Dark Mother

I am continually surprised that the words “male” and “female” are so broadly conflated with “masculinity” and “femininity”. The scientific reality of who we superficially label male, female, or intersex is a many faceted and complex chemical, biological, and chromosomal reality. A reality that incredibly few people (if any) know the entire story of, even about themselves. How many people have been tested for chromosomal variations, had their hormone levels scrutinized, or their brains scanned for sexed patterns? Not many.

The reality of how bodies are constructed and what each individual is capable of and incapable of across any number of skill ranges, emotional responses, desires, likes, dislikes, and preferences is far reaching in its variance. Many personal preferences emerge due to socializing and family upbringing rather than natural instinct. Looking across cultures there are more than a few “masculine” traits deemed “feminine” from one culture to the next, as well as flipped expectations historically as we travel through time. Ruth used to be a man’s name, pink was what boys wore not so long ago, and women weren’t allowed to don pants in public (much less prefer the clothing style) once upon a time. The desires we attach to femininity or masculinity are largely based in archetype. The Mother archetype drives “feminine” expectations, and the Father, “masculinity”. Certainly though, in this day and age (and indeed throughout history since the beginning of time), many citizens have not opted to become parents. Many AFAB bodies never become pregnant due to capability, desire, and/or circumstance. Many AMAB people never accomplish impregnation for a plethora of reasons as well. Does this mean that these “females” are not feminine, or that these “males” are less than masculine? Of course not. And what expectations do we lay upon the intersex child? What desires and skills are set aside for them as they grow old and discover the world?

In truth, we are all capable of a very wide range of instincts and desires, skills and preferences. We are all connected to the nurturing Mother archetype, and the engine for action which we deem masculine. In many philosophies it is believed that each individual holds both yin and yang within their bodies and spirits, and balance is the ultimate goal. Why then have we designated demonstrative extremities of masculinity or femininity to be markers of successful maleness and femaleness respectively? Each of us can desire both and neither from any entry in a collated column of social standards. Phenotypic sex, that moment of assumption from a medical professional who checks a box on a piece of paper, is a singular tragedy which plays into our future potential measured by society. This one cosmetic assumption (or surgical creation) is only a fraction of the story about how a body functions, yet it becomes the flawed measuring stick the whole of our lives is measured against. Women with high sex drives and no desire to raise children, men who are stay at home fathers and love to garden and sew, intersex people, transgender people, non-binary realities — these lives are not supremely rare nor deeply hidden when you look around, even if they are maligned, ignored, suppressed, or downplayed by the limited imaginations of scores of binary-mythology devotees.

It is time to look deep within. Who are you? What do you love? How do you want to be known? What is this life, this body, to you? To love your body is to know what you want for yourself in your life. Whether you are into body modification to make you feel more desireable, whole, or content (be it in the form of piercings, plastic surgery, tattoos, hormone replacement therapy, or any number of other expressive choices you make for yourself), or whether you are content not to change your physicality at all to center your empowerment (choosing only to drape your body to suit your tastes), you are allowed the life your heart feels is your own. Your body, your gender, your sex, your potential, all these things belong to no one other than your intelligent, changeable, ever evolving self.


Dark Mother

Out of dark waters from the Mother
We come marching

The battlefield of our lives
Finding sanctity of self

Quick, away the raining conquests
Who would see you in jails unimaginable

Welcome these three forms first
Wanting nothing from you
To your door instead

Feminine nurtures you whole
Masculine carrying momentum
Enchantrix Balance awakens the garden
Of Joy, fulfillment, and potential

Open your arms
Cook for these close strangers
Bed them in your home

They will teach you how to pull the strings
Connecting us all


Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

Please support my work on Patreon. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist 
~Thank you.

Journey to Dirt

In the beginning there was mucous, blood, grey and purple skin. There were cacophonous sounds and everything was light. Hands on your body, sensation of your own cry, coughing up the fluid from inside. Cold steel, warm blankets, pinpricks, trembling hands passing the new body around, the breath of your parents on your face, or not. It is romantic to think it was violent, that moment of your birth, it is arrogant to believe it was not.

Everything had changed.

Growth happened over the years. Plague and fear. Your unlimited curiosity stabbed by the million laws. Gratefulness is replaced with unrealistic needs. Things. A shopping spree of ballcaps, TVs, the latest brightener, soothe-goop, popstar jewels extracted unethically from third world thighs, and cattle crying in the fields for tenderer meat… Somewhere inside we must be trying to find the womb, swim against this tide, get back to our shuddering mucous covered muteness. Peace within ineptitude — now achievable through only our greatest sins. Sex by numbers is a game we placate our inner demons with, not seeing they grow wilder at the smell of our rancid unused groins… We need these demons, telling us who we are and what we’re meant to be. Lubricating oils spontaneously produce, made of scented atoms which open our chests to one another, engage the feral beasts underneath. The most natural thing is to growl as two and four-legged pheromones pass us. Sweat is the Goddess we were warned about.

Instead we play at it, repress, shame, shroud in silence, and ignore the harmonic dance of life.

We turn on the telly to remember how it goes: fuck when you see fuck, cry when you see cry, or sometimes rigidly sit in flaccid bewilderment while the clown fails to connect with you. These choreographies were meant for flesh met times. We aren’t learning an authentic dance.

The edge of a cliff looms. Stare down the slick walls of your erectness and the whole world seems opportunity to procreate. Unpracticed we fail and fail again, jizz impotent. Tissues, a hand. Silent. Waste without the divine intertwined.

You forget you are holy.

The most natural thing is touching yourself. Feel the hum of blood, rise and fall of sunshine in your chest. The most natural thing is wanting others, give and take, dark roots, bright moon.

Sip in the air, open up your chest. Oxygen works its way from center to the infinity above your head and depths down. Extend your range, aim to horizon and beyond, it’s what you are here for. Fill Universe with sound and light, your mucus filled lungs and mini images of you flying into the vastness. Again! Again! Thrive! Find delight! Seduce, ground, recognize this road lined in shining mica to the dirt.

Silence lies sold to you for comfort.  Bad exchange, believing yourself worthless, unwhole, made wrong, incomplete, or meant for less.

We are powerful and brilliant. Older siblings reaching hands to help the next. We are frustrated beetles covering the windowsills of this house, trying forever to stay warm and get the fuck out. We are hardy and hopeful, shaking the Earth, stepping on ground given us which someday will swallow all whole. Fall into soil. Risen from sex. Lived wary of love or discovery, no true release. How do we Gods master time before bugs carry corpus away? Smell of rain and soil is calling from your cunt. We learn to play.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

Please support my work on Patreon. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist 
~Thank you.

Feeding the Monster

My room at the residency. Beautiful. I’m excited to work with herbs and words…

I’m at an artist residency for a couple weeks and it’s been an amazing opportunity to really see how much I struggle with my process, with my own artistry, and with a feeling that I even have a right to exist among artists.

I’ve been tincturing and making herbal smoking blends, cooking and nurturing my body. I’ve been experimenting with ideas, and keeping up with a couple long term art projects I mind daily. I’ve been considering ritual and the theater. I’ve been spreading out around a house full of others hard at work, and I’ve been writing, processing, and enjoying the thoughts of the people I’m sharing this space with. I’ve been struggling with my image. Struggling with my body — a month on Testosterone and I can’t put my finger on whether my physical ups and downs are a cycle predominantly related to T, or if it’s just because every week I’m in a new location which is inherently disruptive to my body anyhow. My writing and my art has felt disrupted this week too. I’ve been feeling stuck, but that’s part and parcel of the tension building which is artistic process… I wait and work when I can and listen to the things I need and try to give them to myself. This morning I had a breakthrough revelation of so many conversations coming together in my head. It felt great.

My Reishi Tincture start! The beautiful fungus that you must carve like wood.

I’m turning my solo show, NO SHAME, from a 30 minute event into a 75 minute one. There’s a lot I want to say that I haven’t touched on, and so much has changed since I started writing it year ago. There are newfound pleasures to throw at my audience, and an evolution of thought and personal journey I want to bring to the stage. I want! I’m a little overwhelmed by all that I want.

I want this. I deserve this. I want this. I deserve this… The mantra one must chant to get anything done when your work involves making yourself queasy from personal exposure.

I was reading somewhere recently that transpeople tend to have very high thresholds of pain. I wonder if this is because living with a constant repression of self within society builds that tolerance, or if it’s a brain type thing, or maybe just a purely speculative remark I’m thinking too much about…

Some version of the following will probably end up in my show:


I’m not a fucking freak. I’m just disinterested in sex that doesn’t pleasure me.

I hold a deeply rooted fear that every time I feel pleasure I am alienating the universe. In part, I’m the artist I am because of this very internalized stress. My pleasure, as female, as gender variant, as kinky, and as queer is fecund to my society — it’s clearly illustrated on every billboard and microbrewery label: my ass is for selling, and not by me.

I’d better wise up and look a certain way if I’m gonna get paid to sit pretty in an office somewhere. I should really understand the value of make-up and push-up bras if I’m going to get a job I’m overqualified and underpaid to loathe every second at. I should smile when people say “smile, hon”, because me smiling matches that picture of the model drinking Pepsi Cola they saw earlier, and that makes them more comfortable in the office. Smiling women and soda: yes we’re a commodity, stockable, and part of the courtesy cart just this side of the water cooler. Chattel. Don’t look at my nipples, but please do twist my teets until your coffee is the color which brings you the most pleasure and least stress in this cardboard environment — I bet cardboard is the color you like your coffee too.

One’s daily “grind” is the realist thing we actually build, think about it. How many hours do you invest in that job you like… um… the paycheck from? So please, while at the office definitely comfort the fuck out of yourself — even if that means discomforting me in the process. I am under you.

Under your rank, under your thumb in moments of emotional sadism, under your wing (when you desire the lens of altruism selling your brand), under your pay scale most definitely, under your desk in fantasies… Under you in every way you wish from here to next Tuesday. I see you.

This is why I’m unhireable except to other sluts and dykes, and those of you wanting a ticket to the menstruating testosterone-taking freak show! And I’m happy to have it that way. This work is hard, I’m still underpaid, but I’m proud of what I make.

So now beautiful audience, this show isn’t going to get all open, wet, passionate, and unbridled because your expectation of entertainment is that it’s fun and easy — we’ve got some skills to learn! Here in the temple we call theater I think it’s important to feed the monster. Approach slowly, respectfully, and listen hard to what it wants… Let’s get this bitch warm, shall we?

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

Please support my work on Patreon. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist 
~Thank you.

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