Time or space that has no end.
A point so far away that it cannot be reached.
A number that is larger than all other numbers.
Photos: source unknown
James Yuill. I think I love you.
WARNING: This post is not intended to be a serious music review, more the opinions of a meandering twenty something who really should know when to stop.
Dear Diary,
I want to see James Yuill at new club XOYO last night. I think I luuurve him.
Now I don’t claim to know anything about music, and whether something is of technical brilliance. But I do know what I like (even if I can’t remember what it is called or put it into a genre).
As the bustling crowd gathered a few girls started to debate the hotness of Mr Yuill (something I have never questioned). One girl said he looked like a scientist, another a mathematician. You get the jist. James Yuill has that geek chic edge, he looks like the type of man who knows his stuff. I think most girls agreed that this is mightily attractive. He is also a thoroughly pleasant chap to boot.
So he twiddled his buttons and played his guitar and produced a beautiful mix of pounding electro and hushed acoustic tones. One minute we are raving, next we are waving our arms back and forth as we sway together. As I listen to him playing on my laptop now, it just does not do him justice. The lights were hypnotic and all eyes were on him, all dapper in white shirt and black tie. He took time to engage with his audience and ask them what they wanted to hear. “James we just want you”. What a gent.
So the end drew near. the crowd screamed for more. Encore, encore.
Gent James did not leave, he stood and sold CDs. And what did I happen to glance in his hand? A sharpie. Yes, a shaprie. After harping on about how when drunk I love nothing more than to draw on myself. Well, this was an opportunity not to be missed. James Yuill. Yes, James Yuill could write on me with his sharpie (even if I look like a raving loon in the process). So, I reverted back to my prepubescent self and I asked him to write on my arm. *swoon, faint, scream internally*
He asked my name, I told him Alice. “no, no actually write White Queen.” Oh he says, “did you tweet me earlier?” *Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, act cool* “Yes James I did indeed”. And so there it goes, James is such a gent, he interacts with his fans (even if they come across as raving lunatics) and he gives into their requests, however silly. So let’s hope I am the first of many girls to have their arm written on by Mr Yuill. Oh and his handwriting is beautiful too, is there anything this man can’t do?
So only a few questions remain. James if I follow you, will you follow me? And who will tattoo over this signature before I have to wash it off?
Love
AliceTh’ink (or tweet me at MoreWhiteQueen)
x
PS, go buy the album. The cover actually provides inspiration for tattoo ideas…custom tattoos by James Yuill…and with handwriting like that I am pretty sure I would let him tattoo me with his own fair hands.
Photos: My very own personal photographer, Miss Looby Hobin.
Strange children and sharpies.
Dear Diary,
To ink or not to ink, that is the definitely the question on lots of girl’s lips these days and it is a topic I frequently ponder upon. With tattoos and body art at the forefront of fashion and media it seems that tattoos are more than an ill-thought Chinese symbol or butterfly. They are a continuation of one’s own style and identity, an affirmation of individuality.
Body art and modification were never far from my mind, even as a young girl. By the time I was ten all the girls at school had beautiful little diamond (diamante, Argos) earrings and my poor little lobes remained bare, awaiting some pretty (ugly) adornment. My jealousy could not be denied and my sister and I even invented “the piercing game”, much to the annoyance of the parentals. When sat in the back of the family car, we would take it in turns to pierce each other. This involved picking a part of our body and squeezing between our fingers, strange little girls. Needless to say, many a girly scream would emanate from the Snape car.
This obsession grew and I was often found, pen in hand adorning my body with “tattoos”. Generally my doodles would feature hearts, butterflies and general girly silliness. This habit has even carried through to womanhood. Admittedly, now, it is a habit that comes out to play after copious amounts of vino after stumbling across a sharpie in my handbag (god knows why it is even in there). 
The sharpie is no longer satisfying my craving for ink and I am constantly on the lookout for inspiration, realistic inspiration. So begins the search for my new art. This diary will capture each moment of my journey.
Help and ideas are more than welcome.
Love
AliceTh’ink.
x
Don’t be scared.
A reminder that we must always be brave as we travel through life.
Photos: Source unknown
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
In mythology, symbolism and tattoo art, birds traditionally have positive associations with freedom and expression. The flight of birds leads them to serve as symbols of the link between heaven and earth and to symbolise spiritual and emotional states.
The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Maya Angelou
Photos: source unknown.
