. you will be a hero. A legend. An epic story of courage and love.

There are days..

Ya, I've almost throttled my share of people.

I have to purposely schedule days of nothing at all so that I can give my body recovery time. I've no internal clock left, no regular sleep/eat schedule.

I've had more then one photographer try to pull that "I do more work & invest more time/money then you do" crap. They usually realize how much of an asshole they are when I then sit down, and show them exactly what it is I have to do every day for me to make all this work.

There are days though.. when it gets overwhelming. Days when I'm commuting for 10-12 hours, when my spine feels like it's tearing away from my body, when I'm exhausted and starving, but can't really sleep because I can't fit comfortably enough in a full plane & can't bring myself to eat much because then I feel sick to my stomach when flying. Days when I've been shooting once, twice, three times a day for the last week, and then dealing with someone calling and throwing a fit because they don't understand why I can't fit them in my schedule this trip.

But then you have those days where it's worth it.. where you know this is who you are and what you should be doing. When you meet photographers who you click so well with that the shoot rolls like water in the sea. When a 4, 6, 8 hour gig leaves you feeling wonderful and amazing and beautiful, when you're energized and excited about the work you just did. When you get to meet those other people who make you laugh so hard your ribs ache, smile so much your face hurts.. those people who can completely relax you simply with their prescence, who make you feel happy and safe and comfortable. When you get to visit new places that catch you off guard.. a glimpse of a sunset over a hill, the water breaking on a dock.. the odd musical quality of traffic in a major city, or the soft whispers of rain in a forest.

I love it. With utterly every fiber of my being, with every twinge of my soul. It's who I am, what I am.. it's what makes me tick, makes me breath. It's my passion, my heart, my blood. It's the music in my mind, the twinkle in my eye, and the dance in my step.

I hate it also. With a firey burning passion sometimes. But that burning, that aching, that horrible frustration and exhaustion.. it what makes the loving, beautiful days so much more so.

And I'm so glad for it.



http://www.modelmayhem.com/369429
Shiva Love's addition:

In order to do this, I've made it not into 'work,' but into a lifestyle. I've sacrificed my ability to have a 'normal' existence, since the things I've experienced modeling, and the lifestyle it's created for me, has put me far outside the mainstream. I have surrender my ability to fit with most groups of people, even if they're in my age group and socioeconomic class. I have sacrificed my ability to ever be a public school teacher, a public servant, a politician. I have given up my right to a certain type of ownership of my own body - since many people now own many pieces of me. I fully accept that, at any point in my life, I could be the subject of negative criticism and public ridicule. Every day, I am stereotyped in different ways. I could be asked to leave my neighborhood, place of worship, or resign from my job.

In exchange for those sacrifices, I have gained a sense of personal accomplishment, independence, a notion of what makes life worth living. I have tangible proof of the beauty one life can create. I have rejected those old taboos and fears about my sexuality. I have encouraged, though my work, other women to do the same. I have learned to understand and care for my body as a resource and a point of pride. I have learned to care for my mind as a creative tool. I respect what I have, as an individual, to give to the world. I have looked at the world, and seen how I could recreate it in a unique way.

No one can convince me that I don't invest a lot...