Gemma Ward

I saw Waking Life with Gemma on the weekend. It was one of the most pleasurable series of moments I’d had for a long while: I’d left some washing in her dryer earlier, and so decided to come over after a long day of work. I was exhausted, but on my bike trip over, as I was swanning down the wrong side of the road, I saw the very same bald headed bicyclist I’d once seen cycling no-handedly around the Hare Krishna tree in Tompkins Square Park. I was cycling quite slowly, peacefully, enjoying the warm air of any regular New York dusk. I glanced over at the guy, and as before, he was sort of moving his hands in a kind of flow – again not on the handlebars. He gave me a kind of two handed transference of something . . It’s hard to explain: Almost like he ushered whatever he was feeling, and literally channeled it between his two hands, over to me, like he was lifting a box. Immediately I was exhilarated, and knew that I was on the right track to Gemma’s.

Sure enough, when I arrived, we chatted, I changed out of my tight 501s into some freshly laundered yoga pants and long sleeve top. I lit a couple of candles before we watched Waking Life, and while making leaf chamomile tea, told Gemma about how awesome the frozen pineapple in the freezer was. I was starving. “It’s so creamy, too!” Gem: “Do you want me to grill you some tuna and a few other things I have to get rid of tonight?” “SURE!” Gemma told me that she had some rice, and so while I began watching the movie, I heard the stove top tsk, tsk, and the flames blow and the sizzle pan. She arrived to a jaw slackened and great eyes widened, as I watched in enchantment, the incredible film that was unfolding.

Eyes widened further when I saw that Gemma had grilled me a huge bowl of brussels sprouts; the very same vegetables that I had bought organically on a whim the night before, and which I hadn’t had time to eat yet. I had had a strange craving for them, and so it was quite unremarkable (for us) that my sister had entangledly prepared some for me this very evening. Back to Waking Life, and I was in true bliss: Soft, comfortable, having had nutritious food made for me by someone I love and who loves me; watching alternative universes dance across the screen paired with philosophical depths hitherto unbeknownst to me. As candles flickered and lowered, and with nowhere else to be, nothing else I’d rather see, it was a total holy moment.

“We walk around like it’s not holy, we walk around like you know there’s some holy moments and there are all the other moments that are not holy, right. But like this moment’s holy right.”

“If I could look at you and just like, let you be holy, I don’t know, I would like, stop talking.”

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand
and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is
holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an angel!
The bum’s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cassady
holy the unknown buggered and suffering
beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks
of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebellion!
Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucinations
holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent
kindness of the soul!


HOLYNESS reminded and referred me to the above ‘FOOTNOTE TO  HOWL’, a poem by Allen Ginsberg.

The title to this post is from another clip from the movie: Evolution of  Consciousness.

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While I’ve been in Los Angeles, biding my time working and loving my man – I’ve been reminiscing a lot about my last road trip, especially since part of it was taken with one of the directors here at The Masses, who soaked with Gem and I in the cliffside hot springs of Esalen, while I conjured my man from above. Last night my friend reflected on that moment; how we had swam in the sulfur rich water that Thompson and Kerouac had once guarded in Big Sur, while I spread my naked arms to the sea side night time under that heavy darkness of hot stars. “I remember you creating that” he said. “And look who came to me!” I replied about Jon. I am so happy, it is ridiculous. The flow has never been flowier. (Life is so flowy that tonight I found my way home with a wreath of flowers around my head.)

We went to an outdoor summer-solstice screening in Mt. Washington tonight, where we saw psychedelic short films from the 60s and 70s, some that hadn’t been shown to an audience in 32 years, apparently. The silhouettes of women in flower wreaths were in shadow on the screen while we lay 100 deep in a back-yard garden, straight out of Woodstock, but still purely ours. We had such fun.

This is from the novel I’m working on, and still what I am calling, ‘Summer, Fall, Summer.’

“Lou and I rode on through crazy towns, just women, not needing men. We were being followed by ghosts of lovers, but not interested. We were more interested in the bear that was going to potentially slaughter us in the Trinidad Best Western in Colorado. That town was oddly just like Paris. I am not kidding. Some towns were pretty flat, in all aspects. Most towns my sister and I drove through when we were just getting to know America – like this new town we had temporarily found ourselves living in, were all just freeways converging on freeways, and burger joints.

Not only burger joints though. Pancakes, Tacos, Chilli Fries, which in fact were not plain fries tasting like chilli (or cayenne) – which is what I thought – but fries slaughtered with a kind of Tex Mex bean mix. Like Mama’s Chili Con Carne, and it’s only now that I realize what Carne is. We are not big meat eaters, not for any fact that is political, more just because we grew up on flour, eggs and sugar. Nevertheless (we eat the fruits of the sea too, having come from the edge of the world where there is no civilization), when we left Wyoming after a rest stop there for 3 days, a rest that was pilfered with the footprints of Elk in the snow, and marijuana cigarettes in a pot-belly warmed cabin on couches, we visited The Silver Dollar Inn.

At this Inn, we sat at the bar and tried to blend in, which is difficult to do when you’re 6 foot tall and lanky, and your sister is blonde and trying to be as much like an old farmer cow herder, which just doesn’t work. We moved to tables, and talked about beautiful things. My god, we were great. By that stage, relationships sync and flow and idioms are born. We were telling all and sundry to Wank Off & Die by then, which was something my sister spurted once when I was mad at her for something I don’t remember. I guess it was do with the map, which I think we ended up throwing out the window.

She was teasing me about the young man who was trying to court me with his New Yorker Magazines. “My god, why don’t you write a poem, read it, dig a hole, lay in it, wank off & then DIE!” It was horrendous. It was obsence. It was hilarious and I could hardly hold the wheel straight. I think at this stage we were driving through the Rocky Mountains in Colorado in broad daylight, in late April. We had no idea really where we were going, which I find amazing. I’m sure we were following some kind of numbered highway, but in essence, we stopped when we needed to refuel (or worried in petrification whether the tank would last to the next stop, whether we would be empty and lonesome on some desolate middle American mountain road, in sunshine, with each other, spouting new forms of the Wank Off & Die craze). But no, that never happened, and we simply went where we could and did what we wanted.

“The Hotel from The Shining. Let’s go there” she’d say. That was the extent of our compassed planning. “Reno. I’ve heard that in a movie before. Let’s go there.” Ah yes, Reno. The town of which it seemed impossible to enter. We passed border control three times, no joke. The wirey coot must have thought we were high, which actually, come to think of it, we were. How did we manage that? I just remember the creepy town on the border, so aptly named ‘Border Town’ and the Boo Radley visions in the derelict grass houses that dotted the gray hillsides of gravel. They were empty as halls, and the yards full of dying, faded toys in the dusk. Not a soul about. Everything was gray as if it had been a town of nuclear testing, or a volcano had hit it. But there was no fire nor lava, just the ashy colours of dead spinifex tumbleweed, lit dimly by the red-fluoro lights at the only gas station for miles.

Where is Reno? “You gals better stay in Reno tonight. Don’t stay out here. Ain’t nothin’ fer miles.” We know this. We saw it. We’re trying. She threw the map out the window. The GPS lady is a bitch and I’m annoyed. We’re also hungry. And I interjected that I refuse to eat Twinky Rolls, or whatever other lard infused foaming-agent filled styrofoamesque piece of fluff you call food, that is laying o’er there in that darned gas station that smells like bad coffee. Come to think of it, we grew attached to that bad coffee. Reno grew like a tumour of some ulterior world, out of the desert. We finally found it. It blossomed like cactus flowers at the end of the freeway of the night. The moon never stopped being full. We rolled in and stayed at the only place we could remember the policeman had recommended. It was called Peppers, I seem to recall. I was still reeling with shock from Boo Radley visions. This place was even more arresting. And infinitely amazing because of it.”

You’ll have to wait for me to finish writing it now – because this is where I’m up to… and where it gets INTERESTING. VERRRRY INTERESTING….. Yes. Peppers, Reno, April 16 last year (or so) was an experience to die for (which was actually what we came very close, metaphorically, to doing. There was a rebirth.  Alternate universes. Satanic number 13….) Next week I’m going back to old-school, internet-less, typewriter-esque library writing, so will be explaining it all then. I hope you’re all enjoying things so far though?)

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Only time will tell what future passages will dwell on the souls of men. I’ve written “I have a life loosely based on two men and the death of a superstar, who didn’t want to be a star, only super.” So many months have passed and I am now in the throes of 4 men, perhaps more, though with less intensity as previously announced. The superness of the star passing now only bears passing pain, the memory of magnificence, the whispers of his remnant soul.

I once drove through a graveyard slow, at night, with the deepness, darkness, headlights scrolling the dashboards of anchored stone. It was creepy. We were creepy: the brick road, the false flowers, the white shapes shifting. Souls! How long do we stay around for, I wonder this. I wonder what we have all begun to do, and become. I wonder the most banal things, about who smoked the cigars in the grass, what the fish who dives back underwater as I reach it sees when he swims.

I seek pleasures, and feel pain: I long for that which I haven’t. I stretch myself, and am caught on the stretching, exclaim at the pain of being pushed too far, too soon. I have so much joy for the unfolding of the nights when I sat at what was once my 7am, at an under-lit bar, slow motion brain folding, coasters ripped into tiny shreds, ice spilt. Breathing in an air that didn’t catch on my throat anymore: I am grateful for this clean lung, this purple walking sky, this fish tricking me when I reach the river.

My life is based loosely on four men: one a dream, one a scar, one a promise, one a prodigy, and many are more than one of these things. I adore them all, and yet worship one. He knows who he is. While I stay where I am for now, I long for the calm cool air of Big Sur, of Phieffer beach, the stilts of Nepenthe with its motorcycle road of apple crates leading there: Long sticks of wax drips in wine bottles, and great chasms of fire. I saw live footage of the Rockerfeller center tree today – cold people in winter cocoons passing by the grey dawn of evening. I miss that too.

Is the point of longing to spur one onwards to where one believes one should be? What is this should: I have never enjoyed that word. What of where I am now: It is quite magnificent. I suppose I want to be where I have always longed to be, even before I knew the city by name, even before it was shown to me, and marked on a map. It crosses my mind that life does play chess with all and sundry. This place where I wait for you, and wait to get back to you, is a gentle place, a noble point, the end of all compassed roads.

I’m not sure if it is as isolated as everyone makes it out though, this point at the end of all things. I know New York can be the loneliest place on the planet, too, even though its millions of people live on such a fraction of a million miles. I found out that if one was to put all the people in the West of this land on a kilometre of space on the state, they would apparently not see another person if they had pilot-perfect vision. We are too few, on too much land. It’s not surprising that I look for the most intensely populated points on the planet. There are 32 million people in California, and only 1.2 in Perth. I seem to feel the sound of them moving, when I am in that state, and in New York’s great City too. Here, it is very, very quiet. I am though, not afraid of my own mind; the silence, the waiting pauses, time dripping extremely slow. Sometimes rain drops in sheets here, and then stops, lifts the roof a little, throws a bolt, a slap of thunder right over the earlobe. It is alarmingly close, the weather, but the sky seems so far high, the clouds so tall while they run.

A good man in New York, a soul man & crispy calamari loving New Yorker told me in the back of a taxi cab once down the center of 42nd street, that he’d just come back from the country. This was the first time he had ever been to the country. Raised in the city, he stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire. He told me comically that he’d thrown his hands over his head when he saw the sky out there. In the city you see the clouds hang low over high buildings; either a dirty low yellow sky or a lilac grey one, and the buildings are so high you don’t really have much window for space.

The sky was so lofty, so open and full of pin pricks that the man had felt his whole body pulled by the gravity of a lidless sky with holes in it. New Yorkers are in a pickle see, they feel a great gash of humanity, but they don’t necessarily see the entire world.  You can ask for everything, but that don’t mean you get it. I was born under stars like those holes. Conceived on the red dust of Australian desert, raised upon blankets in the dunes of Indian Ocean islands, felt my body suctioned to the sand as I fell into the endless expanse of possibility.

This is where I grew up: where I ran down yellow hillocks and cut my toes open on rust and the boughs of ancient fig trees with treehouses innum. This is where I made friends: through the unfixed holes of wooden slat fences and overgrown grass. Where we leapt boundaries, and dragged sheets of roof to vacant baseball lots. I wished everyday I’d find a puppy in the tumbleweed corners of my suburb to keep. Never wore shoes, hardly stretched my All Star converse playing American games in overalls with pockets deep enough for sling-shots across the road. We checked the hardness of our feet against our brothers, cousins, parents, sister. We prized the callouses which let us walk on black fire to the corner store, which stayed dusty when we’d drop on our knees to rake gold coins from under the candy aisles to buy icecream. Gemma could never decide which icecream to buy, and when she finally did choose, would still be slowly eating her win many minutes after our hands were half as sticky. That must have been the main thing that got on my nerves those days: That icecream didn’t last so long.

Back to the candy aisles! Back to the floor! I never thought I’d ride the streets from the pages I’d absorbed about the biggest candy aisle of all time. A few months ago I was rolling through Alphabet City and Chinatown on the island of intensity, listening to Dylan’s Like a Rolling Stone and thinking “How does it feel?” It feels damn incredible, thank you Sir for asking (!) Dylan is another super person who doesn’t want to be a star, a hole in the fabric of black night. I have said that there is a great possibility that the darkness is just as real as the light, that, for example, to put it scientifically, “There is as much dark matter, substance we can hardly detect, as there is light stuff in the universe.” There are supernovae, sometimes strange planets like ours that just bubble into existence so far from all other reality, and sometimes you get planets that are famous for a bit then prefer to be not so nameable. Pluto is an example. Bob Dylan is another, and is really who I am alluding to, as well as numerous other “notable” persons who seem to infect our stratosphere for no other reason that they have something to say and people like to hear them say it.

People talk about timing, about luck, about history, but personally I think that you’re put on this earth to take care of all you can take care of, to expand all you can expand, to be doing what you’re doing when you’re doing it. I don’t think we are dealt anything that we can’t naturally, at least become capable of doing. I think we have such a disastrously immense history of experiments gone good and bad, that one can never if they tried, attempt to unweave them into the right way to do things. Spielberg didn’t like The Shining at first, now he counts it as one of his benchmarks. Twenty-five viewings later, things still appear.

Billions of years of existence, after ice-ages, dinosaurs (can you actually believe that giant reptilian creatures with real blood and real sounds, real footprints and saliva, were probably laying right where you are now?), after mushed-together continents, primitive man, walking man, dodos, tusked wooly mammoths, Sabre-toothed tigers and possible leprechauns, the Earth is still here, and nothing can dim the presence of possibilites still unfolding. Did a Sabre-Tooth tiger ever dream of seeing a human being land on the moon? Did a mammoth ever think that another mammal would perform open heart surgery on one of its own species using tools so sophisticated?

The Earth is an ancient ball, older, vaster, and more time-privy than we here and now realize. The piece of Earth I am on now, this curve of south-west land edging the water that hits Antarctica and India too, was jigsawed out of what is now Africa. I wonder how many people realise this. The coast of West Australia, so white with sand and red with dust, once did without the blue of ocean and was one land with the African continent. If you look at a map you can see the way they stuck together. I am on some of the oldest dry land on the planet. This rock and soil must have seen many, many tramplings before it was ripped from its mother.

Somewhat alarming and somewhat comforting is the fact that I will have a life shorter than most trees. In the span of all things, human beings have been on the planet for an incredibly tiny piece of All Time. If your wing-span (you never know when birds might learn to read) or arm span stretches from the beginning of the known Universe (pre-planet formation) at one tip, and the rest of time up to you at the other tip, the history of men on the planet would be the width of one cell at that end. We are so immensely rapid in our existence on the planet, as individuals, and who knows how long the reign of humans will be. Maybe we will destroy ourselves with global warming. Maybe we will be duped by the robots of our own creation while we tread into space. Maybe we will create new races of Frankenstein (now women) and there will be no daisies left whatsoever?

So, then, what ever you do, at the end of the day, does not really matter one fig in the greater stretch of things! You are an atom of an idea in the cell of the wingspan of a bird. That may be my best one-liner yet. No kidding: what does it matter, at the end of time itself? All I want is to make a difference to the people I can reach today, the people around me now, in the biggest circle possible, to impact positively in some aspect, the trajectories of people who do not realise a dinosaur once stepped where you stepped, that the noise of an animal nowhere to be found anywhere now was once heard by a tree that has a longer lifespan than you ever will.

To be honest, I don’t know why I write this, or where it all comes from, but it puts me in my place to be spoken through, to be, as I explained in my very first Long Open Gash post, that I intend, for my time on the planet as a maker of marks, (still puzzles me, what I am capable of doing here), to be a source of any kind of inspiration possible, a channel for the water that comes through the tap of my fingertips. Water water everywhere, and so many drops to drink. I encourage drinking! I encourage life affirming movement, in whatever way is possible as a human being, on an ancient and hardy planet, to the edges of human existence.

I’m sure fish swim in every way they are able to, before they leap out of the water to taste air. I want to see humans continue to do such feats, and not worry about making the marks they want to make, about moving in whatever way inspires them to be human. Dinosaurs were never given that gift. Inspiration is a potent thing. One must search for it and levitate your own existence into new channels, because trust me, your time up here is a short one, on the galactical end of things.

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I know a lot of people might like to know about Gemma, about myself, about my psyche. That is the purpose of this Big Long Open Gash, isn’t it. Here are my veins for pillaging. Drink my blood. I am your prey, and you are mine. Here are somethings (but not all things) that my readers might like to know.

Before I invented the Paper Castle, I was definitely a model (I seem to recall…) snatched by Viviens at a recording for National television show Search for A Supermodel. It was here that my little baby sister was wearing a muddy sweatshirt and getting ready to walk for the cameras. She had no idea, I had no idea. She was just an innocent bystander. (In a story that has become urban myth, she had been sitting watching her friends play around, when a scout saw her and encouraged her to enter… the rest is history, and online everywhere)

I hit the scene of the crime with Mama Ward, and eventually, people were like “yo – what are you doing sitting there,” not because I was in the wrong seat, but because apparently they wanted me to do some pounding on that catwalk. Gemma Ward didn’t go through with the other competitors that night, telling the cameras “oh well, at least it was good practice for acting.” After the show, agents pinned us to the staircase (not literally) and gave us cards. Mum was stage left. Many groceries were melting in the back of the car. We went home, probably had some icecream, and absolutely no clue of what was about to come.

Gemma was snappled by IMG after a few test shoots with photographic Westerner, Justin Smith, whilst I worked my brain to synaptic shreds finishing school and starting a B.A at university, soon writing for the magazines that Gemma appeared in. The storied halls of wisdom called me, and in between, Agents called me, though not in black coats or hoods. They made sure I entered a competition of theirs, which I won, and was made their Face of Perth (an privileged honour) for some months.

Soon after this, Gemma was summoned to the center of Times Square New York by the Powers that Be. She was guarded on this mission by Mama Ward who also took this journey. I stayed back and looked after the city from my hallowed position of authority as its Face, drove my brothers around, wrapped my elastic brain around Philosophy of Religion, Linguistics, Europe and English. Things were expanding at an exponential rate.

To make a long story short and simpler, Gemma begun a never before seen engulfment of all the counties of all the lands. She wooed some of the most prestigious and hard-headed designers, campaigns, and personnel,  beginning with her walking first for Miucca Prada in Milan. As M.P is the authority on what will be cool way before you think it’s cool, choosing Gemma to open her show led to a slew of people booking her, initiating an avalanche of attention that took her away from Perth for about 3 years. She came home every now and then, always for Christmas, sometimes in between, and I kept my head down trying to pretend my little sister wasn’t being slaughtered internally by an external industry. Meanwhile I surreptitiously devised ways in which to reunite the young Ward witches again, and prevent the Powers that Be from taking my sister away forever… (gasp!)

To date, Gemma has come out incredibly strong regardless of the very, very strange circumstances that happened to her. Her “look” was an innocent, naive, and childlike one, at a time when Brazilian Amazonatrons like Giselle and Isabelli were ruling the runways. She was what Kate Moss was to the Supermodels of the 1980s heydays. Now there are zillions of copy cat Gem (stones), and I hear all the time of the ‘next Gemma Ward,’ which is totally counterintuitive, seeing as Gemma is the most original, quirky and exotically powerful person (INSIDE) you will ever meet. That is if you get past me first.

While Gemma powered through, I was bulldozing books and challenging my tutors, because I was starting to travel a lot more with modelling too. I was devouring spells as fast as time would let me, but alas! Time goes slowly when you choose the rockier roads – which are usually the only way to get somewhere truly worthwhile. I remember squatting under my clothes rack at a show somewhere in Sydney (because I couldn’t leave the country while studying), in full get-up, heels and outfit, under swathes of fabric, trying to block out the yelling and stomping, and focus on Descartes and the Philosophy of Religion. It’s hard to follow Kant’s theory of thought when you have a hairdryer 2 inches from your ear in an urgent hum.

However, the people holding the hairdryers, the cameras, the clothes and eyes were an incredible lot. Australia has a huge history of obscenely talented people. I have amazing respect for those I now call my truest friends. In an industry I had thought devoid of such life, they were the ones who knew real magic, my allies: Akira Isogawa, Michelle Jank, Toni Maticevski, Tina Kalivas, Charlie Brown, stylists Mark Vassalo and Ryan Lobo, and photographers Stephen Ward, Eddy Ming, Georges Antoni and Justin Ridler.

As I traversed the path onward, I was met by some incredible moments with each and every one of them: Gothic dinner parties beside Akira the Minister of Chic. Evenings crafted by Michelle Jank, in which children, men and animals dwelt around one heavily laden table of rotting food. I exchanged many moments of mutual respect with Toni and Tina; from opening Toni’s shows with his love notes clutched in my hand; to Tina wrapping me in an electric moth dress and opening her show by storming out under a whale skeleton at the Museum of NSW.

Charlie is definitely a witch of some kind. Her generosity and bravura, as well as her house, will forever stay in my mind: The grand piano, the puppy Presley matching the chequered marble floors, the children in bunk beds, the opulent homeliness. I gripped the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge in a silver dress with a 20 foot train of silver fabric as Georges coached me to almost leave the ground. These were powerful people to have around. Mark was there from the get-go, and in a move unsurpassed by any of the others, published my writing beside Tim Winton in Mark magazine when I was 19, an honour I still have to dig my nails into my skin about.

These are the memories I have been left with. And although I have some disdain for the fashion industry (hence the burning of Vogues) it is the people who are the reason for which I have no regrets. That the Hand of Life should put me on that path was something to fight against – there are demons, and there are bad shadows that you must not look at for too long…Although I do warn any young traveller against going into that land, because it is a form of torture, I have undoubtedly become a more magnificent person through it. Modelling makes you strong and ruthless, and yet, it is just armour you receive.

I encourage anyone who is in it, who is about to be in it, or who wants to be in it and on that great adventure, to keep your insides alert. Keep your brain. Keep thinking about life. Think about what is inside of you, at least as much, if not MORE than the amount of time you spend thinking about your external self. The shadows can’t find you when you become the thing a shadow can never be…. a Person, and a powerful one at that.

Just a heads up, to prevent any heads rolling.

“We spend so much time perfecting our external selves, when that’s all just going to rot in the end. Really we should be spending time perfecting our souls” (S. Kukainis, model, then 17)

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