break on through

so they're doing this promo thing on the radio, one of those classic rock odes to the doors. it's quite good, actually - cleverly written and aimed at my generation. that doesn't happen super often, wedged as i am between gen x and gen why. (ah, labels.)

but all the song snippets they're highlighting their fan-o-rific words with are the pap - sorry, i mean pop hits. they don't even skim through any of the really good ones, like crystal ship or ghost song.

i mean, don't get me wrong, light my fire's a good song and for a good part of my adolescence, also what i said to get my smokes lit by friends. (and a big thank you to them for never punching me!) but it's not quite good enough to be heard as many times as i've already heard it.

and no end in sight, either. i will surely hear that song a staggering amount of times before i die.

(shrug)
meh, whatever.

___
have a lovely weekend! i'm heading off to where the wild things are for some swimming, chilling, writing and tequila drinkin. hell yea.

mmmmm, yes

the heat has abated, and i'm feeling sexy for the first time in days. that sweet succulent tingly feeling is washing over me, and my mind is racing, racing with thoughts of mischief...

i'm thinking of being out somewhere, anywhere, writhing on some dance floor to deep, grinding music. i'm thinking i can feel eyes watching me, sending a charge of electricity through me. i don't return the gaze, but with a peripheral smirk i thrust my hips toward him. it's subtle but he sees, and moves toward me.

a cat-and-mouse game of coyness, drinks and sly subtle laughs ensues until we are raging for more. my bag is slung over my shoulder before he can finish saying: "let's go back to my place."

as the cab peels away from the curb, our fingers are already laced in each other's hair. he pulls me toward him and i yield completely. his mouth is hot and soft and fierce as he licks and sucks and bites my moist lips. our breath dances wildly as as we fumble and stumble into and through each other, desperate to be alone together.

when we arrive, finally, at his place, he pushes me up against the wall just inside the door. i long to have him tear off my shirt, but he unbuttons it slowly, watching me as i yearn impatiently for his lips on my flesh. i pull him into me, grinding my hips against an erection i can feel straining against his pants. i begin fumbling with his button, his zipper but he grabs my hands and holds them forcefully behind my back.

i'm panting softly as he reaches in the hallway closet for a scarf. he uses it to tie my hands behind my back, and continues his slow, torturous discovery of my body.

he covers me with slow, soft kisses: my lips, my neck, my nipples, my ribs, my belly button. i'm moaning softly, trembling as he slides a hand up my skirt. i feel his hands gently brush my heaving cunt and i softly cry out "Please." he looks up, smiling sardonically, and pulls away to watch me wriggling, desperate for him. he approaches slowly and i gasp as suddenly, ferociously, he yanks my skirt off. "is this what you want, lover?" i sigh softly, "yes, oh god yes."

i'm naked before him, and he appraises me appreciatively. his hands smoothly caress my skin as he sinks to his knees. he lifts one leg over his shoulder and begins to shower my wet pussy with gentle kisses. i moan plaintively and he acquiesces at last, lazily sliding a tongue along my swollen lips and deep into me, and along my lips, and into me. he sucks gently on my clit and i cry out ecstatically.

his lips and tongue savour me completely until my hips buckle and i come, screaming, in his mouth. i'm breathless and delirious, and collapse into his arms.

christ, i'll have to finish this fantasy elsewhere than sitting at a computer...
(hoowee)

smoke blues

i stayed up way way way past my bedtime last night and of course did my 9-to-5 shtick today. throw in some dedicated fringing since our fringe theatre festival opened on wednesday and you've got yourself one tired monkey. so no fresh new ladykaen thoughts for you today. instead i'm going to share a poem i read, from an anthology called Without Reservation (Indigenous Erotica), collected and edited by Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm and published by Kegedonce Press.

it's a piece called Smoke Blues,
by Daniel David Moses

You watch the smoke slip through
and catch, blue on his lips.
And you think No, it's not
the blatant cigarette
that puts the heat into

this habit, friend. Rather
it's the revelation
of limits, how the glow
of tobacco shows where
his exhalation ends.

It gives breath a body
and the body shows This
is how close you get with
out getting burned. Before
you trespass or you kiss.


lovely, hunh?
have a glorious weekend ducklings!!

happy canada day!

this past friday (july 1) was canada day, for those international readers who might not know. in addition to enjoying a day off (a treat i always savour), i got to see my friends and idols, Tabarruk, playing in Nathan Phillips Square. despite the raging heat, i danced from first chord to last beat. damn they just keep getting better and better, how is that possible?

alas, the day also had a less than shiny moment. hanging out in a pub before the show, sitting alone, it was impossible for me to not overhear a young couple having a discussion a few feet away. here's what i wrote:

i'm listening to some young dumb idiot talking about Canada, and how Canada specifically doesn't have a culture, because there are so many cultures. he makes a comparison: could you survive in Brazil without speaking portuguese?? see because in Brazil, there's such a strong culture that you have to fit into... like this homogeneity is some kind of ideal. like "culture" is a scale, with homogeneity as the pinnacle.

and i want to hurt him, he's so stupid. my muscles are rippling with revulsion.

does he not realize how incredible this mass array of unique and preserved cultures is? does he not realize that this mosaic of cultures IS Canadian culture?? does he not realize that the systems we've created that allow people to preserve their individuality, yet coexist mostly peacefully is a rare and precious thing that makes Canada so fucking exquisite?

does he not realize that the ability to choose from pizza, falafel, hot dogs, shishtaouk, mcdonald's, chinese or vietnamese after a night of boozing doesn't exist everywhere else?

man, people can be so fucking stupid. it's amazing how much people take for granted...

ugh, i'm going to hit him! he's talking about Québec now.
i'm outta here..

(she grabs her book and flees before doing something decidedly unCanadian: beating the young stupid stranger.)

soul bits from the scribble book

first of all, happy saint-jean-baptiste!

i’ve spent the week dragging my ass around, smiling sloppily and washing the last vestiges of a month of delicious semi-mayhem from my pores. so no full, lushly rounded thoughts for you, my ducklings. instead, i offer a smorgasbord of soul bits from the infamous scribble book.

(ok, this one goes back a little over a month (which somehow seems so far away!) well whatever: relive spring!) the air smells of autumn, but it looks like spring – complete with the neon green peach fuzz that now canopies our sky with its retro meshness. all this frolicking – pre-pubescent trees rubbing up against each other, giggling their coy consent on the cool breeze.
___
we are standing outside the party, smoking anything we can wrap our lips around. we gaze lazily at the sky. we do not know, but the northern lights are backstage, smoking cigarettes to soothe their jitterbug blood or standing in corners retracing sections of the choreography they're about to thrill the city folk with. one of us speaks staggeringly, “what time is it?” another ventures a guess: “12:30? 1?” another looks at his watch and laughs – it’s exactly 12:31.
ahhh, it’s the little things that delight me so…
___
i am on the threshold of trouble, and i beg for more. yes, yes, make me dirty with your shy gaze and wanton laugh.

paper cut

i try to ignore you, my badministration badge, try to ignore your murder-mouthed grin. but the cool water streams down my fingers and finds you, my purple heart of 9-to-5, and tickles you into dark searing laughter.

___
i fucking hate paper cuts! but hey, at least they're not as bad as folder cuts. those fuckers'll have you wincing in pain for weeks. i once had a folder jump and contort itself, seeking the smooth, soft flesh that lay hidden well underneath my giant ring (unfortunately not the protective armour it could or should have been), proving that folders are evil, malicious little fuckers.

sigh - the trials and tribulations of office work...
(grin)
.

home for a rest

ah – here i am, back in front of a computer, feeling slightly dazed and smiling dopily: i have had the bestest couple of weeks ever.

i have savoured theatre in three cities. the highlights:

• the Children’s Festival in Toronto. i saw a charming and funny and beautiful piece from.. erm… somewhere in Europe, called Past Half Remembered, and a lovely, intriguing, strange little show from the Netherlands, called Museum of Memories.
• the Festival de théâtre des Amériques in Montreal. this is where i saw La Chambre d’Isabella (the magnificent delight of Belgian wonderfulness that i talked about a few posts back). another notable artistic experience was being allowed to sit in on the presentation of a work in progress choreographed by Sylvain Émard. it was so beautiful, and i hope they come to Toronto so i can see the final product – it’s sure to be stunning.
• and finally, the Magnetic North theatre festival in Ottawa. i got to see Daniel MacIvor’s Cul-de-sac again (had seen it here in Toronto), which was just as incredible the second time around. also loved Old Trout Puppet Workshop’s very beautiful and dark and magical Pinocchio, Pi Theatre's charming, slightly haunting and inspiring Élisa’s Skin, and i laughed my guts out with Andy Jones' King o’ Fun.

it’s been quite the few weeks, but the shows i saw don’t even scratch the surface of what makes the whole experience so gratifyingly incredible. if you’ve been reading a while, you may remember me gushing over this place i spent my thursday nights, called “the shop.” crammed with theatre types, beer, smoke and stories, i loved being there. well – every night at these festivals was like that.

whether in the cinemathèque in Montreal, or the mayflower in Ottawa, oh the hours i spent talking shit, sharing ideas and laughing richly. i met people that i know will be friends for years to come, and also with whom i hope to work. you know, make some theatre... like the glowing-grinned Virginia: writer, director, choreographer and shiny soul. and some of the half life folk – (in order of appearance) Randy, Richard and John. it was also great to spend some more time with the ever-charming and wonderful David and sweet-smiled, bright-eyed Jonathan from Calgary. and there were Vancouver kin too: Del and DK!!! always a delight to spend some time and ah DK, so glorious and delicious to kiss those sweet lips again…

so a big fucking YEA! to my month of june! it's been... unforgettable. well.. except the parts that are too hazy (ahem) to remember, of course... (grin)

kissed

today, my lips are tingling: i need to be kissed.

looking lazily out the window, i tilt my head back and savour each succulent snapshot: soft trembling fingers curling in my hair, a rush of hot breath rubbing up against my neck, a soft hot tongue gliding gently along my lower lip.

today, i feel like i could spend a month kissing. my lips are hungry, longing for the taste of mouths frenzied and tangled in a lusty tango, gliding and panting in and through each other until we are overwhelmed. until breathless and ecstatic, we begin gently savouring, tenderly perusing.

today, i'm lost in those slow searching licks, the soft playful bites and sweet sucking. i'm consumed with a furious longing for the feathered brush strokes of impressionist lips, the hurricane of heated breath, the inferno of yes.

today, i really need to be kissed.

what is this intimacy thing?

i was riding into work this morning, breathing in the smells of summer: trees, earth, rotting garbage and smog. mmm, summer in the city (back of my neck getting dirt and gritty). and i spent the time musing on intimacy.

i was recently talking with someone who read my astrological chart, and i wondered if it was a sort of cheating, like "instant kaen." not that the chart was oh so revelatory, but when he read the qualities out to me, i either agreed or disagreed. and i wondered if we weren't maybe creating a false intimacy?

but no, i don't think so... let's say he was paying attention to what qualities i identified with: yes i'm passionate, no i'm not obsessed with success and so on. fact of it is, that would only tell him who i think i am.

i think friends or lovers only know each other - achieve intimacy- when the friend or lover truly discovers not only how i see myself, and not even how i want to be seen (though these are insights the lover and close friend alone are offered. well.. and blog readers.) the keen friend or lover will see also how i really am, the depth of my unknowable soul.

although... i guess people fake that knowledge all the time, by focusing on stuff like how we want to be seen rather than who we really are. they stroke the ego with platitudes that we've created for their abuse. so perhaps false intimacy is indeed possible after all. perhaps even rampant.
but anyway, that's not the case or point there so let's just... leave it at that. (shrug)
.

flemish fantabulousness

beautiful.
beautifulbeautifulbeautifulbeautifulbeautifulbeautifulbeautiful
beautifulbeautifulbeautifulbeautifulbeautifulbeautifulbeautiful.
if i wrote it a hundred - a hundred thousand times - it would still be a word, a pathetic two-dimensional hiccup attempting to capture the most incredible and profoundly impacting theatre i've ever experienced.

so i went to montreal last week for the festival de théâtre des amériques, and saw La Chambre d'Isabella, written and directed by Jan Lauwers of Brussels' Needcompany. i'd never seen anything like it. i've sinced learned that it's part of what the kids are calling "the belgian aesthetic" which among other things incorporates a lot of movement - and a very particular kind of movement - into theatre: i.e. movement theatre. if you don't know what movement theatre is, it basically incorporates... well... movement into.. you know, theatre. it also happens to be the kind of theatre i've been writing.

as i jumped to my feet after the show, hands flapping furiously, the slow steady stream of tears started. blocks away from the theatre, they slid still, and my heart raced and my body vibrated. it wasn't sad - it was just so beautiful...

but it was also more than that. it was new and powerful and inspiring and overwhelming. days later, i'm still not entirely sure why i cried. oh sure, the story is sad and beautiful and that inevitably played its part on my heart. but the sensations that coursed through me ran deeper.

maybe i'd felt my brain grow and knowing i was changed, mourned for the child, an infant in the world of movement theatre, who was no more. or maybe i felt challenged, supercharged with a deep desire to create something so exquisite. or maybe i cried because a few nights earlier, i'd met the company. after a flirty, giggly stumble back to the hotel, Jan suavely tried to turn a chaste kiss on the cheek into a lusty smooch and after seeing his show, i really wished i had kissed him...

whatever it was, i was deeply moved and look forward to seeing more of their work.
.