SO busy

Lady readers, Darlings, apologies for my slack posting. I have been so busy working on my BOOK(!) A Year Off the Ward and culturing this season's batch of lovely psychedelic Morning Glory seeds (tee hee, don't tell my mental health case worker Lauren, she'd be furious as they'd *probably* send me back into a psycho-neurotic hell-hole, but who frankly cares?) that I've had little time to update my beloved blog. SO, a quick run down of activities, diary style.

Late August.

I attend Climate Camp, or The Camp for Climate Action, Edinburgh. Don't worry, I didn't get up to too much mischief - not! I attended some fascinating debates on the future of the green movement (it's looking very ropey, everyone is so obsessed with fixing our pointless economy that they've stopped worrying about the planet. Economy - planet = death of everyone (only we go and live in space or something, which, let's face it, would be awful. I can't even watch Star Wars, (which is a very accessible film) because it looks like 'space' (you know, grey walls, electronic panels, little windows looking out onto stars: bleak!) How would I cope if ecological meltdown forced me to live in space? I'd basically just have to give killing myself a proper go for once, which would be a shame). Why can't the bankers understand that? Anyway, here's a picture of Melody, Lara and I protesting with our new friend Rowan outside Gogarburn, the RBS' devious rural headquarters. Don't the police just look hilarious?

Even later August

I return to London. Emergency meeting with my agent Olivia Bloomsdale-Corfu. She tells me to get my bloody useless act together and get the book finished. My mind is in meltdown! I've never had to work before, not properly, this is beginning to seem like all too much.

Early September

I jet off for a week to sunny La Rochelle. I eat beef carpaccio with delicious tomato and basil ice cream. Resolve to buy an ice cream machine on my return and try out some exciting flavours. Garlic? Sorrel? Yum!

Mid-September

Olivia is back on my tail. The deadline fast approaches. I feel another breakdown coming on. I notice this article in last month's Guardian, on women in the workplace, and how they're too shy to ask for a pay rise. How ridiculous! I had no idea (having never worked) - is Olivia ripping me off? Should I ask for an advance? It would certainly inspire me to get going on the book...

This week

London Fashion Week! I rediscover HATS! Resolve to buy this season's entire collection of Hedonist Millinery. Winter 2010 is all about HATS!

I also Easyjetted up to Edinburgh for the launch of this lovely little magazine, Scree, edited by Lila Matsumoto. A review of the night is here by the lovely Colin Herd, there were ambient sounds provided by glitchy bloop darlings Conquering Animal Sound, shoegazing electromaestro Dead Leaves, the formidable Lamplighter and heartbreaking, wild-fen crying Illiop, which made me feel like the heroine in an Icelandic remake of Wuthering Heights, a feeling to which, you may imagine, I am quite, quite partial. Poetry was provided by ME, also nick-e melville, a cool political concrete poet who gave me a copy of his book and a hug - I like him, & I urge you to find his book. Francis Crot charmed the crowd as ever, but honestly he's such a wonderful and unpredictable performer he could basically just read us sections of last month's G2 at random and we'd be like "Oh how clever, ha ha ha!" He's that good.

Kisses!
xxx

'A Virgin's Tale' after Bridget Bardot

Bridget Bardot, French existentialist sex kitten, has just turned 75. Retrospectives of this formidable blonde's life have caused me to reflect on, well, my own life. Like Bardot, I was at my prime in my youth. Before I discovered barbiturates, before booze, long before I discovered men, my first love was writing. I was a prolific writer even before my earliest memories, when Aunt Lily tells me I would scrawl nonsensical letters up the walls of the family house, convinced that I was a new prophet after having been given a Good News Bible by a well-meaning Popish cousin. Christianity would not hold my formidable imagination in thrall for long.

I finished my first opera Thebes, A Virgin’s Tale: Parts 1-9 by aged eight, then began to experiment with higher artistic forms including drama, mime and philosophic dialogues. One of my most precocious works from this period with which you may be familiar, Persephone: Pythagorean Musings of a Woman in Perpetual Despair, won Little Miss Brain Award, Hampshire in 1993 - past winners include Philippa Gregory, Marie Curie and Diana,Princess of Wales.

Having exhausted the genre of Socratic Discourse at the ripe old age of twelve I turned my talents to poetry, fiction and historical writing. You may be familiar the historical biography Eleanor of Aquitane: A Life in Haiku and my later work The Tears of the Wood Nymph which won the Marianne Keyes prize for Creative Writing. And now let me treat you to Greek Tragedy I composed on a holiday to the Lake District aged 11 in the style of Handel's Aces and Galatea.


Thebes: A Virgin’s Tale

ACT 1 Scene 1

The Temple of Apollo, Thebes. A CHORUS of Humming Birds stand centre right.

Chorus: The Oracle The Oracle The Oracle!

A Virgin steps down from the Temple of Apollo in Thebes. She is followed by a host of wild animals, including finches, mice and rabbits. She holds a basket of wild oats which she begins to symbolically sprinkle on the ground.

The Virgin: Hail! I hear a new morn dawn in Thebes
What can it mean? What can it be?

The Rabbit: This is a new context.

The Finch: I feel like I’ve been pecked.

The Mouse: Oh an Oedipal effect.

Chorus: The Oracle The Oracle The Oracle!

The Virgin: Philomena I am called and my tragic tale applaud
For now I share with thee how cruel the world can be!
I was born alone

Chorus: Alone Alone Alone!

The Virgin: The mother was a whore

Chorus: Whore Whore Whore!

The Virgin: To the temple I did come.

Chorus: Attention!

The Army of Zeus enters stage left. Step forward ZEUS disguised as an attractive athlete.

Zeus: I have come to Thebes to find a Vir-------gin!

Chorus: Hap Hap Happy!

Zeus: What’s this?
A little girl to pillage.
Best looking in the village!

Chorus: Run Run Philomena!

Zeus: To make her mine
Will be no crime
Cause she’s so fine!

Chorus: Rape Rape and Death!

Virgin: Nay I shall not relent
My will cannot be bent
Although a maid of humble offing
I shall not be pushed into boffing!

Chorus: Apollo Apollo save her save her

Virgin: I am scared as Laius
When screwed up and cursed us
Poor me like Antigone
To an underground home shall flee

Chorus: Zeus Zeus is in your house!

Virgin: Ay me so I see
But he shall not steal my chastity!

VIRGIN Exits.

Zeus: To pluck her virgin’s tooth
I’ll have to use a hoof
Disguised as a fine horse
My plan shall surely take its course.

ZEUS and THE ARMY OF ZEUS Exit.

Chorus: Yes we’ll make a killing for there’s no chance of Zeus wining!

The Rabbit: Poor Philomena!

Chorus: Zeus will surely woo her!

The Finch: She’d love to ride a pony!

The Chorus: And Zeus is just a phoney!

The Mouse: Nay she cannot fail!

The Chorus: For it is called a Virgin’s Tale, a Virgin’s Tale!
Oh Oh Oh it is!
The Oracle The Oracle The Oracle!

4.48 Psychosis

Now as you know I've been feeling pretty down lately: finally I discover happiness as a lesbian and the world seems to turn against me! But at least homophobia has provided me with the kind of dour inspiration required to write 'A Year off the Ward' which looks set to be a tribute to gonzo journalism meets earl grey tea meets illustrated children's book.

However in spite of some irregular, whimsical journeys back into the 'ward of my mind', I have been experiencing withdrawal symptons: I'm missing those soft lined walls, the smell of surgical spirit, my slightly damp mauve pillows, and the lavender soap Aunt Lily used to send me. So cue my old dear friend Sarah Kane and her prolific work of the stage: 4.48 Psychosis. It transports me right back in the mental turmoil of insanity as fast as you can say 'sectioned'! Why it's a modern master(ess)piece.

Sarah was an inspiration to us all. RIP. We once met briefly at a Jackie Kay poetry reading in Waterstones in the mid 90s, but she was from Essex and failed to see things from my point of view. I was in the haberdashery department of Peter Jones when I found out she'd killed herself. I made a vow right there and then, in front of the fuchsia pink wool I had selected for Aunt Lilly's winter scarf, to never do to the same. It's the responsibility of lady writers, such as myself, to preserve our prolific talent to enlighten ignorant women across the world. Poor Sarah. (However, one has to remember that she was AWFULLY sad at the 'end')



This adaptation might be of particular interest to you readers. It's an incredibly profound adaption by those budding young TV film makers at Lincoln University. It really brings back all the pain and confusion I felt last summer.... but NO MORE! Ann in coming to stay this afternoon and I have laundered my cath kithson sheets and even bought us matching floral dresses!

Women and Burgers: A Traumatic Account

I have been experimenting with female writing recently, and I have to say, I think I’m rather good. The following piece was inspired by a revelation I had the other day. For years now I’ve considered my low self-esteem to put me at a severe disadvantage, but actually I think it might have aided me in my sublime quest for female truth. Why on Friday night I had my brocade Cath Kithson wallet stolen / I dropped it on a bus after one too many bottles of Chablis with close friends in Primrose Hill. Of course I never think about these things; my head being like ‘a quick forest / filled with sleeping birds’, so only realised my fatal error when out buying myself a little treat from M&S on Saturday night. I was most alarmed; I had a mere £1.50 on my person and was forced to shop in the discount section of Sainsbury’s. I had to stand next to a man with a ponytail while surveying the rows of rotten burgers and then I had to buy the rotten burgers because it was all I could afford: awful!

So anyway the following is an exposition of that most traumatic experience written in the female economic style (i.e. disrupted syntax):

I skip, I, I, I, skip. I skip. Why does honey in the rain disappear? I loved you once. Oh red compile, I saw you making that pink sludge in your fingers. Oh how could, I forget those fingers you have. Their meat. Yes I know that, now, but at the time I was so lonely without you by my side and the burgers. I ate every one of them and you said I was greedy. Was I, greedy? Maybe. Who can tell? The long clod of myself, the wavering banded brackets of love that I would pour out all the same. The man with the snake like grey of silver ponytail: “Beauty,” he said. “Beautiful burger, I am yours.” Breathe.

Jessica Smith - my new fave lady poet

I found this great poet/artist/gal about town through the web and I think she's great! She doesn't just write normal verbal poetry, but also visual poetry and tactile poetry, which even I hadn't heard of before. I think it involves printing poems on cushions or something - I once had a chopping board with some lines from Beckett * for example. I tried to find a bit on her website that wasn't part of her C.V. but I couldn't, so I'm not really sure what it's all about, but she provides some of the best answers to interview questions I have ever seen:

PK: Would people know it if they read your work?

JS: Oh, yes. My entire oeuvre, such as it stands, is one giant love poem. Not to only one person, but rather, an ode to Love. I'm a die-hard Romantic. You saw this silly quiz on my blog, right, "Which of the 9 muses are you?"
When I took the quiz I was Erato.

and

PK: Was that when writing began for you? When you were 14 and all these harsh realities were thrown your way?

JS: No, no. I was writing much earlier. I started writing poems as soon as I could write...I began writing songs, plays, and novels around age 10, and still have many of those things. Although I continued writing novels until I was 15 or so, and I still dabble in prose fiction, I decided at the ripe old age of 12 that I had conquered all forms of writing except poetry and that my major energies would focus on that genre.

Bloody marvellous! And poetry is really where she's at still. I can't show you most of them as they're a bit all-over-the-page-y. You should check out her blog, looktouch.com. I really like this one though, it's called Valentine. Here's some info:

This is a cumulative valentine. The note within indicates the recipient. The box contains: 1. a small red rhinestone heart that I found a few weeks ago; 2. a gold heart-shaped locket my dad gave me; 3. a transparent heart that my neighbor (Mrs. Cole) gave me; 4. a small gold heart that my friend Emily gave me (2-4 are childhood mementos); 5. a cut-out heart from my mom that says "to jessica love, mom"; 6. a heart-shaped red, white and blue pin with one star for a sweetheart to wear for her army-lover during WWII; 7. a pink rhinestone heart I found on the street in Berlin; 8-10. three paper cut-out hearts (I don't remember their significance).


She's almost as barmy as me!

Seriously though I love this and am going to order one and send her the money on Paypal and try to rekindle my love for my useless ex-boyfriend Martin by sending it on to him and pretending I made it. Guys love this sort of stuff, right? And I can cunningly change the name on the slip by simply ripping off the surname. It's like it was meant to be!


* If you're interested, the chopping board said:

Homonum: At that moment, I look out --- and there, before me, as far as the eye could see, were castles, filled with what they my country people call un pape sanguinaire.

Wagram: And what does that mean?

Homonum: The country-folk would translate it as a self-satisfied potato.

Gender Museum...somewhere!

Can anyone tell me where this Gender Museum is? I desperately want to go, but I don't have a clue where it is, and the website is in some strange Cryllic language, help! Answers on a postcard to 'Posie's Abroad Dilemma', the first person to tell me gets a return Ryanair ticket to whichever country it is and a pack of 70p local Marlies on landing.

Go Jeff Koons, but then...

So I was most impressed when reading on the Guardian website that that the artist Jeff Koons and I share a common vaginal passion:

'Koons is fascinated by sex - it keeps coming into our conversation, in a conversation about beauty for instance. "If I think of the word beauty, I think of a vagina", he replies. "I think of the vaginal - personally...'


That's fantastic but then...

'...That's what comes to mind for me, or Praxiteles' sculpture, the ass ... "


oh dear....

'The ass he's referring to is that of the Venus of Knidos, carved by the ancient Greek sculptor, Praxiteles, and displayed in a temple that allowed pilgrims to view the goddess of love from all angles. Classical writers tell that enthusiastic beholders stained the marble statue with their ejaculations. And this is a clue as to why he's keen on sex, as an artist. Eroticism has always been the territory par excellence where lofty ideals are betrayed by basic physical drives: where the beautiful becomes banal. This is why it made sense for Koons to explore pornography as art - because when we lust we are all Jeff Koons.'

Humpf. Patriarch. Leave me vagina alone.

Feminist Poster competition!

It's a poster competition for feminists! click on the above title to access the website and vote for your favourite tribute to the great Mother of Social Movements. I have to say I would never normally engage in this kind of 'street art', however I shall make an exception in this case.

I'm designing one right now... so watch this space!

Voting will begin for this poster theme at midnight, 22 Jun 2009.

Why not submit your own poster?

Meow!

Look there's even my trusted friend, the old Bic razor...
If you're going to self harm at least do it like a feminist.

Ulrike Ottinger: Feminist Film Director!

Hello lady readers! Last night Melody Wittgenstein and I made the unfortunate mistake of attending a film directed by the prolific feminist (lesbian) film maker, ze Berliner, Ulrike Ottinger.

Now don't get me wrong, I am all pro expressionism in film, but too much is sometimes too much. Melody had been enjoying the sunshine that day landscaping Nigella Lawson's new patio terrace in Holland Park, so I'm sure you can imagine, being crammed into a cinema with a pile of queer theorists for two and a half hours was quite a shock. To me on the other hand the whole experience was like water to a fish, or so I had thought. For if I were a little salmon I would certainly not swim into those seas occupied by Madame X, the title role of the film' s protagonist pirate.


Apparently according to the site Women Make Movies:

Ottinger achieves her enthralling visual effects through innovative and expressionistic use of costuming, composition, and unusual settings. A versatile talent, she assumes many of the creative and administrative functions on her own films; beyond directing, her credits include that of screenwriter, producer, cinematographer, and set designer. She has also worked as a theatre director and ethnographer; her photographs have been exhibited in numerous venues, and she has published several books.


Okay yes it's all very impressive. One woman decides to subvert the didactic norms of feminist film, to complicated notions of beauty and to continue Mulvey's project of disseminating the male gaze. True, the outfits were fab (see below/above etc.) HOWEVER, the plot leaves somewhat to the imagination. Let me set the scene: seven women board a boat and sail away. They are wearing nice dresses on. The end.

I am sorry, but when are feminists going to realise that deconstructing cinema CANNOT GO ON FOR THREE HOURS without a f*****g plot? Needless to say Melody and I had to leave when the cast started reenacting the Freudian exploration of the female subconscience using a large sea bream. I really resent films that force me to leave and make me feel like a philistine. I am very intelligent: how would very thick people cope?

Fine: go and make your arty movies. I on the other hand have far too many important things to do than to indulge your whims on a Tuesday evening. I could have read Middlemarch cover to cover AND The Tenant of Wildfell Hall in that time (the first book ever to tackle the problem of domestic violence in herstory).

Anyway here are some pretty/cool/weird pictures from her films.

She is rather good though. More of her stuff is playing at the BFI, this week.
Bring a strong bottle of scotch and you might get through it and it will make you look rather cool.

MADAM X:

Hands on Activism- Grab your paintbrushes gals!

Why can't us Feminists in the noughties be more hands on? I often reminisce about My Old Aunt Lilly and those trouser-sporting suffragettes of the 70s and whenever I do it draws me to one smelly conclusion: 'Whatever went wrong with grass roots feminism: ye good ye olde activism?'

And I'm not talking in a Christina Hoff-Sommers way either, I'm being serious.

We are most certainly digitalised feministas (that and a strongly worded letter here and there)and I whole heatedly embrace the language of H(er)TML. But where's it all going? It's a terribly curious question and one that I shall certainly be taking some time out of my very busy schedule to answer.

I call for more off-line activity and will therefore be partaking in a little activism all on my Posie own. I am planning on sticking envelopes over rude men's magazines in newsagents, yes, that's right in newsagents. Maybe even in W.H Smith.

Apparently the gals from Object did it and the Police got involved! Gasp!

In the mean time here's a little taste of artistic activism: I give you the wonderful images by the See Red Work Shop: a print screening group from the 70s to the 90s. They made beautiful posters for sale and to hang on men's faces/walls.
http://www.grassrootsfeminism.net/cms/node/125

Here are some of their amazing artworks! I seem to remember my great Aunt Lilly telling me she was a founding member...

More misogyny pollutes my weekend

I thought a nice long bubble bath with Emmeline a copy of D E Stevenson's delightful Miss Buncle's Book (1934) would cheer me up after having spent a fuming afternoon drafting, signing and posting my letter to Ricky Gervais' dastardly agent. I was wrong.

Playing violently upon my disordered mind was further misogyny that I'd innocently encountered on the television in the ad break between sliding doors. The two newest attacks on my piece are:

a) the new Lynx 'Bullet' adverts in which a creepy teenage boy looks at attractive women walking past, blinks, and the women suddenly is in her knickers and bra. He blinks again, realising he's not wearing his 'Lynx' today and thus will not be able to have sex with her, then her clothes magically re-appear. He sighs.

The ad line: 'Never miss a chance'. The subtext - 'Never miss a chance to perve on or rape a woman'.

b) Lesbian Vampire Killers, a disgusting new film starring the talentless chavs from Gav and Stacey in which they - guess what - kill lesbians! It's like a 21st century witch dunking! This sort of thing hasn't been seen in Europe since 1647! Honestly, I know I will never see this film, but just the thought of these two gormless greasers rubbing their thighs against lascivious totty before driving a stake between their enormous breasts fills me with unstructurable jitters.

This film is actually almost nothing to do with the hapless pair, having been peddled around the industry since the early noughties by producers ready to pounce on the first duo of stars in enough financial mire to accept the parts. It's undoubtedly going to ruin their careers, and really I should feel sorry for them...but who has the patience?

Here's to the general re-release of Teeth!

Feminist Art, Again! Oriana Fox: Installation Artist

In nigh-on Georgia O'Keefe levels of startling originality, another great Feminist Artist emerges from the lager soaked halls of Goldsmiths. Oriana Fox (no relationship to a fox, foxiness, benign sexuality etc) She is based in London and New York (how cool - bitch!)

One of the things she says is

I admit it, I want to be like and look like many of the women I see on TV and in the movies, yet I am highly critical of them. I want them to more accurately represent my self and the women I know and admire.>

This is great because she wants women in the media and public eye to be more representative of herself. Rather than sitting around doing nothing and waiting for this massively unlikely thing to happen, she's decided to replace images of other women in the public eye with images of herself and become massively successful- how much more representative can you get?

Here's an image of her looking a bit trendy in a short film, it's a bit like Cabaret, isn't it? I personally feel much more comfortable with this sort of thing than with other images of women like Cheryl Cole. I wouldn't say it was purely representative of myself though, and this is something I put to Oriana in a recent email - surely the next big step for her would be a Posie Rider inspired performance in the hope that it would give young women a more inspiring role model? I'm awaiting her call.

She also says some great stuff about painting and vaginas (my favourite things!), see below:

I want to sew vaginal, womb-like forms out of lush smooth fabrics, I covet any excuse to wear curlers and crinoline, I fancy baking brownies and consequently, I need to work my abdominal muscles.

Shame about the cookies. It's also a shame about the sculpture, how ugly is this? It's called Vagina with Balls- ick! Frankly that is one of the least

representative 'mysteries' I have ever seen. I guess it might be a

concept thing but I just can't figure it out. Perhaps it can procreate itself, like the velocoraptors in Jurassic Park, but then where's the womb? Maybe it's about how the vagina always looks shocking (because of society) while the balls are just comical (fact) who knows? Either way make it onto the shelves of Habitat as a concept cushion it will not.

I can't resist an ode to the inimitable Georgia, this is her divine Black Iris, which I think we can can all agree is much more like it.

But if you can't afford a Georgia O'Keefe original or print (I have 4 from Aunt Lily's estate, why not buy an original Oriana Fox? Or just make do with yourself.

http://www.orianafox.com/

Too happy? You might have a serious medical problem...

Look what i found on the v cool wesbite 'feminist philosophers'....

http://feministphilosophers.wordpress.com/2009/03/16/if-you-are-happy-these-days-you-may-have-a-serious-medical-problem/

It's a funny video! Emmeline Pankhurst is laughing so much she just wet herself! We are going out for lunch-time muffins in Primrose Hill now. Toodles x

Why won't Barbie just die already?

Hang on a second- shouldn't Barbie be dead by know? She has been looking that way for way too long. It is TOTALLY unrealistic.

Here's an awful video about her turning 50 (she doesn't look 50). Silly Bitch. They should make a Kirsty Wark Barbie (I could conserve more pins that way).

http://link.brightcove.com/services/link/bcpid1670048590/bclid1342094282/bctid15181133001

Fucking a Mango

Here it is: the next one in the trilogy!

This is the second part of my 'Forbidden Fruit' art short triology. After 'Bloodsoaked Tampon et al.' comes 'Fucking a Mango' watch as this poor fruit, like woman, is visciously exploited by this 'man/pig'.

I want you to draw your own conclusions- what does it mean? What does the white cream symbolize?

Art, like love, never ends. Let us explore ourselves!

The Kick Arse Bitches Season

'Darling Do You Love Me?' 1968

In a hugely entertaining parody of her media persona, a pre-Female Eunuch Germaine Greer stars as a terrifyingly amorous woman who alternately cajoles, pursues and assaults a mild little man with cries of "Darling, do you love me?" until he succumbs to her strangling hands. The directors were well known for their work in graphic design in the late Sixties: Sharp for his ferocious cartoons in the satirical magazine Oz, Whittaker for his photography on various Beatles album covers. But the main joy here is Greer - as barking as you could possibly hope for, and all the more endearing for it.

New Superwoman to be launched by DC Comics: Batwoman!

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/feb/11/lesbian-batwoman-dc-comics

Check out the above: finally a decent superheroine. Catwoman was such a douche bag.

The Kick Arse Bitches Season

Here is one of the most incredible ladies of all time. It't Scarlet: the original kick arse bitch. Did she give up when the other one was crying having a baby? No. Did she flunk when all the other women were moaning about their nails? No. Did she stay an obedient woman who did not use men for thier matieral means? No.

I hail thee earth mother!

Feminist Art: Part 1

I thought I'd give you a little glimpse at the world of feminist art. To begin I would like to draw your attention to the SHOCKING fact that women are all too often EXPLOITED in the art world.

Diana, Daphne, to name just a few. For instance I was looking at the great blog by Daphne P http://daphnep.livejournal.com/

I was shocked to see the following flagellation of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus" for sale at the Thorvaldsen Museum in Copenhagen.

You'd have to be as thick as Germaine Greer's ears not to spot the difference.

Sarah Maple

Hail! I have always been a fan of Sarah Maple. Being primarily a writer (avec cat) it meant that I could never really do the whole 'photographing myself' thing.

My favourite is her collection of 'Cocks'- I have included some of my favourites below:

What is the cock but some inanimate object that only moves when WE make it move? You are pathetic ye cock, little little willy.

'Young Persons Rail Cock'

'Champs Cock'

http://www.sarahmaple.com/