Be the food you wish to see in the world.

I’ve never spoken about this publicly before. After a month of feeling ambivalent towards my health, my work, and whether or not it would actually be preferable for the crash of all civilisation to just hurry up and happen so whoever was left could start again, I read something that made me feel a bit better. I wrote the writer a letter because maybe someone else’s writing could make her feel sane, too.

PS: while we’re on food, we really need to sort out the food and agricultural industries. Have you seen them?! Their completely fucked. If anyone works out how, please email me. No wonder I find it so hard to eat properly, when they make it so difficult. – Ed.

———————- Caroline – I just read your article on Adios Barbie. You might have just saved me from a long road back, or at least helped nudge my tunnel vision off track. I have had various, and almost constant, eating disorders since I was twelve, and they came to a head about three years ago. At that point, I sought therapy and at the same time went to the library to read up – I found a book called ‘When Women Stop Hating Their Bodies‘, which was a mouthful to keep repeating to my Mum when I frequently enthused about it, and which outlined the ideas of both emotional and intuitive eating (which I’d never heard of before.) It helped me to dedicate myself to the beautifully messy art of eating whatever I needed and whenever I wanted, and I even became a sometimes happy and joyful person in the process (which you should be impressed by, because I’m a neurotic, middle-class anxious person [YA THINK?!] by nature, down to having glasses very similar to Woody Allen’s [I was prescribed those, they aren’t natural.]) My weight subsequently levelled out by itself, a few times – in the latest of these level-ings last month, I didn’t even notice. I’ve just fallen quickly into a new relationship with a man I might well love forever, and to discuss all the fear that comes with being happy because someone else temporarily exists, I went to see an old friend I needed to catch up with. She quickly noted my recent weight loss (she is one of the few who I told of my eating disorder when it got really bad, and is often attentive to changes in my appearance [not always helpful – though, of course, well-intentioned]) and almost immediately I was thrown into a hyper-vigilant state of weighing myself ‘just to check’ and ‘out of curiosity’, fearing I would put anything back on because ‘this is how much I weigh now’, accompanied by the physical sensation of sugar coursing through my veins any time I ate anything wheat-based. The most perverse part of this turn in the last few weeks has been the genuine belief that eating small amounts of very healthy food (the bare minimum I need to stop my heart from palpitating and my mood spiralling, of course) will protect me from freaking out about putting on weight, and having to fully restrict. I’m dieting to ‘protect’ myself from having to diet. One half of my brain watches all this pain unravel from the luxury box seats in my psyche, knowing it’s all bullshit, feeling superior, facilitating it all the while; the other really desperately wants to feel ok again, and doesn’t understand why that feeling suddenly left me, and craves sugar, and stares at the mirror while using my hands to hide remaining body fat to see what I could look like if I ate and exercised properly, and knows I’m not emotionally exhausted I’m just lazy, and craves sugar, and so bakes loads but then can’t bring itself to allow any eating of the cake. God I crave sugar. Maybe I WILL have a cake or five. And maybe then I’ll desperately have to get rid of the four of them my stomach hasn’t digested yet. Then I read your article, and remembered some things I’d forgotten. I’ve just completed my first feature film (zero-budget, quite an achievement), I’m the healthiest I’ve ever been physically and mentally, I’ve just fallen in love, and I’m doing some really important work right now both personally and professionally. All of this potential for massive failure (sorry, I mean, really good things happening to me THAT ARE COMPLETELY OUT OF MY CONTROL, *breathes*) is terrifying, and each day it’s uncertain whether my confidence is going to drive me at speed to exactly where I need to go, or crash around my face in that far-too-real and embarrassingly visible way it does. I love the Cherokee tale of the two wolves, the lesson being ‘the one that wins will be the one you feed.’ Guess I’m going to have to feed myself if I want to win. (That sentence looks as though it’s written with resignation. I feel it needs an addendum:) Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm! Victoria sponge cakeEgg and pastaRoast dinner Thank you. Good luck. Elizabeth

HB-Oh, fuck off

elizabeththethird:

Happy Effing International Women’s Day.

Originally posted on Gazzetta della Rum Fucker:

Here’s what happened on my International Women’s Day:

I started the day listening to Alanis Morisette’s Jagged Little Pill, which I haven’t heard since Coogan used it as a comedy device on The Trip, and before that it’d been years.

It’s alright, you know, that album. She can hold a tune and despite her much-spoofed understanding of the concept of irony, it’s great to hear a record in which someone’s willing to be vulnerable and honest. But it’s that honesty that most depresses me.

Aside from the pop-rock anthemic quality of the album, and the lovely (though screechy) vocal arrangements, I think a large part of the reason the album was successful was this sense that it was relatable. And I just don’t fucking relate.

What’s more, I’m sad that other people – especially women – would find the feelings espoused on the record as universal.

I don’t…

View original 1,284 more words

Shooting Myself #2: Antiform/Filthy Squirrel shoot

It’s Pi Day, apparently. I was asked what I was doing at 3/14/15, 9:26:53 (an exact match for pi’s first 10 digits. The answer being photographing a cockatoo, a pineapple, and two beautiful women wearing clothes.

Antiform (http://www.antiformonline.co.uk/) are an ethical and sustainable fashion company who have just moved to Bristol from Leeds, and Filthy Squirrel is an independent designer based in Bristol making street and leisure wear. This was one of the most fun shoots I’ve ever done – they even bought me breakfast. (Croissants will get you everywhere.)

These photos are under wraps til the launch, so here is a Shooting Myself gallery #2.

Why Expressing Myself is Like Throwing Paint Over Someone’s Money

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The Papergirl exhibition has come to Bristol, and the organiser (who happens to be a good friend) asked me to submit something for it. Because I cannot draw, I decided to write some art instead. It’s about having feelings and emotions and hating what other people believe. Hope you like it.

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REVIEW: Off the Page – microplays by The Guardian and the Royal Court

I applied for a job as a critic, and had to write a 300-word review. This is that.Guardian microplays Off the Page image

Off the Page, The Guardian’s series of ‘microplays’, are all under ten minutes long, each focusing on a topical or political, though sometimes ill-defined, British socio-economic issue. The framing of them under the banner of theatre seems both unnecessary – they are, after all, simply short-form video – and novel; one presumes that this format-merging was as much for accessibility as for a Brechtian impulse to detach the viewer from their ‘suspension of disbelief’ to provoke a verfremdungseffekt.

My impression has been mixed. While each is well made and relevant in its way, some of these videos immediately evoke the stereotype of the “Guardian-reader’s delight”.

School Gate, for example, plonks two middle-class white Mums in front of neighbouring school signage reading Magna Carta Primary (NB: it’s the English school) and Wisdom Primary. The latter is of course the Muslim school, in which the enlightened Mum is totally cool with her white British daughter wearing the hijab as a school uniform, and staying behind for after-school prayer, even though we are to assume that their family aren’t Muslim…

Similarly, PPE’s performative ‘politicians’ repeating humanoid gestures rings true but obvious, and ends with a sweet, innocent child (read: not politician) running around to incredibly annoying music. These reductions just don’t have the nuance to speak at the volumes they believe they are.

Saying that, Britain Isn’t Eating and Death of England fare much better at brief but telling exploration of a single issue (food poverty and national identity, respectively). Not only due to performances by the ever-watchable Katherine Parkinson and Rafe Spall, but also because their monologues and characters leave much more to the imagination. The chaos and unresolved pain that follows Spall’s tirade and Parkinson’s ignorance rang far truer for me than any of the other ‘messages’ in the series.