Sleeping Beauty

   He had been on the road for longer than his memory permitted him. Freshly shaven when he had set off, his beard now brushed the place at the centre of his chest where he used to feel. He had been granted a warrior’s send off, trumpets blaring, flags raised, folk out lining the pebbled streets cheering and waving at him, bolstering his drive and lion’s roar. Proud he had felt then. Proud and strong, willing to be a hero. Yet he had forsaken humility who tut-tutted behind closed doors, and his arrogance had ushered him seductively with a bejeweled finger out into the wilds and beyond.

   As he traversed the curve of the earth seeking adventures so extravagant that he often wondered if he might have dreamt their passing, a curious thing was happening. For a brief moment after the fray had died down and he had saved the day once more, he felt the familiar swell of his pride, and, for that matter, his belly. He was always deservedly rewarded for his Goliath-esque efforts with the finest delicacies of the land. With belly and will satiated, off he would go the next dawn, seeking the next thrill. Because it was exactly this ‘thrill’ that seemed to sustain him, whispering in his ear to find a grander encounter, a more worthy opponent, and an ever greater and arduous task to pump the swell into a balloon so big he might have threatened to blow away with the winds!

   Until one day, he stopped. No great epiphany. No grand realization. No guilt or regret. Just a sudden determined knowing that all this bravado had no meaning for him anymore. Too far from his city to turn back now, he continued, his considerable gut leading the way. But over time, as his belly ceased to hold so much importance to him, and as the aforementioned beard tickled the place where his foolish heart lay waiting, he began to lose his way, lose any sense of direction, until the day arose when without a slither of doubt, he could quite certainly pronounce that he was indeed, utterly and ridiculously, lost.

   It was no coincidence that it was on that same day that he came across a formidable, dark, uninviting tangle of forest vines. A deathly hush hung over these branches, as if one might have been tempted to hold one’s breath. This would obviously be a foolish act to partake of, but still, he had to keep reminding himself to breathe! A tiny stir, like a rumbling echo was felt at his heart, though of course he did not consciously pay it any mind, having never visited this part of his anatomy for very long. But, for no other reason he could bring to mind, he began to make his way through and into this inhospitable and uninviting realm.

   As it turns out, this was possibly the harshest most testing of all the battles he had relished in recent years. The vines were toughened, by what might be impossibly conceived of as by anger. A deep-rooted bitterness provoked their laceratings and whippings, upon occasion tearing at his face with an almost unhidden glee. He fought harder, slicing his trusty metal sword through his opponents’ limbs, severing with a ‘body’ count unheard of. His sterile weapon glinted its unholy silver until the vines seemed to tremble in surrender and eventually, after much effort on both sides, they began to part and opened up with ease an approach towards what appeared to be a castle.

   By now, bloodied and heart pounding with a sweated brow and a feverish thirst, he strode without pause towards the open wooden doors. If he had found cause for concern as regards the distinct lack of any other forms of life he did not let this be shown, and instead mounted the curved swooping stairway, littered with leaves and petals, dust and cobwebs, taking the imposing stairs two at a time. He was ablaze with an intent that if one was to stop him and ask as to where he was in such a hurry to get to and for what reason, he would have been perplexed to have teased an answer from the air. Yet no matter. On the third floor, at the end of the corridor, he had come to a small closed door. Here he finally stopped, and for the first time in his entire wild and wondrous adventuring, he hesitated, for the briefest of moments, and once more something unrecognizable stirred at his heart. A little louder this time.

   The door knob turned easily in his hand, and with just an almost imperceptible doubt, he entered the room and found himself standing before a bed. Four-posted, billows of satin-swooped material tied with dainty bows, silken sheets, and pillows in every shade of crimson scattered. He moved the veil of fine gossamer netting that caused his view to be unclear, and saw her. Fast asleep. Breath seemingly held. One could have pronounced her dead but a curious rouge to her cheeks and the lush juice of her plum-hued lips sought to give that label doubt. It was the possible juice of this plum that tempted him and licking his own lips, leaned forwards and pressed his dry, toughened, calloused and hunger-filled mouth to hers. Finding himself sucking upon this fruit it did not seem to surprise him a jot when the ‘plum’ began to respond in kind. Drawing back he opened his eyes to find hers now too were open. Violet gaze in wide innocent-eyed wonder, and then her look changed. The side of her mouth began to curl up and she grinned at him, a temptress might have offered him a similar look many moons ago. She yawned noisily, stretched out her pallid limbs and with barely any effort, swung her legs over the side, placed her feet on the floor, and grasping the sheets tightly just in case, found her way to stand. Glancing at him again the sly smile returned and she reached for his hand giving a nod to the door.

   They left the same way he had arrived, yet the vines seemed to taunt her as she passed, thorns like fingernails scraping along her arms and down her back, and tearing provocatively at her white dress, ripping it from her flesh. The forest seemed to be breathing now in a slow sensual and languid way and this caused their pace to drop as if they were moving in slow motion. The limbed ones caressed her hair pulling its strands and luring it out of the tightly wrapped bundle until wisps hung past her shoulders. She felt the length of the vine spiraling itself around her bare leg, curling up past her knee, her thigh and stopping a hair’s breadth away from brushing against the white cotton of her panties. Hearing a panting behind him he turned and what he saw caused his heart to rip against his chest in desire. She was wild. Feral. Her dress was torn so her breasts were freed. The vines had playfully lifted her nightdress to reveal the purity that lay hidden beneath. Her plum mouth was wet and ajar, and she gazed at him with both fear and hunger.

   He pushed her against a waiting tree and as if in complicity the vines found her arms binding her tightly so she could not move. He watched breathlessly as nature’s limbs pulled her legs apart offering her, prey and willing body. His lips sought hers once more. Tongues lashed now, serpent games in each other’s mouths. Oh the delicious sweet fruit! His hands felt her breasts, squeezing them as if they were a different fruit for his delectation. He parted her legs wider with his own strong thighs and with a deft hand tore the panties from her revealing her wild bush-covered womanhood. Feeling the heat emanating from her, he unsheathed his own male flesh, hard and pulsating and plunged into her over and over, as she welcomed him, all of him, pulling him closer and deeper, sucking him in firmly to touch and caress the full source of her. When they had finished their juice flowed down her legs, red blooded drops marked their fornicating, on the ground by the roots of the accomplice tree. He took her hand and they continued out of the forest.

   If they had taken a moment to look back, they may have been surprised that from their creation sprang new shoots, red roses that rolled like a carpet over the land. Green vines, hearty and healthy, oozing sap, played with each other. Alive once more. Awake. Woken from a dream of death decay and rotting flesh.

   As it happened, they did peer back, just as they reached the opening back out into the world. They both smiled, and then laughed raucously before skipping off into their future.

   They were not surprised at all!

Why Creativity is like Sex.

(A taste of the article published on Elephant Journal 2018)

"Creativity is like sex.

With all the chaos that the world seems to be twister twirling in right now, with all of the uncertainty, and the general breath-taking unease with which everything seems to be shifting and turning on its head, there is one thing that every single one of us has access to, that may carry us buoyantly and beautifully through these interesting and changing times: our creativity.

And if we turn more to creativity at this time, through our voice, our art, our collaborations, then we automatically, and ironically, are also connecting in to our sexuality.
Creativity and sexuality are interwoven, the same juju with which life is composed of. To separate them creates a chasm, a disturbance in the force if you like, whether that’s within our own selves, or on a grander more global scale, out in the world at large.

But how are they linked? And in particular, how does our creativity become akin to sex? I don’t know about you, dear artist of your own life, but when we are engaged in creating something, it feels good. Damn good! As a creativity coach, writer and dancer, these lines (and I don’t know why I now have an image of lightsabres in my mind!!) become crossed often, and maybe part of our growth, healing and a step in the right direction of living more wholeheartedly and passionately, is about allowing and acknowledging, heck even celebrating, the two!

Shall we look at the evidence? This is my take on what it’s like to create my art. Maybe you can resonate dear one.

When we’re in the mood, tickled and alive, excited and throbbing with desire, then we can’t get enough. We wholeheartedly decidedly greedily give of ourselves fully, letting ourselves stoke and feed the threads with every touch, bite, lick, suck, kiss, thrust and surrender. We do it because we are on board. We do so willingly because it feels gooooood.

But, sometimes we need a little time. There needs to be a willingness of course. A choice. A yes. We need to show up even if our internal temperature is cold, and our proverbial (and actual!) pussy has her slippers and fleecy nightie on dismissing any erotically hopeful fumblings as she flicks, not her clit, but the pages of a Danielle Steele blockbuster!
We need time. We need to allow. We need to agree that the first few rubs or nibbles or strokes might not yet cause a ripple to run through. And sometimes that’s just it and after a while we might proclaim enough is enough, not tonight José, and go on with other matters to hand.

Our creativity is like this. At least it is for me...."

(to continue reading click here xx)

Leonard Cohen: A truth-saying slayer and Visionary.

(A taste of the article published on Elephant Journal 2016, my homage to one of my idols :-))

"I can’t help it. There is nothing else I desire to write about, other than the late, great Leonard Cohen.
Oh man. I am not alone in my outpouring of grief this morning. Of course not. If there is a crack in everything, then Leonard got in, most likely not creasing his sharp suits.

I can imagine him tipping his hat, a slight bow that permeated through his life. He bowed to life—its twists and turns, its bitter and its sweet—and he made art of it all. It’s a cruel world that we occupy, and maybe these days that cruelty has a sharper razor-bladed edge on it than usual. It certainly seems that way this year!

One of the remarkable qualities that Mr. Cohen embodied was that of a particular kind of humour—that of an old soul who has seen the same things unravelling over and over again. Call it that of a certain generation, where irony and disillusionment skipped alongside free love and a post war optimism, or call it the treasure of one who does not shy away from the greatest mystery of all of life, death itself.

One who can dance with his gravelly timbre—mockingly yet with reverence, with death—is surely one who has no fear of life. He saw, experienced and felt it all. The arrogance of the beautiful, the pain of romantic love, the doomed apocalyptic roller-coaster of greed that would tip mankind over the edge.

He was a religious man, a spiritual man if you like, and his medium of prayer was his poetry. Some would argue he wasn’t the best singer in the world, and he knew this, but if I wanted to send out a messenger with a list of all I wanted to say to God, I can’t think of anyone I would choose other than Mr. Cohen. Like a grit in the pearl, his voice echoed out loudly—with far greater genius than most—what we deeply hold in prayer silently within our own hearts.

He was a soul man with a rock and zen edge. Deadpan and deadly in his humour. With one line, he could pierce our illusions forever, burst the bubble and bring us right back down to earth. A holy earth though, a humanly mess with devilish dalliance and with divinity...."

(to continue reading click here xx)

''Three Orange Men'' (published in Agave magazine, 2014)
 
It was not the most flattering of shades, an orange tired out by too much sun, a terracotta too ashamed to fire, a peach rolled around a little in the muddy earth...but it was the colour orange that linked them, to each other, to her story, and to her heart.
 
The first she met in India, land of many contradictory claims, the flip side of the coin, head spinner and soul changer...she was sick...he brought her tea and sat at the end of her bed with stories from the outside day...they shared joints and the right of passage of passing time in a foreign land.
 
Half Swedish, shaven head, green eyes...and an orange jacket with Thai style pyjama pants, in orange, to match.
 
They became lovers, though now she can’t recall how...hazy memories of Bollywood cinema goings, hand holding shyness, and there they were, romancing holiday style in the freedom of mosquito friendly rooms.
 
They met through synchronicities arrows over the course of several months, like a dna diagram, meeting again and again after pulling themselves in opposite directions...fated to wake in the heat of an afternoon, calls of 'madam' and sunsets, goa and acid, sweat filled nights of love making in another time, another world.
 
They saw each other again...London now...a few months later...he came to pick her up for a date...still wearing that orange jacket...it made her smile.
 
The second was her tantric lover in a springtime gone by...her tantric lover that she had boldly solicited for such a tryst on a train back from Yorkshire...20 years older, looking like a biology teacher, wise and a poet, words of intimacy, and devoted to her...they spent the next 3 months without clothes on apart from once...an art preview...would he like to accompany her, outside, in the company of other folk?...clothing essential...she wore a little black dress, appropriate for a cultured city eve...he wore orange...head to toe orange...he held her hand...she was slightly embarrassed…they never went out in public again...they didn’t have to get dressed anymore thank goodness...he fell in love with her, everything fell unbalanced until all the pieces rolled off the table and it was empty once more.
 
The third was a moment, an Argentinian angel, destined by the gods to be her birthday gift...35 years old in a small village in northern Argentina...midnight struck and she found herself in a tango chamber, a foreigner in a hall of dancing souls...no one spoke English...the hall lit by dark lamps, characters that looked like they had stepped off some folklore pages, raw, dashing the dream of mythical tango into some kind of east end gathering...old men with ashen faces, a tape machine with a worn out croak of a tune, plastic flowers on the tables...still, she whispered that it was her birthday to a woman who could possibly have been as olive as the cushion she sat upon, many kisses, fizzing wine and new friends followed.
 
He was a circus performer, an acrobat, a wide smile, juicy lips and solid frame...a sight of delight in orange...they met the next evening, a gallery in some colonial house, morbid twisted drawings and a guide eager to please...wine and pauses as each wondered what the other had just said...did it matter? not to her, their presence illuminated by the distance between them...still they liked each other that was clear...he went to fetch pizza, she to stare in wonder at the half horror half dazzle of carnival latin village style.
 
Maybe it’s not so much the fashion no more, and lovers have come and gone...but she misses the flash of orange that awoke the story of adventure and romance in her...she doesn’t see them on the streets, all greys and grays and hints of black to match the paving and sky...three orange men crossed her path once...three orange men.