The funny part about being anonymous is that it can become comfortable. Easy.

In my every day life, I’m the girl behind the scenes making it happen. Behind the camera, behind the vision, behind the words that help perpetuate positive change in the way we interact with each other and our jobs, the voice you might recognize but don’t know. You may see my name figuratively roll by in the credits, you may not. For me, it’s not about the spotlight, it’s about getting shit done and making a difference. I’m the domino tipper.

Then along sailed Captain Redbeard, who unknowingly started a catalyst in my brain. He left a comment on one of my first posts – Chuck Palahniuk is Saving My Life. I hadn’t read those words in a long time. I’d forgotten those words. I’d forgotten their meaning to me. Until, that is, Captain Redbeard reminded me.

So I’m back. Just not here. I’m over in fresh new environs, ready to split my head wide open and watch my brains fall out as I continue onwards with my Infinite Dive.

I’ve taken responsibility for the effort. However, your sacrifice is that these are some of my favourites. I also challenge you to go to your favourite blogs and poke around. Get a stick if you have to.

The Best of (?) [coughs] The Confessions of Cheeky Cici (from oldest to most recent):

• Vomit Dress
• Chuck Palahniuk is Saving My Life
• Crotch Punch – A Living Example of My Assholery
• Farewell November
• Plump Little Fucker
• Black and White Time Machine
• Silenced
• Thank the Stars

These posts should get you started.

I’ve loved every moment of writing for The Confessions of Cheeky Cici. I’ve loved every moment I’ve spent embracing her. She’s definitely cheeky and she’s definitely me. Though you should know that Cici’s just a name I use when I order food for take-out.

What’s helped make the process of writing this blog enjoyable, are my readers. I see your digital footprints and I’m very appreciative you keep on coming back. Thank you.

I’ve quietly started something new. I’m not ready to share it yet, but I will. Right now I need some quiet time with me and my new work – out there in the great big digital web. Under the veil of anonymity, I’m strengthening my voice.

Peace.

"My witness is the empty sky." - Jack Kerouac

Dance harder. Dance faster. Numb the pain. Be more interesting. Seek revelations. Go on a spiritual journey. Feel good. Cope with mental health. Have fun. Trip out. I’m a fucking superhero!

Saying no to drugs isn’t good enough anymore. It’s not realistic with the cornucopia of chemicals available. Not everyone wants to say no. You don’t have to say no.

In the past, I’ve been ostracized for my thoughts – labelled a critical judge. I’ve ended friendships because I can’t be the saviour; because I can’t sit idly by and watch someone throw their life away. I’ve had hate mail and been threatened. I’ve been told I don’t know how to party – how to have fun. Well ya know what? Fuck that. I say these things because I care. Deeply. I say these things because I know better.

I partied my way through the aughts*. Sure, I’ve got some fun and crazy stories that would make the likes of Hunter S. Thompson blush. You know what else I’ve got? Holes in my brain, friends dead from overdoses (friends who said they knew what they were doing), friends dead from addictions (friends who said they could handle it), ended friendships because of addictions (because they couldn’t handle it and I couldn’t save them) and a raging passion for people to smarten the fuck up (because I’m tired of losing friends).

For fuck sakes, know your damn source. I can’t stop you from taking illicit chemicals. I have no power or control over that. What I can ask is that you know what you’re buying, know what it’s cut with and know how much to take. Do you really need to chase the high all weekend? Yeah, I’m sure you’re super smart. You’re a super hero, right? You just party on weekends and have done that for so many years now, that you’re a pro. Well, even pros can have their heart stop beating. Are you smart enough to start your own heart when it stops?

Hell, maybe it’s just brain death. That’s okay, right? There are machines that’ll keep you breathing and your body warm so your family can come, hold your hand, and weep. That’s okay, because you knew what you were doing, right?

“I just party on weekends…Thursday’s practically the weekend…Ugh, it’s Monday and I’m still fucked up from Thursday…God, I feel like shit.”

Smarten up.

[*Aughts: A decade such as that from 1900 to 1909 A.D., or 2000 to 2009, whose digit in the tens place is zero.]

The bulbs are our brains. The illumination? Be softer, be kinder. Don't be so damn mean. Be gentle with yourself and be gentle with others. Context falls apart online and we can feel the impact of words viscerally. Don't forget that.

There are no advisories when you’ve lost touch.

When you’re full up on empty, is it swift?

The horse in your veins kicked feverishly, I imagine.

The news came too late for goodbyes.

Rest in Peace K.F.

Perhaps that seems silly, but sometimes it’s the random, simple things that bring me the greatest pleasure. I’d love to take the tentacle and swirl it around in the artist’s brain a little bit – see if they smell burnt toast. Even better if I swirl across a gray coil that looks an awful lot like a suction cup and they blurt out obscenities.

Obviously, the wall needed a tentacle.

The composition tickles me.

Filed under: Art, Observation, The Moment was Ripe Tagged: Art, composition, photography, point and shoot, Random, street art, tentacle ]]> http://cheekycici.wordpress.com/2010/03/02/the-tentacle/feed/ 2 CheekyCici Tentacle003small Tentacle001small http://cheekycici.wordpress.com/2010/02/28/587/ http://cheekycici.wordpress.com/2010/02/28/587/#comments Sun, 28 Feb 2010 19:11:37 +0000 CheekyCici http://cheekycici.wordpress.com/?p=587 ]]> My boat is in dry-dock while I patch up a few leaks.

No, it’s not a real boat, it’s a proverbial boat. I wish I had a real boat. That would be bloody brilliant. Alas, I don’t have a real one, nor do I know anyone who does, so until that changes, I’ll continue to play captain on my imaginary boat.

Dry-dock gives me the opportunity to reassess and formulate new plans. While I take these moments to pause, I won’t forget to enjoy the view.

Be still and listen.

For the past two weeks the most popular search engine term driving traffic to my blog has been “figure skating hand to crotch”. I find this highly amusing. The hits for Crotch Punch – A Living Example of My Assholery have gone through the roof.

So, to honour all the figure skaters who’ve had hands all over their crotches, I’ve created a photo montage for your viewing pleasure. Everyone loves a good crotch shot. Throw in some hands and you’ve got Hand to Crotch, the figure skaters dream.

"Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems depopulated." - Lamartine

To a carnivore, a human is no more than prey. We’re food, plain and simple. We will continue to be consumed by crocodiles, tigers, lions, sharks, snakes and even chimpanzees (to name a few).

Animals that prey on and devour humans as alternative food sources are demonized by our fear. The fear inspires terrible tales and legends of beasts breaking down doors for a chance to chomp some sweet, sweet human meat.

Enter the horror movie.

Betcha thought this was going to be about cannibalism. Nope. It’s about my sick desire to watch people be eaten by ravenous movie monsters. Vampires are fine and dandy in a pinch, but what I really crave are creatures. Whether they are wild animals fixated on blood lust or aliens hell-bent on destroying earth – the experience is visceral. My pulse quickens and my pupils dilate.

I’ve long been a fan of watching toothy reptiles gnaw contentedly on humans – ever since I was a little girl and I watched Aliens for the first time. Sitting on the edge of my seat, I became aware that fear and excitement feel pretty much the same. The only difference being the emotional reactions we attach.

So why do I have this proclivity towards excitement when movie monsters eat people? I think the wires in my brain were crossed. That, and I’m the crocodile little Timmy flushed down the toilet 30 odd years ago.

This human skin certainly does get itchy.

Street art on Quebec Street.