Archive for the Intuition & Gut Intelligence Category

Hedwig’s “Origin of Love” (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Fur Reals, Goof & Glamour, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Movies & Movie Stars, Music & Life & Sundays, Psyche & Sexuality, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Romance, Romance & Relationships, Spirituality & Religion, Style & Fashion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, Technicolor Pop, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 22, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Last time I saw you, we had just split in two.
You were looking at me. I was looking at you
.

We are always finding something once lost or newly discovered: some elusive idea, fragment of self, new friend, old friend, tribe member, ally, totem, trickster, co-inventor, muse, fellow hero, soul mate.

This search may be the very point of being born to this planet, of being given this skin.

Life is a lost & found.

We have our third eyes pealed, on the sacred look-out for our fellow mutants. We piece our lives together like legos. We sew the tattered bits of our selves into a kaleidoscopic crazy quilt. We wait to meet the pieces we lost. Our owies are eased as things fall in place. Everyone is engaged in this secret vision quest, everyone one is on alert. We’re hoping to heal the mysterious hurt. 

On the look out, always.

Origin of Love

When the earth was still flat,
And the clouds made of fire,
And mountains stretched up to the sky,
Sometimes higher,
Folks roamed the earth
Like big rolling kegs.
They had two sets of arms.
They had two sets of legs.
They had two faces peering
Out of one giant head
So they could watch all around them
As they talked; while they read.
And they never knew nothing of love.
It was before the origin of love.

The origin of love

And there were three sexes then,
One that looked like two men
Glued up back to back,
Called the children of the sun.
And similar in shape and girth
Were the children of the earth.
They looked like two girls
Rolled up in one.
And the children of the moon
Were like a fork shoved on a spoon.
They were part sun, part earth
Part daughter, part son.

The origin of love

Now the gods grew quite scared
Of our strength and defiance
And Thor said,
“I’m gonna kill them all
With my hammer,
Like I killed the giants.”
And Zeus said, “No,
You better let me
Use my lightening, like scissors,
Like I cut the legs off the whales
And dinosaurs into lizards.”
Then he grabbed up some bolts
And he let out a laugh,
Said, “I’ll split them right down the middle.
Gonna cut them right up in half.”
And then storm clouds gathered above
Into great balls of fire

And then fire shot down
From the sky in bolts
Like shining blades
Of a knife.
And it ripped
Right through the flesh
Of the children of the sun
And the moon
And the earth.
And some Indian god
Sewed the wound up into a hole,
Pulled it round to our belly
To remind us of the price we pay.
And Osiris and the gods of the Nile
Gathered up a big storm
To blow a hurricane,
To scatter us away,
In a flood of wind and rain,
And a sea of tidal waves,
To wash us all away,
And if we don’t behave
They’ll cut us down again
And we’ll be hopping round on one foot
And looking through one eye.

Last time I saw you
We had just split in two.
You were looking at me.
I was looking at you.
You had a way so familiar,
But I could not recognize,
Cause you had blood on your face;
I had blood in my eyes.
But I could swear by your expression
That the pain down in your soul
Was the same as the one down in mine.
That’s the pain,
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart;
We called it love.
So we wrapped our arms around each other,
Trying to shove ourselves back together.
We were making love,
Making love.
It was a cold dark evening,
Such a long time ago,
When by the mighty hand of Jove,
It was the sad story
How we became
Lonely two-legged creatures,
It’s the story of
The origin of love.
That’s the origin of love.

I first saw Hedwig & The Angry Inch on stage — at The Shim Sham Club in New Orleans — and it was absolutely, indisputably magical.

Even the Robot loved it and he mostly loathes musicals.

We were so impressed by that Hedwig-Live experience that we were skeptical of the film. At first. But fear not, the movie managed to keep the magic intact.

“Sometimes grace and hope come in surprising packages. The title character of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, a would-be glam-rock star from East Germany, undergoes a botched gender-change operation in order to escape from the Soviet bloc, only to watch the Berlin Wall come down on TV after being abandoned in a trailer park in middle America.  Writer-director-star John Cameron Mitchell packs an astonishing mix of sadness, yearning, humor, and kick-ass songs with a little Platonic philosophy tucked inside for good measure. A visually dazzling gem of a movie.” (Bret Fetzer)

If you get the chance to see a stage version, jump at it. Even if it’s put on by 6 year olds. Especially if it’s performed by 6 year olds!

If you haven’t seen the film, well, you really should schedule some inspirational “me” time.

Mix up some cocktails. Rat your best wig. It’s high time for Hedwig. 

Have fun!

The film Hedwig & The Angry Inch, with John Cameron Mitchell (writer, director & star) is  available on amazon. So is the soundtrack.

Authors note: This is not the real punk rock gospel for this week. It’s a repost meant to reward you for your support. It’s merely meant to tide you over until I can post today’s intended PRG, which mysteriously disappeared from the screen at 4:28 am. I was writing the PRG (more of a love letter really) when we went off line. While waiting to get back online, I tweaked the sucker for 2 hours and ended up with a fabu finished product. Which I was liable to lose if I couldn’t get back onto wordpress. (I know! I know! I need no lecture. I get it. I waz the stupidz. They don’t call me the Lusty Luddite for nothin’!) Craving wi-fi, I crept out into the dark sreets — a vamp-cyber gently carrying an open computer to the parking lot of a shuttered coffee shop. Hooray! Houston, we have contact. I uploaded an image — something I’ve done countless times — and every bit of text just escaped into the ether. WTF?? Is it due to wordpress’ brand spankin’ new image/gallery widgetty whatucallits? What the hell happened??? No sign of it in revisions either, only an early draft. It’s just gone. Oh, I’m bummed. And stunned. Anyway, I’m gonna go back to the key board! But it will now have to wait until Monday. In the meantime, let Hedwig heal your irk (and mine) with her spiritual, romantic fairytale. *Originally posted on October 12, 2008*

Last time I saw you, we had just split in two.
You were looking at me. I was looking at you.”

*Painting By Genevieve Crotz.*

via Cream Scene Carnival

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“If You Have Ghosts…” repost (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Tricksters, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Mythos, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, SPOOKY KABUKI, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 9, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Well, lovers, the week started out nice enough what with spoiling the RobotBoy for his August 3 birthday and then a new little niece was born which was all kinds of exciting but then I made a fateful decision and let a 2 year old — my niecy, Thing 2 — handfeed me spaghetti. My friend Vince said, “Ah, you’ll do anything for a baby” and he’s too right. Pieces of parmesan cheese or stray bits of noodles fell from her mouth, onto her sauce-stained shirt, and when she gathered up this germy detritus with her chubby grubby fingers and aeroplaned it towards my mouth, I opened up. Yikes! I must be crazy! It’s a biological evolutionary power these babies have over us grown-ups. We’ll set aside our own good sense just to see ’em grin. Anyhoo. No sense crying over spilled spag. Now I am laid up and only barely human with a wicked case of strep throat. I’m missing Cyndi Lauper in a New Orleans club tonight and still unable to wrap my feeble mind around my half-done draft for this week’s punk-rock gospel. The Robot was gonna fill in for me but then he got sick too so I have decided to repost an oldie but goodie from way back when. (originally posted on the 28th of October, 2008.) Newcomers, enjoy! I’ll make it up to those of you who have read this one already. I’d give you big old smooches but I love y’all too much for that, cause I’m “naasty” as my niece would say and who wants my naaaaasty kisses anyway? Be well and beware of germs!

***********************************************

“If you have ghosts, then you have everything…. You can say anything that you want and you can do everything that you want… one never does that… In the night, I am real. …I don’t want my fangs too long…. The moon to the left is a part of my thoughts and a part of me is me.”

These strange words, a mad shaman’s chant out of the speakers — volume LOUD — and into my atomic self… “eye” at the essence/energy level.

This was a hymn from the church I’d been waiting for. This was reckoning & rock n’ roll at once.

This was the theme to the soundtrack of my life. NOT one of those songs that I came to love. I loved it on first listen — in my bones, in my molecules, in the depths of my mind. If you have ghosts, you have everything. I had been waiting all of my days and nights to hear that song. I still shudder at every listen. It is my anthem. It is the mantra which saves me, its odd sequence of words spirit me off to my truest place. Where it is all okay. Not just okay but gorgeously fortunate.

Roky, my coyote in the dark piney woods. He howls. Pine cones float in the moonlight as organic odes to Tanuki and Kitsune. The coyote says “This was the life you wanted. How lucky you are to be haunted.”

If you have ghosts, then you have everything.

These spirits that clamour, who are they? Why are they here? What do they expect? They leave omens everywhere, valentines in the path of days. Instructional pamphlets? They are here because they adore you. You are who? The “universe’s darling”???  Who told you that? You have won their gaurded hearts. The telephone rings (Dad called it the “cosmic phone”) and the voice on the line is the voice you were longing for. The scarab in Jung’s window will knock with more frequency should he see that you too have twitching antennae.

Ah, to talk about what this song means to me is almost impossible! When the effect it had was to scatter me like seed while condensing. How can it feel this way?

It reminds me of Alice with the Drink Me bottles and the Eat Me cakes. I am ENORMOUS! Crowding, pressing, filling up. I am tiny. A nanotech hologram of all that I am, a portrait of Dolly Parton etched on a grain of basmati. Practically invisible, wholly infinite.

I am simply being forthright when I say that this song means the WORLD to me. Is there anything more in the world than this?

If you have ghosts, you have everything.

 

I have ghosts. More and more everyday. I feel their presense at the tips of my shoulders. I dream of complex impossible machinery and blame them. They are always watching, wondering. What now brown cow?

Some people point to their scars and say, “See! I have lived! I took the leap!”

Others point to frown furrows. “I have suffered. My heart has broken in a million places.”

Or to smile lines. “I have grinned. I have beamed. I have known joy, I have brought joy.”

I point to ghosts. They are the proof of a life lived on the curled up smoky edges of existence like burnt paper. They are testament to …. willingness? …. courage? … awe? … curiosity? … wonder?

 

If you have ghosts, then you have….

  • an open mind like a a wind-whipped hallway. Where is the wind coming from? It just comes.
  • a hungry heart. Skulking in the dark, turning over every rock, nibbling velvet moss, barky twigs, souls unlike your own, souls akin, a lover’s skin, a friend’s soft spot.
  • made allys amongst the gods, the totems, the sky, the dirt. Unlikely connections bind you to the hearts of others forever. Your allys fight for you with fervor and loyalty. They defend you against haters. When you are injured, they gather you up in cloudy limbs and carry you to a bed of soft thistle.
  • loved, you have loved to love, and that they are loved is no secret to those you love. You have grabbed their cheeks or pounced on their goodness. You have pointed out their attributes and celebrated their quirks and their quarks. Even their molecules feel handsome. You don’t withhold kindness. You take liberties with love. You lay it on thick.
  • been loved, always, and with such enthusiasm! They love you fully and fiercely. Even death cannot change the love they feel for you. It is more than emotion, it is a morphic field. It all gathers there, all the love that you’ve ever been given. All the compliments filed away, all the talismans built from origami & feathers, all the tokens of affection. And so many keys to so many hearts on a ring that clangs in your pocket. Lucky lucky lucky to be so loved.
  • you have found members of your tribe, recognized them, summoned them, exalted them, comforted them. SHOOK THEM.
  • not just people loved and lost but selves, moments, ideas. Pets. So many layers of being like tissue paper glued over glass. Illness, experience, dreams, injury, heartbreak, love, longing, learning. All the things that contribute to the complexity of your being.
  • had an unexplainable unduplicated drug like any other … wine, hallucinogens, tobacco, soda pop, sex… none of it compares to the ephemeral solace of the spirits that carry you, ferry you on a raft of peach skins, banana peels, orange rinds. You float on the current of time, space, electricity, wonderment. You crack the pod and lick the shell. The doorway swells with feathery light. You swallow the bulb and become a bulb. Incandescent.
  • no need for long fangs. No need to take, rape, steal, beg. If it’s not willing, you don’t need it. Hate is not welcome in your heart.
  • a glow-white lightning bolt of SPOOKY KABUKI, theatre of synchronicity, dance of the Mindellian demon. When the audience laughs, just bow. Whether they are laughing at you or with you, it doesn’t really matter. When you stutter or miss your cue,  you are Pee Wee Herman who meant to crash his bike into a rose bush. They will appreciate how you stop to smell the roses. Should you mangle a line just tie your mustache into a bow like your mouth is a gift to the world.
  • your toe in the water while the wave has its toe in you.
  • EVERYTHING.
 
IF YOU HAVE GHOSTS
 
If you have ghosts you have everything
If you have ghosts you have everything
if you can say anything you want
then you can do anything you want
If you have ghosts then you have everything

one never does that
one never does that
if you call it suprise there it is
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part me is me
one never does that  In the night I am real
in the night I am real
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a pert of me is me
forever is the wind is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
in the night I am realI don’t want my fangs too long
I don’t want my fangs too long
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
forever is the wind to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
I don’t want my fangs too long
if you have ghosts, then you have everything.

*************************************** 

The three paintings (above) are by the mind-boggling Miss Van who has captured my soul as well as my skin. Hopefully her brilliant renderings can help to translate my urgent over-wrought gobbledygook. When you love something the way I love this fucking phantom-tastic Roky Erickson song, your brain turns into a dollop of whipped cream. In the struggle to grab the meaning from its swirling vortex of importance, the writer looks like a hack and a zealot.

So please, please, forgive my words, excuse my raving mythos.

Just look at these masterpieces by Miss Van. 

Just LISTEN to Roky, my coyote guide, our city-shaman, our genius mad man who was spirited home to us at last. 

What God is to Goof, amen is to Aha!

God=Goof.

Amen=Aha!

Goof+Aha= if you have ghosts, you have everything.

Fur reals, y’all, not funny math. 

Thank you for tuning in/turning on to this special SPOOKY KABUKI edition of the Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel. 

AHA!
  

I’m Back, Bitches!

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , on May 27, 2010 by alphabetfiend

So…. I’d all but abandoned this blog ages ago. Hadn’t even peeked at my dash in over a year. I was so skeeved by the no man’s land that awaited — so afraid of seeing that intimidating “blog stats” graph all flat-lined and deflated — that I might have avoided it forever.

But then I began to miss my little blog. I enjoyed being the “editor” of my own little mytho-spiritual kinkster sex-fiend pop culture cache.  I decided to start a new blog (one not associated with my name, some little anonymous place where I could wait like a spider in this sticky “web”.) So I came tip-toeing back to wordpress… but before I could open a new account, I was drawn back to the old Cream Scene Carnival… a last kiss perhaps? I wistfully clicked on “blog stats” recalling how my heart would thrill to see that people were reading my goofy media mash-up. In the 6 weeks I was doing the blog I’d had tons of fun and had gotten between 12-14,000 views but the best part of the blog (and the reason I jumped ship) is because I’d met a magical muse-mate (platonic, people! Nothing lurid!) who cajoled me into starting a new novel.

After having been away from Cream Scene for a few months I assumed I’d lost all my readers and I felt like a very bad ringleader. I didn’t want to see this carnival cum ghost town. I didn’t want to be mowed down by a rogue tumbleweed. I figured it’d be better to start anew rather than fix up an abandoned house (You know the kind.  Teenagers have dry-humped on the buckled floorboards after spray-painting pentacles and BMW insignias on the sagging walls.) I wasn’t afraid of the ghosts so much as I was one. I was creeped out by my own ghostiness.

Thank you for supporting me, loyal subjects & fellow royalty. Hee hee.

I clicked on “blog stats” just for old-timey kicks and had to blink hard when I saw that Cream Scene Carnival had amassed 50,000 views in my absence. Oh my. It was 4 in the am and I mentally pinched myself. I got my car keys and went out for a drive, turning to cigarettes and the radio for a little “Holy shit!” solace. My mind reeled with surprise, mainly because starting that spankin’ new anonomo blog now seemed like a pretty dumb move. Even dumber than dumping CSC to begin with.

“But I was gonna be all fresh and perty and anonymous” whined one inner voice.

 Another voice snarled,”What an ingrate! You love Cream Scene Carnival! They love Cream Scene Carnival.”

A third voice broke in, ” Well, whatever. Good luck with your new blog: Whiny Wench Shares Piks of Dogs Wearing Wigs while Bemoaning the Cruel World.  That sounds like a real hoot and I’m sure you’ll get mad hits.”

Said voice #2, with a rallying cry,” Oh, c’mon, Cunt-licious! Your Kinksters need you! Someone has to turn Peggy hill into a porn star. If not you, who?”

Ultimately, I feel like those 50,000 hits are a gift that can’t be returned and a message that can’t be ignored. Soooooo… if you’ll take me, I’d like to come back. I’d like to be yer cunt-licious Carnie Queen again. Say you’ll have me. Say you can forgive me for wandering off.

I’m a bit worse for the wear. It hasn’t been an easy year. I had my heart smashed to smithereens by someone I trusted (not the RobotBoy! Cause he’s just peachy.) Nothing lurid. Just basic “people suck” saddness. I’m picking up the scattered shards. I’m trying to get to the point where people sucking doesn’t leave me (shell) shocked. So excuse me if I post some cry baby boo-hoo here and there. For my part, I swear that I’ll write some yummy new stuff:  art & culture… sex & gossip… poetry & freakdom… blow jobs & cream pies.

I bet you wish this was a blowjob instead...

Thank you so much my dear, sweet kinksters. Thank you for mowing the lawn and for tossing the moldy newspapers that piled up on the stoop. Thank you for keeping my seat warm. Thank you for reading. Would you prefer a soft appreciative buss on the forehead or a nice stinging spanking that’s sure to leave a red mark in the shape of my freakishly tiny hand? Readers choice.

If You Have Ghosts, You Have Everything (Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Goof & Glamour, I Heart Tricksters, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Mythos, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 26, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“If you have ghosts, then you have everything…. You can say anything that you want and you can do everything that you want… one never does that… In the night, I am real. …I don’t want my fangs too long…. The moon to the left is a part of my thoughts and a part of me is me.”

These strange words, a mad shaman’s chant out of the speakers — volume LOUD — and into my atomic self… “eye” at the essence/energy level. This was a hymn from the church I’d been waiting for. This was reckoning & rock n’ roll at once. This was the theme to the soundtrack of my life. NOT one of those songs that I came to love. I loved it on first listen — in my bones, in my molecules, in the depths of my mind. If you have ghosts, you have everything. I had been waiting all of my days and nights to hear that song. I still shudder at every listen. It is my anthem. It is the mantra which saves me, its odd sequence of words spirit me off to my truest place. Where it is all okay. Not just okay but gorgeously fortunate.

Roky, my coyote in the dark piney woods. He howls. Pine cones float in the moonlight as organic odes to Tanuki and Kitsune. The coyote says “This was the life you wanted. How lucky you are to be haunted.”

If you have ghosts, then you have everything.

These spirits that clamour, who are they? Why are they here? What do they expect? They leave omens everywhere, valentines in the path of days. Instructional pamphlets? They are here because they adore you. You are who? The “universe’s darling”???  Who told you that? You have won their gaurded hearts. The telephone rings (Dad called it the “cosmic phone”) and the voice on the line is the voice you were longing for. The scarab in Jung’s window will knock with more frequency should he see that you too have twitching antennae. Ah, to talk about what this song means to me is almost impossible! When the effect it had was to scatter me like seed while condensing. How can it feel this way? It reminds me of Alice with the Drink Me bottles and the Eat Me cakes. I am ENORMOUS! Crowding, pressing, filling up. I am tiny. A nanotech hologram of all that I am, a portrait of Dolly Parton etched on a grain of basmati. Practically invisible, wholly infinite.

I am simply being forthright when I say that this song means the WORLD to me. Is there anything more in the world than this?

If you have ghosts, you have everything.

I have ghosts. More and more everyday. I feel their presense at the tips of my shoulders. I dream of complex impossible machinery and blame them. They are always watching, wondering. What now brown cow?

Some people point to their scars and say, “See! I have lived! I took the leap!”

Others point to frown furrows. “I have suffered. My heart has broken in a million places.”

Then to smile lines. “I have grinned. I have beamed. I have known joy, I have brought joy.”

I point to ghosts. They are the proof of a life lived on the curled up smoky edges of existence like burnt paper. They are testament to …. willingness? …. courage? … awe? … curiosity? … wonder?

If you have ghosts, then you have….

  • an open mind like a a wind-whipped hallway. Where is the wind coming from? It just comes.
  • a hungry heart. Skulking in the dark, turning over every rock, nibbling velvet moss, barky twigs, souls unlike your own, souls akin, a lover’s skin, a friend’s soft spot.
  • made allys amongst the gods, the totems, the sky, the dirt. Unlikely connections bind you to the hearts of others forever. Your allys fight for you with fervor and loyalty. They defend you against haters. When you are injured, they gather you up in cloudy limbs and carry you to a bed of soft thistle.
  • loved, you have loved to love, and that they are loved is no secret to those you love. You have grabbed their cheeks or pounced on their goodness. You have pointed out their attributes and celebrated their quirks and their quarks. Even their molecules feel handsome. You don’t withhold kindness. You take liberties with love. You lay it on thick.
  • been loved, always, and with such enthusiasm! They love you fully and fiercely. Even death cannot change the love they feel for you. It is more than emotion, it is a morphic field. It all gathers there, all the love that you’ve ever been given. All the compliments filed away, all the talismans built from origami & feathers, all the tokens of affection. And so many keys to so many hearts on a ring that clangs in your pocket. Lucky lucky lucky to be so loved.
  • you have found members of your tribe, recognized them, summoned them, exalted them, comforted them. SHOOK THEM.
  • not just people loved and lost but selves, moments, ideas. Pets. So many layers of being like tissue paper glued over glass. Illness, experience, dreams, injury, heartbreak, love, longing, learning. All the things that contribute to the complexity of your being.
  • had an unexplainable unduplicated drug like any other … wine, hallucinogens, tobacco, soda pop, sex… none of it compares to the ephemeral solace of the spirits that carry you, ferry you on a raft of peach skins, banana peels, orange rinds. You float on the current of time, space, electricity, wonderment. You crack the pod and lick the shell. The doorway swells with feathery light. You swallow the bulb and become a bulb. Incandescent.
  • no need for long fangs. No need to take, rape, steal, beg. If it’s not willing, you don’t need it. Hate is not welcome in your heart.
  • a glow-white lightning bolt of SPOOKY KABUKI, theatre of synchronicity, dance of the Mindellian demon. When the audience laughs, just bow. Whether they are laughing at you or with you, it doesn’t really matter. When you stutter or miss your cue,  you are Pee Wee Herman who meant to crash his bike into a rose bush. They will appreciate how you stop to smell the roses. Should you mangle a line just tie your mustache into a bow like your mouth is a gift to the world.
  • your toe in the water while the wave has its toe in you.
  • EVERYTHING.

This beauty is my next tattoo, but rather than dearlings the spirits will be foxes.

 
These three pieces are by the mind-boggling Miss Van who has captured my soul as well as my skin. Hopefully her brilliant renderings can help to translate my urgent over-wrought gobbledygook. When you love something the way I love this fucking phantom-tastic Roky Erickson song, your brain turns into a dollop of whipped cream. In the struggle to grab the meaning from its swirling vortex of importance, the writer looks like a hack and a zealot. So please, please, forgive my words, excuse my raving mythos. Just look at these masterpieces by Miss Van. Just LISTEN to Roky, my coyote guide, our city-shaman, our genius mad man who was spirited home to us at last.
 
What God is to Goof, amen is to Aha! God=Goof. Amen=Aha! Goof+Aha= if you have ghosts, you have everything. Fur reals, y’all.
 
Thank you for tuning in/turning on to this special SPOOKY KABUKI edition of the Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel Blog.
 
AHA!
 
 
IF YOU HAVE GHOSTS
 
If you have ghosts you have everything
If you have ghosts you have everything
if you can say anything you want
then you can do anything you want
If you have ghosts then you have everything

one never does that
one never does that
if you call it suprise there it is
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part me is me
one never does that

In the night I am real
in the night I am real
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a pert of me is me
forever is the wind is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
in the night I am real

I don’t want my fangs too long
I don’t want my fangs too long
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
forever is the wind to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
I don’t want my fangs too long
if you have ghosts, then you have everything.

 

A Ghost (in the machine) Story

Posted in Art & Culture, Books & Writing, I Heart Tricksters, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Mythos, Psyche & Sexuality, Romance, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 25, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“Sarah Wolfe is about to fall backwards. The thick walls that seperate the past from the present are crumbling, but she doesn’t know it yet.”– Nick Bantock

While plotting out a properly eerie week of SPOOKY KABUKI, it was always my intention to follow up the steampunk post with a GHOST (in the machine) STORY. But I’m all the hungrier for The Venetian’s Wife  after a recent jolt of Indian myth in the movie “Sita Sings the Blues.”  The Venetian’s Wife is one of many disturbingly beautiful books by Nick Bantock. Bantock specializes in mythic image-laden visions, crossed connections and mysterious correspondence. Bantock is the bastard child of the trickster god Eshu who has haunted the machines of man for as long as we’ve been trying to communicate through wires.

The Venetian’s Wife is about communication, connection, art and Hindu spirituality. It’s about the past & the present. It’s about a spiritual and sexual awakening. It’s a lush soulful story that makes your cells hum. It’s a romance, a travelogue, a voyeuristic peek into the communications between the living and the dead. But mostly it’s a ghost story.

Ghost is a very broad term and although I have met no others of my ilk, I am assuming that is what I am.

This is no joke. I am deadly serious. After I was struck down by lightning back in 1469, I found myself drifting aimlessly without a real comprehension of time. I was neither in nor out of the physical world; I had no memory, only a vague consciousness that took succor from any source of electricity I came across. One day I encountered a new conductor and became hypnotized by the vibrating electrical pulses. I tried to get closer to the charge — I pressed myself toward the heart of the glow, and, without warning, I became saturated with light. My memory returned.

This beauty is a feast for that third eye and an oddly perfect October read. Published in 1996, The Venetian’s Wife is worth a (re)visitation. Pull it down from the shelf and blow the dust off the spine. Borrow it from the library. Hunt it down at Amazon. Enjoy!

Bantock is a beasty of mystery.
Bantock is a beasty of mystery.

Check back all week for more SPOOKY KABUKI. There’s more tricks and more treats to come.

Lusty Luddite Looking to Seduce Lonely Steam Punk

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Art & Culture, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Steampunk, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Mythos, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum, SPOOKY KABUKI with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on October 25, 2008 by alphabetfiend

I had a dream, years ago, that I’ve never been able to shake. It was one of those dreams where you wake up to profound disappointment because you don’t actually have the thing you had in your dream — the perfect pair of elf-cobbled gypsy-toe boots or dead Dad not dead. It was one of those mornings and I hung my head. I’d gotten lost in a department store of fairy tale oddities and was winding through a maze of small majicks, when the “electronics” section beckoned. (An only in dreams rarity. I’m a low-tech Luddite. I still haven’t succumbed to a cell phone.) The mythic machine that called my name was something awesome strange. A “computer” with claw-feet and typewriter keys, a disc of abalone shell in lieu of a mouse pad. I traced my finger over the smooth oceany spot and felt the pulse of the machine. It wanted me as much as I wanted it. It craved stories and hungered for books. I was just the girl it was looking for.

I’d only heard the term steampunk used when referring to a certain segment of the sci-fi genre so I had no idea that such a thing existed outside of my own brain.

So imagine my shock when I opened a magazine sometime later to see my DREAM MACHINE was actually a real world possibility. Not only do other freaks fancy the same idea, but they are actually building it… coaxing a modern entity into the musty pulp novel past.

The literary fantasist in me wants to sit down everyday to an antique Corona & a pack of cigarettes. But the real-life writer must save, copy, cut & breathe. I have a half-dozen vintage typewriters. When I need to think slowly and poetically, I’ll sit down to play. But I rely on my apple for all serious writing in a world of standard-format submissions, deadlines, internet access, and 16 hour work sessions. What the computer provides in practicality overshadows the clickety-clack wordsmith fantasy.

Now, thanks to an underground steampunk movement, I may actually get to have the best of both worlds. Someday.

First I must get rich. Either that or somehow get a steampunk geek to fall in love with me. How hard can that be? Where do steam punks hang out? I’ll show up there in my floor-length gown (pin-tucked puff shoulders, high-neck, long-sleeved) in luxe velvet the shade of sunny tobacco. 1930’s peep-toe pumps with brass buckles and t-straps. I’ll tug my treasured leather aviator cap & vintage goggles snug over my ringlets. Dab some MAC “Film Noir” lipstick that goes on like a black & white movie. Right? What steam punk could resist? Maybe he’d see the stories beneath my ribs and shudder to think what I could do with such a keyboard.

I so so need that clever keyboard. But alas. I can’t even afford a voyage to the big city to attend “The Grand Chrono’nauts Tea” in my beloved NY. Too bad. What better place to meet a lonely punk looking to get steamy with a longful Luddite?

What about you? Can you make it? If so, go! Fondle the clangy keys for me. Don’t be shy. Take liberties. 

Until that day when I can have a steampunk laptop and a steampunk motorcycle, I’m gonna tide myself over with this limited edition steampunk fez from fez-o-rama. I’ll put on my thinking cap while conjuring the crafty plot whereby I seduce my very own mad scientist geek boy. Except I already have a RobotBoy. Damn. This steampunk dilemma is a sticky wicket. It’s no wonder I need a thinking cap!

I hope you have enjoyed this act of SPOOKY KABUKI — stay tuned for more odd twists of reality.

AUTHORS NOTE: If you are interested in steampunk be sure to hit that tag b/c I’m always finding new and amazing bits of steampunkery whether motorcycles, clothes/jewelry, dreamy aesthetics or more computers — namely one that is part computer part church. Crazy beauty!

Who is Eshu?

Posted in I Heart Tricksters, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Mythos, Spirituality & Religion, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 21, 2008 by alphabetfiend
“You who translate yesterday’s words into novel utterances, do not undo me.”– a Yoruba prayer to Eshu

 

 

 He is not Ecru. He was, once, for a while there — for me. But that is another story that Eshu has tricked me into telling. I hate to hafta do it but I will. But first a few facts about Eshu — the trickster God owns the crossroads, where he guides or puzzles travelers.The messenger between the humans and gods, Eshu is behind communication or miscommunication. He is fortune and misfortune, often both at once. You didn’t get what you wanted but you should thank Eshu for saving you from yourself. He is a god of language and words, which is why the story I’m about to tell is so perfectly funny. While ripe with meaning, the next few sentences are not metaphorical which is hard to believe but those in the know will see that I’m being quite literal. 

 

 

 

 

Not too long ago I set up shop right in the middle of a 5-road intersection. I was hawking fairytale frocks and bloomers sewn of the finest story-threads. I met a young fag-ling who needed hag-ling. I had tricksters on the brain and he had the password. Or I thought he did but the tricksters on my brain were playing tricks as usual. Eshu. When he presented me with this word, I gave him a key. Again, lit

 

Also dollars, duds & other dandy-makings, friendship, job, his first ever birthday cake, a place to live. He brought a statue of Eshu. We blew smoke in Eshu’s face so that he might also partake. I was giddy over meeting someone who “shared” my odd interests and thought surely the tricksters’ fingerprints were all over our meeting. They were. I should’ve known! I l once listened in as the RobotBoy regaled our guest with tales of Coney Island and was shocked when, the next day, he announced a coney-themed project which I knew RB was already planning. I pointed that out and he claimed to have had that idea “for forever.”  But I had seen the beauty of him taking it in for the first time. A trickster loves new information too much to pretend he knows everything. He also asked to use a scrap of baroque wallpaper to cover his “spell book” which he carried everywhere with him. One day I went to slip a check into the pages of the book and saw that it was a regular published book, not a blank book filled with his own handwriting as I’d assumed. I had to roll my eyes. How obnoxious do you have to be to carry around a book of spells everywhere you go, cover it in fancy paper, and they’re not even your spells which you’ve honed through trial and error over a bubbling cauldron? Finally we met a girl who quickly took up my role as hag which was a relief. She made fun of the Eshu “hoodoo” saying “When he starts talking about all that, my eyes glaze and I just go somewhere else for a while.” It hit me — this person was the kind of person who would rather know a little about something than a lot and he would prefer to hang out with people who know even less than him, so that when he espouses on his supposed passion they will not challenge him or even add to his knowledge in any shape or form. He would rather blither on while someone blithely rolls their eyes. I pulled away. I continued to give money, food, clothes, physical things that were needed, but I stopped putting any energy out. I kept him on as employee but I was just a boss, nothing more. Then I learned via customers that he’d been stealing. I lost fox-face. A huckster had uttered the name of a trickster and I fell for it. Tricksters are not hucksters and they don’t appreciate the association. I’d been more fool than fox.

When the huckster was gone, I missed Eshu. I hated that he got to take Eshu with him. He was shit talking me to Eshu, no doubt.

So I changed Eshu’s name. I should’ve chosen Simbi or Exu, other forms of Eshu, but bitchily went with something “unknowable” to the huckster. Then he’d be the one “on the outs” with Eshu. I chose “Ecru” which has two of the same letters and similar sound but is a type of fabric as well as a color. As a tailor, the huckster would have the unknowable name right in front of his face. Hee hee. Except the joke was on me. Silly Trix-ster, it always is. I “tricked” myself so thoroughly over two years that when I discussed Eshu in a series of recent comments I called him “Ecru” which is fine for a bitter brain game in the privacy of my own mind but otherwise mortifying. I actually blushed (a very rare seldom seen occurrence, like a UFO) I flopped on my bed like a fish. The RobotBoy howled with laughter. I said, “It’s like instead of Jesus, I said Jeevus.” Which I would do without hesitation, Goof knows!  I had to grin. That kind of embarrassing horror would never happen if Jeevus were my man instead of Eshu. Jeevus wouldn’t delight in my hot red cheeks and wilting IQ. But Eshu? Oh, he loved it. He roared, stomped, pointed. He wiggled his fingers at the other dieties who all lined up to laugh at me. That’s what you get when you change a god’s name so you can keep him to yourself. Even though, as a trickster, Eshu thought it was a clever plan and didn’t mind the alias. Eshu adores me but if given the chance, he’ll laugh mercilessly. I give him endless chances which is why he adores me.

This story is classic Eshu, as discussed on an African mythology site.  

Particularly keen on opportunity, communication and Instant Messaging, Eshu can be a powerful ally. But he’s also a God with a sense of humor and will often throw a spanner in the works to keep life interesting. This could explain why we don’t always get what we want. Be careful — this God of crossroads is also a master of cross-purposes. 

Eshu’s role in communication was examined in a article published in Gnosis, spring 1991,

While he embodies many obvious trickster elements — deceit, humor, lawlessness, sexuality — Eshu-Elegbara is also the god of communication and spiritual language. He is the gatekeeper between the realms of man and gods, the tangled lines of force that make up the cosmic interface. … He’s always traversing that region of babble, and embodies the hope and the peril of a more open channel: hope, because he allows us to speak with the gods and for them to speak with us; and peril, because he tends to play tricks with the information he has, to keep us perpetually aware that he oversees the network of exchange. His nickname is Aflakete, which means “I have tricked you.”

Moving along the seam between two different worldviews, he confuses communication, reveals the ambiguity of knowledge, and plays with perspective.

So Eshu is a master of exchange, or crossed purposes, of crossed speech. This is why his shrines are found both at crossroads and at the market, for he is master of such networks of desire. For example, he uses his magician’s knowledge to make serpents that bite people on the way to the market, and then sells them the cure.

The creator of plots, the player of many instruments, the trickster Legba always risks unleashing a Pandora’s box of powers. But it is only in risking such chaos that novelty is continually reborn, and the community is imagined to interact dynamically, rather than by some rigid structure. The potential for dynamic chaos is the metaphysical heart of the Trickster.

Right now I am particularly interested in Eshu’s part in communication as has to do with computers. The computer was where I made my Eshu faux pas and the “web” was where I met the person who was witness to it, though any and all are — through the computer. If it weren’t for the impulsive speed of computer conversation, I probably would’ve caught my mistake. Maybe. I’m shocked I made it at all so it’s hard to say. The region of babble, the open channel, the network of exchange. Hmm. Well, it’s late and I’m exhausted, the lines are tangled and it’s wonderful. What’s so funny about this is the fellow blogger, witness to my idiocy, whose been meeting Eshu head to head, challenged me to expose more in my blog and I was all “Nah, been there, done that, doing something else for now” and look, here I am, telling the last damn story I’d EVER choose to tell about myself. Second to last. And isn’t that just exactly the way it would play out?

Sweet Jeevus!
 

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