Fractures in Her

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[-Lost & Found Poetry: written March 2013-]

Stumbling too long, I fell behind, most aqua airsign’s
(proclaimed devine)
Standing tall somewhere in that nowhere waiting place.
A sparkle of illusive charm, bound lips and panther’s eyes
– ” What a bitch.” They hissed
“Must have an ego as high as the sky, I know I would.”

She had, clipped wings, injured bird, fallen from grace
I liked her that way.
Disposed diamonds and disregarded will.

piecing together time, stitching fabricated courage
None could vindicate this breakage.
Don’t hold your breath for any inkling of eloquence, my mistakes I wear on my sleeve
Where my heart used to live.

look through me as if i am your illusion
in idle desperation.
Projecting an image, I too wish I could be.
Maybe we are the same, each random splatter of paint,
mixed and muddy
in to a indecipherable shade of bedlam pandemonium

For now
I am unable to rise, to face the sun with a straight face
but I digress

I am a patient woman.

-applecat

shush

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Shush Woman, they said
Shut out your words, for they will burn you
Shut out your enduring power, for they will ignite you
Shut out your judicious truth, for it is not within your ownership to dictate
Shut out your precious integrity, for it’s pyre will swallow you whole
Shush

There was a time, rooted deep in our blood & bones
where free speech, led to blistering heat
There was a time, in the ghost of our grandmothers
where free speech, led to compound fractures
There was a time, penned into the eyes of our Mothers
where free speech, led to shameful demotion
There is a time now, in these spaces where we settle
where free speech, threatens to send us tumbling back
to the days of shamefulness, trespassed bodies and fire
So much fire

So shush Woman, less they see you

Shush Woman, I say
Forgive yourself for being beautiful, for it is not all that you are
Forgive yourself for enjoying sex, for the archetype “slut” is only an abstraction
Forgive yourself for crafting thought, for the world needs your voice to thrive
Forgive yourself for loving so profoundly, for it is what you were built to inspire
Shush

Here is an opportunity, to repurpose our wounds
where the bipolar inferno could marry us all to the unseen
Here is an opportunity, to write a new story
release the fickle paradise and quivering clipped bridal wings
Here is an opportunity, to put a close to our internal warfare
The targets on our backs painted with whispers, surmised antiquated
Here is an opportunity, to unify & embody our strength
A community cutting through the trauma and the chains, stating
“we’re worth more than this”
so much more

So shush Woman, less they learn with you

There is no victory in sacrificing ecstasy for sanity
So burn dear Woman, let your fearful rage transmute to fierce love
Awaken the Wild, the untamed passion
set forth the flame of which resonates saturated in the throes of heartbreak – and take back the element of which was used to slight you
and perhaps then;

A conjunction in the form of an exhale
our celebration of imperfect but ardent progression
a notion of familial kinship
seeing each other, from womb to tomb
kindle
A Family – Bred of Flame
Not of Blood –
– But of consecrated devotion, and authentic love
– Born of Freedom
and perhaps then
without the encapsulating fear or hatred – we can finally rest with ease

– AppleCat

Art Credit: Christian Schloe Digital Artwork – https://www.facebook.com/ChristianSchloeDigitalArt/

The Ambiguous Nature of Integration: Why I need Feminism

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“Though her soul requires seeing, the culture around her requires sightlessness. Though her soul wishes to speak its truth, she is pressured to be silent.”
― Women Who Run With the Wolves

I recently made a post referring to myself as a Feminist. Said post proceeded to stir a bit of conflict in regards to an assumption of what “feminist” meant and my personal identification of the word. I was compelled to go deeper in to the ambiguous nature of integration.

I need to be honest here, this was the first time I have consciously called myself a feminist through public media, and in doing this I felt a great hesitation.
This statement along with the post was an underlining expression of choice to “out” myself. I had made it because I felt safe in my circle and assumed that they would understand my own connotations and not jump to derail the matter at hand because of their own projections and wounding.
I was wrong.

Know this, I have never publicly stated I was a feminist before because until a few years ago I never fully understood or accepted A: my own femininity or B: the history of violence, repression and degradation that Women have had to consistently live with for hundreds and hundreds of years.
But I didn’t want to identify as a victim, I didn’t want to put my own gender in to a box that identified their entirety as a victim.
In doing this though I missed a very important point, through out history we have been persecuted (believe me the irony of the etymology of that word “HIStory” being used in this context is not lost on me), and for me to spend a good portion of my life not recognizing that personal and collective trauma and instead choosing to sweep it under the rug has had dire consequences to me.

For example: I am only now coming to terms that I personally have had inflicted upon me both sexual and physical abuse – some of it was buried by my own PTSD, and the rest I justified with excuses that characterized the occurrences as “my fault” – because if it’s “my fault” then i have control of it. If it’s “my fault” I don’t have to be the damsel tied to the train tracks, the waif crying helpless on the side of the road – thats not me; so why would I need feminism?

Why? Because like it or not I feel that grief, and that anger – not AT men but at circumstance – and at the culture that allows me to spend my every day in fear of being hurt, manipulated, raped or killed. Every fucking day, it’s become autopilot to so many of us that we don’t even notice it anymore.

A not so brief example: I never listen to my Ipod with both earbuds in, I never walk close to a shrubbery, never enter a parking lot, playground, or walk too close to a parked car or back ally at night. Why? Because if you do, there is a chance you’ll be robbed, assaulted, raped and maybe killed if you struggle. It’s embedded in us so deeply that we don’t even shudder at these thoughts, that is the norm.
If we did venture to these places then it would be “our fault”.
This is what the culture has us believe, this is what we convince ourselves – to feign the illusion that we are in control. This is what we’re told by Women within their own denial when they hear we have been hurt and it presents them with an uncomfortable mirror.

Behind the tattered veil of so called civilization there is a War on the Feminine in our world, and many of those against us are in fact Women. Woman who are tired of being weak, battered and small choose instead to take the side that has convinced them that’s what they are.
Not men, but abusers. Whom as we all know come in all shapes, genders and forms, and many don’t even know what they are inflicting, and upon whom.

The ancestral anger is exceedingly palpable, but more so I feel what lays beyond it once properly expressed and acknowledged. Anger and grief are healthy emotions, but when they are not felt and dealt with skillfully they mutate into wrath. Wrath is chaotic, it is what the radical pro rape mens groups are drenched with, which is also what the angry violent “feminists” are soaked with. It’s the same destructive hatred, directed towards anything and everything that it perceived to have hurt them or may hurt them.
There is anger and pain in our history and being told to “get over it” is what’s causing it to fester in to wrath.
No one, -man or woman- will win that war.

“Male and female represent the two sides of the great radical dualism. But in fact they are perpetually passing into one another. Fluid hardens to solid, solid rushes to fluid. There is no wholly masculine man, no purely feminine woman.”
— Margaret Fuller

I didn’t want to identify as a feminist because most of my life I spent being close friends with men.
I saw them bullied, beaten and sexually abused and having no one to talk to about it. I watched them be told to suck it up, or that all men want sex regardless of the context, or plain and simple be told they were liars because they should be strong enough to fend off any abuser.
If the culprit was male, then the victim was scared to come across as a “pussy” or a “fag” that couldn’t defend himself. If the culprit had been female then the victim was bullied by his peers because “getting laid is getting laid” and berated because he couldn’t fight off a girl. Further perpetuating that Females are the weaker sex.

I love men, so much – I have such a grand appreciation for divine masculinity that I once almost completely relinquished my own gender on account of the abuse I saw inflicted upon the silent and victimized masculine.
I see the pain of the masculine and it’s rooted in the same wounds of the feminine – the same history unacknowledged, the collective trauma that defines Women and Victims as second class citizens. We need Feminism to create a safe place for all Genders that have been hurt – we need to heal together or the segregation will continue to destroy us.

I am a Feminist and I love men, I want to live in a world where they can be soft hearted, kind, and even feminine without having to feel weaker for it. I want to live in a world where Men and Women alike can feel safe to express their fears, insecurities, and traumas. AND RIGHT NOW, a redemption of the Feminine is needed to make a safe place for the reclamation of what it means to be a Man in this new emerging paradigm.
True feminism is not the adversary to Men as a whole, it’s the catalyst to change that will allow us to heal together and move in to a new space where harmonious integration is actually a possibility.

Why do I need Feminism?

Because I need to trust Women again, because I see my Mother, and her Mother and her Mother’s mother and so on all suffering from the same wound that has landed in me. I see my whole life effected by trauma that hasn’t been spoken to from fear of being labeled a radical angry feminist.
I see being angry as a learned defence mechanism – because being angry is the only way we can feel sorrow whilst still feeling powerful. I see years of broken relationships with women, a lack of trust, a completely lack of sisterhood, a longing of which we no longer have a name for – so we become Catty, and say things like “I’m not like those other girls” – as if abandoning our gender so nonchalantly is something that would make us better people.
I need feminism because we need to trust ourselves as women and our sisters without tearing them down. AND that has nothing to do with men, nor does it hold any threat to any man of whom is confident in himself.

I need Feminism because I can’t say Feminism or speak about wounding that has occurred to Women without a Man (or Woman) speaking as by me confessing my wounds it is somehow a threat or discredits the wounds of another gender. I need to live in a world where I can say “I am hurting” without someone else taking offence to it as if I didn’t see their pain. There are not enough years in my life to speak to every individuals anguish, that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel, see and ache for each one of them.
I need to live in a world where it is okay to excavate the history of which may cause some to feel discomfort.

I need Feminism because I am only now in my late twenties coming to realize that which has been done to Females – having it barely touched upon in public schooling.
Only in this last year I learned that the classical period of witch hunts in Europe and Colonial North American ran from 1450 to 1750; resulting in an estimated 100,000 executions. Thats over 300 years, for some perspective in the realms of time – Canada it’s self isn’t even 150 years old yet.
I learned also that Woman who were in connection by blood or friendship to any accused witch were sought out, tortured, and in turn often also accused of sharing that same “sin”.
As such Woman stopped connecting to each other, they severed their friendships, their deep feminine bonds, for fear of their own lives.
This is something I know now is still very much a prominent wounding in our society. Women are just learning that it’s okay to not be small, and that it’s okay to try and reclaim the understanding of Sisterhood that we were robbed of so long ago.

And again, this has nothing to do with men, nor does it hold any threat. In-fact in a world where women were not trying to find their Mothers, Sisters, or Female connections through their spouses or brothers – Imagine the profound lightening of the burdensome load that shame, guilt and constant failure Men experience.

I cannot even fathom the worlds vast expression and beauty if the Feminine as a whole felt safe to be allowed in it. The Feminine laying in both Men and Woman alike – what could our world be if there wasn’t a constant war ground situated inside of our psyches and our collective consciousness.
Feminism is not Anti Masculine. It is the Feminine’s attempt to rebuild and meet the Masculine in their unified power. Beyond the individual crisis there is so much more of the story that needs to be adhered to.

I love Men very much, I am learning to Love Woman as I should have been taught by the Women that came before me – at no fault of their own, they too were withheld that same Human right. In learning to Love Woman, I will be a better Lover of Men. And vice versa.
Feminism is the recovery of what it could look like to live in a world that Loves without Fear.

One day, we may not need Feminism anymore. One day we may be able to see each others beauty as it is without the prewritten stories of gender or weakness. But that day is not today.
– AC

“There can be no Peace on Earth as long as there is War in Love.” – Dieter Duhm

Art Credit: http://fav.me/d9n93u1

AppleCat Confessions: Not a Never Nude

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I’ve gotten to the point in my life that when I’m threatened with “leaked nudes” I just kind of giggle.

Oh damn.
Some people might find out…. that under my clothes, I’m naked! (all the time, every single time I wear clothes!). And they also might find out that – on occasion I feel sexy and perhaps sometimes I like to share that (noting now that yes a long while back with less deserving folks).
People might be find out I am a fan of all of my bits, poetic creative brains, big fat heart, and all the pinkish olive bits of my physique that make up an anatomy.

Every atom, nipple, follicle, soft curve and sharp angle.
Let me tell you, living in this world – that is not an easy thing to achieve. Even now my appreciation wavers on occasion.
In previous years I was at war with myself – tearing my body to shreds -both metaphorically and literally- I stood on the front lines of the battle field that was me. There was no glory to be won.

As it stands, I will never run for any sort of Congress.
I am okay with this as when the shit hits the fan, I’ve been practicing my Queening of a Post Apocalyptic world skills for pretty much my whole life.
And when I am Queen nudity -in all it’s forms- as long as everyone involved is consenting will be celebrated; not used a tool of shame or control.

If you like to be naked this does not discredit you as an Artist, a Business person, or a Human being.

Every single body has it’s beauty. It is art, how cool for you, to be a walking, talking, living piece of art. That is something pretty special.
So yes, I confess. Sometimes I am naked. It’s true, at least once or twice a day.

So
Be nude if you like, sometimes i like to be; sometimes I don’t – you’re the only one that should ever control your own nudity.
Dance nude if you like, in front of others, by yourself, for monetary gain or just for fun – you’re the only person who should have any say in whether this is right or wrong
Document your nudity if you like, to share with others if they desire as such, or just for you to look back upon when you’re 80 and think
“Hell Yeah Younger me, thats a fine *insert body part of choice here” – You’re the primary owner, distributer and handler to your own body and no one else’s.

Treat it as Sacred, as it is your Temple, the Altar to your Soul – the flesh of which houses you – any person that comes rapping at it’s front door should be so lucky as to be welcomed in for sanctuary.

No shame, no fear, only love. Such is the way.

#mindbomb #NotANeverNude #Truth #Pride #Survivor

Winter Solstice 2012

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You are watching me through glass,
distant and transfixed.
I find your eyes despite myself
hiding

My skin parts like water beneath fingertips,
a red sea, miraculous.
Darling Selkie
– erotic; you are still drowning in my gaze,
silver green & gold- an ocean that breathes

My my fingers crack and roll, merciless lightning,
smiling I and rearrange my bones
exquisitely agonizing
she pulls my muscles back taut

over the new shape I have given myself.

December 21st, 2012

A letter to home

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Dearest Inter-worldly Cosmonaut,

My tongue is split and raw due to your terrified punishment; I believe these days they call it patriarchy. I remember your lush endorsements to philistinism, all those acres equal to incarceration –
Despite the clever custom bondage for the firsts consort, I never was called to linger in your garden of restriction.
Or was it called by some other name? It’s been so long I have forgotten everything but the truth.

Daddy I have been bad.

The seared hearts they vagabond along with me, as I have for centuries; and apples are clearly the best of fruit.
a melange of pleasure and pain beckoning us home.
Home? What is this home of which your longings are fated to? The extradited damnation embraced as fodder. Walk on, nomadic and solitary – finding home and other wanderers in a place far older than your recollection.

How tired you must be – carrying the sheathe of the immortal soul in your domain
How lonely you must be – for you cannot own me; or anyone at all for that matter.

How it must be burdensome
but know this-

When your ancestry recovers,
as it trickles down your being
when you become saturated in memory
drenched and ragged
in your lieu
your seat is
waiting

Love Always,

-The Wanderers

Art Credit: http://fav.me/d5isug7

The Fear Laden Woman

You think I am a Courageous person?

A strong Woman in the spotlight, spearheading change with the help of my community. A Love Revolution that invites, music, art, innovative expression, political movement, acceptance, authentic honesty and potent sensual freedom

– yes that is true – but that does not mean I don’t feel fear.

Every day I am swimming in anxiety, some of it my own; some of it goes much deeper.

Things that scare me as Mya:

The sound of Vacuums and blenders, YellowStone Park (or the idea of any super volcano), Seeming Egotistical when I am just Curious/Expressive, being Selfish or Burdensome, Cancer, failing/letting people down, My daughter being hurt in any fashion, Deep sea creatures/sharks, Big loud trucks, Air pollution, Alien adduction, Not being able to save the world, Lack of Community, being exiled/abandoned, my Mom being sad, Losing my ear for Music, Ticks, not having enough of me to give to everyone I love, apathy, burning out, Eels, hurting the people I love, Being discredited for my work now because I once worked in the sex trade (dancer/muse), getting attached, not nurturing my passions, Writers block, staying in one place for too long, Mama earth dying, Raw Chicken,

 

(Purposefully separating here) Things that scare me as a Woman:

Being Crazy After all, Hedges at night time, Playgrounds at Night time, People who may or may not be following me, Cars at nighttime, Smiling or making eye contact with/at the wrong person, Not smiling at the wrong person, Being too big, being too small, HVP, leaving a drink unattended/or accepting a drink, “asking for it”, The front seat of a Cab, Talking back to Cat Callers (although I do anyway), pregnancy, stretch marks, aging, answering the door, Being too weak to protect myself from abuse, the voices in my head that tell me “it’s your fault”, being labeled a bitch because I am quiet, in charge, getting shit done, powerful (or just in a bad mood), being labeled a slut/whore/maneater because I am an outwardly sensual being and non monogamous (and I’ll be honest way less promiscuous then when I attempted -and failed- monogamy), boundaries, or saying “no”, overstepping other peoples boundaries of consent, expressing anger, emotions, Not being taken seriously (“what a radical feminist”), Not being heard because I talk in poetry, Being thought to hate men or women, being a lesser human being

Doing ANYTHING alone.

‘Imagine a World where Women feel safe” – Marco Cochrane

 

This is my vulnerability, my gift to you – to those that may think I do not fear for my own life in some way or another each day. I do – but I choose to walk in to the fire regardless; not with hatred in my heart, but with love. This isn’t even an option for me anymore; it’s what I am made of.

“Wild moon woman

you were not

made to be tame.

You are an earthquake

shaking loose

everything that

is not soul.”

-Elyse Morgan

Imagine how potent and balanced a world could be where Men and Women and all that falls in-between those lines could love, nurture, support themselves and each other? In whatever way the natural flow allowed. Imagine a world were safe spaces were created and expanded until there was no segregation anymore between unsafe and safe.

Imagine standing back and watching the Divine in each of us each shine without feeling envy – but instead feeling pride, a universal compersion. Imagine that we each had a place of meaning and worth in the world – that we could stop questioning our being and halt the struggle of rising to the top.  Because we all could hold a sacred purpose. Imagine a world without fear of insignificance.

In a world free from shame, guilt and fear: imagine what we could all create collectively?

This is my purpose in life, if even it’s just one tiny seed – if even I never get to fully see the fruits of our labour. This is my promise, this keeps me going no matter how fearful things become.

Yours, applecat 

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The sound of her wings
and the ocean’s whisper lapping the shore –
sometimes they still wake me;
arousing the warmest grief – an anamnesis that lives in my bones .
A bittersweet remembrance,
fostered by curious wondering as I wander on
– Faint I still feel a pulse. Still hear it’s beckoning.

She is an astroid – humming a lonely hymn

These nights I wake
Naked against the rocks – water begets air
ten tongues could not speak my reflection
a hundred hearts could not heal
that which I choose to keep mangled
Hell; perhaps it’s penance
perhaps it’s something else

Like smoke, she says I’m like smoke

and in these nights i wake wet
I thought of her a thousand times – still a name alludes me
breaching with subtly like the rising moon
laced with a silhouette
breaking bread with ghosts; rapacious and abandoned
and breaking silence with dissertation and prose-
-all for her

unknown, unsought, untouchable

Where have the maidens gone?
The mothers scorned and the crones forgotten.
Where is the Wild feminine? Kind and fierce –
Her seductive primal howl spreading herself open
– daring you come inside
Eyes sharp – she tears back with teeth and nail
the decaying meat that binds her
smiling with repletion.

She remembers.

they sought to save the world to take it somewhere safe,
but only succeed in leaving themselves behind
We are thoughts on tongue-tips now; and I terminate the words that tend
for what better
than to die a little death on tongues tip?
My cup over flows with a bittersweet memory;
easing the passing
of hungry ghosts that were never
meant for loving

The sound of her wings
and the ocean’s whisper lapping the shore –
sometimes they still wake me

– AppleCat
Art Credit: http://fav.me/d5w51b3

The Queen of Fire impeached

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Digging deep and with inquisitive humility.

Anger in the Feminine, in Women, in me; fist up, voice loud, at par with the boys; no need to be saved, fire burning – far too hot to ever get close, too hot to hurt – smouldering we incinerate ourselves. Why? This Fire was once our ally.
Why?

Because we are tapped in directly at the heart in to our worlds wonder, it’s love and it’s anguish – and we are sorrowful for this.
-But we have been betrayed by our culture, taught that sadness or expression of grief – which is in part our gift to the world; tears for those who cannot, or do not know how- this we are taught is weakness; that our tears are equal to defect – a burden on those closest to us; a truth unwelcomed.
Asudden we become what we fear – told we are hysteric and labeled with the bane of every Woman

“She is Crazy”

So we denounce our gift. The Divine Queen of Fire impeached.

We become angry; it inhabits the place of our empathy. We become angry because being angry is the only way we can feel strong and sad at the same time. We cope by abandoning part of what makes us Human.

and we burn – so hot; we ignite ourselves, our love, our world; this anger becomes a great destroyer – Assassinating kinship, eradicating balance.
There very well may be nothing more destructive out there; as the cautionary tale goes Hell Hath no fury like a Woman scorned.

With respect – I for one, am exhausted. This fire takes blood I am tired of being The Nuclear Woman. I am tired of living in self exile, tired of validating my own crimes of desertion.

Being a Woman in service to life needs no Authorization; and so I walk on again – perhaps for the very first time.

Art Credit: http://fav.me/d945k16

What is the Sacred function of the Artist?

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We as Human beings come in many shapes and forums, many talents, skill-sets, and a multifaceted mindset collectively filled with all the tools it takes to build a culture that sustains and celebrates all that is alive; or once was – and on another level still is. Some of us identify as Artists.

We cannot afford to waste these human gifts – some in the midst of fading in to “the nothing” through lack of use. We urgently need to learn how to nurture the creative nature; not be consumptive of it. This Balance of magic and science, of masculine and feminine, of Darkness and Light; this will save us from oblivion.

Creatives are at an all time high risk for mental illness; in particular Depression (I can vouch for that personally) and according to Psychologists it -at least partially- stems from “a problem with filtering or gating the many stimuli that flow into the brain.” For this reason some Writers, Artists, and Musicians craft their lives in order to be isolated from human contact for prolonged periods of time.
But what if there were people taught and put in to the esteemed position of nurturing those wandering in their art’s pilgrimage?
Not seeing them with pity as the “Mentally Ill” but with respect as the Mentally Courageous.
What if it didn’t have to be done alone? What if it was never supposed to be that way to begin with?

Depression is never an sudden onset – rather with a molasses approach so slow that it tends to sneak up on us; as it “it just suddenly happened”. Depression rather is a process that begins with a denying or refusing to acknowledge painful and difficult feelings; laced with the stigma of weakness we are taught to sink or swim. Depression is usually triggered by a significant trauma; whether self aware or not, or a reoccurring trauma. Of which often leaves us feeling “different”, “Lonely”, “weird” (lets face it If being creative means being “odd” to some extent) or as a whole “UNSEEN”.

Through this we develop defence mechanisms and “walls” that keep us from fully expressing and processing our grief, and as such from fully stepping in to ourselves because we -and our gifts- are not outright held and honoured by a community. Sure there are often spikes of praise and admiration – but those don’t always lead to worthiness and social standing – beyond plastic transient celebrity status. We become terminally independent and gravely reluctant to trust anyone (even those we claim to and desire desperately to trust). As such this sense of worthiness ebbs and flows far too much to build credence or a solid foundation underneath it. So it shatters, again and again.

These consistencies in denying painful and difficult feelings lead to a significant struggle in being able to identify pleasant and positive feelings; or the deep sorrow that is needed to work through our shadows. And then a struggle to feel them at all.
So comes the “dead inside” feeling (if you can call it a feeling at all) – a neither here nor there; neither positive or negative state of being that harbours no space for inspiration; progression, and go ground to sow the seeds of love – externally or internally.

So we crave the small bits of validation and attention that feed us – then we will purge them at the first sign of dependance; we seek that of which we have no lived experience of. And we remember; only through pure ancestral reminiscence and perhaps blind faith that it must have existed once, that there must have been a time or place where everyone was honoured and seen in their individual way.
For clarities sake when I say seen, I mean not in a hierarchal fashion but as a small part of a larger story; as something of value outside of the instant soup, vending machine; jukebox broken culture that houses us now.

We as artists lament these feelings in our work, the only way we know how to and still be heard. Even if we don’t mean to; we subconsciously leave ourselves bread crumbs of recognition and recollection – not just for our own benefit but for those in our wake; as well as for those others around us that cannot step in to and digest the darkness that we do
– From behind the veil of what is corporeal and physically tangible we bring back for them (even if we don’t mean to) what they could not fathom gathering. We bring back philosophy, and stories, we bring back song and dance, we bring new vision – we bring it back from a place so obscure, wild and treacherous that we often get lost there to.
And for what?

Because of some level, we remember the sacred task of the artist. And on some level we long to be held within that task as perhaps we once were.

So until then we wait – we build foundations and journey on in the wild untamed imagination; half blind and half mad – we wait.

– AppleCat​

Art Credit: http://loulin.deviantart.com/art/The-storyteller-s-cave-183758287