Posts Tagged ‘prose’
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 firstname.lastname@example.org
A repost from last september…Having a peaceful morning coffee with my kinksteratti pal feeling smug wearing fetchin thin pink cami on cam hey its a kink site u guess whos wearing what when suddenly the right front burner in the kitchen ignites and the moment is channeling one of bjorks
hi pitched edge of straightjacket screams and three phone calls are coming in and my dropped cigarette on the den floor is about to start yet another fire while im seeing to the first looking like i just switched ethnicities to something italian but sounding fullblooded irish lord jesus mother of fuck have mercy speakers are stuck on repeating rendition of a tune gift from um ..the devil limp biskits i want to eat u alive in harmony with the fire alarm and the hood is being woken and the guy downstairs is loathing me initially cause yes i do play u2 sometimes but i threw my garbage out my deck 3rd floor lastweek and it landed in an improbably difficult postion on his roof i bring down property values but the kinksteratti opines that the dude probally still wants me im going to be burned at the stake at the corner of cross and main at dusk by the neighbors your all invited.
This mornings moment brough to you by
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..
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.
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 ..
Soon to be released. Sehkmet, a graphic novella, by visual artist Lucifer Lazerus, and literary poetic and prose writer, poecatt.
A delicious, arousing and disturbing exploration of the world of vampire goth merged with a bladed view of all things BDSM.
Set in the new millenia, addressing age old questions of good and evil, the nature of appetite, desire, addiction and the contemporary craving to reach for immortality, this viral read will have you questioning your own appetites, and perhaps discovering new ones.
A footloose little submissive vampress turned Dommina when the Master’s away..havoc follows. Much action, and blood on the tracks. Disturbed visuals.
Daring you to ride out a new compulsivity and as participatory readers, shape the outcome.
Stay tuned for an oncoming update..just stay off the track. A wreckloosed read, and treat for the eyes and soul,
from Lucifer and the cat.