Archive for trickster foxes

Sexy Mermaid Vay-Cay Get-a-Way (for Alice)

Posted in Art & Culture, Art Lover, Buxom Goo Goo, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Mermaids, Mythos with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 14, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Alice has been fantasizing about “a luxurious, decadent, and totally out of reach beach rental in Florida, especially for Mermaids, I kid you not.”

“Mermaid Castle” is the oldest beach house in Crescent Beach, Florida. The house, once a small grove of cypress, sleeps 12 and is available for holiday rentals.

“Mermaid Castle” features a tiki hut, a jacuzzi and a swimming pool perfect for re-infusing our scaly tails with much needed moisture. Also — so we don’t get too homesick for Atlantis, which is such a sorrowful “itis,” just ask Alice — there are “breathtaking ocean views.”

It’s no wonder Alice is inspired to play hostess (with the mostess.) 

“What a tea party I would throw. Of course, I would invite the Mad Hatter, Foxy Trickster, and the illusive brown rabbit with the black spots.”

Did you catch that, sailors?

I’ve been given a sought-after invite to Alice’s tea party. That’s me, Foxy Trickster!

I just can’t wait to meet the Hatter. I hear he’s very, how do they say? Eccentric. Those are my people, y’know. The Eccentrics. Jonathan Zap calls us mutants, I call us mermaids. Some people say weirdos to which I say “Woo-hoo!”

Oh what a tea-party that would be!

There on Crescent Beach, sipping maitais outta porcelain teacups, stuck haphazardly with technicolor paper umbrellas. We’d munch on a rainbow array of Parisian macaroons shaped like swirly seashells. We’d play poker with oceanic ante: tiny starfish & coin-sized turtles with orange sherbet bellies. We’d nap in poolside hammocks as the pages (and our fins) flapped in the salty breeze.

Around midnight, we’d don sequin mini-dresses & fishnet stockings. We’d order dark rum ON THE ROCKS  and lure shy seaman, who would crash into us with the velocity of a tsunami.

Of course they’d be long gone come morning (er, some might call it “afternoon.”) We’d awake satisfied, dreamy-eyed and mop-headed. We’d gossip about the evening’s exploits as we lolled beneath paper parasols (like in our teacups, only big.)We’d flop our tails in the sunshine, trading sexy tips & naughty details.

“Like what?” you wonder, with your drawers a-stir.

Well….a mermaid never kisses & tells (outside of a tea party) but let’s just say that we use what our mer-mama’s gave us.

MMMmmm. Mermmmermermermermmm. Mmm.

Get it, knucklehead?

Mermaids are experts at fellatio!

(Or cunnilingus, for those of us who prefer femmes.)

>Wink wink < 

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

The painting “Fishnets” is by the whimsical & wonderful Nancy Farmer. Prints are available. If you have some time, lotsa time, swim on over to the artist’s site. Nancy Farmer must be a mermaid herself because you WILL get hopelessly ensnared. I once spent several hours in her “net” and when I finally came out of her sea-song trance my shirt was soaked with drool and I’d grown a fine set of demon horns. Be forewarned!

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Sonic Youth’s “Sacred Trickster” (Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Friendship, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Tricksters, Lipstick Shamaness, Mythos, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 13, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Last Sunday was supposed to be a special birthday-honoring trickster-themed double edition of  The Punk Rock Gospel, but you know what they say about the road to hell…        

Despite my good intentions, I wasn’t able to swing both Gogol Bordello’s “When the Trickster Starts a Pokin”  and Sonic Youth’s “Sacred Trickster.”        

I was too busy eating bon-bons and being spoiled by the Robot Boy. No biggie. The glossy bow-topped packages and the birthday cake carried over into the rest of the week so why not trickster anthems?       

        

The “Sacred Trickster” is the first track on Sonic Youth’s new record. “Eternal” was just released June 9. It’s Sonic Youth’s 16th album and their first album since 2006. “Eternal” — cover art by famous folk-artist John Fahey — is the band’s first album on Matador Records. “Eternal” finds SY creatively-charged and still rockin’ as they return to their old school indy roots and revisit past aural forays:        

Twelve tunes that are a fireworks display of Sonic Youth touchstones. From the primal no wave attack of its earliest days, to the radical chording and song structures of its 90s period, to the more focused and contemporary explorations of the last five years. (Amazon bio)        

   

    In the song, Kim Gordon refers to West Mass noise artist Noise Nomads and French artist/painter Yves Klein.       

        

Sacred Trickster, I want you to levitate me. Don’t you love me yet? Press up against the amp, turn up the treble. Don’t forget.        

   

Sacred Trickster makes me wanna light a cigarette and dance inside my own smoky tornado. I wanna build bombs! I wanna be a girl in a band! I wanna wear my fox-ears to church and bang chaotically on the church organ while reciting lines from Ani songs: I’m tired of being the interesting one, I’m tired of having fun for two. Just lay yourself on the line and I might lay myself down by you. I wanna draw chalk mandalas or fly kites fashioned from old love letters.        

Makes me wanna press up against the amp, turn up the treble.        

Makes me wanna make noise, trouble, love.        

Mostly it makes me wanna ask more of myself: to reach down into my own heaving, hurting place and to dig around in the sadness until I’ve recovered the sacred.        

"LadyFox" by painter, Carolina Hardigree

  

And when I’m done asking more of myself, I’m gonna turn around and ask more of you. And you and you and you.        

I’m going to want you to do for me and to come through for me. I’m gonna want you to make me dizzy when we’re just sittin’ around. I’m gonna want you to levitate me. Can’t you do that for me? Can’t you rid me of all the steely hardness that holds me down? Can’t you blow into me with your breath until I’m light as air? Can’t you lift me from the bed — from my bondage, my ache, my sorrow — and send me up up up with the soft shush of a pink balloon. Why won’t you levitate me? Don’t you love me?        

Or do you think I am asking too much?        

I want you to blow my fucking mind.         

Is that asking too much?        

As Ani sang, I want somebody who can hold my interest, hold it and never let it fall, someone who can flatten me with a kiss that hits like a fist or a sentence that stops me like a brick wall.        

When did we stop expecting to be IN AWE?        

Why are we arrogant if we seek greatness in ourselves or greedy if we expect greatness in others? Why is it too much to want it all? Since when is the status quo enough for any of us?        

So I wanna rub elbows with the sacred, so what? So I expect you to levitate me, why not? Don’t you love me yet?       

       

The Sacred Trickster is that part of yourself that wants to steal the raspberries and chase the gingerbread man.     

The Sacred Trickster is the lover who makes you better by pointing to the bigness in you and saying Gimmee gimmee gimmee.     

The Sacred Trickster is the friend who cracks the secret code and then the nut and then a smile.     

The Sacred Trickster is the melody inside the noise, the meaning inside the poem, the puppet show theater inside a hallowed-out 1956 TV.     

The Sacred Trickster is the rock star who has you pressed against the throbbing amp… the writer who wrote that line (the one that kills you every time)… the painter who has convinced you to cuddle the sly white fox. You open up your cozy covers and Fox closes in tight, nestling, nuzzling, stinking like star dust.      

Who is The Sacred Trickster? He’s you and she’s me. That’s the way it should be.      

        

 Sacred Trickster        

I want you to levitate me        

Don’t you love me yet?        

Press up against the amp turn up the treble        

Don’t forget        

Getting dizzy sittin around        

Sacred trickster and the no tech sound        

I wish I could be music on a tree        

Noise nomads and me        

Levitating on the ground        

Uh huh uh huh        

Uh huh uh huh        

Uh huh uh huh        

Uh huh uh huh        

Whats its like to be a girl in a band?        

I don’t quite understand        

That’s so quaint to hear        

I feel so faint my dear        

Getting dizzy sittin around        

Sacred trickster and the no tech sound        

I wish I could be music on a tree        

Noise nomads and me        

Levitating scootin around        

   

Summon the Sacred Trickster! 

Thanks for tuning in to today’s Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel. Enjoy this, the official Sonic Youth “Sacred Trickster” video as released by Matador Records. It’s ferocious fun in a Gossip Girl meets Guerilla Grrl kinda way.      

***The LadyFox painting (above) is by an extremely talented, emerging artist named Carolina Hardigree. We’ve featured Hardigree’s work on Cream Scene Carnival before and we will again; because she is brilliant, amazing and mythic-minded. My kind of girl! Carolina Hardigree’s work can be purchased via her own website @ Black Bird Fine Art.       

Sonic Youth’s Eternal is available on Amazon.

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!
 

Showtime’s Californication Makes My Brain & Girl-bits Tumescent

Posted in Alphabetfiend, Books & Writing, Psyche & Sexuality, Sex & XXX, TV with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 15, 2008 by alphabetfiend

I’m madly in love with Showtime’s “Californication, ” especially this new season. It’s one of the only shows where the writer character actually ACTS and TALKS like a writer. I feel so comfy when I’m watching it. Like I’m hanging out with my Precocious Dandy and we’re chain smoking and talking a mile a minute; flexing our verbiage muscles and screaming bits of poetry into one another’s besotted faces. I feel like my truest self getting all giggety when the word “tumescent” makes an appearance in tawdry dirty talk. Which is to say that I feel like a word nerd, an asshole, an arrogant bastard, a brainy ego-maniac, a cerebral kinkster — A WRITER.

Californication-Season-1

I buy Duchovny as the the disillusioned writer Hank Moody. He makes it work. He slings his words and he slings his cock with writerly strangeness. I could eat it up with a coke spoon! Yum. Hell, I’d snort this sucker up. It’s that damn delicious. I was a fan of Duchovny’s Fox Mulder: porn watching, sunflower seed munching insomniac FBI agent with a wide open mind. He was a FOX and very foxy, very trickster: one foot in this world, one foot in another; brilliant, inappropriate, creating through chaos. He brings all that to this role which I wasn’t sure about at first but it works. He’s Hank Moody now, not Fox Mulder. But the fox is still in there somewhere. Still full of sly tricks. I’ve been working on a longer review/ode to Warren Zevon. Someone working on Californication is a Warren Zevon fan… I wonder who it is? Again, very writerly. Zevon was a writer’s rocker. But I had to post this today because I’m just giddy over this new season. This is a show for smarties — crossword puzzle fans & other word nerds, writers, fuckers, freaks with tumescent cerebrums.

tu·mes·cent 

adj.

1. Somewhat tumid.
2. Becoming swollen; swelling
Trixie: It’s hardly cheating.
Hank: I’m pretty sure it is.
Trixie: Maybe you’re right. Sometimes my whore logic gets all fucked up. But I can tell you that there’s a lot of husbands and boyfriends out there who would not file that under cheating.
Hank: Well, call me an old fuddy-duddy but I think anytime the tumescent head makes an appearance, it’s cheating
Trixie: Is that good dirty talk, like if I said to a client “You’re so fucking tumescent right now” would that be hot?
Hank: Mmmm. Makes my wiener feel a little weird, but that’s just me — I like WORDS.

The scene I love, the scene above, is about one minute and 50 seconds in. Mmmm. Makes my girly parts a bit engorged. Which reminds me: if you don’t like words and I mean ALL words, good and bad, then this show (and this blog) are not for you. You must appreciate the value of an f-bomb if you watch Californication. (Oh how I miss Deadwood… sigh. Talk about a work of wordy genius. All you brainy cocksuckers who’ve never seen Deadwood run out and rent it ASAP.)

**Tried to find a clean clip without this murder-worthy ad banner but no luck. Sorry about that.**

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