Navel Gazing with the Stars


I am so incredibly uninterested in subscribing to non-inclusive dogmatic bio-domeing communities/events/organizations. Even if they do in fact happen to be changing the world for the better.

Regardless of positive chance, should we go forward in a narrow-minded way with, I would bet my life that the change will be temporary and transient. Many of the methods I see getting to this change are still running by the same consumptive dominant paradigm narrative and often are passively patriarchal/heteronormative. Thus not embracing the emerging diversity in the world that is begging to be seen.
Despite all the hard work and good intentions I fear this route will eventually land us in a place very similar to where we currently are. We the generation of people knowing something is needing to be shifted.

Yet still sitting on our thumbs waiting for the next Guru, Messiah, Mommy/Daddy, Profit, Teacher, whatever. When it’s so clearly not one man or woman that is going to, or even would be able to catalyze a lasting change. It is the great collective of us, working through our woundings, and going forward to share a broader vision for peace, healing, and a sustainable world. Not just for us well off, north americans, and not just for 3rd world kids in UNISEF commercials – but for everyone.

Yeah it’s a tall order, and yeah I will likely only see the seedlings of this new world in my lifetime. If I am lucky. But it’s not about what we see in our lifetime, it’s about the wake we leave to make sure the work doesn’t dissipate after we’re gone.

I think it’s naive to believe in absolute inclusivity in all situations. I do believe that knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit, and wisdom is knowing that it doesn’t belong in a fruit salad. That said, I see far too many people and groups often unconsciously hiding behind the veil of how “woke” they are, and really not doing much to help anyone, or change anything, save the causes they have put themselves in the centre of.
No Human/s should be in the centre of anything, we should all collectively be holding space for that centre, for that change, for the better world far beyond our time in these bodies.

This will be uncomfortable at first. and many people tend to confuse discomfort with intuition. At first often the two feel the same, save one is driven by fear, and the other is driven by primal wisdom. We may never fully “get” each other, and if the fullness of that understanding never arrives it should enough to know that we each have our unique medicines to offer the world. If we are all offering the same medicine to the same people over and over again, it becomes nothing but a self indulgent spiral. Like any abused medicine, it becomes a drug. We become addicted to a twisted waking dream, fiending for our next manic fix of epiphany. Navel Gazing Junkies.

Being woke is hard, the best of us are only half way there. But encapsulating ourselves in the spiral of spiritual bypass, the “I don’t see colour” mentality, the “equalism” sans reconciliation mentality, bio-doming intentional communities, the all talk but no action activism, the untethered free spirit – yeah, that shit is easy. These narratives are all signs of a destructive circle of hollow progression.

Most of the people suffering these afflictions come from a good intentioned place, hell I’ve been there time and time again. Many people attempting, and desiring so hard to be living right now in the better future; the one of which the work has not been yet done to create. Desire is utterly intoxicating.
The work calls for all peoples to come together: all races, classes, ages, sexualities, genders, and so on to band together. It requires us to do the work of mending our differences, and agree on a shared vision of a world we want to build together. As many of us can concur, the vast majority of integral change happens outside of the comfort zone.

Perhaps though, we start in the comfort zone. We start in our connected communities, with the people and causes we feel safe with. That is healthy, and ideal for planting a safe firm foundation together. But do so with the intention of branching out once that foundation of trust is strong enough, once your morphogenic field is potent enough to withstand the pressure of your shared discomfort.

Once that is in-fact the case, branch out, offer your medicine, your gifts, and your experiences to new peoples, and ask in return for theirs.

Fucking unify. Unity, is damn important. Acceptance begets understanding, and even if that never comes the understanding that diversity is key to change should be enough.

I said that living in the dream is easy, what I meant is right now living in that dream is easy. But if we are lucky, and the lot of us reach a ripe old age, one day our great grandchilden are going to ask us

“when you were my age, did you know what was happening?

To which if we are honest, most of us will reply “yes”

” So what did you do?” they will ask.

And the answer to that question is not in the future, you are living that answer right now.
The future as we know it doesn’t really exist, it is always “now”, influenced by “then”.

And when our “now” is when these children approach us speaking of “then”, I hope to the gods that we have lived with integrity, and that we are able to provide a damn good answer for them.

– ac


Art by Tara McPherson​


The Dark Feminine


I did not come to be fetishized
Although, in it I delight
breasts pert & severed,
served rare,
I am Morrigan’s wolfish stare

Did the soft woman curdle your plight?

Conditionally loved divinity,
pickled femininity,
vacuum pack my bodyscape
fermented grace,
a wildness to be encased

within the shadow’s gentle step, we carry on

fill him with your holy sanction
a tattered spool unravels
trample his erection
sever his head
gifted purpose & legs wide spread

Oh chaos set me a flame, make them new again

burn away the eternal infraction
they want you fresh, Baba Yaga rejected
one will, divided by two
Lips part with honey and spice
all at the cost of paradise

Blood of the womb, blood of the fire

What of myself am I denying?
complying to the image of profane
wars fought for this picture of love,
embrace the reflection
seduce the mirror of imperfection

Untethered; dark and light interwoven

speaking the truth of my hearts desire
a soft cadence played under the moonlight
tamed patience
I am not lost, only advancing
I am but on the cusp of dancing

The Wild Woman reclaimed, as much she allows.


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:

Omega Centauri


I long to sprawl out, creating universes-
-over the span of your bedspread
Devouring, and destroying,
super nova; dancing stardust over your body

I want to be 96% dark energy; to reflect our greatest enigma
A Riddle; 4% uncovered, under covers, breath and taste
I dream of drowning in-
this nowhere in which the body fluid,
far outweighs the oxygen,

speaking through bones and blood, I offer you my only tribute
A boon; “Contact light.”
Nocturne meeting Aubade
-The cold glare of passing stars,

begrudging of our emanating incandescence



At times I have to look away;
the desperate seeking leaving mineralized corrosion on the borderlines of my/our observation.
& let go of the sanctification I/we were unjustly denied; accept that it must be left to wither; for us to SEE another day;
it must be let to die.
Savour the release; the lingering aftertaste of bitter-sweet remembrance.

Prune that which has expired deep inside; so it may nourish the newness waiting to bloom.

“I choose to know that this will never happen”

Walk forward
& let the flow take the thievery far away to where these things belong.
Plant the memories seed to feed your children’s children. The ones that may forget our name;
the ones that will clumsily fill the footsteps in the macadamized path we wearily conjured back in to creation; unabashed and nearly blind
but not quite.

I’ve/we’ve been holding on the the ghosts too long;
the assassination of the story weighing heavy hearted.
Gone they say; but never lost
The acknowledgement of their very existence among us;
swiftly breaking the spell of their alleged lostness.

and it is with a mystical anguish and harrowing beauty; we live on – that which is alive in us demanding a fierce dedication
to which would cause even the Old Ones to cower.

Guardians of all that is
Reject the so called essential antidote to being human;
Be ready; they say.
Enter your wildness;
& Listen.

Ponderings from Cortes within the Orphan Wisdom school .

Fractured social structured transitions;


From Goddess – to- Queen -to- The Reliably Objectified -to- The Harlot.
Rinse and repeat; this is what is terrorizing the women of our culture.

Constant shifts in surface level external mindstate; inability to differentiate between the self and others projections. This empathic alcoholism; these hearts poisoned by attentiveness. Leading to apathy by our exasperated and depleted sense of worth.

Are we Mothers? Virgins? Or are we Whores? are we none or all of thee above?

We are flesh; and soul; bone and spirit. A perfect harmony to the masculine. When the Divine masculine is skilfully embodied- the Sacred feminine thrives; and vice versa.

Smarten the fuck up.  You, you and you. Yes you.

“The whore is traditionally regarded as a symbol for sin; this is because we have a distorted and illogical attitude to the sex act which is anti-life.
The whore sells sex so therefore is peddling a commodity that has already been contaminated by mainstream religions, patriarchy and capitalism.
Ishtar the compassionate whore has also been called Har or Hora – from which the words harlot and whore sprang. In Ishtar we see a mixing and vindication of spirituality and sex. The perception of this emotive term – ‘whore’ – is complex and multi dimensional.
For most people it is not a concept that can be easily intertwined with spirituality. Although the contemporary sex industry has within it women that are broken, abused and addicted, they are not all victims. Camellia Paglia describes harlots as not being the casualties of men, but rather their ‘conquerors’. To her the whore is an ‘outlaw who controls the sexual channels between nature and culture.’”

Read more here

Roots: Sex, Music, Activism, Love


These are the seeds I sowed; ones that spark, Sexuality, Creativity, Activism, Love, Understanding and Spirituality.

Just notes for now.

*3 Years old: My nights are lulled to bed by classic celtic folk songs, Enya’s sweet blend of cosmic future sounds and ancestral lullabies. I remember something, I don’t know at the time that I am remembering; but I feel it. The childlike contentness with not understanding, but knowing deeply regardless; cradling me to sleep

*4 years old: I cannot stop staring at my Moms Cassette and Vinyl inserts. In particular Guns and Roses “Appetite for Destruction”; which features a drawing of aliens, a post apocalyptic dystopian world and to my fascination a very vulnerable very nearly naked woman. I stare, in private and am absolutely entranced. My first memory of a realization of my desire for women (and considering the context perhaps kink)

*5 years old: One year later another pseudo obsession arises; I cannot stop listening to the NIN “Pretty Hate Machine”, Madonna “Like a Prayer” or “Catching up with Depeche Mode” Cassettes. It just can’t be done.

*Six Years old I hear Moonlight Sonata for the first true time, this is my first fundamental memory of getting goosebumps when I heard a song. After this I was hers, music had laid it’s groundwork in each vein in my heart and there was no chance of removal without utter dismal termination.

(Fun fact, wrapped around the tree of life on my arm are the notes to said song)

*Seven years old: My Mom goes with her boyfriend to see Les Miserables, she brings me home the soundtrack and I fall in absolute love. Again I listen and listen and listen, the words to each song now deeply and permanently imbedded in my mind. The heart and soul and anguish of Victor Hugos story, exaggerated by song and theatrics! My little Revolutionary soul ignites, and merges forever with my already prominent love of music.
And suddenly I have this unyielding desire to write….

*Eight years old: My unadulterated adoration for Freddie Mercury of Queen has grown to a peak. His Operatic vocals mixed with theatric rock and roll grab me by the throat and force me to dance.
A delightful mixture of my early love of Rock and Theatre. My first crush, or rather an idol of sorts. My first experience with the ever prominent theme in my life of being attracted to talent and uniqueness, so much so that I would bark at the top of my lungs “God damn it he’s Bisexual with a preference to men, and one day I will marry him!…. he can have a husband too, that wouldn’t bother me.” (Also my first experience with the irritation of the media world depicting Bisexual individuals as solely gay, or “Transitioning”)

One summer day in my Moms Buick I sat in the passenger seat dancing away to “Radio Goo goo”; the song ended and my Mom broke the news to me that Freddie Mercury had passed away; I sat stark and quite, and then it all came pouring out. I cried, a lot; I cried because his chapter was finished, I cried because his music would flow out new no more, I cried because his soul had faded away in to the next life. I grieved, and with that; I knew death.

*Nine years: old I discover Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness (Smashing Pumpkins) and Purple (Stone temple Pilots). Absolutely in rapture I proclaim with great jubilation

“Holy FUCK!”

*Ten years old: I find Prodigies “Fat of the land”, paired with Ministry, and Crystal Method I note; Whoa Industrial breaks, Whoa BASS; I remark they sure can do a lot with Computers and sound.
My first love for Electronic Music blossoms……



There is a fine line between being an outsider and a leader; a revolutionary and a lone wolf.
Five years ago I had a mystic tell me that my goal in life was to tear down walls and build bridges. Over the course of time I have noted how spot on she was; this attribute reigns true almost to a fault, an idiosyncrasy if you will.

Forging these grounds comes with a price.

There is a stark loneliness that can rear it’s head when one chooses to hold his/her thumb in many pies, so to speak.
A non comital abundance of respect reverence and close acquaintances.
The forlorn alienation is one that could only be understood by another visionary; if not received by a like minded soul; pretension and even arrogance could be assumed.

“What are you talking about? Alone? You have people around you all the time!”

There laying at the surface of the quintessential Aquarian mind; a deep love and philanthropy for people as a whole, but dislodging ones self from the vulnerable standpoint of intimacy. Coming off as; sometimes the complete opposite of what they are, or what they meant to portray. Flippant, cold; apathetic.

“That was the thing about being alone, in theory or in principle. Whatever happened-good, bad, or anywhere in between-it was always, if nothing else, all your own.”
– Sarah Dessen, Lock and Key

To be clear, I frequently am lonely – and this is by no persons individual fault. I am alone much less; I revel deeply in the understanding that experiencing them can bring me- but also know that the relation they hold to each other is not nearly as similar as we are led to believe.

Loneliness is a fascinating human condition; it’s one of those convoluted emotions that submerges us deeper than logic and syllogism; sometimes far past consolation. Loneliness of course knowing fair well that comfort would be detrimental to the deliverance of it’s purpose; although again often that significance is lost on us until much after we are torn apart. Demolition making way for clarity.

Aloneness, it never calls first, it just shows up on your doorstep expecting to be catered to; and sometimes after weeks of planning aloneness decides it has other plans – honestly it’s integral but rather rude.

“you’re afraid
to let anyone
stoke the fire
in your chest
for fear
you will burn
them alive”

Loneliness is a state far separated from aloneness; one which can occur in the middle of nowhere or even in a room filled with people. It’s an undeniable flashing neon sign to an answer (or a question) you are failing to comprehend; it’s a lesson in humanity in the absence of community, in yourself and your desires; but all and all it’s a god damn bitch.

Although subjective; loneliness is an affliction, whilst aloneness is a gift – that being said it is one that should come with the warning of addiction.


My plight is my choice and any lamentation of said ordeals are purely for therapeutic intention. I know myself and I know without progression, stimulation and humanitarianism I would wither away in to limbo. Though at times it’s hard to not get lost in the “Why’s”, the self pity and the confounding feeling of segregation; the desires for things I cannot even name. It whispers in a hiss, like molasses in my ear

“You’re not good enough”

There is the foreboding wondering if there is any point to the trials i withstand or if they are only put there by myself to say that I have withstood them. To adhere to my spiritual masochism.

All the while I know deep down in my roots; thats silly.

These voices of doubt; sprout like fungus against the growing thicket of my ambitions. They too have a purpose. They toughen the skin and remind ones self of humility. They remind me of my own humanity, and my places both high and below; and eventually they remind me that I don’t have to be alone at all, and shouldn’t have to be.

Ancient Babylonian songs and reoccurring myth


“What really lasts in this world? What dies, what can be revived? Are humans basically the same now as in ancient times? I was left pondering these questions after listening to singer and composer Stef Conner’s album The Flood. It’s probably the first ever to be sung in ancient Sumerian and Babylonian, and it’s hauntingly beautiful’

A direct link to these haunting ancient babylonian songs/soundcloud (I have had them on repeat for over an hour; and am contemplating remixes and personal renditions)

and my personal favourite.

Ishtar was the babylonian goddess of love, war, fertility, and sexuality.

A complex deity, Ishtar combined the characteristics—both good and evil —of many different goddesses. As a benevolent mother figure, she was considered the mother of gods and humans, as well as the creator of all earthly blessings. In this role, she grieved over human sorrows and served as a protector of marriage and motherhood. People also worshiped Ishtar as the goddess of sexual love and fertility. The evil side of Ishtar’s nature emerged primarily in connection with war and storms. As a warrior goddess, she could make even the gods tremble in fear. As a storm goddess, she could bring rain and thunder.’ Continue reading

“The first flush of death
burns brightly beyond the pale
a vibrant shudder
followed by soft hues of grey
winter lingers on the verge.”

Remembering deeply this past week. I am being met with my discerned weakness; times of which I do not savour to reminisce.
This is the Universe letting me know that it will not be waiting any longer for what I perceive as “readiness”.

When given the choice to sink or swim; the clear option should be blatantly obvious.

Face your darkness. I am being faced with mine; bow in recognition to each other, with each other even. Your life’s former incarnations are the predecessor of your current; they are part of what shaped you in to your now. Never forget, never linger; always be learning.
No matter how painful. Nothing is more detrimental than a lesson wasted.

Positivity, or rather the choice to constantly embody only that, can be just as addictive as its paradoxical counterpart.

Darkness (not your conditioning or previous environmentals) want’s to do it’s part in assisting in your healing. It is you; and it’s not evil.
Life cannot be sweet and light all the time. In-fact it begs of you to relinquish it the burden of that facade. We can learn from the tough times— even if they are in the past; they are still prominent in our lives, and often still have wisdom to teach us. Wisdom that aligns with your life today; less so than yesterday- patiently waiting in embryonic suspension until we are most receptive.
This awareness of how your dusk and dawn sides flow is absolutely essential for balance in existence. Not just yours, but your loved ones, your community; your whole damn world.

I am met, with grief, memory and lamentation; but this time around I will not meet them with regret, ignorance or rejection. Circumstance has excavated a time where my vulnerability ran thick; and I for one plan to endure it with curiosity, humility and a desire to learn from my past self; who seems so eager to help lift me from my winter introspection.

This providence is a gift to us; accept it with courage and grace.

“Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.”
― C.G. Jung

Art Credit: