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Cassandra M.
Día de los Muertos

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Current Mood: artistic artistic
Current Music: Beach House

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 Blog post # 10 - Instagram 

Does anyone else use Wordpress?

I am selling my limited-to-100, vintage-inspired postcard prints on Etsy.  There are three different kinds to choose from or you can just get the whole set!  And, for a short period of time, the postcards will be 10% off when you use the code "vintage20" at the check out. :)

Also, I'm keeping a blog on my website now. Not sure how well I will update the damn thing but I will do my best to update it with cool and more than likely, dorky stuff, maybe. :D

Clicky here ~~> Blog

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Current Location: home
Current Mood: awake awake
Current Music: Stereo MC's - Rhino Part II

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Check out my new website!  <3

Current Mood: excited excited
Current Music: Massive Attack

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Cassandra Melena - Flickr
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I made the deadline!
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The drive to St. Pete... Florida has the best skies.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

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View On Black
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untitled 1920s

I think my new photography style will lean toward this vintage-inspired look. I love the 1920s: the fashion, the classic movies, and, most of all, the mood. This is something I wish to recreate in my future photography and art. Hopefully, I can do the era justice. As for the multiple-personality photo series, I still enjoy the process of creating them; but, with the new year comes a change in both my life and my expression.

Current Location: Savannah, Ga
Current Mood: cold

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This is a collaborative art collection where writers use my portraits to explore individual characters. As a long term project, I am hoping to publish a book containing the photographs and accompanying stories. Art, in both forms, has wonderfully varied interpretations and these are (hopefully) paired examples of how artists can work together to form more complex pieces.

As with my photographs, all stories published here are copyrighted.

Hope you enjoy and, as always, email me if you have questions, feedback, or wish to contribute.

Below is the first combined effort.

Photography by, Cassandra M. Kammerer
Short story written by, S.J.L.

You will never learn my real name. Some of your predecessors have asked, one even pleaded, but boundaries exist and I am quite particular. You lost all freedom when you told me your name Douglas, even if the loss was not immediately perceptible, and only by extension of my own gracious nature are you able to make these self-indulgent inquiries now. Your struggling questions are amusing, but as fruitless as the group counseling sessions to overcome your substance addiction. My confidence in your ability to fail is complete, but I offer one last recommendation: accept the vast weakness within yourself before I finish my latte and our time is up. Already shaking with confusion? Lamentable, but thankfully this is not really about you.

Hollow. That is the description I first wrote on my notepad about you. I see your skepticism, but here is where I circled it. Right at the top, what does it read? Page One. It took less than one minute to fully diagnose you and I have, on several occasions, encapsulated you to my colleagues as such: hollow. We are professionals and the sharing of such information was done under strict ethical code, of course. They had similar men as patients, celebrities like yourself, and needed comparative data. It is what we do, you see, we aggregate data from the weak to bolster our understanding of how not to be. Then we publish articles and books, creating our canon of behavioral norms and expectations. I choose the word canon carefully, Douglas. Your mother, who was also a patient of mine before she took her own life, was deeply fixated on a canon of her own, the Catholic worldview of her youth: heaven and hell – or, perhaps more simplified, good and evil. It was the great pendulum swinging through the landscape of her mind. Have you ever glimpsed away from yourself to ponder what it might take for a Catholic to commit suicide? How fractured she needed to be?

Are you actually displaying emotions for her suddenly? Where were you when she took the hatchet to her arm? Incidentally, I have always respected her choice in tools. If the magazines are to be believed, you were in Monaco, halfway through a month-long binge. You denied the veracity of those photographs, even to me; but, looking at you now, I think you are ready to admit you left the country knowing she was crumbling before your eyes. You were too weak even to try.

As I was saying, my colleagues and I do not see the evil or good of men. We identify weakness and prescribe strength. People like your mother, taught to worship a collapsed god, cannot be helped because their foundation is based on the archaic treatises of goatherds. Centuries of reinterpretation cannot change the simple fact her savior committed suicide, paving the way for her own. Taught to emulate weakness, and unable to locate conviction, she crawls to me, expecting her terrors and self-hate to disappear – which is not how therapy works, as you now fully appreciate.

How long did you wait after learning of her death before seeking my guidance? Three weeks? I remember you wore a disguise when you came through my office door. Yes, of course it was a disguise. Even in your deepest alcoholic engorgement, you never allowed yourself to be unshaven, let alone wear an Orioles ball cap. Please don’t insult my intelligence by claiming it was grief. Your girlfriend, who you may not realize has been on my weekly itinerary for over a year, told me what you said enroute to the funeral. Do you remember? No? You said, “Mom was a deranged lunatic. I am leaving this sideshow early because La Traviata opens tonight.” And you did.

Why am I saying these things? This is our last session, Douglas, and soon you will have found the cure to your hate-filled anxieties and the logical conclusion to your addiction. No, this is not tough love, for at least two reasons: first, a doctor cannot love her patient and remain objective; second, as previously stated, you are merely the thin shell of a human being and unworthy of anyone’s love. Hollow, remember? I am not passing judgment; I am treating you for an illness, one you have carried since you were eight years old. We have discussed the incident several times, so it should come as no shock the genesis was with the wagon, your friend Christine, and those two boys. She begged for your help when they were chasing her, but the boys threatened to take your wagon. She had even kissed you at the roller rink three weeks prior and you had exchanged valentine’s cards. For such a young age, the two of you had shared much. But you did not get out of your wagon for Christine, and those two boys brutalized her. Her parents moved to Florida shortly thereafter and you never saw her after that day. Your mother told me once she prayed desperately for that girl to pull through her surgeries, but what help did you offer?

You understood the ramifications of sticks and stones, right? Did their yells of victory or her screams of pain hurt you? Did you cry for her or only for yourself? You did not become feeble that day, for all children are; rather, it was the day you learned about the connection between cowardice and survival. Your addiction is the outward manifestation of the fear and weakness permeating your mind – it is the gaseous cloud filling the empty space normal people lack.

No, I don’t mind if you have a drink. I anticipated you might and had my secretary ensure the mini-bar was properly stocked. We are celebrating, after all – me with my latte and you with your bourbon. There is no need to bark obscenities, Douglas. You cannot visit a surgeon and become agitated when her delicate scalpel technique causes tissue to swell. The pain is natural and expected and the disease you have coruscating through your system has had twenty-nine years to fester.

Yes, I am a surgeon. I carve apart the minds and experiences of my patients and remove desiccation when I am allowed. Therapy is artfully complex in this way – regulatory and behavioral obstacles at every turn. Your girlfriend, Evelyn, understands this, but your mother did not. She needed me to cut her, wept for me to do so, but never once gave me permission. You are miserably similar to her in this way, refusing to sign the necessary paperwork. I am, in a sense, your five hundred dollar an hour barfly; or was, since our relationship is now over.

Time, nipping at your ankles, has caught hold finally. You have run dry on individuals to blame and the fiasco of your life will be reprinted for the slathering masses to devour. I know it can be heartbreaking to learn the thoughts you labeled as hope in your mind are false; however, you simply must appreciate those thoughts were never true. You would never consent to hope, not Douglas Clarion. Yes, you may have another drink; in fact, consider all three of those bottles a gift.

Now why would you ask me such a question? Vain until your last breath, Douglas. I grasp why women adore you, but it would be inappropriate for me to officially comment on your attractiveness. No, you may not kiss me, but it was sweet of you to ask. It lets me know you recognize I am in control. Control is the bedrock of civilized life, be it social or technological. Let’s examine your own civility: even now, knowing you will die soon if you continue, you are unable to prevent your own hand from raising that glass to your mouth; your life is chronicled for you by a professional mob armed with telescoping lenses and legally sanctioned deceit; food, clothing, and transportation is handled by servants, much like a toddler; and Evelyn counts herself fortunate if you can manage an erection more than once a month. Has there ever been anything more pathetic than a sagging philanderer?

No need to scowl, Douglas – it makes you seem ill-tempered and foul. I am explaining something critical, if you would pay attention. For all your wealth and luxury, you are remarkably uncivilized. By extension, I cannot in good conscience grant you the rights and privileges I do normal human beings. It is one of the fundamental reasons you are no longer my patient – I am not a veterinarian, after all.

There are tissues on the end-table if you wish to dry up your face, but it is time to stand up from the couch. No, I do not find you contemptible because you are crying. Everyone cries, Douglas, even me. No, I will never cry over you because you are a disgrace, filled with purposeless and unguided shame.

Which brings our session to its inevitable close. My latte is finished and you have managed, amazingly, to consume the entire bottle of bourbon. Be sure to try my other gifts after you arrive home tonight. I pronounce you cured. Yes, just like that. Please, Douglas, do not ruin the moment with more obscenities. I want to remember you exactly as you are right now. My secretary will collect the final payment on your way out.

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Good Morning, Jenny. Who is my nine o’clock? Mrs. Garnier? Are her files on my desk already? Very well. No, I was running late today and did not read the newspaper, what happened? Mr. Clarion was found dead in his penthouse? Was it an overdose? My my, the paparazzi will have a field day with this tragic story. Call Evelyn Wilson and schedule her tomorrow morning and cancel Garnier and my other morning appointments. I am feeling exultant today, Jenny, and will be at Linney’s having a spa facial – care to join me? My treat… Excellent. I have wanted to pick your brain for ages and this is the perfect opportunity.


Current Mood: cold

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My beautiful brown hoodie.. It should of been mine but I missed the chance to actually get one for myself. Sad, but hopefully someday this unique hoodie or something like it will come along my way again. I really like how this hoodie zips up from the side like that. And with that over-sized hood it would make for some killer photos to shoot in. I get really inspired by clothing with some texture or style to them. At times I wish more clothes like this were more accessible but it would really take the fun out of having something one of a kind and special. + 1Collapse )

Please add sannyshop

*UPDATED* New Items going fast! ♥

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Dozens of our favorite local and international artists from the world of professional comics, street art and design come together to celebrate the world of Mike Mignola's Hellboy in Let Them Eat Pancakes! The Hellboy Art Show!

Join us at Uberbot in the Winter Park Village on Saturday July 12th from 7pm to 10pm to enjoy some incredible artwork from the Hellboy Universe! After that, go see Hellboy II The Golden Army opening July 11th!

For More Info Please Visit Uberbotrocks.com!!

Artists scheduled to submit original works include:

Rafael Albuquerque - rafaelalbuquerque.com
Ryan Boyle - sketchypictures.com
Dennis Brown - bagger43.com
Joel Carroll - joelcarroll.com
Jeff Dekal - jeffdekal.com
Deseo - deseoworks.com
Dres13 - dres13.com
Brandon Dunlap - brandondunlap.com
Jared Fiorino - jaredfiorino.blogspot.com
Helena Garcia - helenagarcia.com
HorseBites - horsebitesdesign.com
Hugo Giraud - myspace.com/hugogo
Jason Goad - ingoadwetrust.com
Josh Howard - joshhoward.typepad.com
Erik Jones - theirison.com
Lefty Joe - www.myspace.com/leftyjoe
Jason Levesque - stuntkid.com
Sho Murase - shomurase.com
Ryan Myers - rmyersart.com
Tansy Myer - tansymyer.com
Phil Noto - notoart.com
Johannah O'donnell - myspace.com/peaveyminx
Brett Parson - blitzcadet.com
Joe Pekar - joepekar.com
Pooka Machine - myspace.com/pookajessie
Jason Rudolphpena - bookoffaces.com
Julius Santiago - bulius.com
Terribly Odd - terriblyodd.com
Thomas Williams - opencrashcomics.com
Annie Wu - anniematronic.blogspot.com
Alexis Ziritt - blog.calaveracomics.com

Current Location: @ work, Uberbot
Current Mood: awake awake
Current Music: Santogold

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