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Is image the reputation you build up about yourself or is image a perception that others have of you? According to comments made by some rock icons like Mike Jagger and Eddie Vedder, they gave up ions ago trying to manage and manipulate their image into something that is truer to their real selves, as opposed to the image portrayed of them in music. The only image I know I have control over, if in fact you want to go down this path of believing in control, is the image that stares back at me in the mirror. I can control the amount of foundation I apply, the color of my lipstick and eye shadow and even sometimes control how my hair will turn out (at least until I step outside and the elements have their go, given that I was born with weather-sensitive hair). However, controlling the image you put out into the world, if in fact you're putting yourself out there in the manner that public persons do... well, we're talking about a whole new kettle of fish, are we not?

When I worked on my first series of six novels, urban paranormal in genre and also viewed by me as a vampire series, it was automatically assumed by readers that I was a trollop who prostrated myself for publicity, which I did at the time, and who willingly offered her body to the chocolate Gods with no concern for her image whatsoever (which I still do to this day), and finally that I was a sex-kitten, loose and easy, to which I won't offer comment here and now. The image my readers had of me had helped to garner interest in my writing by the media, and to strike up conversations with potential readers when I sold my books in person. But I knew the truth of my self-image without having to be told this by readers.

Image in the eyes of the media is their perception of you, and how they choose to present their story from their point of view, regardless of what you say, do or produce. The only advice I'd give anyone in a similar position is the same advice I've given myself time and again and it is this: be yourself. Being yourself is the only image I'm most concerned with, the image I feel most comfortable with because it doesn't require me to recreate it. I am myself and therefore being myself is the easiest person to be in the long run. Flamboyancy in image is something many performers do on stage to elevate their performance, and to get noticed. And if at times flamboyancy becomes controversy, more attention will attach itself to the previous image, thereby solidifying a new image. Think of David Bowie (may he RIP) and how he continually re-invented himself, part man, part alien — flamboyant costumes during his performances that intentionally blurred the gender-lines. Bowie was ahead of his time, and he knew it, and he actively embraced having his image twisted and turned and changed—on his album covers, such as being portrayed on his Diamond Dogs cover as a chimera, part human, part animal. The end result was highly effective, and his actions allowed him more wiggle room for future covers.

But this methodology doesn't work for everyone.

Sir Anthony Hopkins, when his star was catapulted to super-stardom because of winning an Oscar for his role in Silence of the Lambs, was occasionally taken aback when he'd meet new people for the first time who were afraid of him, despite him having never met them before. They were unable to separate his new found image from reality, and they reacted emotionally to the idea that he played a serial killer so realistically and so convincingly that this image merged with his real life persona.

How does one overcome this? You merely adopt a new image, and hope for the best that it will supersede the previous. Image, therefore, is malleable. Reality, on the other hand, is the solid and simple mirror that reflects back to you what is staring into it, the truth of how you look, though not necessarily how you think or behave.

It all sounds like a load of irony, this notion of image. Stack up a pile of photographs of yourself for each decade. Maybe choose five photos to represent each decade and I guarantee you that you won't recognize the image looking back at you. Because, and again, as I place the needle on the broken record player and sound repetitive, the only thing you really have control over is the image you hold of yourself in your mind. I mean to say in my befuddled mind in the morning, the thoughts I choose with regard to myself at any given moment is the only image of importance I maintain.

Image can be a conscious effort when thinking of yourself, so why not believe that you're the spitting image of your best self? Or, and if you're bored, you can always become a mega superstar musician, and play with your image with every new release, or like many politicians, you can hire an image coach who'll teach you how to present yourself to the media, to the public, in order to achieve the best result of portraying precisely the image that'll help you to win votes.

To lure your eyes,
into the lair of lioness,
listening to purrs,
intoxicatingly closer you move,

To the wild of earth,
motionless, your senses alert,
capturing caress and smell,
I taste you. I taste you.

Never having enough,
wanting more of your touch,
until your precious lips are mine, and
your body, my worship in kind.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Alright you b*stards... no laughing but I'm a total flake. I freely admit this fact about myself. I believe in all sorts of things, especially those kinds of things that can't be seen or felt or heard. Whoever said something has to be proven to be believed? [More than likely a scientist, before it was proven, only afterward to be disproven, and re-proven]. Is this not the definition of spirituality? [an unwavering faith in something without yet being given the proof].


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I swear it's not an illusion. As I age, or as I like to re-phrase this most common of phrases, to evolve, it appears that the years pass more quickly, like water leaking through my fingers, despite my best efforts to cup my two hands together to create a perfect seam. Water, like time, goes where it wants to go, where it's compelled to go, much in the same manner that time slips by our nose, hardly noticed. Time will catch up with you, this much I know with 100% certainty.


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I hear the waves,
crashing into voices like the wind,
dying against the shore,
I cross over from death.

In your unquenchable appetite,
I am the sea-weed,
clinging to the soaked rocks
in the cold, blue waters of your earth.

Your touches land on me,
on the edge of my sand, half wet, half dry.
I feel your pleasure opening
as my mouth and tongue revive.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Oh my. My list of annoyances seems to be in a continual state of growth, year after year, after year, until it seems that the list has become a scroll that's been rolled up, super-tight, and heaven forbid it should be unfurled, to unravel to the floor. I fear my list would reach across to the other side of the room.

I don't regard myself as fussy. I'm just specific 🤔🤡


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I am prepared to lay down a hefty bet, indicative of how assured I am, that by the time you've reached the end of your work week, or for those who labour with shift-work, you'll feel fatigued because of getting up according to your set alarm to get to work on time, in order to work. Fatigue is an equal opportunity bastard. Fatigue doesn't discriminate. Fatigue can capsize any individual, be it the wealthiest, the poorest, the least mindful, the over-thinker or the busiest bee in the bonnet of someone who arranges flowers all day - even they will succumb to fatigue.


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You are exquisitely feline,
sleek, ravenous and alert,
clawing your way out
of the throng of followers.

You live in night and quiet shadows,
with only glowing eyes
disclosing themselves,
in the stalking of prey.

You corner me,
and ease off my clothes,
to proudly declare,
now I am yours.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

It's a very long list, my list of lust, a meandering montage of various tastes and desires that run from food to flesh, from travel to words and music, and back again to appetites of the eyes, magnifying all that I see which captivates me. Yes, we are human and therefore susceptible to a wide variety of lusts. We are born filled with lust for our mother's nipple, and this soon migrates from the nipple to other body parts once our own body reaches puberty, well ideally at least.


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Life isn't supposed to be easy. Life is designed by nature to challenge and thwart your grandiose plans for success. Life is about finding the strength within yourself to keep going when all odds appear to be conspiring against you. This is life's primary purpose, to throw in front of you every curve ball imaginable. Life wants you to sort out the good and bad and not place this expectation at life's feet. This is life's job. Your job is to cultivate an attitude that benefits you as you go about your way navigating through life.


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I eat his almond body, completely,
losing reality in his raspberry lips,
I devour his aroma, wholly,
remaining inside his taste.

I become the tongue in his mouth,
evolving in his words, hypnotized,
lucid, I influence his gentleness,
expressed by quiet eyes.

And I change in his caress, lovingly,
becoming colour to pale skin.
I sigh away the dark circles,
lingering under his swollen night.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

I've no issues whatsoever resisting the temptation to use instant messaging. But often what I think I want to do, and what I think I need to do, will paint a portrait of two different paths. Take for example, the instant messaging app with Facebook, which my extended family will use, and which I've used to place a VOIP call from another country, to someone at home, without having to shell out long-distance charges on my data plan. The app is handy, as it is to place video calls.


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Like totally. Like, I'm a big believer in total gut instinct... like I said, totally. How often do we confuse instinct with intelligence? How often do we automatically assume because an individual has proven in the past to display great analytical thinking and mental prowess that they should in all cases make the right and only decision for themselves and everyone else?


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