Being Human and Mental Illness pt 3


Being Human is a constant learning endeavour. One of which the awareness in our culture is damn near instinct. But some remember, and many more are remembering to remember. This piece was written the second week of April, 2018.

“it is in the nature of humans to forget how to be one sometimes” – Stephen Jenkinson

I forget sometimes, it is less and less that I forget as I continue my path; but sometimes it still arises. Sometimes my mental state takes me over and I forget everything about why I go on; I lose myself in “the nowhere place”.

“The Nowhere place” is a place that devours my humanness, a place that tries to convince me I am nothing but food.
This was my experience during the month of March. This past lunar cycle I felt as if I was drowning, and yet everyone around me could breath just fine. I lost my voice, and even if I had it I didn’t know how to communicate what was wrong, or what I needed. I needed something, but I had no idea what.

The nothing place whispered to me:
“Just let yourself die, your weakness is a burden. Do not let them be poisoned by the vacancy where your heart should be” and to this I nearly listened.
I felt myself fading each day, and my face becoming a plasticine mask, a twisted and posed version of myself.
My perception of what “fine” looks like.

I have a mental illness, this will never go away. It is the shadow to my passion, my artistry, my quirkiness, my inspiration, my magic. Sometimes I will go 10 years without a deep depression, sometimes it will be just a few months a part. But this is part of me, and loving me means loving me when I am ill. I’m not saying this for you to hear, I am proclaiming it so I can read it over and over again. I am not broken, I am just a little scribbly sometimes.

Two Fridays ago I hit a rock bottom, I say “A” rock bottom because I am clever enough to know that every rock bottom as a trapdoor where you can fall further. But I had spent a month falling, descending into this particular rock bottom. Alone, and imprisoned by my own thoughts; for the first time in 6 years I felt as if I was watching myself from the ceiling, in shock by whomever had taken the wheel of my body. This was it, the crescendo of my manic breakdown, and I had little to no control over it. Those of you that know me well know that control is my favourite thing to have, and the thing I often need to let go of the most.

That evening for the first time in 6 years I went what I would describe as “crazy”. My conscious voice became the voice in the back of me head, and the voices of disesteem took front and centre. I hurt myself in ways both physical and mental that I am not fully comfortable talking about in detail here. I relapsed into a place of self loathing of which I thought was long gone from my grasp. A desolate place where all that exists is me, and the wolves that I set upon myself. “Everything that is wrong with your life, and those close to you is your fault. You are a disgusting, horrible failure of a person” Those are the kind of words that exist there. Kind of a mixture of narcissism and self destruction. I don’t recommend the visit, although I imagine many of you have frequented there at some point in your life.
My voice of reason finally dug it’s way out of the hole it had fallen into and went from a murmur to a fierce scream. I stopped myself before doing anything too damaging, and while I came out physically a little more broken, mentally I had a clarity that I had not had in at least 6 weeks.

I had been possessed by the ghost of who I used to be, perhaps because I never allow anyone to hear the stories of the things that happened to her. I have buried my stories of trauma and pain from the fear of being burdensome, finally the ghost of past me snapped. She wanted to be heard, to be seen, and she still does. What happened to her was not okay. This mixed with the recent deaths in my chosen family, the impending homelessness, and the chronic pain broke my walls down and allowed her to come crashing through.

“Travel far enough you meet yourself.” – David Mitchell

You know that meme of the cartoon dog drinking tea while his house burns down proclaiming everything is fine? Yeah that has been me as of late.

Although strangely enough once I reached that rock bottom, that dark night of the soul which called forth that clarity, things started to be actually okay externally. A beautiful (but not perfect) housing opportunity presented it’s self, my chronic pain subsided, and I started being able to write and make music again. My fear was this was a mania, that I dropped so hard that I spiked right back up. That suddenly everything was beautiful because it had to be for me to be able to survive it. It seems that is not the case though, I am present in mind and heart, I am aware that I need to speak more to close friends, and very much a counsellor who is well knowledgeable in breaking lose past traumatic events, I need to take better care of myself, and I need to allow myself to be aware that sometimes the shit hits the fan and it’s fucking okay to ask for help, even if I don’t know what that help looks like.

If I could set the words “burden”, “selfish”, and “failure” on fire I would. and I wouldn’t do it alone, I would allow everyone that has ever been hurt by those wounds of mine to also set these mother fuckers aflame. These things are ghosts, they only exist because I allow them to.

This is my underworld, last time I spent a lot of time here I wasn’t much. But now? I am a Queen in my own right. That evening was not my day to be devoured.

So I came out, alive, nearly well, and a hell of a lot more Human. The evening following this breaking I went and I performed at a good friends birthday party. Many of my old mechanisms told me I was too broken to do as such, but funnily enough another mechanism kicked in harder when i realized how horrible I would feel if I let said birthday gathering down. At my core though I wanted to be with them, through them I saw beauty, and through them I saw mirrors of myself that I couldn’t see alone. How could these amazing people love someone that wasn’t worthy of it?

Being Human it is a constant process of trial and error, humanness is an end goal that only comes with the knowing that you’ve lived a fine life and are ready to die well – dying well does not mean alone, in self loathing, and hiding from all the beautiful things that you’re able to achieve in this world. Being Human is it not something we are born with, it is something we are constantly being taught, and should we be so lucky; eventually we be able to teach. I teach on occasion, and more often I learn.
Sometimes I learn from the process of forgetting. Funny thing isn’t it?

“You’ve met me at a very strange time in my life” – Fight Club

I am a scholar of my own and other’s often clumsy humanness. I am dedicated to making mistakes, and getting back up again, I am ready to go on if even I cannot, I am cultivating the worthiness that goes far beyond my lifelines sight, but doesn’t exclude it. I don’t need to be remembered, I just want people to live in our collective wake and to continue remembering.
When we live knowingly in the wake of those that loved us enough to go on, we step into being a conscious rippling wake, or rather we become awake one could say.
Someone loved me enough to go on, and I love myself, my chosen family, my vision, and those that will come after me enough to also go on.

I am not the first, nor am I the last to struggle. But that doesn’t make my story one that shouldn’t be spoken to. So what does Mya need now? I don’t really know. To be heard, I guess that is what I am doing by sending this rock skipping into the digital ether of the internets shores.

What else? I like hugs, I like patience, I thrive on words of affirmation, and creative collaboration. I am moving to an alien to me island in two weeks and I would really like if sometimes people came to visit me, I fear my tendency to fall into my own head. I love it when people poke me to respond to messages and phone calls, but even more so when the pokes come with an understanding that my lack of response is not personal. Patience, diligence, and a love of my shadow. That is what I need. And ironically enough I am pretty sure I already have that on most parts.

I don’t know where I am going from here, but I know it’s going to be fucking harrowing, absolutely gorgeous, gratifyingly difficult, and ever curious. I have shit to do, and external/internal shifts to catalyze, I have a world to change and a me to mend. And I know for sure that I cannot do that alone.
I know that it’s speaking out like this directly after the thing has happened that will bridge the gap of my self exile.
Speaking now of my experience instead of speaking a year from now. A year from now when the story perhaps inspires and benefits you, but really doesn’t really do a whole lot for me in the realms of present me’s vulnerability. Because by then I will have already externalized it and processed it myself, and I’ll tell you holy hell am I good at doing that.
Sure it’s scary exposing your past self, but being open and honest about your present state is even more terrifying.

I am not looking for pity or attention, I am looking to be transparent and cultivate accountability with the people I care about.

I am looking to shatter the stigma that on whatever level this type of rock bottom doesn’t effect absolutely everyone.

This is me speaking, this is actually what I look like when I feel actually fine, taking the space to retrieve the pieces of myself. Kind of like when you have to clean up after a flipped board game. I won’t always be this fine, often I will be much better; and sometimes I’ll tumble as I have this past month. But if anything at all I become more and more human every damn day. With you, my fellow humans in the making.

With Deep Bows,


Love Without Mirrors


Love without Mirrors

The lovers tussle can become ingrown
devoid of faith, entangled in stories
without a mirror in sight
we two become a carnivorous mouth

she dances through the bony air –
like a hungry child
frothing at the scent of affirmation;
glistening off of destitute eyes
– the very sight of it –
a taste that all cast away hearts lust for.

If she could be a small thing, for just a while
she would live on the inside of him
for a moment
where decadence, meets defiance
and lays to rest
where time meets, complete silence
she is free to digress

-but you are not the home she seeks-

He, stretched marked and inflated
tired and furious
wolves beaten into subservience
a token for his eternal trespass
bound by blood and habit
he begs “please, make me whole again”

If he could be a hero, just for a moment
riding into the sunset, shameless
without consequence,
humanity cast to the wind, needing nothing
only passion and glory
and an exaggerated story
immortality at livings cost

-But you are not the damsel he craves-

You are lovers & together the maw rumbles
still hungry
repelled by the faithfulness
of seeing each other.
May you find your home,
in those that circle your waltz
those that hold space
in-between it all, to memorialize love.
to live beyond being food and conjure shared vision

These mirrors feed
beyond the beloved’s hand you hold
they bare witness to such nexus
the soul-storming steadfast village
that begs to awaken.
If you choose to chase the memory
of how we could be
love may become liberated
and truly be free

recoiled, in their own resounded rapture.
They may inspire, too powerful
to shudder and grovel
any longer

“In deep partnership – home is not found in the other person, but the willingness to make home together in the world” – Love Without Fear


Love Beyond WildFire

Love until you’ve gone mad, and then once you get there – keep going. That’s where the lush stuff likes to hide.

Most people are taught to love with the transient and luminescent fragility of a candle’s flame. Leaving always a wondering of a greater capacity, a nagging “what if” whispering in your ear.

For a very long time I loved instead with the rebellious and destructive fierceness of a forest fire. All encompassing, passionate, erratic. Annihilative eros clearing all in its path. I burnt hot, I burnt out.
So then what else is there?

Rising from the ashes of that inferno, i embrace a rooted journey into the practice and scholarship of love. Roaming the crevasses and expense of the heart, to which I have yet to see any clear boundary or edge. Just an ever broadening horizon.

Instead of wild fire I choose to love like a cosmic catastrophe, as if every moment were a big bang. A constant and collective transformation.
Universe after universe dreamt through chaos, and crafted with order. With devotion and deep adoration in every beat in every sigh. I see now that authentic love is creation incarnate. I see that every moment, orgasm, heartbreak and wild abandon has been damn worth the continued fruits of the pilgrimage.

I cannot help but stand in awe at what strange and magnificent creatures we lovers tend to be.

– AppleCat

A Love Letter to Erotica Electronica


Poetry is a selfish lover. A Bratty Princess.
She rolls over, at all hours – regardless of where I am, what I am working on, or whom I am working on – and she demands to be to be pleasured.

But – when I desire pleasure? inspiration? Like perhaps to ignite in writing my passion and adoration for each of you and these gatherings she replies

“ooooh sorry applecat, I have a headache – can I offer you a haiku? or a limerick even? that will do I am sure”

No, Poetry – a haiku will not do, not for the each of them – not for the dance we together weave.

Thankfully Poetry, -like me- is a voracious switch, and to evoke her submission all you have to do is own it Alpha Wolf style.

“Poetry you naughty little bitch!”

I command.

“I. Am. Your. Mistress. Roll over this instant and fuck me, fill me up with your LUSTFUL musings – for you are mine and I am yours, and with respect I demand you fuck me this instant”

and so with a sly and subby grin, as if that was her plan all along – fill me up she did.

And so, my love letter to Erotica Electronica

There are so many nights
left as blurs, memories of a memory
so many names I claimed to know, faces shifting into one another
some would have called me a shameless slut, others an empowered wanderer
But tonight, I will remember,
as you dance, fingers brushing against skin,
penetrative song, and teeth digging further in
I will revel in each orgasm, post party – regardless if I were there or not
Because tonight, the many are one.

This mask, his mask, her mask, their mask
all these masks to mask our truth, each a delicately crafted work of art,
each a facet of ourselves we choose illuminate
you are not alone in your dark duality, wanton whispers as wet LIPS swell and part
by my MOUTH remands SHUT
Tried on, worn well
cookie cutter paper maiden, slide on, slide in – and out again – smeared over intense expression
Tied tightly, taken off
thrust hard against a wall of rebounding breath, face exposed, fairy tale
ravaged and unveiled

I see you, KIND OF HOLY, and A LITTLE PROFANE – together we gather, naked and BRAZEN – masks deemed obsolescent

Undress me with your eyes, dance as I pry you open
imagine lips between your thighs
like animals – teeth and bone, ivory and pink tissue dripping
this salacious carnality tastes like music
and perhaps, just perhaps
thats enough

with this found connection, our collective synchropation
half devoured,I slip deeper
into you,
SATIATING, with these secret SOUNDS
quivering in anticipation I BESEECH,
drink me,
love this,
and I will be your slave

So hello tribe
I have mostly come to define you, by my bewildered inability to define you
So please, let whisper these songs to you
The carnal, earnest rage of BASS swelled in hot crescendos across my throat, beneath my ribs, guided by passion
each crafted sound, penetrating your ear, and body with a kind but fierce thrust
I’ll deliver each beat as my coveted discipline
for seeping from my every pore, is an arousing score
the bass and violin, making music of my sin

ah, may it be so that we mount and ride these deep sensual sounds into revolution

I would sip every drop of lust
From the expanse of our souls
back arched in ecstasy
body aching for the barest of touch
For sadistic as I am, how could I possibly be so cruel
to deny you the collective and cosmic climax you crave so much?

In this wild and broken world, you my loves – are both my comfort zone and my edge

The Music will play
Skin on skin, muscles clenching, bodies drenched.
beats are moaned, whimpered and sighed.
with every bar, each cavort grows more intense.
Harder and faster, throbbing, we delight in the ache, squirm and spiral -until-


dramatically it crests, gasping, we collapse and fade into afterglow,
– and that is the true love letter yet to be played, and these are the songs of lustful adoration about to be told.



from which I was crafted,
I will keep writing of love, as long as love is alive in me
I have far before my time, and will far after

Listen –

As the dust cues to our catastrophic cosmic connection
Visceral and utterly pleated
into my live’s mythology

the enormity of our hearts unified pulse, penetrating deeply
it ploughs hard and fills me up,
bringing my lust into fruition, swimming in sex
the eros we share
thick and dripping down our mortal coil

The Kata to my Kali

relishing in Water’s adversarial love affair
with fires smouldering gaze – enraptured in their consequential vapour
a thousand years they’ve practiced
for this one short lifetime
a chance to do it right

beyond war & flame
beyond monarchy & botched revolution

He of whom meets my fierce gaze with an infectious softness
– together we birth an air of wild kindness
He of whom claims my bastard body as if it were royalty
– together we sow a sprouted flesh and rooted noble sensuality
He of whom scoured my landscape and unearthed a petrified heart
– together we revisioned two sovereign wanderers into a king and queen inservice to life.

Life pulses in gratitude, whispering a brazen promise to behold us & our enchanting truth.

most days
we are requisitioned by the world,
other days
our worlds capacity is stretched by life
and betwixt it all,
he is my world – small, quiet and serene, a refuge in the in-between

In the midst of our happening,
I am undone
to him, i pledge a loyalty to love and all it’s iterations
to him, I vow to christen myself in desire
to him, and to him in totality

I entrust my surrender.

Romance is…


Romance is dusty Museums on a weekday; when no one is present but the each of you and the ghosts of yesterday

Romance is salacious snail mail in a world of paper bank statements and lackadaisical sext messages

Romance is epicurean delights hand picked to satiate each imploring taste bud, alternatively romance is also a culinarily illiterate yet good intentioned burnt meal

Romance is Sound and Dance. Together surrendering to the vibrational awakening of primal memory that audio stimulation and somatic movement invoke.

Romance is conscious flesh, each peaked sense arousing another – a domino effect of pleasure without shame or story holding them back

Romance is voraciously mind fucking while voyeuristically instigating the age-old courtship between intellect and creativity

Romance is drawn out road-trips to ambiguous destinations, worn out albums, the wind on your skin, and curious adventure on your heartstrings

Romance bends the rules

Romance is a Forever, a single serving delight – and everything that lays in between. Romance in it’s trueness is allowed to flow naturally.

Romance is a handmade art-piece.

Romance is collectively making a fundamental difference, combining combustible passions and alchemically crafting palpable meaning. It is being together for more of a purpose than just your togetherness.

Romance is time made sacred.

Romance in an age of constant information is eye contact, intention, and series of non verbal connections.

Romance is giggling uncontrollably.

Romance is subjective; the art of listening and seeing – and in turn allowing yourself to as well be listened to and seen.

Romance is tailor-made unconventionalism – against the grain and perfectly custom to each others unique tastes.

Romance is the concurrence of continued growth.

Romance is the willingness to Love fiercely and authentically; without old stories, oppression or fear.

Romance is a flower unpicked.

– AppleCat

Art Credit:

the heavy hearted ache


Today I write with a heavy heart, as the internet has reminded me (right on schedule) that the world is really fucked up – and in a plethora of ways.

Our world, our us, our humanity. What does that word even mean? Humanity.

I have grounded myself into a place where I will not let the narcissistic self loathing of our times consume me, I will not let it convince me I am so tiny that I cannot make a difference; that I should just simmer in apathetic and easy complacency.
More and more I am coming to realize that what is “easy” is not simple, and what is simple is far from easy.

But it hurts so much, and somedays I yearn to feel that apathy, I crave to understand the languish places of which so many of us have landed. The state of being that allows people to live each day in a place where heartache has been abandoned.
Because damn this pang is raw, like a thousand indignant marchers grabbing my at throat, despite the lack of recollection of why they had began marching to begin with. Like the tainted oxygen surrounding us leaving my breath short, my own womb mirrors that of our Earth’s – rumbling, twisting and lurching with sediment.
The pang is raw with consumption; a woman trespassed and sold, a pig tagged and bled, water bottled and resold. As if the culprit could see any difference between the three.
Eat. eat. eat.

We live in a time where eye contact is shunned, connection to our adversaries, our lovers, our food. Shunned. The intimate courtship of love, sex and death – a fading art. A sin even.
For years we arrive and depart from inside each other, thrusting in and out. Flesh against flesh, in a desperate reach towards feeling anything at all. Uncontemplative copulation, contact without contact. Climax without Orgasm.

I see anguish, hatred, war, and poison. I see suffering, in a world that advocates killing but refuses to acknowledge that death exists as anything but an affliction. I see all that is natural, all that is us, being crucified and resurrected, wrapped in plastic and artificially manufactured by emaciated milky eyed children younger than my own.
And then sold back to us; lacquered, sterilized. For our safety.

That blasted blanket statement of a word, Safety. I do not feel safe in this world, and I would be brazen in assuming that neither do you. Yet I harbour such a huge fucking adoration for this little blue marble, despite that ever-present same ache threatens to consume me. When I saturated in it’s darkness I cannot help but imagine and skirt on understanding the actions of political self immolation – because this fire under my skin threatens to ignite. The fire of passion, what a fearsome tool to behold.
I am angry, and I am scared, I am in pain but more so than anything I still am so damn in that love. With you, with all of this, or rather what all of this could be; and if I could I would turn it off, but that didn’t work before and it certainly wouldn’t work now. A tidal rush of intensity breaking down the makeshift dam of indifference. Wild hearts do not take well to being confined.

So I cannot go on, yet I continue on because anything else would be a lie – tiresome and meager. I am broke but not broken, I am female bodied but not weak, I am invisible in the eyes of the government but prominent in the eyes of my peers, and this pushes me to go on, even though by all means of logic I cannot.
Logic, safety, ache. These are all subjective. And every day for the past week the eagles have been circling my house, a bat sputtered around my home in graceful disarray, and a finch died quietly in my hands. I watched my daughter sing joyfully on stage, my house later this evening will be filled with the laughter of like-minded loved ones – loved ones that also ache, that also cannot go on – but will anyhow.
As long as I can live in a world with eagles, bats, singing and like-minded hearts I will have love.
This is not the nonchalant white picket fence do nothing as the world burns type of love, nor is it the violent extremist rubber bullets and homemade bombs type of love. It’s a love that doesn’t exist in-between them, but in-fact beyond them, not despite them but because of them.

In response to the times we are in, something beautiful and furious has arisen. Something in you and I that may stand to redefine revolution as a whole.
So I have love, and it tends to the colossal loneliness, the crippling doubt, and the fear of that lingering encompassing ache.
This love whispers to me

“You ache? Good, you are fortunate for the reminder of the state of things. That that ache and make it your power, take that power and make it your gift”
-but damn, some days; somedays are harder than others.

So what is Humanity? Some would say adolescent, destructive, tantrum prone, regressive by force. Call me radical, foolish or idealistic but instead I -in the spirit of my “Post-Jadedness”- choose to ask “what it could be?’ and to see what it IS in smaller circles – That is what utterly enchants me and keeps me going on and on and on.
It is the beauty. That of which we are collectively and individually capable of – And to be in service to beauty’s progress is a damn fine place to be; ache and all.


art credit:

Three years today


Through raw omission & unpolished memory they walk on, years on
sentimental etymology— it sighs
never forget me,
Hearts kissed with blue bruises
each a keepsake ostending
“you’ve done well, now go on”

years on
beyond the binds of “good” and “bad” – clear of their fostered paradigm
lays a village sown
Hearts bruised purple from souls diligence
two elements taming a story
walk on, years on

lips surface to a gasp
and exclaim
“we are fire and water, and we will not be broken”

what fire turned
this tidal flow to stone what sent them a voice to roam
without the ribs
that serve to block eminence
drowning on the throne

Years on,
Paradoxal counterparts
Crafting a call
Purple and blue nebula mutiply
strewn across an interwoven vascular chamber
each one
a reminder – for years on

“Walk on, go on – you’ve done well”

untitled # :v

dystopia_by_ezorenier-d7w37sw (1)

unified by strife
contentious bloodshed,
bound hands, quell loves flow

war, you’ve taken me
countless centuries, lashing out
please hold me, once more

forgot to love, starving
starving, forgot how to chew
this home on tongues tip

pulling down heaven
hallowed ground, beneith our feet
see here, not elsewhere

seek to stop running
desire the present unveiled
together, we’re home

– AppleCat

art credit:

Musings on the continued pilgrimage of Responsible Freedom in Love


Through out my exploration through life I have personally been practicing various forums of ethical (ish) pre-scripted forms of non monogamy since 2008 – I have struggled with self doubt, self hatred, a lack of support, violent rebellion, self inflicted exile and deep grief in the loss of a sense of self that followed.
My attempts at being Polyamorous were founded on the same broken concept at my attempts at being Monogamous – ill-fitted scripted narratives and a lack of community.
So just as I was a failed monogamist, I became a failed polyamorist.

I had to loose everything and become what I felt was completely broken in 2011 to understand that I needed to restructure and rebuild something unparalleled and unprecedented – custom to my timeline, my desires and the community of which I so deeply felt called to nourish. I needed to be broken to see the reality of what endurance could lead to – a loyalty to love, a reestablished idea of devotion, and a strength in my story – and what would later become an intertwined shared story.

My deepest desire in the willingness to share my life and this so called “alternative” form of relation is to encourage the expression and excavation of personal and cultural truth. To lead by example not the front lines of Non-Monogamy – but a world postpoly/postmono where Humans are emboldened to practice Love in the model of which that is truest for them in their “now”.
I desire a time where whether we love or share a partnership with one, two, many or none that we’re encouraged to be in relationships that are in service to something outside of just the relationship it’s self – abolishing the deep underbelly of escapism via interpersonal connection.
I crave collective where your worth as an individual is not put in to question on account of being different – but in fact a culture where diversity fuels it’s flourishing advance.
I long for a world where sensual/creative/emotional/intellectual/passionate connection isn’t shamed or subject to a warped sense of guilt laden secrecy; where it’s encouraged to flow naturally as it unfolds, as opposed to attempting to shove it into a narrative that outdates it’s unique rise, expansion and evolution.

My Core partnership is not under any sort of strain or onslaught by these choices to live a life which asks our upmost allegiance to honesty. Neither him or I has a limited or finite source of adoration, so in all logic any perceived “threat” is only rooted in the echo of a time where a binary form of relation was the only one taught – an old story of love to which no longer fits the times we are in. This does not mean there is no jealousy or fall backs into the stories that we grew up in. Our relationship has not always been been an easy adventure, and it will not suddenly become as such – nor would I want it to.
Partnership, Love and Relationships take skillfulness, and skillfulness generally requires trial and error.
Regardless of and in correlation to that I have never lived a more fulfilling and awe inducing Partnership, our ability to challenge each other, encourage growth, and continue on in the form that best serves us and our community leaves me in a constant grateful state of deep love for all that is him and I.
Beyond “Good” and “Bad” – Every dark and light moment has been crucial to our process of becoming.

“I said to the sun, ‘Tell me about the big bang.’ The sun said, ‘it hurts to become.”

I want so vehemently to live a life of authentic love, fierce devotion and continued progression that dares others to live their truth, to fully examine their and their kin’s desires, boundaries and the full spectrum of their psyche – to demonstrate a courageous form of love and community that includes all walks of life: the unabashed and multifarious gamut of humanness.
Perhaps we are radical dreamers, but if I have learned anything thus far I have learned that we sure as hell are not alone on this untrodden journey into fearless brazen amorousness.

I dare you to be truthful, authentic and responsible in your Love – with each and every individual that you hold with sweet regard – I dare you to fully exist in service to the morphogenic field of adoration of which surrounds you.

I dare you to pontificate on what it would look like to have your life’s actions be collectively in service to love.

– AppleCat