The Ache


Why have we strayed so far away from our roots to find some appropriated facsimile of so called “home”?
I have inklings of memory: memory of lost love, of dust; memory of battles, blood, and wine. Of words I don’t understand but I still feel. I remember, I guess I’ve always remembered.

Modern blood lines and blurred borders. Unsavoury connections, and disheartening observations. All connected to recent descendants – my own disdain for my living lineages; an eschew of comfortably strayed spiritually stunted children. Rejecting the idea of tribal law, generations of memory traded for what?
Stucco siding and a manicured flower garden. Handicapped by choice, because a life of feigned ignorance is an easy life.

“Bah” I said “Not me!”

I abhor not the people but the aspects of society that twisted the warrior within myself towards such disapprobation. How could I be a guardian to anyone, or any place with such contempt for the present? And I do so see myself as a guardian in training to this gracious Turtle Island. Whether or not I live up to that, is not for me to say.
Those who have pained she who moulded me, she who gave me life, she of whom I want always to protect. I -within the constrains of my audacious hero syndrome- hold such an fierce anger towards them.

These broken ones have unpurposefully bruised and tarnished my bond to what once was (old lang syne). Hands in the air, Nose up, and lip curled I refused their fear of living. Often to a fault.

Although – sometimes, I do this with far too much an of adolescent attitude. This upheaval has to end. I am tired of being an earthquake all of the time. I want to be a calm sea, a night sky, I want to be a forest fire.
We are all connected, and I enjoy educating myself in worldly theology, fable and history. I enjoy understanding its correlation and curious connection to lands far from each-other’s conscious reach. Finding comfort in our shared stories. Stories and stardust, its what we’re all god damn made of.
But why stray so far? Why embrace and consume so much culture, but only taste the scent of where my parentage was birthed? The foundation of my ambiguous DNA.
My loyalty lays not within my given family, but with the one I found; my alliance is with the lushness of the world; and my pride now lays deep in my blood. I’m finding it’s wild flames again, as the dragon of my heritage is awakens. Unslayable, waiting to be claimed.
So far back in to where I see in my dreams; the myth and narrative that the ancestors hum in to my ear, trickling down my fingers, tickling and intoxicating my tongue.

“LISTEN” they say, “LOOK” they demand.

I am neither here, nor there. Too far ahead and too far back; blessed now with tangible anchors, to the world I adore. My rebellion suddenly with a cause. My feet suddenly more grounded than ever. How terrifying.

We are all indigenous to somewhere, they whisper to me. But where? and why doesn’t it seem matter like it should on the surface to most people I meet – could they truly believe themselves to be a cause so lost that it isn’t worth an excavation? Children born of nothing, and tethered to nowhere.

Don’t you feel the pang from those and that of which has been left behind, the ache of hunger in you craving something more? That depressed cavern in your body that eats away at your voice and leaves behind self loathing and oblivion. What if it wasn’t as empty as it seemed but instead filled with the emaciated peoples we only remember in dreams. Not dead, not alive, less they be fed. The longing lingers for something real, something that tells us we belong. That somewhere there is a place that longs for us. Do you feel it?

I do.



Galaxy Skin



“Travel far enough, you meet yourself.”
― David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

It’s violet dusk
Fogged mirrors,
smudged from so many fingers
Sometimes I wonder,
is the elucidation that leads to lull
to stop loving
so profoundly?
An allegiance to sovereignty
offering over an estranged immunity
My eyes have seen pneuma’s secret
ships of bated breath
sailing in to the horizon

forever and a day ago
in the wild blue yonder
those same eyes
– like vines, reaching towards
idealistic skies
If you could see, those eyes now
their skeletal remembrance
radical dreams, cosmic pools of rumination
a whirlwind portal in to
a tapestry
– Bullets wrapped exquisitely with silken bows

Sensation has become habit
I have feathers scattered across my insides
some call it wanderlust
a vestige of wings
torn to shreds
a longing for flight
and taking that hunger to heart
I start again
-and again and again

I’ll sail out each night
and examine the relation between them-
-the sea, the moon and the shore – capricious paramours
listening intently to the ocean’s song
the moonlights hum.
and the shore’s sigh
the tide caressing her body, and she taking him back
over and over
the moon exulting her influence
I observe in awe
with both pity and envy; I venture on

To live with the stars
as dust
to search for the mysterious maybes,
and the probabilities of perhaps
to hold on
to surrender to letting go
to everything I couldn’t epitomize
I simply pursue the words
a tender wind that dances upon
the lovers tussle
their blues gone grey at the dawns first light

all the while
while I slip
nimbly in to my galaxy skin

art credit:

A letter to home


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

Love Always,

-The Wanderers

Art Credit:

The Queen of Fire impeached

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.

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:

What is the Sacred function of the Artist?


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 these gifts back from a place so obscure, so wild and treacherous that in the midst of it all – we often lose ourselves there

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:

I am not the Woman who handed you the Apple (and if I was, so what?)


I am not your Projection
I am not your paper bag princess
I am not your Goddess incarnate
I am not a Hell bitch, hell bent on ruining you
I am not your Messiah; your saviour from whatever doldrum you’ve landed yourself into
I am not your Projection
I am not the womb of which will give your life significance
I am not your whore, your slut, or your temple priestess
I am not the girl to proclaim “fuck the world” with
I am not the girl who will save you
I am not your Projection
I am not your skin to roll in, your pretty trophy tigress
I am not your test tube Tragedy
I am not your Manic Pixie Dream Girl
I am not the best thing thats ever happened to you, nor am I the worst
I am not your Projection

I am not your distraction

I am the one that came before the Apple
I am a Wild Woman, one foot in the world of imagination; one in the palpable world we live in
I am a Sensual creature, that looks beyond just sex (but still enjoys it)
I am silly, I am a very Silly Woman
I am broody
I am a Guardian of Life, and a Temple Priestess amidst MY OWN prerogative
I am a fierce bad ass that will love till her heart stops
I am a little bit broken
I am neither here nor there
I am often deep in thought, and I take time to get to know, I like this about me
I am made of stories and myth
I am an artist
I am an activist
I am a facilitator
I am a mother, and a lover and a daughter

I am a Woman

And that is all.

– AppleCat

Art Credit:

Allegiance to the Undergrowth of Amour

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In the time that I have been living I have learned to weave my heart like spiders silk
a spinster sisters bestowal
All a tangle in the limbs of my lovers, a menacing knotted mess
of unabashed affection – Eros’s ever daunting thicket
this is the adoration of a wild one

That mess is my kinship and it’s potency my medium
this is my mother tongue. and to her I pledge fidelity
all at the hand of love

Such is the song of the journey, the longhawl incarnate,
wolves and other beast’s teeth, flesh and bone torn piece from piece
and renewed, again and again
to feed and be fed
satiating the hungry, the old ones half forgotten
We are sacred yes, but we thankfully are not unfuckable
so eat
– to then -as we do- become anew
all at the hand of love

So spill your simmered sorrow,
this grace is the bittersweet glaze of liquid death
a palatable pang dancing upon our tongues, unique unto it’s own
nourishing our bodies
if we let it.

Admitting we’ve not yet learned to chew, only offered a cesarian duplication of what “should be” –
-But then there is what “Could be”
We can choose, to be born in to the passage of becoming within the natural and birthrighten throws of heartache,
all at the hand of love

But what is this unbidden tenderness of which I banter on?
And how to attain the affections of a wild born woman-
-Love my end with you, whenever it may occur
Love me as if your spite in my passing will not override your amorous remembrance
Love me by your willingness to let me go-
Set no confinements or trappings for our interlaced Wildness-
for they are older and wiser than us both-
Heed this call, for the trueness of love-
and then I am yours
– as much as any wild thing could be

This path is not linear, nor will you find yourself unscathen
but there are certain things that lay resolute in my bones

from the day your heart began to beat, to the day it stops
from the time of beginning to the time of completion
to the moment the underside of your weary seastorm eyes become your last backdrop
this melange of experiencing, I will hold it all
all at the hand of love

So be this as it may, a continuing time of fluctuating elation, grief, understanding and deep relation – with everything
This love one day will read like a chapter closed, and thus a crippling wrinkle in a cycle that whispers hauntingly with utter devotion

“We will not go on without you”

Love without Fear

Whatever your lifestyle, whatever your gender or race, whomever you pray to, however you choose to express yourself: we are all in this together. And we are all being damaged by the same outdated narrative in love.

By publicly acknowledging our generations of woundedness we are not admitting defeat or weakness, we are not pointing fingers or laying blame – in fact it’s quite the opposite.
By choosing to speak we are breaking the spell of continued social projection. We are creating a space to house an understanding that each of us is not alone, that this empathic field of consciousness beyond blue screens is not in our heads. By being authentic and vulnerable we are strengthening the awareness of deep relating.

While we’ve been on the front-lines of shattering our own existence; we know it is wrong, but we carry on in fear that no other story awaits us. We fear the destitute poverty we cling to -the bones we chew ragged- are all that there is.
We have near forgotten how to act together – how to take a leap into the glorious unknown.

This is in our Psyche, bound as she is with her beloved Eros – it is suppressed but NOT lost.
We wrote the stories and myths to serve as breadcrumbs, a way to remind ourselves how to recall the road to home.
There is a blind leap to somewhere new, but strangely familiar. Somewhere past the darkness.

Fortunately -along with the flesh and sinew- love is all that we are, and it can be our greatest gift; if wielded skillfully and without fear.
Loving: a skill that should be taught.
We are living in a time where apprenticing ourselves to the scholarship of love is a vital step to support a sustainable future of humanity.

Through this, as a collective I believe we can heal our world.

Easier said than done? Of course it is.
What that has ever been worth a damn hasn’t been fated to struggle?
When was the last time you achieved any sort of epiphany with ease; an “Aha!” moment that formed you on a fundamental basis that didn’t bring you to your ragged knees?

We are not inherently cowards as Human beings, that tiresome shit is learned behavior via a polluted culture and a broken environment. At our core we are Warriors of Love. Fearless if we learn to be as such.

It’s time, lets go.