Could you love a Woman?

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Could you love a woman?
2:30 am, lips laden stained with red wine
drunk on prose and sound
dancing between the lines of social contradiction
an introverted observer and yearned to be more
the shadow she casts, she prefers to live in
yet on a stage she’s choosing to cherry pick the best hiding spots
crafting masks out of flesh and song, authentic expression mitigated and diluted from fear of being “too much”

Could you love a Woman?
4:30pm, as the day grows old and grey
her mind is clouded with love, with grief
hidden in the crevasses of the psyche, because
the hurt is too much, she fades and feels it all – person by person by person
this; the seed of a weary impediment, I know you will get tired, of the “I’m sorry’s”
the universal ache to which she has willingly married her self
Is it possible to hold affection to a heart encumbered with fragility, could it be that one could situate themselves so regenerative and inclined?

Could you love a Woman?
10:00am rolling out of bed, a broody vessel
dreams still chaperoning her thoughts, for this she believes she is poison
you wonder, if every kiss she writes out
illustrated intricately with adjectives, is yours
that maybe the mysterious “he” she scribbles to
each evening, could perhaps -even in part- represent you
the speculated “he” – are they even a person at all? But perhaps something much more. An unspoken whisper trickling down fingers tip.

Could you love a Woman?
5:30am still awake, still wondering
flooded with stories and gathered emotion
sleep cut ever short, a curious linguists mental incision
wit sharp, eyes wide, from all the soul she hides inside
slumber remaining still an elusive bitch
teasing heavy eyes with the threat of time’s finite grasp
in the morning perhaps it would have never happened at all, yet something still is changed nevertheless.

Could you love a Woman?
25:00am – the 25th hour, her secret place of refuge
a visceral exhale, in a time of gasping palpitation
kind eyes, a primal and fierce embrace signals yours
teeth and bone, tussling tongues – words are finally released
bound by medley, perplexed by human expectation
in a whirl it is liberated, set free and let to roam, wild as she – as you may well be
this is a time, a sanctuary in a momentless in-between, for a brave and clever one that could love a Woman such as “She”

– AppleCat

reaching_out_for_love_by_kjherstin

Love – if a brim existed I would be filled to it; inside the sempiternal labyrinth that I am – these walls are plastered and insulated with every type of love.
All kinds: kinds that are of pleasure, kinds that are of darkness, kinds that are nurturing, kinds that are individualized, kinds that are universal – and kinds that I have not yet met.

Love is not a game of wits, or an incantation to fill empty time, nor is it a walk in the park – It’s an entity. It is everything that aches, elates, gives solace and inspires.

It aches yes – stretch marks branding the sides of my spirit. Expansion I keep insisting is beyond my means; and yet despite the howls my means have not come to an end.

Perhaps this Human condition is stronger than we are made to believe?

Ludus, Storge, Pragma, Mania, Agape
and
of course; Eros

And if This Love spoke:

“When I enter you I communicate divine love to the smallest of your cells. I blow across your mind like a hot hurricane that eliminates from your language all criticism, aggression, comparison, spite, and the entire scale of pride that separates the spectator from the actor. I insinuate myself into your sexual energy to soften all brutality, and all traces of conquest and possession. I confer to pleasure the sublime delicacy of an exploding angel. When I dissolve in your body, it is to detach you from the dictatorship of mirrors and models, the gaze of others, the pain of comparisons.

I permit you to live your own life and assume your own light and beauty. In the heart where I dwell, I drive out the illusions of the unloved child. Like the bell tower of the cathedral, I spread the penetrating vibrations of love in your blood, stripped of all resentment, all emotional demands that have become a travesty of hatred, and all jealousy, which is only the shadow cast by abandonment. I initiate you into the desire of obtaining nothing that is not also for others.

The island of the ego is transformed into an archipelago. Everything works in concert to increase my joy, even what you interpret as negative circumstances: mourning, difficultly, pettiness, obstacles … I love things and beings as they are with their infinite possibilities of development. At every instant I see them, and I am ready to take part in their blossoming, but also to accept that they remain as they are.”
~ The Way of Tarot

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

Miðgarðr

planet_earth_by_ixrevivalxi-d14eeqd.png

I am devoted to you, my world, my great grandmother, my darling. Your circular curvature, your blood and breath that birthed me.
I am yours: yours to comfort; to cradle within your lushness, your saviour if even for a moment; or a lifetime, your allegorist;
a humble poet at your disposal.

To tell your story; use my tongue, my body, my mind; for they were spawned only of you.
All that I have is my love; and my heart breaks in sacrifice everyday
-in your homage.

I tear my body to pieces; only to be reborn again. Sharpened and ameliorated.
In benediction I bow;
only to you.

mh 2013

art credit: http://fav.me/d14eeqd

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We are made up of stories; yours and mine, theirs, before & after – all bound together at the spine of it all.
And one day -gods willing- two old wolves will recount their days with gentle fondness. Mystery and wonder, faded in to tattered pages – dog eared years washed down in a literary sanctuary

– a tangible offering to a world flood with pixels and bandwidth

with fermented red ones dancing on tongues tip, spiralling artistry and cosmic connection – two old wolves past the precipice of their time; composed yet playful they’ll sit in their refuge – remembering and musing;
marveling
as they always have – and perhaps always will.

What is the Sacred function of the Artist?

the_storyteller__s_cave_by_loulin-d31eksv

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

Depression

solitude_by_cutteroz-d5qzm0b

These battles we fight from within; demons called forth by a cracked culture and fed by -and from- the self; or malignant darkness created by the disillusioned self and fed by the ravenous unquenchable culture. The pendulum swings both ways; whilst we tread water from bellow, swimming in a tumultuous sea; swarming with hungry pharmaceuticals and commercialized dead end solutions.

A helping hand
ear
heart
thought;
a kind regard;purpose and faith in the form of progression and community; this is the prescription that may not cure; but subdue the so called mentally unstable; the bi polar; the differently wired folk….. who aren’t as different as it may seem given the populous.

Becoming is the most painful thing we will ever have to endure; aside from the consequence of the lack there of.

“You are a very real person in a very fake world; this is why you feel so much pain”
– Unknown

My time, my subjective wisdom, my inspiration, my empathy, my joy, my chaos, and most of all my heartbreak: they can be held back but never quelled. Rushing like a mad river of savage humanity once the faulty foundations of societal bullshit crumble
again
and again
and
again.

I do not wish to be alone; yet as we all tumble with, I do not wish to be burdensome.

These wars we fight as singularities; I fight too. Each day I stare in to the nothing place and it threatens to devour me whole. Each day I spit in the face of it’s appetence and whisper softly

“Not today my friend”

How can love and life work together?

spiral_hand_by_Gregorizm

Love should spiral outward not inward; why?
When it is a situation that brings the predominant universe of the the couple to an allotted closed off world of two then it is bound to implode. Leaving not much in it’s wake but confusion, resentment, longing and potentially festering abhoration; BUT! What happens when it propels them outward in to the universe as a whole; cultivating an infectious love in it’s aftermath. Then we can start to see  what I would consider a “heathy” love. Hard work? Certainly; simple? even more so.

Perhaps some would comment that I am not the one to preach on what exactly healthy love is; given my youth, my experience my track record, my whatever. That being said and discarded I have my ideas and I stand by them with great conviction.

The idea that nothing is really unique or scarce if you choose to have that surface level outlook on life; is bleak and without colour. I agree that a certain amount of over hyped disneyesque idealism is detrimental to the process of cultural progression, life and love but a complete lack of it makes one wonder what the point of anything at all is….aside from instinctual procreation and self preservation.

We need magic in life; as well as logic. These two despite their opposing differences when executed with harmony are perfect for each other. They mirror our hearts and minds; binding our souls in to something inspiring, something that gets us out of bed in the morning.

True deep love is meeting eye to eye in a mutual adoration for something much bigger and more integral then their selves; something that will live on far after we are dead and forgotten despite our contributions; and it’s integrity comes from us knowing that.

Working together, as partners or comrades in the story of love; not as protagonists but as devotees, or even more so; as honoured guardians.

Death Without Dying

Death follows me today, not my own but it’s essence.

It lingers in the shattered and lost creatures, uprooted archaic bones, white crosses strone across the black rock laden beach.

All the while I watch the world pass by, ignoring -forcibly, like children with fingers in their ears- We are the victims of a deathless life; burdened by the shock of it’s impending arrival.

Our kindred souls remain unmourned, our jobs as the living unfulfilled. Half moulded we lay stagnant in our infancy.
try as I have I was never granted that that handicap. The world gifts me to death, as I will someday gift death back to it.

As it should be, remembered, grieved and respected.

This hurts.