MAGNIFICENT!!!

Love my latest photoshoot after almost two years!!!! 

I'm heavy on the 'mones now so I love the totally more womanly look and my dear Singaporean photographer was fantastic in everything from lighting to patience to my coffee breaks!!! I was a challenge to work with and I am so thankful to him!!


Come and seek entry onto my VIP group to view my latest photos!!


http://groups.yahoo.com/group/liisawinklergirl


LOVE you my VIP membersssssss :D 

grateful for life....

Watching short documentaries about too many realities of our world as well as our own psychological realities has been a hobby of mine since time immemorial. From cryptozoology to urban legend-like coverups, I love them all as long as they're within the scope of my powers of comprehension. 




Since I've barricaded myself inside my new room (which is bigger, better, more airy) with all the amenities except for a bathroom, I can virtually hibernate and not be seen around town for days, only going out for my yoga and badminton. And I have lots of time on my hands to pore through these short television documentaries. 




Suicide has social stigma imprinted all over it, across all cultures and religions. I've talked about it several times the past few years since I started my blog based on personal views. I've never been close with someone who has done it but I do know people who have committed it and succeeded unfortunately. I've also always taken a stance where I'm against it. I don't condone it and I highly pity the people who have had to resort to this form of desertion of their own realities. 






However a certain segment in the documentary program which tackled suicide as a cultural reality in a certain tribal community here in the Philippines has led me NOT TO rethink my own views but to somehow respect the reality that somehow suicide MAY also be respectable as long as it does not desecrate other people's beliefs by being regulated as a practice to be upheld by religious or cultural necessity and obligation. 






People of the Kulbi tribe in a certain municipality in Rizal, Palawan in the Philippines have mixed beliefs about the concept of suicide but mostly coalescing into a general premise that it may be natural and even acceptable as long as the reasons for doing so are within the confines of honor and respectability. This is what I could derive from watching the documentary at least. 






But after reading several sources and re-watching the program the people being interviewed seemed stable and well-grounded, they enjoyed what life in general has to offer and the community values are not grounded on despair and depression. There are even people who are puzzled about existence of suicide in their culture. There must be an individuality to the commitment of self-destruction and a passivity of behavior among the people who are witnesses to this phenomena for it to be an anomaly and yet a regular occurrence in their own community. Belief in the forces of the inevitability of one's own "destiny", and in the ABSENCE of an "afterlife" the lack of control over the forces of human emotions, a low threshold towards the pain of suffering a sickness and old age as well as filial conflicts within the tight fabric of relatives are among the major factors contributing to the suicidal tendencies among the affected members of the Kulbi people. 






One example which has several issues factoring into the commitment of suicide involves one recent incident in their town. A whole family killed themselves after one of their own children suffered death after a recent natural disaster (flooding I believe). We WOULD attribute this sort of bizarre behavior to depression under our own normal, "trapped," suburban or urban circumstances but to them it seems that missing one of their kin, filial devotion extending up to the other life, the overwhelming love for one of their own and the attachment to them was enough reason for the easy way out. 






Another common scenario for incidences of suicide especially among the young men in the tribe is failure to meet the expectations in gender-related connections. Some men feel that they are financially incapable of paying the dowry for an object of their affection or embarrassment from impregnating a woman without the means for economic support for the "future family" they might put into a whole life of jeopardy. This in my opinion is NOT THAT socially unacceptable because it places in high regard honor their male-hood and the role they play in society. The social role of father and provider for the men in their tribe is a powerful tool for them to maintain honor and name so that it becomes a major issue especially if they cannot fulfill this role to the best of their ability. It must take so much courage and deep self-searching to eradicate one's own existence because one cannot fulfill the responsibility of a man as defined by their society! 






The most common form of voluntary life-taking has always been hanging oneself with a rope. But among the younger generation of the Kulbi people the drinking of extremely saturated concoctions of a type of coconut-based alcohol as well as a native pesticide has become common forms of self-destruction. Some even become exhibitionistic in such a manner where right before dying they parade in front of their families in a display of courage or bravado I presume.  






The acceptability of certain strange practices is defined by a society's beliefs, culture and tradition. I myself am guilty of a little bit of imposition because I have already used the word "STRANGE" when it is up to the concerned people to define what is bizarre to them or not. The interjection of new teachings and ideas that are totally different to the original beliefs of the tribe will only result in something futile and even result in internal conflicts among the concerned. In the documentary, a woman tried to educate the Kulbi people with her Christian and Western beliefs because she believed that she could alter their socially unacceptable suicidal practices. But in my opinion this will only convolute the people's otherwise straight and rigid existence. Who is she to dictate what is socially displeasing to these people? They've held onto their ideas for hundreds of years and have otherwise lived a joyous and undisturbed existence despite the high rates of suicide in their communities. Why should she try muddle the clarity and purity of their existence by introducing her twisted Christian beliefs? 






In the end, taboo or not, respect should be accorded where it is due. The values of people who do not conform to our social definition of civilization should be upheld ESPECIALLY if they do not force their own beliefs on us. Considering that they are a minority, there is no reason to fear the widespread influence of their practices be they arcane or morbid or not. All societies be they primitive or modern need an outlet for their peoples' frustrations, psychological conflicts and pent-up creativities. If suicide is the Kulbi people's form of adjusting to the chaos of life's vagaries who are we to condemn this? The more perverse among us practice self-infliction of pain, drinking piss and scat as forms of sexual gratification, murdering people and animals as physical and psychological exerise!!!! So let's stop taking the moral high ground and broaden our scope of accepting the arcane and the seemingly socially unacceptable.....

disjointed and pathetic...

The recent events of the past couple of weeks have sort of placed me in a creative and emotional slump. 




I've sort of lost something within the chaos of my inner self. I cannot put a finger on what it is. I am not necessarily pointing to negative events contributing to this event. Some wonderful circumstances have also made me lose myself in a toxic high and low. My moods swivel from exuberance to a paranoidal depression. I don't know what's happening. Everything happening in my life now takes on a dreamy phase. Sometimes I feel I am detached from my physical self and am watching the wonderful and pathetic realities of my life from a third-person perspective. 




I am drifting, floating through my daily existence. Going through my yoga classes like an automaton, seeing people and partying as if I have an obligation to make myself happy, keep the loneliness out of my life. Getting panicky about uncertain things in my future for no reason at all. The really bad thing is I know and am aware of what is happening and what is not. It seems like I can't get a grip on things too often




I attribute these feelings sometimes to my inhumane and large doses of hormones. It must be one contributing factor because a sudden jolt of hormones in every human being always reaches past the physical level and onto the mental. I do not discredit this reality. However this is an inevitable portion of my life. This is a reality I always face, that I must take massive doses so to make up for the months when I am not on them. 






My intoxicating attraction to Asian-Oriental looking guys is soaring like a heroin high. Anyone who looks Asian, well-proportioned and talks with an English/Aussie/American accent makes me go nuts. I met a half-Chinese and half Australian guy recently in Boracay island while I was there with friends and my thoughts were embroiled in a confused cocktail of desire, lust, affection.. Every sense of emotion seemed heightened. We were only flirting and fondling and kissing each other on the beach for less than half an hour but I strangely felt a connection. I feel very fragile as a result. I can't shake it off. My friends told me it will be so easy for me to get another guy. But that singular event is embedded like a parasite in my system. 






I'm also very attracted to a gay man if that make any sense to my already wrecked situation. It is quite insane for me to post this because he is a very close friend. This I shall keep to myself and not expound too much on here. I avoid him like the plague because I am afraid of getting too close. I will not get too close. 






I know I am rambling but I feel lost. I feel so much discord in my life the past couple of weeks. Maybe I need therapy, maybe I need a good chastising.






I hope I get my act together and write something significant here....

The rhythm and rhyme of my boudoir...

I am now on the cusp and UBER excited to launch my ultra private new blog which I am still in the process of naming..




I am thinking of calling it LE WINKLERGIRL EROTIQUE...(you can email suggestions: blogwinklergirl@hotmail.com and I would highly appreciate it!!!)




Basically written in a format of short stories where I sort of chronicle the deeper and darker mysteries of my profession. The sensual experiences I have had with the people I have experienced in the boudoir with of course the funny quirk that only yours truly can deliver. The emotional treks of Andalusian proportions I have had to go through dealing with the devious, the uncanny, the player and the slanderers...all of them MEN!

I have just finished one narrative which my mentor has thoroughly enjoyed. I have interwoven humorous takes and intelligent insights onto the sensual acts in the stories which may strip the narratives of the lyricism and poetry that we are used to reading from erotic writers. But I perfectly acknowledge my amateurishness and lack of proper writing background which is why if somebody enjoys it, it only adds to whatever happiness I can extract out of the effort of writing and re-illustrating it in my mind :)




I am awaiting word from my "special" mentor to give me the go signal. Otherwise if he finds faults in the writings I will have to keep them private and for the both of us to cherish....AND a few special people to let in...

figments of MYTh and FOLKLORE

Partying has never been my thing but with the right friends who knows? I think it's a little fair to let go of oneself and lose the cerebral cells a little bit. After all everyone assumes I don't have a life whenever I travel, first because I travel without company and second, the assumption is I've given up going to the bathroom because of the parade of men wanting to see me...DUH! Believe me I have too much time on my hands that I can take the train to the ends of the country I work in and back to the four walls of my hotel, but not without phone calls or SMSes to take care of though. And I do have fun aside from shopping and coffee-ing. So there you are! Yes i do go clubbing and and getting tipsy and wasted! But not on Stella Artois anymore please....(To those who follow me too much!)

Some new-found friends I have, all of them gay, have opened a whole dimension to my Saturday night. I would choose gay over straight anyway as most straight "friends" I meet want to jump my bones and screw the hell out of me albeit in different levels of actuation. The gay pals seem to delight in bringing me to their favorite queer club. The club is a blast, there is hardly enough space to dance, there are many beautiful people and there is a Trojan war at the bar to get drinks which is why it's a great place! You need a good face and tits to elbow your way through the sea of people and catch the waiter or barman's attention hahahah!!! I won't mention the name of the club but I suppose if you want a free fuck look around the gay clubs in Tanjong Pagar where my inebriation might make me mistake you for a handsome tennis player after several rounds of rhum and cocktails! hahah I'm kiddinggggg... But seriously my tour has become so much fun because I am able to just forget work and let loose, dancing to familiar and unfamiliar tunes but most of them intended to unleash the diva in gay men. Now that is another thing i want to talk about.

The world is so unbelievably fucked up I think. When I look at many of the gay men in the club, they're the epitome of how every straight man wants to look like so he can have women throwing themselves at him. They're so well-dressed, delicious, funny, wild, and enviably well-scented that I seem to always want to bite their neck! But they won't have me, well at least the majority of them. Because they want something similar to them or ermmmm more manly. Straight men seem to be the caviar in the menu of gay men's sexual exploits. But they settle for other gay men who act as manly as straight people because they're sex-starved bitches who have to hide in different layers of closets in the light of day due to family, work and peer pressure. And probably their only valve for the Electra-complex boiling in their subconscious is copulation with straight-esque gay or STRAIGHT men.

But at the same time, straight men, the object of many gay men's wet dreams, will most likely have nothing to do with gay people because they love the feminine, the soft, and nubile form of women. And as per their curiosity anyway, they will of course naturally dig anything that resembles woman, ME! This part I do not know if it is innate in every man, the bisexuality part that is. Most bisexuals I know dig MEN and WOMEN, not the androgynous. But yes I hate arriving at this part again, the labels game.

I just want to illustrate that the sexual lives of people can be fucked up! HAHAHAHAHA

Gay men dig gay and straight men, they disdain women and feminine looking boys, STRAIGHT men desire women and what looks very feminine but disdain the rough hands of Steve, the humorous and euphemistic name for queer men! Feminine "girls" like me find GAY MEN to be the emblem of STRAIGHT MAN beauty and perfection and DESIRE them queer boys but at the same time appreciate the admiration given us by straight or bisexual men! Whew it's a Tower of Babel of labels and it's making my head swirl!!!

Because of this strange maelstrom in my head from thinking about this phenomena, my sexual tastes have evolved yet again. There is no relevance at all to what I was ranting earlier about but I will still conclude this entry anyway with something that I want to get off my chest.

I do still like and desire SKINNY, tall, Caucasian men generally but I now have a similar-ish inclination for well-proportioned, beautiful and skinny and tall-ish Asian boys. I did not really dig Chinese or Malaysian or Thai blokes before but by God, the strange abominable club, my queer friends have introduced me to, has opened my eyes to these beautiful creatures. Asian boys are the new mermaids in the my sexual landscape. Mermaids because they are elusive mentally - they don't baby me like the Western dudes do, they don't necessarily adhere to what I deem true and real, and they have a different mindset, they don't like equals, they compete too. I abhor myself for admitting this out in public but yeah! That's the that! LOLLLLLL

Love you all

Winklergirl

Time to play photo-guy

What a lovely time I had in the northern part of the Philippines last weekend!!!! Did you enjoy yours???

I decided to play photographer once again and I felt renewed.I've fleeted from hobby to indulgence to hobby to indulgence the past few years. It feels refreshing after not having taken serious-looking photos in a long time! I had the most amazing experience donning my artist's cap and snapping images.

My VIP members will get the first glimpse of the photos without the watermarks. And there are some photos of me on my recent weekend misadventure of course. Come right away to http://groups.yahoo.com/group/liisawinklergirl

I'll need to update this within the week. I am too busy and I am knackered...

Enjoy!!!

Miss you all!!!

the marlboro marine story

Too beautiful AND sad a tribute story to pass up. I love these wrenching but REAL stories. Thank you iconicphotos.wordpress.com and latimes.com for this.

Love you all...Winklergirl

"Two lives blurred together by a photo"

By Luis Sinco, Times Staff Photographer

November 11, 2007

The young marine lighted a cigarette and let it dangle. White smoke wafted around his helmet. His face was smeared with war paint. Blood trickled from his right ear and the bridge of his nose.

Momentarily deafened by cannon blasts, he didn't know the shooting had stopped. He stared at the sunrise.

His expression caught my eye. To me, it said: terrified, exhausted and glad just to be alive. I recognized that look because that's how I felt too.

I raised my camera and snapped a few shots.

With the click of a shutter, Marine Lance Cpl. James Blake Miller, a country boy from Kentucky, became an emblem of the war in Iraq. The resulting image would change two lives -- his and mine.

I was embedded with Charlie Company of the 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, as it entered Fallouja, an insurgent stronghold in Iraq's Sunni Triangle, on Nov. 8, 2004. We encountered heavy fire almost immediately. We were pinned down all night at a traffic circle, where a 6-inch curb offered the only protection.

I hunkered down in the gutter that endless night, praying for daylight, trying hard to make myself small. A cold rain came down. I cursed the Marines' illumination flares that wafted slowly earthward, making us wait an eternity for darkness to return.

At dawn, the gunfire and explosions subsided. A white phosphorus artillery round burst overhead, showering blazing-hot tendrils. We came across three insurgents lying in the street, two of them dead, their blood mixing with rainwater.

The third, a wiry Arab youth, tried to mouth a few words. All I could think was: "Buddy, you're already dead."

We rounded a corner and again came under heavy fire, forcing us to scramble for cover. I ran behind a Marine as we crossed the street, the bullets ricocheting at our feet.

Gunfire poured down, and it seemed incredible that no one was hit. A pair of tanks rumbled down the road to shield us. The Marines kicked open the door of a house, and we all piled in.

Miller and other Marines took positions on the rooftop; I set up my satellite phone to transmit photos. But as I worked downstairs in the kitchen, a deep rumble almost blew the room apart.

Two cannon rounds had slammed into a nearby house. Miller, the platoon's radioman, had called in the tanks, pinpointed the targets and shouted "Fire!"

I ran to the roof and saw smoldering ruins across a large vacant lot. Beneath a heap of bricks, men lay dead or dying. I sat down and collected my wits. Miller propped himself against a wall and lighted his cigarette. I transmitted the picture that night. Power in Fallouja had been cut in advance of the assault, forcing me to be judicious with my batteries. I considered not even sending Miller's picture, thinking my editors would prefer images of fierce combat.

The photo of Miller was the last of 11 that I sent that day.

On the second day of the battle, I called my wife by satellite phone to tell her I was OK. She told me my photo had ended up on the front page of more than 150 newspapers. Dan Rather had gushed over it on the evening news. Friends and family had called her to say they had seen the photo -- my photo.

Soon, my editors called and asked me to find the "Marlboro Marine" for a follow-up story. Who was this brave young hero? Women wanted to marry him. Mothers wanted to know whether he was their son.

I didn't even know his name. Shell-shocked and exhausted, I had simply identified Miller as "A Marine" and clicked "send."

I found Miller four days later in an auditorium after a dangerous dash across an open parade ground in the city's civic center. Miller's unit was taking a break, eating military rations.

Clean-shaven and without war paint, Miller, 20, looked much younger than the battle-stressed warrior in the picture -- young enough to be my son.

He was cooperative, but he was embarrassed about the photo's impact back home.

Once our story identified him, the national fascination grew stronger. People shipped care packages, making sure Miller had more than enough smokes. President Bush sent cigars, candy and memorabilia from the White House.

Then Maj. Gen. Richard F. Natonski, head of the 1st Marine Division, made a special trip to see the Marlboro Marine.

I was in the forward command center, which by then featured a large blowup of the photo. "You might want to see this," an officer said, nudging me to follow.

To talk to Miller, Natonski had to weave between earthen berms, run through bombed-out buildings and make a mad sprint across a wide street to avoid sniper fire before diving into a shattered storefront.

"Miller, get your ass up here," a first sergeant barked on the radio.

Miller had no idea what was going on as he ran through the rubble. He snapped to attention when he saw the general.

Natonski shook Miller's hand. Americans had "connected" with his photo, the general said, and nobody wanted to see him wounded or dead.

"We can have you home tomorrow," he said.

Miller hesitated, then shook his head. He did not want to leave his buddies behind. "It just wasn't right," he told me later.

The tall, lanky general towered over the grunt. "Your father raised one hell of a young man," he said, looking Miller in the eye. They said goodbye, and Natonski scrambled back to the command post.

For his loyalty, Miller was rewarded with horror. The assault on Fallouja raged on, leaving nearly 100 Americans dead and 450 wounded. The bodies of some 1,200 insurgents littered the streets.

As the fighting dragged on for a month, the story fell off the front page. I joined the exodus of journalists heading home or moving to the next story.

More than a year and a half would pass before I saw Miller again.

Back home, I immersed myself in other assignments, trying to put Fallouja behind me. Yet not a day went by that I didn't think about Miller and what we experienced in Iraq.

National Public Radio interviewed me. Much to my embarrassment, the Los Angeles City Council adopted a resolution in my honor. I became a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Bloggers riffed on the photo's meaning. Requests for prints kept coming.

In January 2006, I was on assignment along the U.S.-Mexico border when my wife called. "Your boy is on TV. He has PTSD," she said. "They kicked him out of the Marines."

I'd spoken with Miller by phone twice, but the conversations were short and superficial. I knew post-traumatic stress disorder was a complicated diagnosis. So once again, I dug up his number. Again, I offered simple words: Life is sweet. We survived. Everything else is gravy.

As the third anniversary of the U.S.-led invasion approached, my editors wanted another follow-up story.

So in spring 2006, I traveled to Miller's hometown of Jonancy, Ky., in the hollows of Appalachia. I drove east from Lexington along Interstate 64, part of the nationwide Purple Heart Trail honoring dead and wounded veterans, before turning south.

Mobile homes and battered cars dot the rugged ranges. Marijuana is a major cash crop. Addiction to methamphetamine and prescription drugs is rampant.

Kids marry young, and boys go to work mining the black seams of coal. Heavy trucks rumble day and night.

Miller showed me around. At an abandoned mine, he walked carefully around a large, shallow pool of standing water that mirrored the green wilderness and springtime sky. He picked up a chunk of coal.

"Around here, this is what it's all about," he said. "Nothing else.

"It was this or the Marines."

Often brooding and sullen, Miller joked about being "21 going on 70," the result, he said, of humping heavy armor and gear on a 6-foot, 160-pound frame.

Before he was allowed to leave Iraq, he attended a mandatory "warrior transitioning" session about PTSD and adjusting to home life.

Each Marine received a questionnaire. Were they having trouble sleeping? Did they have thoughts of suicide? Did they feel guilt about their actions?

Everybody knew the drill. Answer yes and be evaluated further. Say no and go home.

Miller said he didn't want to miss his flight. He answered no to every question.

He returned to Camp Lejeune, N.C. His high school sweetheart, Jessica Holbrooks, joined him there, and they were married in a civil ceremony.

Then came the nightmares and hallucinations. He imagined shadowy figures outside the windows. Faces of the dead haunted his sleep.

Once, while cleaning a shotgun, he blacked out. He regained consciousness when Jessica screamed out his name. Snapping back to reality, he realized he was pointing the gun at her.

He reported the problems to superiors, who promised to get him help.

Then came a single violent episode, which put an end to his days as a Marine.

It happened in the storm-tossed Gulf of Mexico in September 2005. His unit had been sent to New Orleans to assist with Hurricane Katrina relief efforts. Now a second giant storm, Hurricane Rita, was moving in, and the Marines were ordered to seek safety out at sea.

In the claustrophobic innards of a rolling Navy ship, someone whistled. The sound reminded Miller of a rocket- propelled grenade. He attacked the sailor who had whistled. He came to in the boat's brig. He was medically discharged with a "personality disorder" on Nov. 10, 2005 -- exactly one year after his picture made worldwide news.

Back home in Kentucky, the Millers settled into a sparsely furnished second-story apartment. Four small windows afforded little light. The TV was always on.

Miller bought a motorcycle and went for long rides. He and Jessica drank all night and slept all day. He started collecting a monthly disability benefit of about $2,500. The couple spent hours watching movies on DVD, Coronas and bourbon cocktails in hand. Friends and family gave them space.

Miller had hoped to pursue a career in law enforcement. But the PTSD and abrupt discharge killed that dream. No one would trust him with a weapon.

But at least he didn't have to go back to Iraq. He started to realize he wasn't the only one traumatized by war.

"There's a word for it around here," Jessica said. "It's called 'vets.' " She talked of Miller's grandfather, forever changed by the Korean War and dead by age 35. Her Uncle Hargis, a Vietnam veteran, had it too. He experienced mood swings for years.

Sometimes, Miller's stories about Iraq unnerved his young bride. He sensed it and talked less. Nobody really understands, he said, unless they've been there.

On June 3, 2006, the Millers renewed their vows at a hilltop clubhouse overlooking the forests and strip mines. It was a lavish ceremony paid for by donors from across the country who had read about Miller's travails or seen him on television. Local businesses pitched in as well.

His father and two younger brothers were supposed to be groomsmen but didn't show up. His estranged mother wasn't invited.

Miller looked sharp in his Marine Corps dress uniform of dark-blue cloth and red piping. Jessica was lovely in white, her long hair gathered high.

Instead of a honeymoon, the young couple traveled to Washington, D.C., at the invitation of the National Mental Health Assn. The group wanted to honor Miller for his courage in going public about his PTSD. Its leaders also wanted him to visit key lawmakers to share his experience.

As a boy, Miller confided, he had embraced religion, even going so far as to become an ordained minister by mail order. He knew the Bible verses, felt the passion for preaching.

That's how he found his new mission: to tell people what it was like to come home from war with a broken mind.

Three days after their wedding, I tagged along as the young couple flew to the nation's capital. Easily distracted by the offer of free drinks for an all-American hero, Miller stayed out until 3 a.m. He was hung over when he met with House members a few hours later.

Miller chatted up GOP Rep. Harold Rogers, the congressman from his district. He smoked and frequently cursed while recounting his combat experiences. I cringed but stayed on the sidelines, snapping photos.

Miller shuffled from one congressional office to the next, passing displays filled with photos of Marines killed in Iraq. As he told his story over and again, the politicians listened politely and thanked Miller for his service. One congressman sent an aide to tell Miller he was too busy to meet. No one promised to take up his cause.

After Miller picked up his award, he took a whirlwind tour past the White House and Lincoln Memorial, but his mind was elsewhere. At a bar the night before, free booze had flowed in honor of the Marlboro Marine. Miller wanted more.

"Let's get drunk," he said.

I returned to Los Angeles the next morning, thinking I would catch up with Miller in a couple of months.

A week later, Jessica called. After they got home, Miller's mood had become volatile. He was OK one minute and in a deep funk the next, she told me. Then he'd disappeared. She hadn't seen him for days.

Could I come to Kentucky and help?

Why me? I thought. I am not Miller's brother. Or his father. I could feel the line between journalist and subject blurring. Was I covering the story or becoming part of it?

I traveled all night to get to Pikeville, Ky., and soon found myself with Jessica, making the rounds of all the places Miller might have gone. I wanted to be somewhere else -- anywhere else.

Finally, the next morning, Jessica saw her husband driving in the opposite direction. She did a U-turn, hit the gas and caught up with him down the road.

He got out of his truck. A woman sat in the passenger seat.

"Who is that, Blake?" Jessica demanded. "Who is she?"

He said her name was Sherry. They had just met, and he was helping her move. Jessica didn't believe him.

I thought: Didn't I attend this young couple's fairy tale wedding just 10 days ago? Now, here they were, in a gas station parking lot, creating a spectacle.

Jessica grilled Miller. He bobbed and weaved. He appeared sober and sullen. Then he dropped a bomb. He didn't want her anymore and had filed for divorce.

"You guys might want to go home and talk," I suggested.

There, the tortured dialogue escalated.

Jessica pleaded with Blake to stop and think. They could quit drinking, she said. They'd get help for him and as a couple. Maybe they could move away -- anything to work it out.

Miller slumped on the couch. I sensed his unease and feared he would become violent, so I stayed for a while even though I felt intrusive. But he remained strangely calm, albeit brooding and distant.

I returned the next morning. He called his attorney and put the phone on speaker. If uncontested, the lawyer said, the divorce would become final in 60 days. Jessica went to the fire escape to gather herself.

Miller remained unmoved, chain-smoking. The local newspaper had been calling him about rumors that he was getting divorced. It was a major local story. Finally, he wrote a statement. He asked for compassion and respect for their privacy.

The next day, I found Miller in a back bedroom at his uncle's house. He told me that he had come close to committing suicide the night before. He had thought about driving his motorcycle off the edge of a mountain road.

He showed me the morning newspaper. His divorce was the lead story.

I felt torn. I didn't want to get involved. I desperately wanted to close the book on Iraq. But if I hadn't taken Miller's picture, this very personal drama wouldn't be front-page news. I felt responsible.

Sometimes, when things get hard to witness, I use my camera as a shield. It creates a space for me to work -- and distance to keep my eyes open and my feelings in check. But Miller had no use for a photojournalist. He needed a helping hand.

I flashed back to the chaos of combat in Fallouja. In the rattle and thunder, brick walls separated me from the world coming to an end. In the tight spaces, we were scared mindless. Everybody dragged deeply on cigarettes.

Above the din, I heard what everybody was thinking: This is the end.

I've never felt so completely alone.

I snapped back to the present, and before I knew it, the words spilled out.

"I have to ask you something, Blake," I said. "If I'd gone down in Fallouja, would you have carried me out?"

"Damn straight," he said, without hesitation.

"OK then," I said. "I think you're wounded pretty badly. I want to help you."

He looked at me for a moment. "All right," he said.

the drug that is Jamie Woon...

This is what happens when you type too fast! I heard a beautiful male voice on the fashion channel the other day, it sort of came from the background music of a fashion segment. I just listened closely to the voice, typed the words coming out from the television on Google like a madwoman and voila! I found a whole treasure trove of music coming from this rather new-ish Asian-British artist.

The combination is Seal meets Vikter Duplaix ... very addictive...

It is my great responsibility to share beautiful music with my readers so feel free to listen LOL!!!!

dark as ebony...EDITED

"...Done to death I know, but not like this...we strip it down, make it visceral and real..."

The eerie opening lines of the ballet director, Thomas Leroy (Vincent Cassel) to his company upon introducing them to their opening season performance. Maybe he wanted them to know the gravity of the task ahead of them: that of re-interpreting an overused storyline in ballet productions all over the world. Or maybe he just wanted to flex his skills at seduction, that of choosing the premier ballerina of the moment, celebrating her muse-hood and wringing her dry until she was devoid of all moisture, flavor and spice like the fate that befell ex-premier ballerina Beth Macintyre(Winona Ryder) in this case....

Although this, in my opinion, is not best-actress-material performance by Natalie Portman she does flex her acting and emotional muscle well here. Transitioning from the soft, feminine, uncertain delicateness of a fragile young lady to the twisted, lunatic contortions of a raving madwoman and then back again several times throughout the film not only displays her versatility but also her method of attacking the role of a deeply disturbed character.

Nina Sayers (Portman) is the ballet dancer in the company chosen by Leroy to play the Swan Queen and the evil twin, the Black Swan for his production SWAN LAKE. It is obvious that right from the very start Nina is on a personal crusade to acquire this role. But after dancing miserably in the audition, she felt she needed to appease Leroy verbally through a personal meeting. He highlights that her calculated and more controlled style of dancing was excellent enough for the Swan Queen role but wasn't for the more provocative and passionate style that befitted the Evil twin. The lead dancer had to embody both roles. Leroy however uses his position of power to take advantage and kiss her and then through some Machiavellian machination credited Nina with the Swan Queen role for the performance.

Thus began a hazy and intense journey for Nina, well mentally at least. The stress of the upcoming performance got to her. The increasing criticism of "HE-who championed her" on her rigid dancing moves. His numerous daring sexual advances as an excuse to release her from the bondage that her potentials were allegedly trapped in and prevented her from performing at her optimal best. The comparisons to Lily (Mila Kunis) a dancer from another company who was lent to them for the Swan Lake production whose more less-perfectionistic but graceful and freer style of dancing was so desired by the director. The drive to be perfect, an unspoken dogma that suddenly haunted her. These all eventually coalesced to wreak havoc on Nina until performance night...

The crescendo of disillusion and detachment blew on full steam. Doppelgangers appearing out of nowhere at unexpected instances, stigmata-esque manifestations characterized by imaginary bruisings, cuts and scratches in her body and fingernails, out-of-body sensual experiences including that of pleasuring herself with her hands, hallucinations of events taking place but with lack of tangible reality when her senses eventually overtook her seemingly intoxicated self ... these were but one of many manifestations of the inner demons that suddenly plagued her from the sheer pressure of trying to achieve perfection.

On the night before the performance all demons broke loose when she partied and let loose with her rival-turned-ally Lily. Ecstasy for starters, and flirting with two boys, dancing the night away in a noisy club as sides, the whole menu of a night seemingly turned into a disaster for Nina until they got to the main dish....sex with Lily in her bedroom despite her mother's pleadings at the door. This part was probably one of the most interesting in the movie naturally but also because both women played the role very well. There was total submission to the sensual act, Nina allowing herself to be pleasured orally by Lily's willing lips, mouth, tongue etcetera...all part of Nina's distorted sensory perceptions...

Performance night and the first act is going well until one of her doppelgangers distracted her and the Swan Prince drops her in the dance lift that would end the first act. Furious, Nina storms into her dressing room only to find Lily already donning the Black Swan costume in an effort to replace her in the second act. Nina loses it completely and stabs Lily to her death and hides her behind closed doors. She suddenly finds herself morphing into the Black Swan, the passionate second skin that had eluded her throughout her struggles through rehearsal and frigidity. She dances flawlessly on stage as the Black Swan, in an almost unearthly perfection. The applause is thunderous....

The third act finally unveils to her and to the viewers that the persona she wounded and had thought dead in the dressing room was herself. She needed to endure the pain to master her dark side and unleash the passion she had not known existed inside her. Dressed and dancing as the Swan Queen again in the third act she bleeds from the wound she had instilled on herself - finally giving way to a semblance of clarity in the end and an arcane happiness at having achieved a performance of freedom after intense personal suffering...

This could have been an otherwise disturbing film for many except that I love these sort of macabre films with imaginary and sometimes demonic representations of personal experiences of people. I've no idea whether a film has been done about a ballerina's emotional and mental struggles before massive performances but this certainly was very watchable for me and could possibly inspire my next photoshoot. Maybe scratch out the lesbian theme three quarters right into the movie...or maybe not!!! :)

Guapitoooooooooo...

Too cute for words!!

I'm obsessed...well actually I AM OBSESSED!!!!

Guess who? :)

Kisses to all...and hopefully to him :)