And, I did not hear the alarm this morning. Now generally speaking I hear every breath within 200 ft, and I wake at 5am.

I missed out. And bumped the time of this generous pro. I am devastated, and embarrassed. Flying out of her Monday, no time to reschedule.

I’ve been taking my own photos for two years and had hoped some might go well with my writing submissions, plus some could be a little ham for the cam straight out fun.

My warranty is obviously expired. It’s not all hanging together well.

Holy. The disappointment and embarrassment….

I need some sort of tweaking, obviously, but this, this was inexplicable.

I could cry. Cat

Lost my words, spent the summer on energy drinks, cigs and air, maudlin and moody. Generally speaking was difficult and nasty to those who contacted me, and crawled increasingly into the closet. Now am back in NYC for a mid december visit, perusing the bookshelves to see the lousy erotica that’s being published..

meeting some fine upstanding NYC citizens, and angsting about the pipes bursting back home. I’ve been quiet about the whole edifice of D/s over the months, generally taking..I cannot help my own jaded state…a rather cynical approach to the approach of others..it’s not winning me any girl guide cookies…but WTF..

I find myself wanting to pen emails such as listen you fukfaced twat why aren’t you responding…this on business matters, not romantic connections.

It’s been a five month blast and a half. Yeah. Thankfully there are still some souls out there who still talk to me.

Moving thru.  The words, the words, will come.

cat..staring into my corona, havent looked at this blog in 5 months, hahahha,sigh. bare with me.

The poem Skyrape written by Poecatt  is a noir goth dreamscape inspired by conversations between artist and writer last autumn. Sprung whole from Poecatt’s musings on the darkly sanguine indulgences of vampiric lore, both historic and contemporary, and its edged marginal positioning as Bdsm fetish,

Skyrape became the genesis of a collaboration that continues to unfold in Sehkmet.

We bring you this second installment as a continuation of a treat, and welcome feedback as the style and presentation has altered, as promised.

Contact us thru www.luciferlazerus.com..

Available for  carniverous and enticing free viewing at www.luciferlazerus.com

Who is Sehkmet?

look back into the shadows cast by Skyrape…the scent of bloodletting

on someone’s tongue..

poecatt

Lucifer and I are still hoping to get to some artistic merger….my mind has kickedback in, temporary suspension of semantics has lifted, am penning again.

I usually have something  to say about where I travel..been rendered somewhat speechless by the jersey ambience..small town Assville.  Rockin on.

Hope to start taking pics soon. This is me the night before I flew, stretching out the arms.  It’s all shuffling like a pack of haphazardly tossed cards ,impressions that will stack up when  I return.

I’m sure the right brain and left brain will have met in in the middle by then,

and there will be some convergence and output.

Whatever, surviving, waving, hoping to bring you some fresh new collab soon.

Ps. check out the teaser cover of Lucifer’s and my Sehkmet 2nd release interlude…coming soon..check this out at his site at www.luciferlazerus.com

The release will be on the 16th, we continue to welcome your comments.

if you are having problems viewing check out scribed.com, first release fully viewable for free, plus our collection of illustrated erotic celtic poetry..For the Love of  Orange,a delightful sampling of our art and poetiks merged.

off to NYC tomorrow, catsmirks, later!

Few words tonight, the  cat DOES have my tongue, the quiet before travel..

travel is always life altering in ways unexpected..

I am so happy about this trip..

have been waiting..with Lucifer shortly, collaboration, romance, friendship…I will be blogging my trip and taking photos,  check it out..

catdancin as always,

the cat xo

I don't know.

I just am. 

   Leave me alone to curse the sun.

          Yes.

At a certain point words simply fail. Despite the physicality of much of the sadomasochistic arts for example, these acts remain profoundly psychological..that is the desire to engage finds its genesis in the body/mind/soul self..

S/m IS an art form. D/s is IS intimately relational and pyscho/emotional.

The mind is theatre, Bdsm is theatre and those of us who taste and become more than here on a seasonal pass..have a capacity for imagination and a desire to have that capacity fed in ways perhaps others lack..

Some of us are adrenalin junkies, some of us find deep nurture in this world, some of us have a penchant for outside the box self expression, a driving need to convey to others and to mirror to self the originality that arises from our cores..

Many of us approach this theatre from all these angles.

Whatever our original portal into this world was..whether whispers of persuasions and tastes in childhood or discoveries thru involvments as adults..discoveries of something wanting in our relationships or discoveries of deep satisfactions previously unknown, Once awakened, it becomes a journey of self as unique, of self as social being, of mores and values, and choice and appetite.

Our appetites change as we evolve, and our appetites change with age.

In midlife, there seems a stopping point, a transition for many, a reawakening of the sexual identity questions that first emerged in adolescence, typically..

and the world of Bdsm spreads before us, expotentially increasing our capacities to find nuance and art form in the expression of our erotic selves beyond the normative vanilla scripting.

Why do so many keep what is essentially a photo journal here?

We could claim narcsissm, or exhibitionism as defined by current sociomedical techofuks, but I think something else is at play …

We live in a culture soaked in sexual imagery as commodity..sex as a means to sell..something else, product X or product Y.

It is NOT expression of sexuality for its own erotic sake…

We are surrounded by sex, and yet, we are a curiously desexualized culture, irony there, the true longing, that to express our sexual selves simply for the joy and pleasures, dark and light of such expression untied to commodification is a radical act, an act of taking back our eros as unfettered, free and innately OURS.

True eros IS untameable, and like art rather than science, it is messy, capricious, unpredictable, and dangerous.

It contains the mysteries of birth, death, liminal passageways, initiations, rites, esoteric mastery.

D/s and S/m’s powerful and haunting pull are hard to explain to the uniniated or unawakened..perhaps those that make it here to this world and take up residence have a deeper need to dream while awake, the stuff of nightmares AND rapture, the transformational..

Perhaps from the outside we are shunned as evil or outcasts because it is so powerful opening Pandora’s box, and like all that is innately spiritual and radical there have always been those who would seek to contain and control the mystical..

Simply because you cannot OWN mystical experience, you cannot force it, it is power spitting in so called power’s face..

Just some thoughts from the cat. Have a great day..thoughts back on this musing?

I'd love for you to engage me with YOUR ideas on this..
              cat

haha.

cat

I ‘ve been thinking about the politics of identity lately, and when I say identity I am referring to all the qualifiers that we adher to. Our political persuasions, our sexual affinities, our brand preferences and status symbols, our socio medical labels, and the roles we identify with…parent, son, wife of, ect..

What’s in a label? Foremost there is freedom and there is constraint. Labels are a signifier to ourselves and to others…a signifier that points to a set of expectations based on our assumptions and experience with the word itself.

We may labor under the constraints of a label, or we may take flight within the kernels of realities attached.

However as I type this I’m staring at an orange resting on its side that I just bladed in half. And it came to me..as the ramble jam that is often the way I muse is want to do..

that a label is like an unpeeled orange, you pick it up, you can see its external properties, you have an expectation of what it will taste like..

bladed in half though the interior reveals so much more orangatastik detail.

Fat pulpy segments, a wagon wheel, light and dark shadings, the seeded center, the promise of punch…

I tend to be label sensitive. I agree that they are necessary, and expedite time and expectations.

Tonight , tho, I am reflecting on the downside of labels, and our drive to nail down our human experience like a coffin, labels often serve the establishment, unless reappropriated by a subculture as its own,

and the most powerful drive in labeling is to establish norms..

and norms as we all know or we should are culturally and historically specific and serve the power of the status quo.

I’m not advocating anarchy or a silence epidemic..haha, but perhaps that is why I find some of my most truthful sentiments are expressed thru art and the poetic..the inside view of the orange..

“Who are you, who the fuck are You, you you..”

Take away your labels this evening. Just for a night. Without them are you naked? And is that freeing or frightening?

More to come on this topic..I’ve just begun. Someone shut me up, please..laughing…I am not speaking to D/s here..I am speaking to the power of language across all spheres of internal and social experience, how we come to “know’ ourselves..and represent that to the world around us..

my next post on this will be speaking to the facsism and freedom inherent in language..with a focus on disability semantics..

cat

I do follow zines, but it’s not the same. I have the odd habit, ( one of many odd habits..hey another blog post idea there..) of reading from back to front, go figure..

Anyway, this months Scientific American Mind , which I usually follow for all its delish stuff on the latest brain neuro imaging research and leading edge of quantum musings, is completely dedicated to Sex.

That problematic word, sex as it means so many different things to different people, I prefer the word sexuality, yeah, there’s alot to be said for semantics.

There is an interesting article on Do Gays Have a Choice, by Robert Epstein.

This article contains an interesting 9 question quiz, entitled How Gay are You? and when I tabulated the results , I am supposedly ‘predominantly “homosexual” with ‘heterosexual ” tendencies…

A thought or two on this being calculated thru a minute long questionaire ..

the fact that I am predominantly het with some same sex imaginings and activities over an adult lifetime notwithstanding, the quiz made me smile, because the determination of who and what one is , is complex, contextual, and to some degree culturally determined.

I was given to ponder what would a similar quiz make of those with alternative D/s and S/m longings..exposure and opportunities and education count for much, when one has opportunity to meet others in the world of D/s and Bdsm what was once strange or even incomprehensible can become articulated and active.

The limits have some flexibility, we all know this as we journey..

There’s enormous sociopolitical power in labels , definitions ect, they have allowed expression of homosexuality to become more tolerated and understood, and I hope we are on a similar road as regards Bdsm.

Sexuality is magical. Sometimes monstrous. A part of  our core, and a lifetime’s rollicking ride..it expresses thru our dream lives, our relationships and experiences of our own body selves and aging. As well as WHO and how we express our sexual selves with.

Iniations include the profoundly biological markers of being birthed, birthing, parenting, aging, death itself.

A nine question one minute quiz tells me nothing.

My own blueprint of a lifetime of being in this body/self/soul tells me by the pattern that shows, ie, the ink, where I have been , and by what is absent, where I have not…

Embrace yourself, you are a snowflake , detailed, intricate and singular event in time, carry a banner label if it suits your purposes and helps you navigate from here to there, I remain on passport, passing thru..

awake, alive , aware.

Open, boundaried by this skin, and an observer of myself and others..

cat who is predominantly ‘alive ‘.  Morning.

I was looking in the mirror after my shower, and I raised my arms into the air, crossed my wrists, and stared. I could “see” ,imagine a perfect circle of pushpins around the outside of the pale pink of my nipples, I started to space..

Just the pin prick sensation, the slightest bloodletting.

And I could feel a pattern on the burning cheeks of my ass, my inner thighs. Its the urge to see something pretty, the pattern against my white skin, and to feel the sting of each little push.

I know I have to swab with alcohol and soak, and only penetrate the slightest depth..but the craving is intense, it is shocking, sometimes I do practice sadomasochistic acts solo, I’ve inserted freezer chilled butterknives into my cunt, sat spread eagled in front of an old vanity circular mirror and slid in one of those wine corkscrews and then opened it like a speculum, I have lit my nipples flashing back and forth with a lighter,I love to strap my cunt with leather, but my Dominant will not let me actually cut without his supervision because I space so deeply. I’ve only used a sharp blade with his prescence.

Tonight, it seems to becoming from some almost inarticulate artistic urge, something masochistic, an ache, but combined with the desire to see my blood , and to feel for the first time a prick sensation..the hunger it is sanguine and I feel the veil of space closing over me..the desire to see something beautiful,

my clamps won’t do it tonight tho I love them on my clit, and nipples..has anyone else had a new craving come out of nowhere and feel compelling, and begin to space just imagining the look of it?

If I get permission I will take a photo, it is like some artistic ritual longing.. tonight..

to express using my skin as drumscape..

cat

 marmeladebacked cat white pawed past
   tangerine swirl purring to the peripheral
         look to the sky
      blu on blu on blu volving up and out

cross of jetstream trails spun sugar like joy

flights out of here to
 anywhere
   anywhere else
    gull against the updraft

hugging my knees
  sandalled feet happi

new york has never seen me before
  11 more dawns

      poecattin little dance

  ten toes tappin
  yes!

Red on red on red/backed by blu caffeine

I’m feeling some poignancy,  an ache,  excitement about the day …but struggling to focus crisply and with clarity on the manuscript on masochism as a way of life, a life aesthetic, that is completed, but that I am organizing and pulling together..

I am so excited about this manuscript, it was an odd project, it did not begin with intent, I realized it had cohesion as a work after a year’s worth of musings were pulled together and in the hand.

I write on napkins, yellow lined paper pads, lipstick on the mirror,  hell  on my body if this is the only place to jot a fragment of poetry, a phrase.

Metaphor is everywhere for the tongue, the eyes, the heart.

I have longed to do some performance art for a few years now, my writing in prose poetiks is for my mouth and for your ear, it is begging to release itself thru my body as text and multimedia.

Story telling, the art of, is shamanistic..and my body must speak..static photos do not feed my urge to bring motion to sound.

A leap, but one I am ready for, and I  am eager to connect with other performance artists for idea exchange, mentoring..

Art leaks, bleeds,  it is my native vernacular…

Talk to me. contact me at poecatt@luciferlazerus.com

I’ve been cursed as a wildchild of the Hunger since birth.
I’ve sought (it can be a cruel taskmaster) to satiate it over a lifetime. In my youth I thought fuckin would lay the beast to rest but I learned this was not so…

I recall a lover in my twenties looking at me with a weird expression post coitus once, and saying slowly…fuckin you is not fuckin , babi..its like..annihilation.

Somewhere in what he mouthed was a key to the brand that has burned my ass down thru my journey. The Hunger’s a life sentence and I’m a Lifer within its velvet walls.

If the Hunger is not soothed by fuckin, what is it soothed by? I can only speak here for myself. I am drawn to the tale of Eros and Pysche…Eros being the greek god of longing and desire and Pysche being the human that fell in love with him.She stands for Mind and/or Soul. In some versions of the tale, they had a daughter whose name connotes…Pleasure.

I won’t go into the full tale here, but Pysche has been forbidden to shine her lamp upon her betrothed (he presents as beast). In a failure of faith and overcome with curiousity she does, and has a fleeting glimpse of his arresting beauty before he flees, leaving her grief stricken and searching the ends of the earth for her beloved.

The marriage of Eros and Psyche is a signpost to the Hunger, that which is larger than carnal and in its consumation we sense Heart. Heart’s latin roots are to be found in couer..for courage.

The Hunger has many manifestations, and it demands of us Heart. This earth ride is not for the weak of will.Some of us have had the luxury of becoming complacent..I don’t know but complacency is a luxury that has never set up residence in my body. I cannot brag..it is the way it has been, the cards I have been dealt.

Tonight I feel the Hunger…and I am old enough to know now it will never be satisfied and this is a Good thing because it gives me an appetite that keeps me curious, edged and alive.

Longing, desire, soul, and mind. From these Pleasure.

I lace up my sneakers, yeah, I’m restless and I go down to the asphalt and out into the night.
A car starts up beside me and even the sound of its engine is erotic, its red taillights smearing the dark air.

I surrender. I’m Hunger’s Wild Child. And you know what?

THAT is good enough for me…

This mornings moment brough to you by
turretsRusdonttrythisathome.com

cat

Identity has become fluid, coursing thru the bits and bytes, spawning multi representations of moments along our own personal timelines, thru photoblogging, self confession, self expression…

… given unbelievable latitude and longitude..
( ha! think cock pics)

In the lifetime of the average blogger here, the majority between 30 and early 50′s..technology has created a world wherein we have become our own front page headline, our own press and paparazzi, capable of extending our virtual viral vibes into the eyes and minds of a multitude, our reach, global.

The scale boggles the mind, if we stop to think about it.
But given the intimate settings from which many of us write, our own dens, living rooms, bedrooms, ect, do many of us really STOP to think about it?

I think perhaps we have become more cynical and jaded as a result, more isolated in our social contact, if we define social time as time spent offline, face to face, flesh to flesh.
Many people spend their working hours in office cubicles or oout tof the home, and then their spare time surfing..

We have developed new skill sets to deal with cyber intimacy, whether it be friendships with those of like affinities, or
lovers….we have sharpened our abilities to write of self as object,as our lives as quasi fiction..magical realism genre..as ourselves as brands.

Are we narcissists as per the old definition? Consumed by self?
Or is that definition somehow wanting, is there some new take, that perhaps sees liberation and the good in the democratizing of free speech, the democratizing of business, the extension of potential and reach beyond narrowly defined geographical and financial boundaries?

I’m not knocking the web, I am all over it, but at what point is it all over me?

I have always spoke to collective social values.
We built a nation on it here in Canada..we tend to the collaborative rather than the competitive, this however is rapidly altering.

I myself, remain collaborative in approach, reclusive though I may be at times, and solicitious of my own privacy in ways that may not be readily visible.

I spoke to Lucifer of my thoughts on this, and he had some interesting points to make which continue to flesh out this bird’s eye view of the topic..

The net is perhaps not unlike the splitting of the atom, can be used for unimaginable good and evil..neutral in itself if you take a post modern approach. Have we become as mini gods, fallen headlong into our own ever elusive images to the detriment of our worlds, or have they exploded expotentially?

Cat

Lucifer:

This is not a new pattern that is emerging or has emerged, we're, an
intelligent race, have been broadcasting our selves long before Ben
Franklin printed a news paper.  However started with Ben Franklin as an
official form of public media, not everyone had access to a press, nor
Franklin, to advertise their services, wares or offers, but as ingenuity
in humankind progressed the print form of media began to grow, and
provide access to those people who had something to sell, share or talk
about...including themselves.

The marketing of self is as old as history can record, there has always
been a hawker, yelling to sharpen your blade, or shoe your horse.  Sign
makers were told what the sign should say about Mary the seamstress and
this has not changed no matter how we evolve, what has changed is that
technology allows more access for the same behaviors...and reaches more
people.

 From the print media to the radio, from the radio to the television.
Television expanding as megahertz grew and communications grew, along
with the cheapening of costs to make these marvels of modern technology,
so it comes to pass that the oldest of gratuitous marketing behaviors
became more and more creative, more and more revealing and more and more
received.

The net is only the next step in this typical human pattern of sell,
sell, sell...and it isn't only capitalism, it is selling one's life for
the shear joy of being able to obtain attention, it is the selling of
ideas and beliefs but it is no different when Franklin started printing
the first Philadelphia Newspaper some 200 years ago, and the reality to
that is, we as a species have always found a way long before Franklin to
market what ever it is we had to say.

Is it all a genetically predisposed narcissisim?  Not by definition, but
who doesn't enjoy some type of positive attention?  We will evolve
further in technology, to a point where maybe we will no longer need to
leave our homes to attain physical gratification, just slip on the cyber
suit and get laid from translation of data.  Maybe we will have the
replication devices that make food from atoms, like in Star Trek, there
is no telling what the future will bring, but to believe that the
internet has proliferated this behavior is a mistake...we have been
doing it since man scrawled on a cave wall...
*

Musings from Lucifer and the cat

Waking..eastern dawn light shafts..and coffee of course

This morning as I sat on my porch at 530 am I was floating, along the vernacular of memory, musing back to a couple of years ago, this same time of year, when I was working at a cafe on Salt spring island.

Saltspring is a magical place. There simply are no other words..

A haven for the elite, who private jet in and live in coastal homes in its wilderness, the artistic community, the back to the earthers..

A mix of those who have, and those who have of spirit. And given the dress code on saltspring there’s no telling whose who, except for talk..

I would get up at 4 am, and then walk along a country lane to the cafe in Ganges, and be the first topen , set out the heavy iron deck chairs, fill and prepare the urns for the 7 am onslought, sweep, and dance to the music.

Invariably the same old gentleman, a crusty sea captain, age indeterminable, looked to be somewhere in the vicinity of 300 years old, with twinking sea blazed eyes, would be there waiting,

“what took you so long?”

We would laugh.

I enjoy dawn, always have, the solitude of setting up solo, the physical quality of the work,…wonderful..

I miss Saltspring, it is a pleasant nostalgia, enter via the ferry to Fulford harbor, and you know you have just somehow slipped the portal to Somewhere Else, one of those places on earth that defy the norms..

Islanders are friendly the globe over, something about island living, and being island bred myself I took to it with joyful glee.

Exit via the ferry at Vesuvius, and you see the huge old tree, debarked and sculptural..a form straight from greek mythology..

Ferry travel is my favorite, I love the pace of it, one shore disappearing, another emerging, the waters between.  My time spent island hopping off the BC coast , solo, and in control of my own timetable was a precious sanctuary in time..

Topography shapes your soul, I was raised an islander, lived on the coast, have woke many mornings to the laughing Atlantic..the Pacific’s another creature.

The Atlantic will always be Neptune to me, the pacific, the goddess Venus..

Tourist season is approaching and there will be tragically missteps on our rocky beaches leading to drownings, the Atlantic gives and he takes..

and we mourn, and we respect..the sheer power of it..

and missive by message in a green glass bottle? Timeless..

grinning, poecatt

catWearing my rubber gum boots..haha, smiling.

I love beach combing, clam digging, popping fat squelchy kelp,  rocky jagged shorelines, and the island aesthetic of sweaters, knitted and knotted caps, bandannas, and rubber gum boots.

A friend once said, if a girl I would like to date can’t look good and show up in rubber boots and go clam digging, I am not interested..

I laughed. We have the whole cultural thing going down around the swimsuit illustrated beach babe, but, here, it’s not that that turns the eye, it is the sight of a couple laughing, children teasetagging the rollers coming in , a woman’s face turned enigmatically to the flankers rising from a northern night bonfire fest.

I have seen some of the photoshoots of performance artists that combine the stunning backdrop of cliff and crag here, and it speaks to my own art heart..

It’s a hard life, settlement here for some 400 years, at first by stealth and then slowly by finger and foothold..

The light, the light, oh my god the light, angling madly off the shale, misting into goth under dreamy disturbed streetlampin, the light is what is unforgettable.

The light and the ocean are one, they play to one another, every shade of blue and green, 1000 moments for the soul, it si the light that is unforgettable.

This morning it dances off the harbor, all silverish saran, flicker and peak.

Happy.

cat

I have found myself at times, wondering where the genesis of this material lies within me..it has been as if it is a story I have always known but did not know. Deja vu.

I have laughed and bit my tongue while stretching the limits of the play of the gothic, and bit my tongue while waiting for Lucifer’s outrageous art..the taste of blood, mine.

Sehkmet struggles with her own identity, as do many of us..she embraces the ecstatic surrender of others in their death throes as does a modern day junkie, addicted to a twin rapture, power and the thin red line.

Blood is a resurrected frontier, a metaphor for uber longings.

In Sehkmet we see power given, power taken, and the price of being embodied.

What will happen to our foot loose vampress? Will she be stopped in her reign of havoc?

Can she stop herself?

The power of the church, the power of the state, the underground of BDSM, and where it all meets and implodes, is all here..

The Master is not without angst, he may be forced to make a choice between love and the clan, between the uneasy truces and concessions to the mortal expression of power and the nature of his own.

Writing is the act of bringing the unimaginable to your imagination..the visuals explode this expotentially..come meet the cast of characters, the aging cardinal, the naive vengeance seeker, the jaded cop with a compulsion to end a lifetime’s search..

Come, taste Sehkmet, she waits to taste you…

get hot, get hard, get uneasy, get fucked up ..be fed.

cat

Saturday may 16th release, there for your morning read..available first installment as free pdf. download at www.LuciferLazerus.com

and for online viewing here at www.poecatt.wordpress.com

that what we call desire, emotionally, spiritually, physically is complexly interwoven , and that our own biochemistries, the biosphere that we intimately live in our own flesh, blood, and breath is influenced cyclically by the cycles of the month ..

I am absolutely feral in the mid month phase of my cycle, it is then that my violence fetish is bladed and aggressive in feel, towards the end of my cycle the energy is less feral, more muted, mixed with emotion, and I am very susceptible to trance at this time..

Mid month finds me rooftoppin, full on  howl, bring it on, a week later and I am more emotive, in want of being fed, nurtured rather than the excitement of combat stance…

I wonder what others have noticed in  these sometimes jagged peaks and valleys or their partners have noted ..solo or in relation one can become incredibly attuned to the various energies..that we all have..

I see the same cycle in men, however it is less jagged, less of a trapeze act, more consistent. Still, I have read they follow a roughly 28 day cycle as well..

Do men really think of sex every seven seconds.?  I don’t know how I could function that way..I’d consider it handicapping, but I guess you adapt.

I remain infinitely influenceable tho,  if I WANT to be cued..smiling.

And the more one immerses oneself in an awareness of the sometimes subtle and not so subtle energies they give out and take in, the more one sees the erotic as a wide rather than narrow river.

cat