I recently purchased a copy of Tara Caribou’s latest poetry collection, four. This collection is built around the concept of the number four as represented by the four seasons (the four main chapters), and four phases of the moon, four times of day, the four elements, and four different kinds of love.
I hope I didn’t completely botch that explanation….
It was a pleasure to read. Each chapter begins with a photo or two, also created by Tara. In all honesty, I couldn’t choose just one or two… they are all stunning. If you are into nature photography as I am (though I am an amateur, and know shit all about photography), her photos will not disappoint. The final photo right at the very end of the book sums up the feral and mysterious nature of love and self. I couldn’t think of a better visual analogy than the ravenous truly unknowable sea.
Onto the words now….
I have many favourites poems, especially the number/geometry-related ones. I won’t be sharing her poems here — as you really need to buy this book, but I will tell you which poems I loved the most:
Order of Operations features a very interesting spin on repetition, and being someone who finds math intriguing despite potentially having dyscalcula, I found this poem quite pleasing.
System Failure is a clever play on error codes. I enjoyed the high emotion of the first part of the poem. Subsequently, how it decomposes into error messages and binary code is just brilliant.
I Am Fractal… because fractals. If you know anything about me, you will know that I have an obsessive fascination with fractals so this one jumped out at me. The following stanza just made me smile so hard:
My mind is painted as such:
I’m all Euclidean lines and perfect graphs
There’s Order of Operations and square roots
I’m totally into dodecahedrons and trigonometry
Me too, Tara. Me too. I have always fancied myself an irregular nonagon….
Little Robin just made me feel all warm and fuzzy because I have a thing for birds, and robins always make me smile. Wild things that we know we can never keep are always such captivating muses. Nature gives constantly in the realm of senses and inspiration.
Minerals and Vibrations contains such a sense of rootedness to earth and to depth, I felt like I was reduced to an earthworm as I read it, and I swear I could taste the soil in every word.
There are so many dog-earred pages in my copy, so many more poems of loving, longing, losing and regaining in this book. Do get yourself and someone you love a copy of this poetry collection. It will move your heart and soul, and give you a new appreciation for numbers and geometry.
Well done, Tara!
My friend Tara Caribou is releasing a gorgeous book of art and poetry. She is by far one of the most talented writers on WordPress, and it is my honour to plug her wares on my modest little blog.
Buy her book!
I’m happy to announce the release of my second poetry collection, four. Four is 185 pages of black-and-white photography and poetry by me. This book will only be available in paperback through me directly and on lulu as well as in e-book format on Kindle. The e-book releases December 1st and the paperback is available […]
What the fuck is with WordPress screwing with my formatting? I spend a lot of time on formatting. And then I go to see how my post presents in the shitty Reader, and… jumbled mess… that I cannot fix! Gaaaah! I can’t.
Thanks for being a dick, WordPress. 👍🏻
[No alien love for you, WP]
From the collection “Wild Embers” by Nikita Gill.
*** This is not my poem, nor do I own any part of it. It a poem by Nikita Gill that deeply resonates. I hope you like it as much as I do. ***
*Warning: This is a prosaic purge. This is me naked in a brushfire. I share some painful memories but I want to release them and move on. If you are easily bothered by exposed vulnerability, perhaps skip this. I bleed profusely. Also note that I feel no pity for myself. I am who I am because of these experiences… and I wouldn’t change a thing.*
I recently read that losing a friend is one of the most underrated heartbreaks.
And it can hurt like hell.
Especially when special ones vanish.
Those are the ones for whom I hold out a candle in their dark to lead them back when they are feeling stronger.
If they decide to turn away, that’s their choice. Hopefully I can keep the candle burning if they ever turn back around.
But we all know that candles don’t burn forever… despite our best efforts.
A single tear can extinguish a flame.
Sometimes people are just done with you… and you have to accept it.
They were special to you, and you served a purpose to them… until you didn’t.
Those losses take a lion’s share of strength to overcome. Because it was always a one-way street… and you were driving the wrong fucking direction the whole time and didn’t even realize it until you crashed.
Losing friends can even be heartbreaking when you have to be the one to do the vanishing.
Mostly because you’re stuck with all of the memories and the cold leftover hurt.
I have had to do that.
More times than I have fingers and toes to count…
And hair follicles if you count walking away from the taint-stain that is social media,
Like Fakebook and Instagag.
That shit isn’t friendship;
It’s emotional manipulation and reality curation,
And I think those sites are nefarious;
Even the social aspects of WordPress are not without a sense of the sinister…
This I know from the low feelings I experience when scrolling through the feed and checking notifications… or a lack of them… and having the distinct feeling that I am getting skipped over somehow….
Is there a way to have a site without the stupid “Reader”? Anyone? How can I not get notifications for anything? I hate that stupid bell and that I can’t not check. I hate all the pinging and un-pinging.
It makes me feel physically ill… the stomach acid sloshing up and down my esophagus.
The shittiness of feeling socially rejected via technology…
Even if it is all in my head…
Even if it is all of my own projected wounding…
These sites create opportunties for us to hate ourselves.
I sometimes flirt with the idea of leaving WordPress for good and starting anew somewhere else with no likes and comments and motherfucking notifications… or lack thereof.
Sometimes I flirt with the idea of being the doorless Cathedral I poemed about a while back. It’s safer to keep myself to myself.
••• Digression ends •••
But I am luckily well-versed in rejection.
Been there, done that.
I don’t mean to sound self-victimizing but it’s just true.
Most friends I had in childhood and adolescence were fairweather or just plain shit at best. Isn’t that always the way though….
I admired these 3 girls back in grade 1. They allowed to me to attend an exclusive sleep-over party once. I felt like an unneeded appendage. The following Monday when I was hanging out with them… or trying to… they all turned around and shoved me, making me spill backward onto the hopscotch grid, and said that they didn’t hang out with losers and that I should get lost.
If they had told me to die, I probably would have done that too. But they didn’t have to;
A part of me withered like a cut flower that day anyway.
When I repeated grade 5 because I wasn’t smart enough to keep up, my classmates all moved on to grade 6 and forgot about me;
It was like I no longer existed.
Except some dick named Jermaine remembered me and called me dumb for failing (don’t worry… he repeated grade 7… so I wasn’t the only loser).
One person continued to be my friend… but after 20+ years of my giving of love and support paired with her taking of it, and her giving of tongue lashings and insults, and my taking of it, I said enough, and told her to lose my number for good.
I was fed lines of the break-up because I couldn’t do it myself.
Going back… I had made new friends in my second grade 5 class. One was mean and bitchy… and I was the only person she liked for some reason. She was ok to me… but cruel to others, especially boys and men. When we got older, she chewed them up and spat them out while I watched, saddened because I would never treat anyone who was interested in me like that. She used them while I pined.
Boys never noticed me. Unless it was to call me names… or ask about my hot friends. Maybe it was a blessing they never saw me standing there.
I walked away from her toxicity at the age of 23. And a guy we were both “best friends” with who only hung out with me to get to her. I loved him. And I was invisible to him. And it all hurt too much so I walked away from him as well.
He was stupid for letting me slip away. I was a really good friend… and she milked him dry and threw him out after she had had her fun. He went back for more time and again because of “love”. I realize now it was just pathetic. I stopped caring about his feelings after. I have no clue where he is now and I don’t care.
Another friend I made my second time around in grade 5 was a narcissist… well, she filled out beautifully into one.
It was like watching a rose unfurl and turn black from the poison of broken family, entitlement and Daddy issues. They always say hurt people hurt people; she was proof.
In high school, she went after all of the guys I liked… even dated one and made me tag along with them. He would ask me for advice on taming her wildness. I laughed and knew he was a goner. She was a man-eater (worse than the other chick I mentioned) and he was fast food.
Boys had a shorter shelf-life but she had extracted years and years out of me.
My parents warned me about these snakey girls and how they were bad for my health. But I didn’t believe it until I was respectively disposed of after I had fulfilled my purpose or until my supply ran out, and humiliated in front of a large group of mutual friends for thinking I was someone different than what she permitted me to be.
I didn’t understand why I attracted asshole “friends” most of my life until I learned about the empath/narcissist dynamic… and I felt the acid sloshing again mixed with a modicum of relief and a tonne of shame.
It think it is the utter humiliation of no-self-worth that burns more than the stomach acid. I’m just too sensitive. Always have been. And the waves of shame-singed spew in my belly and chest confirm it.
I made my truest friends when I had just enough self-respect to kick the others out. They appeared at a time when I was getting ready to maybe think I was worth a little more than what I was accepting.
They are still around and will be forever. They know me better than anyone, and they love me better than anyone.
I would slay dragons and evildoers for them. And they would do the same for me.
There are 3. Truly. And my husband. Just about everyone else is either an acquaintance, a colleague, a family member I am either avoiding or estranged from, or a fair weather friend who is starting to fade into the edges from whence they came.
New friendships are almost impossible to make and maintain. I have tried but there is always something that doesn’t quite feel right. I have too many irreconcilable facets that if I showed them all to everyone in my life, most people would run for the hills.
Truthfully, I can’t handle too many people anymore. My high sensitivity demands inordinate amounts of alone time to feel alive and connected and energized, and often I choose it over people.
I have met less than a handful of people on the internets that I consider safe to be true friends that could stand the test of time… if I let them. Many people who have passed through have been great, but I have to be selective about who I let in.
I grow gardens now rather than cut them down.
For those who have come and gone, I wish you well. Thanks for teaching me something about myself. Hope I did the same for you but it’s ok if I didn’t. Your lessons are your task, not mine.
I guess as long as I have my perfectly pruned, iron gate enclosed circle of love all around me, I don’t ever have to worry about being on the outside again.
And if I ever do find myself on the outside, then I should be my own best friend, right?
But something tells me I should have started doing that back in grade 1.
Better late than never to start trying now though.
*** Sweetheart, what’d I say about the Rolaids? Don’t you remember the Rolaids? ***
*** The acid will stop splashing up into my throat like a current of self-hate when I can finally be all that I need. ***
*** Yeah, that. And some fucking Rolaids. ***
This woman is so talented. I have been reading her all week.
She knows how to get naked. And I like her naked.
I love that she is a best-selling poet. I fucking love that someone has the power to bring poetry to the mainstream. More people need to read poetry. It is like mainlining divinity.
***From ‘The Sun and Her Flowers’ (Rupi Kaur, 2017)***
I made a painting for this anthology of poetry and melody. There is a tonne of talent within these pages… so do take a look!
I said it was coming and here they are!
The Poets Symphony: Verses, Melodies, and Lyrical Poems is releasing on the 15th of May. You will find it anywhere that sells books online: lulu, Barnes & Noble, Amazon.
Thirty-one artists and poets came together to create this gorgeous book centered around the theme of MUSIC which holds photography, paintings, mixed media, song lyrics, and poetry of all types. You won’t be disappointed!
Brandon White’s debut book of poetry: The Year That Stole the Light Away is releasing on the 29th of May.
Brandon works through all the emotions we experience amidst the grief of losing someone we love. From the quiet days leading to loss to those dark days after when we tend to be numb yet also focusing in on the minutiae and the minor details of the life moving…
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Thank you to Empress Hexe and The Emperor and for this lovely post. Makes me want to paint again. It’s been too long. ❤❤❤
As the biological envelope of our energies, as our beautiful extension in space, the body deserves to be loved and celebrated. Artists rightly celebrate its beauty through their own (re)creations, often by getting inspired from someone present in their space, or from their memories. The body can however, also become the means through which art is produced.
Todays blog is inspired by TJ, who, among other activities, paints with her body. Artistic expression and creativity, in the energetic plane, emanates from the Sacral chakra, or sex chakra. As the Sacral chakra is the area of the body that creates new life, it also represents the centre of creative energies. The harnessing of these energies through different forms of creative activities, like writing and art, is important in learning ways to balance the etheric forces of the chakras.
In this post, TJ uses her breasts for painting to create…
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She reclined against the craggy rocks
And inhaled the blue of the sky
Into the famished pores of her skin,
Feeling a pressure build
From within the deep well
Of the inpenetrable forest of her being.
When the sky finally surrendered the sun,
And cradled its reflective counterpart high above the earthly plains,
The dome of heaven found itself
Pregnant with stars and unseen celestial forces.
So she sipped once more from the light and dark above,
And set loose a geyser from between her solid, muscled legs,
Releasing entire frog ponds
From her insides.
She emptied flowing rivers and lakes from the bowl of her womb,
And exhaled algae, glimmering fish scales and water-smoothed stones.
She became everything for a split second
And embodied the Mother of All.
She flooded the world about her
In lily pads,
And a laugh that devoured all barren voids,
Leaving nothing behind
But an abundance of spendour
On the dew-drenched rocks.
*** I have been experimenting even more with art these days. Mixing media is fun! I even picked up sketching again, and hope to start incorporating drawing into the mix for future projects. Hope you like it. ***
You bleed sap all over my heaving breasts,
Over my arms
Which entwine you in my slumbering embrace.
On the other side of sleep,
I am awake in your branches.
Happy New Year.
It is 2020,
And I will be 40 this summer.
I am not into resolutions
Because I don’t need a special day to start over;
Every day is a new beginning.
I do have plans though.
I know I want to make changes to my blog and my creative projects,
And work on not comparing myself to others.
And be a better person in general.
Are those resolutions?
Either way, I don’t want to have goals;
I would rather have intentions,
And hope for the best.
If I fuck up…
No worries —
The next day will be a NEW new year’s day.
All the best in this new decade! Happy 2020!
Some people are busy making resolutions for 2020,
And getting gussied up for fancy parties and whatnot.
Not me. Nope.
I am celebrating the end of the decade
By pressing my boobies into the snow
Then eating… snow….
Just keeping it weird…
Right into the next decade.
*** Christmas was draining, and left me feeling like shit for a few days. I went snowshoeing today, and it was very restorative. Obviously, I created a little fun for myself. ***
Happy New Year, fellow oddities!
***This is “erotica” in that there are erotic moments, but again, no sex. I am trying to focus on sensuality and imagination in my own brand of erotica… for the moment. Hope you like it!***
Jo was burned out, and it had been a long time coming. She had booked the day off work to see her doctor to talk about the downward shift in her mood and energy. She had been in denial that she was approaching a depressive episode; she didn’t have time for that shit. She was too busy and stressed. She had a family. She had a tough job. Things were actually going pretty well…ish. Depression takes up lots of time, and has a way of pissing on you when you’re on your way up.
But she had to face reality: on Friday, she completely froze at work, and found herself unable to function. She remembered just standing there, amid the chaos and confusion that was unfolding before her, unable to think, say or do anything. She was a complete blank. And it felt terrifying. She needed a mental health day to get her head sorted.
After her appointment, she booked a massage and an hour in a sensory deprivation tank at a spa in her city. She had been there many times before and knew what to expect.
But this time, she had a different massage therapist, who was walking towards her as she waited at reception.
“Hi, Josephine? I’m Beatrice. Care to follow me?” Beatrice’s smile shone down at a stunned Jo, who found herself frozen once more… but in a good way. A very good way. Beatrice was about 5’7″ with a slender build, soft light brown wavy hair that framed a very lovely visage, and depthless dark brown eyes. Jo was instantly attracted to her.
“Ummm… sure.” She mumbled as she grabbed her belongings. Beatrice, without asking, relieved Jo of her things, already alleviating some of the stress that had been ravaging its way through her muscles, especially the one embedded in her chest.
“Please. Allow me. You can relax now. It begins now, ok?” Beatrice said as she lead Jo to a small candle-lit room that smelled of white sage — which, to her, was a most comforting aroma.
Jo laughed uncomfortably, feeling like her heart was exposed, and that Beatrice could sense the cracks weaving themselves through it.
“Please, have a seat, Josephine.” Beatrice instructed with a warm smile. Jo did as she was told.
“So, what brings you here today?”, asked Beatrice. Jo felt her face blush as she toiled with whether or not to tell the truth. She finally opted for honesty: “In all honesty, I just need to be touched. Things have been so hard, and I feel my depression returning. I just want to forget everything for a bit.” Beatrice regarded her client with a completely unguarded expression, which Jo wasn’t expecting. Beatrice seemed to reflect Jo’s feelings in a non-verbal way. It helped Jo feel safe.
“Ok. I get it. Is there any part of your body that needs more attention than the others?” Jo almost snorted out a laugh because her immediate response would have been “my pussy”, but she stopped herself before blurting out something that would surely embarass her.
“Ummm… yeah, actually. Weirdly, my thighs and hips, and my… ummm…”, Jo didn’t know how to tell Beatrice that her ass needed a good rub down, but luckily she didn’t have to.
“Your glutes,” Beatrice said without an ounce of embarassment. She was a healer. She knew exactly what Jo needed.
“Yeah. Exactly,” Jo said as she avoided Beatrice’s gaze.
“Hey. There’s no shame here. We hold a tonne of tension in our behind, hips and thighs. And depression brings out all the aches and pains. Don’t worry about a thing. You just get undressed and slip under the covers and I will take care of the rest. Your job is to relax.” Beatrice touched Jo’s knee and smiled, “I will knock on the door in a couple of minutes.”
Beatrice stood up and tip-toed out of the room in silence. Jo sat there for a moment before she started to peel off her clothes and her worries. She caught her reflection in the mirror near the curtained window and admired the delicate way her waist tapered inward then flared out at her hips. She always had a shapely hourglass figure, which she appreciated, even in moments of self-hate which seemed to be in the majority as of late.
Jo tore her eyes away from her mirror image and crawled under the crisp white sheet on the massage bed. She decided to go completely nude, not even her thong. She just wanted to be naked, unseparated from herself in every way. She couldn’t explain it, but it was just what she felt she needed. She lay face down, and rested her head on the donut-shaped pillow and closed her eyes.
After several minutes, Jo heard a light knock at the door. “Come in,” she replied lightly. The opening and closing of the door was bearly audible. Beatrice padded into the room and stood right at Jo’s head. She could feel her therapist’s deep, controlled breathing; she was turning the energy in the room over, transmuting it into calmness. Jo felt wrapped in it, like a hot dog in a bun of tranquility. She smiled as Beatrice’s hands came into contact with her shoulders. She kept her hands there for a few moments, just breathing. Then she slowly turned the blanket down all the way to Jo’s behind. She pumped some aromatherapy oil onto her hands, and began to slowly knead Jo’s shoulder muscles, her neck, behind her ears, her scalp. Jo sunk her head further into the donut pillow, feeling a sense of pure relaxation wash over her.
Beatrice worked Jo’s knotted shoulders and neck for a little while, and slowly started to move down the length of her back, focusing on the muscles surrounding her spine. Jo was on the edge of drifting off but jolted back to wakefulness when Beatrice’s hands made their way to her glutes. Beatrice pumped more oil into her hands and started to massage her client’s lower back and her fleshy behind, very slowly and carefully. She used her thumbs to unearth the gnarly knots, and untangled them with her nimble healing hands.
“How is the pressure?”, she asked in a low voice. “You can go harder. I have a lot of tension,” Jo replied, surprised at her assertion; she normally would have said that everything was fine even if it wasn’t. But Beatrice somehow invited Jo’s authenticity.
Beatrice deepened the pressure of her hands, moulding and kneading Jo’s lifeworn muscles. Jo exhaled audibly.
“Everything ok?” Beatrice whispered. “More than ok…” Jo replied. Beatrice moved around the bed to Jo’s legs and worked up and down the length of them, from her glutes to the back of her knees. Every time Beatrice’s hands reached her inner thighs, Jo would stop breathing. Beatrice’s magical fingers almost grazed her swollen pussy lips, and Jo felt herself flood with arousal. She wondered if Beatrice could sense how turned on she was… and hoped she didn’t. Or maybe she did want her to know. She was feeling a little lightheaded regardless. But Beatrice kept at that particular manoeuver, over and over, getting closer and closer to Jo’s most intimate parts, and each time her fingers approached that area, she would almost gasp from the pleasure. If Beatrice kept doing that, Jo might climax right there on the table, and she doubted that she would be able to hide it. But she just let go of her fears and allowed her depression-worn body feel sensation and pleasure when for weeks, months even, she felt nothing but numbness.
She felt her orgasm building from the manipulation of the electrified flesh of her inner thighs and buttocks. She let it steamroll her and exhaled with her entire body as she released all of that toxic tension that she had been sequestering within herself. Beatrice rubbed down her legs and let her hands rest on Jo’s feet before finally disengaging contact for the first time in the whole hour. It was like she knew that Beatrice had found the release and relief her body and soul were craving.
“You can start waking up. Take your time. I will be waiting right outside for you.” Beatrice whispered into her ear, making every hair follicle on her body perk up.
“Mmm hmmm” Jo mumbled in response. A few moments after hearing the door close, she slithered off the table. Her body felt tenderized and… oddly effervescent. She was tingling all over. It felt wonderful. She smiled to herself. She chugged an entire bottle of water, and pulled on her tights and top, throwing her bra into her handbag.
Beatrice beamed at her as she opened the door. “How do you feel?”, she asked.
“Better than I have in a very long time,” was all Jo said as Beatrice lead them back down the hallway.
“Perfect. My job here is done,” she replied with a chuckle. “I will show you to your bath.” Jo felt excitement for the first time in months. She loved the isolation bath, with its silky epsom salt brine, the dark, the silence. It was the best end to the experience. She knew it wasn’t a cure-all and that the path back to wellness would be lengthy, but it was a start, and she could feel herself again.
I love making chocolate confections at Christmastime.
I put a lot of love into each batch,
And I wholeheartedly enjoy the candy-making process…
Maybe a little too much,
As my photos may suggest.
Singing Christmas carols (and fucking up the lyrics) while melting the dark chocolate in a bain marie.
Crushing candy canes with a hammer… which helps with holiday anxiety.
Chopping up Swiss milk chocolate to sprinkle on the melted dark chocolate spread cross parchment paper, along with the candy cane pieces and toasted pecans.
Then melting white chocolate to flick and splotch onto all of that layered sticky sweet deliciousness.
I always make sure to taste test the final product…
Which never ceases to make me
Groan with the kind of pleasure
Only a handmade chocolatey confection can.
***Taste-testing occurred only after the final product was made. No nipple or saliva was included in the featured chocolate bark.***
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and Happy New Year! 🍾🥂
I bought myself an early Christmas gift.
Yes, it is supposed to look like a little light pink tentacle;
I may have mentioned a curiosity
With aliens and monsters…
Truthfully, it looked even more tentacle-y in the picture,
But this one will do…
And has done already.
I like to rub it between my slippery saline folds,
Letting the rivets excite my flesh,
And that cute little node of sweet ecstacy.
Who would have ever thought rubbing a glass dildo on myself that way would feel every bit as good as a vibrator – a piece of machinery? Maybe better, even…
But it does.
Did you know that it is for anal stimulation?!?
So I have been practicing.
A little here,
A little there,
And pushing my limits,
But not too hard…
For I am delicate,
And my secret spot —
A shy sweet pursed little rosebud.
I have to be gentle…
And oh I can be…
Which is why I should be the one
To pop that particular cherry.
One day I will grant myself access
To places and spaces
Unknown and untapped,
And this toy will be my guide.
Maybe one day,
I will invite others to explore as well,
But for now…
Practice makes perfect.
I am still experimenting with mixed media;
Sometimes experiments fail,
And sometimes they don’t.
I guess I succeeded… because I like what I created.
It’s good to try new things.
I don’t think I will ever tire of playing in paint and using my titties to make art…
Or whatever you wanna call it…
But I will always find new challenges to keep me aroused and excited
To express what is hidden,
To bring to light what has been obscured by darkness.
Many of you know how much I love trees.
I also adore the moon,
And have been worshipping her since my early teens,
When I abandoned Catholicism
For a more pagan way of being,
Which is my natural spiritual setting.
Jeez… I didn’t think I would bring religion into this,
But I guess it was flitting about in my subconscious.
It is highly amusing to me how hidden, repressed issues always find a way out into the open;
Art seems to be the most effective conduit.
So, here you have “Moon + Tree = Together 4 EV-R”.
It’s ok. It’s a start. I can only get better and more refined, right?
When I look back to February 2019 when I started this weird kinky art project of painting with body parts,
I never imagined what I would create,
I never imagined that I would actually become an artist of sorts.
But then again,
I have always been an artist…
Thank you all for your enduring and unwavering support. It means the world to me. 💜💜💜
I want to see you drip and drool,
And salivate diamonds
Into my heaven-laced pussy.
Put your face between my thighs
And let me bring you to your
Know that your place
Is where my waves ebb and flow
And the sea meets the moon-greedy sky.
***Contains spoilers. You have been warned.***
***Also, I know this isn’t a film blog but more of a creative sex blog, but some films just light my brain and/or my nether regions on fire; this is one of them.***
I recently subscribed to The Criterion Channel, and it has proven a very good investment as I absolutely adore the art of cinema, and have since I discovered it in my teens.
This past week I was very surprisingly in the mood for something erotic… I know, right? I wasn’t sure what to watch, so I literally typed in “sex” in the search field. I wanted to see what I could find.
And for your information, I don’t always watch raunchy porn (very thoughtfully curated raunchy porn, that is); sometimes I want something artfully rendered but just as explicit.
And guess what I discovered….
My search revealed this gem: “In the Realm of the Senses” (1976) by Nagisa Oshima. Oh, thank you film gods for this one!
Considered to be highly contraversial, even by today’s standards, the film was not allowed to actually be made in Japan; it had to be processed and edited in France, and given a French subtitle, L’Empire des Sens. Knowing that, I was hooked before the opening credits even began to roll.
The film is supposedly based on a true story originating in 1930s Japan of a torrid sexual affair between a married inn-owner, Kichizo Ishida, and one of his servants and a former prostitute, Sada Abe. This film encapsulates what it means to be utterly consumed by mad obsessive love. If you think Sid and Nancy were crazy, then you haven’t seen this film. In fact, Sada and Kichi probably came back as Sid and Nancy, but they sadly didn’t fare any better in that iteration of their souls either.
If you want a synopsis of the film, go to Wikipedia. I don’t want to rehash every detail. In fact, watch it for yourself, but it is highly explicit in its sexuality. You will see it all: fellatio, penetration, voyeurism, BDSM, having sex with old ladies, sticking eggs into vulvas then eating them, breath and knife play, this film is no bullshit. That egg scene alone deserves its own analysis, especially for people who are into ovipositioning. I may or may not be one of those people, too soon to tell at this point in my evolution, but anything is possible. Digressing yet again… Jesus….
The love that explodes between Kichi and Sada is enough to make him leave his family and comfortable life, and live as shut-ins in deliriously cum-soaked squallor. Once they lock themselves into their little room, spied upon by servants and geisha, they stay there and fuck their trembling and equally broken souls away for the duration of the film, falling deeper and deeper into a boundless void of increasingly kinky and dangerous fuckery.
They get into choking and strangulation, and discover new heights of transcendent and horrifying pleasure. They flirt with extreme danger, and get off on the possibility of death by kink. These two crazy kids are the very definition of testing the limits, and it is borderline traumatic to behold, even for art’s sake. Yet I couldn’t stop looking at the destructive manifestations of their hysterical and unfathomably famished attraction to each other.
Sada cannot get enough of Kichi’s (refreshingly average-sized) cock, especially how it twitches inside of her the harder she chokes him. The trust and bare intimacy between them is what marks the difference between art and pornography in this film.
When she finally chokes Kichi to death, with his consent, they are unafraid of the ensuing physical separation; they are joined at the soul, and their bond is absolute. After he dies, she severes his beloved penis and writes “Sada and Kichi the two of us forever” on his chest in blood. She embraces him in tear-stained joy as they have acheived the highest level of blissful carnal abandonment: physical death. A terrifying concept, and not one I advocate for, but it is a hallmark of the depth of their frightening connection; not even death can separate them, not even death can put a stopper in their l’amour fou.
The rest of the allegedly true story goes that she was caught walking the streets with his penis either in hand or in her in a state of absolute bliss. Keep in mind that women were not exactly encouraged to wear their sexuality on their sleeves the way Sada does; one could argue that it still remains this way for women all over the world. Yet she is unapologetic in her extreme love and sexual hunger for Kichi-san, and still stands as a beacon of unfettered unashamed feminine sexuality even today.
Is she a murderer or a hero? Maybe she was a bit of both. Regardless though, this film is sheer genius and deserves to be watched many times over… especially for that egg scene which I can’t seem to get out of my head… for some strange reason.
If you enjoy extended orgasms with some shock, horror, high art and emotional intensity thrown in for good measure, this film is for you.
Images from Google
I am open to suggestions of similar films. Know any? I want more!
I still feel your heated and hushed words against my dew-licked skin.
Flame-scorched whisperings that blow cold the burning beads of sweat curling down the dreamscape of my body,
Sending chills up and down my spine,
And right into the living marrow of my ghostwhite bones.
There is no place for a mind in times like this,
No place for thought,
No place for doubt,
Or for time;
We exist on a timeless, senseless plane,
And I am content to abandon the density of this earth for the Light
Of a higher realm.
I lost my head the moment you opened your mouth upon me,
And fed your utterings and divine growlings into my soul.