Loud, Messy and Dangerous

I've only known you for a week.

I hope never to know you, only to discover and be delighted forever at every touch, tap, purr, hum.

How could I have known the magnitude to which life would feel, if not complete, then more interesting, more active, further inspired than it had been previously, when the fancy of wanting a new playthings first crossed my mind. I hope the novelty never ends. If this is how you respond to thorough use, toy, I shall use you thoroughly. And so long as you serve me well, I swear, you will be mine.

I am in love with my iPhone. And frankly, am not prepared to entertain an ounce of shame for it.

It was a customer service rigamaroll the likes of which could only be worthy of revolutionary technology. I feel as though I'd been resisting this flint napping fad for 40,000 years. But it's ok, I've got it now, and I never have to worry about starving, or the glare of my enemies again.

I felt guilty for even wanted one, as has been the case prior to my acquisition of other must-have Apple products in the past. I may have masked this by broadcasting my intention to upgrade my handset loudly and publicly, croud sourcing for reviews, endlessly prosandconsing with the competition. We all know I wasn't fooling anybody.

I'm spooked. Excepting a long-forgotten blankie or Cabbage Patch Doll, I cannot say I've encountered or owned an object that elicits such a strong emotional reaction. I love it. It's the aquarium I could never afford. It's the garden homelessness prevents. It tells me what's in season. It keeps me level, compass pointed, and stops me fumbling in the dark.

I like them here Apples. I hope I never get over it.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Boulevard de Maisonneuve Ouest,Montreal,Canada

Figleaf at Real Adult Sex  gets me thinking...

...and that I can now be suspicious that the currently embroiled Pope was elevated not despite his history of condoning paedophilia but instead because his history was well-understood within the hierarchy, is probably all that needs to be said about how little moral authority remains with them.

The latest round of bad behaviour from the Catholic Church to hit the news stings particularly these days. I can't quite say whether it's Easter, and traditionally, with me, Spring has been A Thing, or whether the self-directed history lesson that is my documentary habit has caused me to pay more attention. As stories and commentary pass a few notions press an awful lot of weight in my brain.  This surprises me, because it hasn't really before.

Watching footage of Oliver O'Grady admit that he'd been abused by priests as a child, I've come to wonder how far back the abuse and the grooming and damning initiation into priesthood could possibly go. I posit; is there some allegory in the finding in the temple that we've been missing all along? My partner raises his eyebrows at me, and says "... Those are some pretty heretical ideas, Sweetpea." and I laugh. When I was 12, I had to look the word "Heresy" up in the dictionary, and the world got a lot bigger.

It crosses my mind that despite my own experience... of the affable gentlemen in collars who would help out with supervision at school, entities, like the teachers, the bus drivers, who tended to the whole flock; the politically aware, whiskey-fond cousin on mission in Sudan since the 80's, the blond-haired dude who played No Rain on his guitar and wanted to be called by his first name... that it might be them. I do not like to see my comforting memories of engaged neighbours sullied. Not them. Not the people I know. Not in my direct experience. But a lot. Out there. Maybe even the Pope himself. And that's when it all unravels for me, and falls apart.

That hurts. Despite the fact that I left the church a very long time ago, that idea is spiritually eviscerating. On some days, I've described myself as a small-c catholic, on others, Pagan will suffice. I like to say Heathen, I think, mostly for impact. I don't know. It doesn't even matter. Because it's not, for me, an issue of what I believe. It's that I understand that The Holy Catholic Church as I understand it, is not only the (ever dwindling) moral authority for many people on earth, it is also the historical and ideological starting point for every subsequent Christian sect, behind history's key events, the inspiration for legal systems the world over, and has existed, grown, adapted parallel to Western Civilization as some monolithic, untouchable, founding force.

And it's all about diddling kids. Always has been. This Thing that speaks for God. God.

So, I decided to make myself a new set of Runes.
I'd made a set out of river stones back in High School, which were rather sweet, and I was well connected to and understanding of. Over time, as I went to University, my connection to them waned, and my practise changed, and I passed them along to a close friend who I felt could use them. She was never one much for Runes, or divination tools of that sort, and passed them along to her sister who I hope eventually put them to good use.

My tarot cards seem to do a lot more for others than they do for me. I've had to chase my tarot-reading friends out my door to get my cards back whenever I've let them use them. They've always been more of a passing fancy for me, and although I feel them in a warm and fuzzy way, when I need serious meditation guidance, relevant answers, prescient advice, Runes have always been the tool for me. I chalk it up to my Nordic temperament, and Celtic ancestry, I suppose. I've always felt about pagan practise, that somewhere far back, there are ancestors that speak to me this way.




A good branch fell from the ash in the back yard of my new house during a windstorm a few weeks ago. I saw it as a sign, and cut it up into discs, which was a very satisfying action, despite finding a bit of rot at it's core, I didn't feel as though the resulting stones would be dead, or rotten, or wretched.

I set out to redden them last night, in blood and wine and olive oil. I was disappointed that I couldn't locate a tool to carve into the soft and spongy wood effectively, but elected to paint them instead of inscribe them, as I had a supply of blood at my disposal, and the time felt right. I didn't want to wait until next month.

Maybe it's my impatience and hastiness in the building of the set. Maybe it's the rot in the wood. Maybe it's the house, and the questionable vibe of the property. But now that I've got them reddened, marked and dry, they give me a very clear "No" feeling. They're not dead. There is certainly something in them. But it's not anything I want to work with, or in my life.  What is this thing? Is it mine? It certainly doesn't feel like it is.

And now what do I do? I've got this set of Runes that are all wrong. I reddened them with my own blood and I am, consequently, disinclined to pass them along to someone else. I can't just throw them into the compost bin, that doesn't seem right either. Bury them by the tree that they came from? Burn them? What to do?

Intro (II of...)

I realize. I have. I do.
That it is both self-sabotaging, and hypocritical to continue along
with my enthusiasm for the blog form, and fail to actually, actively participate.
It's that kind of behaviour that make my awesome pants not fit.

Because, really, if it doesn't get out there, if it doesn't get put down, then it's not real.
Then it's just the inner monologue of one more batshit redhead chick, and, do we really need more of that?

So, I come to points, in fits and spurts, where I start to feel terrible about all the things that I'm not doing, and remember the good advice I always tend to dole out, unsolicited. The only way I can stop feeling like shit about not doing it, is to get down and do it. Because, then, at least, I'll never regret not having done it.

It's a rock-hard conundrum, both in the explaining, and the understanding, to tell you that in these past, adult, grown-up years of developing my... adultness, my thang, my Identity(tm) -- in this time when the world around me, and those who know me have watched and Ooh'd and Aah'd, and supported and encouraged my development into the freaky-deakie, artsy-fartsy, wild 'n' crazy, brave and bold, strappin' kink & buzom lass you see before you I feel like I... I...

Well; didn't.

When I moved to Montreal, I had a set of "good" clothes, the outfits that took me to job interviews, and office gigs, family diners and school presentation. My flare would take me to the club, the raves, the pub. I also had a set of work clothes, the jeans and t-shirts I would wear to class, grocery shopping, the things I wouldn't mind getting paint on. Over time, as I went away to school and concentrated on my trade, my work clothes wore out, and my "good" clothes became my work clothes. I've since worked so hard that I wear out work clothes, and replenish them frequently. I now neither have occasion, or budget for "good" clothes, and I feel grubby all the time.

This is an apt metaphor. I feel like what can be said about the Me of the past 6 years can be said of what's become of my wardrobe.

I've been creatively constipated. I've sat around absorbing terabytes of excellent bloggification and content and thinkng and seething and jumping and dancing and railing for better or worse about it inside my own head, and complaining about how I never get anything done. Enough.

Welcome to me. Well. Ish.

This is one of two, in the Great Exercise in Prolificity(tm). Here, will lie sex, drugs, rock & roll, metal, needles, heathenry, paganism, ink, polyamory, politics, life, love, relationships, naughty, nasty, dirty things, curses, cumsluts and cuckolds, chaos, Christendom and creativity. Sacred, true, perverted, and profane. All the things I'm not supposed to talk about in polite company. The other will appear shortly on the blogroll, among others, and be a bit better suited for a general audience. If you knew me when I was little, you may prefer that one. You've been warned. Some things will be cross-posted.

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...

This is mine.
My place to burn, burn, burn, to wax and wane and love and hate, eat, dance, sing and obliterate.

Some room, where we shall come and go,
Talking of Michaelangelo.

Some space, to take some time.
And indeed there will be time

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

(with thanks to Messrs. Kerouac & Eliot)