Archive for the ‘On Art/writing/creativity’ Category

Update second Sehkmet Release..Lucifer lazerus and poecatt..poecatt on the skew wing.

In D/s, Bdsm, Daily news update..art,writing, collaborations, upcoming events, My journal, On Art/writing/creativity on June 9, 2009 at 11:35 am

Flying Air catt. Living out of a travel bag, taking in New Jersey.

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 http://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!


What’s in a label? whether sex, medical, gender, disability, an opening thought..

In On Art/writing/creativity, Philosophy..sociological commentary on May 22, 2009 at 6:23 pm

The Who sang  “Who are you? Who, who? Who the Fuck are You?”

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..


Javajetstream dreams.

In On Art/writing/creativity on May 17, 2009 at 10:59 am

The morning broke, hot sun splitting the beached boulders

 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 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

Red on red on red/backed by blu caffeine

Red on red on red/backed by blu caffeine

To see the Words dance, the body speak..

In My journal, On Art/writing/creativity on May 15, 2009 at 10:10 am

Listening to William Orbit and Beth Orton’s Dice this morning, an oceanic remix, trance, it’s beautiful how it waves like the swell of a roller at sea.

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

Jonesin’ cardiaking creativity fix.

In On Art/writing/creativity on May 14, 2009 at 7:44 pm

Gawd, I feel like I’m cruisin for a kardiackin bruisin.

My energy is starting to ride high, I’m swinging up out of the winter blahs, and I feel like heliumISeye.cuhm.

This is a double edged gift..my creativity is enhanced,I’m regaining perspective..emerging from Plato’s cave..

but the mood is edged you know..

like when you are just not seeing the oncoming meteor.

fuk it, I have been here before, its part and parcel of that insane poetic curse..I have been around long enough to know how to take care of myself when it strikes..

the key has always been when friends say *cat* babe, you are just a little above terra firma,

while they smile, but with that look in their eyes that tells me..

watch for the light ..it’s about to turn red.

I miss driving. It used to smooth out the ruptures, I’d get in the car and turn on my music and head past the overpass and let the windows down. Alone, solo mio, in my own little armored vehicle.

These days, its tie up the sneakers and get out in the night air and move.

I have taken out walls with a hammer on a whim in this mood, just because I needed to “breathe”.

Too long in the garret makes Jane Doe a dull girl, and too high a leap makes Jane Doe, well, a Jane Doe..

jonesin’ but watchin’ it…

cat’s creed…when low..amp up the music, mix and mingle despite the overwhelming urge to disappear into complete obscurity, when high, take soundings on both the depth of the water, and the ceiling height, haul out the crash helmet, and disregard all desire to dance on scaffolding..

for those out there whose moods do swing occasionally above or below baseline,

what do you do for self balance? seriously, I know there are enough creative types reading this blog who occasionally feel like they are between trapezes and have dealt..

(whose 9 lives have served her well}

On Island life

In 1, My journal, On Art/writing/creativity on May 13, 2009 at 7:46 am
Waking..eastern dawn light shafts..and coffee of course

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

Whose your Daddy? Whose Your Muse?..creativity.

In D/s, Bdsm, On Art/writing/creativity on May 12, 2009 at 11:41 am

The muse is capricious at the best of times. Historically seen as a female, she is mythological, touches all of us, and will not be owned by any…
She comes and goes at her own whim, sure we can put ourselves in situations conducive to feeding her, calling her out to play and grace our lives and imaginations, but she lives on irony, tragedy and joy.

She is NOT for sale.
One cannot buy her or she disappears..a phantom creature,able to simply dissolve thru the tightest of bindings.

She requires patience and she demands respect.

I have danced with her all my life, I have been humbled by her mysterious comings and goings, I have been awed how she is sometimes most tangible in the most wreckhoused of scenarios..

She speaks to me when I allow joy into my life, and wonder, she comforts me in tragedy…

Who or what sets you up for a playdate with the muse?
Is it nature, nurture, lovers, light, the passing of the seasons, music..

She is ephemeral, and tho we often experience her thru others,
she is not to be mistaken for the other..you are the conduit that opens to her..

You, you, you..it is your eyes, your ears, your heart that renders you open or closed to her manifestations..

Morning musings to the many here who dance with the muse daily..

and feed others by sharing ..

Blue Chaos

Blue Chaos

Van the man, feed me.

In 1, On Art/writing/creativity on April 27, 2009 at 8:36 am

Listening to Van Morrison this morning..his happy songs..

I have always loved wavelength.

brought back some 25 years to a moment in time, a sunshafted morning, tune wavelength blasting out of the speakers, I was living with a group of other university students, a big old house downtown, half of us lovers,…a strange bohemian mix of jetsam and flotsam,
and this tune …I walked away into the dining room, as everyone and all our cats were eating breakfast..and began to dance in the light shining down on the hardwood floor,

my friends and my lover looked up, watched in silence, smiling, ah , that’s just *cat*, let her be..
it was a happy sweet spot in time for all of us..barefoot and full of the promise of youth..

poetry and philosophy spilling everywhere..

and then several years later, another moment, morning, taking a bath in our downtown home, my newborn baby on a towel on the floor , cooing, kicking, multicolored stained glass play on the walls, the mirror reflecting back pure joy..

these travellers have long gone from my life, my first college live in lover, and yes, my baby..

wavelength..bring the sun back, van..I am so hungry for it.

And yeah, I will dance barefoot, free form..revel
just because..the dance goes on..

Now blasting brown eyed girl..take that you miserable neighbors..

Staking Out the attic, could be a horror tale in the making..

In Daily news update..art,writing, collaborations, upcoming events, goth culture, My journal, On Art/writing/creativity on April 15, 2009 at 11:31 pm

So, tonight’s the night. I’m staking the attic.
yeah, after a couple of weeks now of listening to something drag itself around up there, something that appears to WALK, I’m going in.

I’m sufficiently amped on one too many amp energy drinks, I’m wearing my camoflage baseball cap, black leotards, hey this may require some weird martial arts moves, and I’m carrying a spray bottle of bleach for its eyes.
If it has eyes.

I’m strung as hell from wrestling with my comp programs for two days in trying to complete a manuscript, and at the moment I am looking like a great before picture for the Betty Ford rehab center. Or is it the Barbara Bush rehab.

I’m not up on my americanisms you know, I’m not even up on my canadianisms. I don’t watch tv, and when you land here on the tarmac, they burst into applause that the plane did indeed make it yet again, and you know you are somewhere..um..different.
Think the movie, The Wicker Man. Original version’s best.

I hear there is the usual uproar here in the virtual blog bog.
I must confess I am too challenged to figure out who’s who in these things.

If I catch it,(the thing in my attic) not whoever is busting everyone for terms of service, I’m gonna stab it.
Who me?
Living on the edge? frustrated as fuck?

No, I have the whole situation under control. hahahaha.


I am burning down the house, beginning with myself, apparently.

In D/s, Bdsm, Daily news update..art,writing, collaborations, upcoming events, On Art/writing/creativity on April 14, 2009 at 11:15 pm

I am becoming completely out of touch with my creativity. Or RATHER, creativity is not touching me…
thinner then a blonded blade of winter grass..brittle.

At first I did not see what was happening to me.
Death by slow painless hemmorhage.
Death by theft in the middle of the night,
The Man with the Black Sack cast over his shoulder,
stealing out my back door,
my soul inside,
my body still breathing, but
missing something essential
as I
tossed and turned bereft in my fitful dreams.

I’ve had a month of dreams of the Darkman..I close my eyes, go deep into the coolness of my pillow, and then they rise up
do battle… pillage, rape, and murder
declare themselves a nuisance to my nurture.

In the dawn, I am clumsy, accident prone, I have sustained three burns of late,
one from boiling water as my trailing sleeve caught on the kettle’s handle,
one direct from the burner..
and a couple of days back, get this..if this doesn’t trump all,
I actually lit myself on fire, my face to be exact.

Absentmindedly, lighting a cigarette, I leant
my hand against my forehead,and torched half an eyebrow away.
I knew something was on fire,it was the scent gave it away, not pain. I did not realize it was me..
I had to hit myself in the face to put myself out.
Jesus Christ.(jes’ vernacular…maybe)

Morphine’s deadly.
Deadly to the soul. The body may be intact, but there’s something wanting..

As I first begin to sense that there is a war afoot, that the air raid sirens way off in the distance in the dark were not a false alarm or mere elevator musak,..
I looked to the external.

I looked to my relational world..
my children,
one of my OCD ex husbands who will not put the weapons down, my lover…
but all is simply a mirror of me.

I have stopped kicking ass.
I have stopped hissing, spitting, biting and generally laying claim to the life that which is mine..
my voice,
my form,
my “self”.
The deep self is not to be found in identities surface or layered,
it is in laying the fuck claim to your own howl.
your own heart, carnal and in motion.
My environment is toxic. yes, I love my house..but houses are shells, cities and towns are shells when one is not awake to authenticity.
I am not here, quite simply. If I was my own houseplant I would have died by now from lack of water and sun.

Sometimes things are not stolen so much as we give them away. For free.
Next month I will be in new york with Lucifer, and if the days pass to that time, I will receive all the shakeup and soul food I can handle.
I will be a kitten , eyes wide as saucers at the sights and sounds, both of the city, and of us.

But in preparation, I am reclaiming me.
I feel like a glass butterfly, a monstrosity that..
I am breaking the glass.
This attrition by default, entirely of my own making will unravel.

But first, triage..and a trip to the corner store for afterburn ointment. Obviously I can’t have enough.
Musings, you can’t keep a cat down for long..