The Lover


The Lover

Writing is the neglected Lover who calls me away from a stifling my 13 hour workdays.  It is the hunger that demands to be fed.  The passion that must be satisfied.

The dilemma: money vs. true love.  I need the money but I must feed my soul.  Only when I answer the voice of my muse am I truly engaged in this life.

My fervor is akin to amusing myself with dilettantes whilst the face of my Lover is ever before me.  The Lover is the orgasm I seek on a nightly basis.

I feel his long slender fingers playing over my body like the keyboard on a piano.

The music he produces brings an exotic mixture of pain and ecstasy.  It’s an addiction that dominates my mind, soul, spirit and body.  A craving only he can satisfy.

Only his lean taut body, his touch can bring me to spiritually fulfilling orgasmic pleasure when after hours of lovemaking I lock my legs around his torso in those final eternal moments of sensual paradise.

Sometimes he comes to me on the wings of a night bird. A beautiful dark & twisted fantasy.  A Midnight Dream so real you’ve only exchanged one dimension for another.  Whilst the full moon reigns I pass through many long and varied portals.  I taste the sounds of evening on your lips.  Feel the words slipping through fingers.  The crested muse rides the galactic wave gliding silently o’er my cerebral universe seeking a docking station whereby I may be subsumed into His flesh.

Black Unicorn Rising

Alice’s Wonderland Deconstructed


Life as a Void Consisting of Only Time and Eternity

Black Unicorn Rising

An exploration of Emptiness, Nothingness, Inner and Outer spheres/realms of being

Do women occupy the inner sphere/sanctum of purity? Is the enclosed female space a sign of sanctity whereas the open hinged male space the spirit of adventure? Are women contained by societal definitions of femininity resulting in us being “Birds in Gilded Cages”.  What is the extent of the power we have as women to define ourselves?

Katrin Sigurdardottir’s piece “Boiserie” explores many levels of existence. The enclosed room a replica in white of the Hotel de Cabris located in the Wrightsman galleries of the Met brings to mind a sense of the finite and infinite. As I observed visitors who thought they would be able to see their friends on the other side of the windows, they quickly realized the panes were security glass, meaning one could look in but not out. The mirrors in the room gave the impression of infinity by reflecting endless images. Like the worlds of many French society ladies and nobility they seemed to have everything, yet they had nothing as they were just “birds in a gilded cage” with their pleasure and privilege brought to an end with the French Revolution in 1789.  This first walled in room gives a sense of arrested development. Its progression halted within the pure white room encased in what appears to be rather dingy plywood.

Viewing this exhibit is like looking into a surreal kaleidoscope minus the rainbow, where white is not just the absence of color but has the ability to reflect all around and within it.

Because I as voyeur and viewer share the same gender as the artist this exhibit propelled me into rethinking what it means to be a woman in our society.  Gender has been defined as a social/cultural construct.  Gender can be said to be the attributes and aspects which society says make up the male and the female.  Women even women of wealth and privilege who resided in the royal courts of Europe have always been considered inferior beings.

How are we taught to see masculinity and femininity in our society?  John Berger in Ways of Seeing, writes that, “A man’s presence suggests what he is capable of doing to you or for you.  His presence may be fabricated, in the sense that he pretends to be capable of what he is not.  But the pretence is always towards a power, which he exercises on others.

By contrast, a woman’s presence expresses her own attitude to herself, and defines what can and cannot be done to her.  Her presence is manifest in her gestures, voice, opinions, expressions, and clothes, chosen surroundings, taste – indeed there is nothing she can do which does not contribute to her presence.  Presence for a woman is so intrinsic to her person that men tend to think of it as an almost physical emanation, a kind of heat or smell or aura.” (p 45-46)

A woman’s space like that depicted by Sigurdardottir’s white room replica of the Hotel de Cabris, is closed and everything about her is directed inward.  Men keep her physically, financially, and emotionally.  Women’s gestures, attitudes and social discourse has been developed and defined within very narrow parameters.  However not only does she watch herself but she watches herself being observed.  She becomes both the subject and object of the male gaze.  As Berger says, she is both the surveyor and the surveyed (p. 46).  In Berger’s definition, men act, women appear (p. 47).

This brings up the issue of stratification of different types of social classes of women.  Women young and old often seek to emulate or embody the concept of glamour.  The behaviors of movie starlets, models, entertainers, and socialites no matter how vulgar, demeaning or degrading have become the order of the day.  However the glamour of media stars is without substance.  Many women failing to reach these unreachable aspirations die ignoble emotional, mental and physical deaths grasping for the brass ring but coming up empty.

Even female garments are designed to create restriction.  Foundation garments such as girdles, corsets or spanx, garters, shoes too tight to be comfortable or heels too high to walk in, suggest a type of captivity.  All are attire that suggest bondage and domination.  A woman is encouraged to be a walking work of art in our society.  Fashion magazines tell her how to dress diet and style her hair.

And what of the women disenfranchised by physical, emotional abuse, domestic violence and sexual harassment.  What of their space.  Can it be recreated or refashioned to include them in the dialogue or are they forever locked out via twin fiends named shame and guilt.  I speak for those women whose space is closed, confined, where the doors are locked and the keys are in the possession of the oppressor.  Once I was a captive of my abuser who physically left me Thanksgiving Day 2007 but the damage he did to my mind, emotions, spirit and psyche has never left me.  He left his imprint on my soul.  The brutes of shame and guilt entrap me by refusing to grant me the ability to trust or love completely.  My only hope at this late stage of my life is that once I transition from this realm into whatever lies beyond I’ll be granted the gift of forgiveness.

I know my absolution will never come from the church or the so-called “body of Christ” as the “church” as a religious entity sanctions male dominance thus the abuse and violent behavior that stems from a patriarchal system.

At present I longingly look through the bars of my prison at those women given pardon and liberty all the while awaiting my next evolution into that great beyond where I will be exonerated, set free and love will once again make an appearance in my life.  But in deference to my ex-boyfriend I dedicate this song to him.

Alice in Wonderland—Bigger, Larger, Smaller, Tinier

Grace Slick & Jefferson Airplane

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WANNqr-vcx0

The extended accordion like rendition of the Hotel de Crillon room also located in the Wrightsman galleries gives a sense of expansion yet all the while the free hinges connecting the smaller and larger doorways gives the viewer the perceived ability to fold up and pack away in a suitcase this wonderful display of abstraction.

The larger doorway is a portal to the imagination, the rooms or cubes within our own minds.  Have I like Alice in the story eaten the cake labeled “Eat Me” and grown too large, then drank the potion labeled “Drink Me” and shrunk too small.  Or like the Alice in the Grace Slick song taken the pills that trick my mind into thinking I’m continually expanding and contracting.  But I like the many visitors to the exhibit calmly walk through happily appreciating the aesthetic qualities of the piece.

These two exhibits are located on the Mezzanine of the Modern Art section of the Met museum.  And just what is the definition of Mezzanine: “A partial story between two main stories of a building.   An intermediate floor between main floors of a building.”

The interpretation of the two Wrightsman rooms is an intermediate, betwixt and between what is real and what is contrived. Similar to the Alice’s trip into Wonderland where reality changes from moment to moment and fantasy is the order of the day.

Can reality be perceived only through the five senses or is reality much like sexuality and/or gender roles only a social construct which time, space and cultures eternally deconstruct and evolve to fit each generations needs.

But I have journeyed from 16th century France, where kings and queens once ruled by divine right only to be deposed through revolution into the 21st century where we read in the papers, on the web and see on television current megalomaniacs and dictators forced to cede their power and authority to the once frightened and enslaved masses who have reclaimed empowerment.  Perhaps since both pieces are constructions of wood paneling or plywood that in itself signifies the falsity of temporal riches.

These two rooms pose questions on gender, race, class and social inequalities than possible answers or solutions to aforesaid dilemmas.  Or perhaps queries that come to mind have within them never-ending possibilities and infinite resolutions.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

www.metmuseum.org

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Prosperity vs. Adversity


She seemed like such a lovely lady.  A beauteous form can hide the darkest of hearts.  The face of an Angel, a lithe and exquisite body, however, does not the Holy Writ say that the devil is disguised in the purest of forms? Was he not known in the beginning as Lucifer and could he have not had a female counterpart.

And what is the appearance of a Fallen Angel? It is thus, a slightly prominent forehead, below are wide deep set eyes, high sculpted cheekbones,  an aristocratic nose, full sensuous lips with a generous mouth encasing small pearl like teeth, and a sturdy jaw line. Such a classic face was enveloped in a halo of thick curly black hair with a shock of white in the front.

All these gorgeous outward features contained in alluring golden brown skin kissed by the sun. This regal head was attached to a small lissome body.  Her fine-looking face and petite frame hid the advancing years very well.  

Being diminutive enabled her to pass quickly through narrow spaces without touching the sides, almost like an apparition, you felt air, looked back only to see the rustle of drapes or curtains but not the actual being. Leonarda’s physical movements whilst working the room at a cocktail party were not unlike her charming yet devious personality.

And when Leonarda was speaking with you the entire world fell away, you became the complete focus of her intentions and she seemed to exalt your small ideas, thoughts and words just with a nod of her classic head. That night as would be the case in future events, every guest in the room magically disappeared leaving only me, Leonarda and the martinis we held in our hands

 Who would have thought she was really a succubus, sent to drain men’s souls. Every night when I lay down beside her I would become as vigorous as a lion to meet her insatiable demands which left me as weak and mild as a lamb.  She drained my daylight strength from me. Yet at the dawn of the next day her preternatural words would enliven me so I could carry out her wishes. 

Those wishes which at the time seemed the mildest of suggestions caused my former friends to fall away from me much like the strangers in the room where she and I first met. Somehow my boon companions sensed her evil and knew from whence she derived her wealth, power and authority but alas I did not or rather I did not want to listen when they tried in their various communications to alert me to the danger I allowed into my life.

Leonarda La’Velle hailed from New Orleans. She was rumored to be a direct descendant of the mulatta and sorceress Marie Laveau. Leonarda had anglicized her name in an attempt to throw off track anyone who tried to research her background, but her attempts were futile to the superior talents of my friends and co-workers who were by trade paranormal researchers trained to recognize the schemes and incarnations of the wicked.

Like her infamous ancestor Marie Laveau, Leonarda La’Velle had as her patron an elderly rich white lover, so enamored of his mistress’ guile and subtleties that he scarcely realized that he was being cuckolded on a daily and nightly basis.  From him she drew money, from me, Christophe Dumell she was able to drink my very essence because I made the error of falling in love with the witch.

No doubt when I was under her spell, whenever I expressed some dissatisfaction, no matter how small she would caress my face with her tiny hands all while singing soothing melodies, songs which proved to be carefully crafted spells designed to keep me under her power. I only lived to satisfy Leonarda.

We all resided in Ulster county section of the Hudson Valley within the small town of Monrose, New York, population, 6666, one more than the devil’s number, not more than one hour from Satan’s major domain of New York City.

Monrose was a town comprised of transplants, those even too freakish for New York City proper. Small trade guilds of artisans flourished in this place, an abode of freethinkers, magicians and curiosities steeped in their own rituals and rites they believe preserved Monrose and allowed it to prosper.

Leonarda was a consultant of sorts. Wealthy businessmen came to her with their dilemmas which she solved for them all while extracting personal information which she later supplied to her primary patron, but unbeknownst to him, she used these intelligences to blackmail her clients. She had files and illegally taped conversations on all of them. She had witnessed either firsthand or via her spies, who operated all over the city compromising positions and conflicts of interests of the most powerful city fathers. Some o f these power brokers when called to Leonarda’s boudoir to confess their sins and make restitution initially balked at the idea of paying her blood money until she showed them her evidence and threatened to expose them. Fearful of being stripped of their power and positions they all acquiesced except one…………

Insomnia


How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.
Bram Stoker

Insomnia

Insomnia: the passage to uncharted realms between wakefulness and sleeplessness

Insomnia is God’s younger brother satan sent to torment me.

God’s way to torture sinners and test saints.

Koyaanisqatsi (Hopi) – crazy life, life in turmoil, out of balance, out of sync

I feel disconnected. My life is one where toys do things that toys should not do.

The bane of a troubled mind.

A form of earthly eternal damnation.

Insomnia opens the door to insanity

I’m one of the chosen.

Tonight when Morpheus and Hypnus spread the poppies of

Stardust upon you, the Fallen Angels will render unto me phobias and 

Phantasmagoria. I see doors where there were previously no doors. Doors that open to the netherworld of demons with outstretched claws ready to drag you into the abyss.

An uneasy mind dangling off a precipice ready to let go.

Disturbed, deranged, distortions, disorientation becomes a part of everyday’s reality. Am I living the hallucination or is the hallucination really me?

Life begins to implode.