A taste of where I am…

Loch Torridon

Forgive me I am mesmerised, hypnotised and joyously lost in a story of my own creation. Holidays for me mean a chance to absorb myself fully in the world of my invented characters and give them a chance to live and weave their stories. I will be back and I miss you all but right now my family of invention hold my attention jealously as without me they are naught. So for now, while I can, I am devoting myself to their need… don’t forget me I will return momentarily, satiated with the lengthy tale and ready to play with my everyday meandering thoughts and the decadence of the other tales longing to be told…

Errant Satiety wishing you all a delicious, hope filled and rich New Year full of the promise of 2014 (image Steve Carter)

Querer – Nuevo Tango by Francesca Gagnon

English translation Querer – to want, to love:

Querer – Want/Love

Want
Inside of the heart
Without shame, without reason
With the fire of passion

Want
Without looking behind
Through the eyes
Always and even more

Love
Be able to fight
Against the wind and fly
Discover the sea’s beauty

Want
And be able to share
Our thirst of life
The gift that gives us love
Is life

Want
Between the sky and the sea
Without the force of gravity
Feeling of liberty

Want
Without ever expecting
Give solely to give
Always and even more

Seek

At the height of flight

There is one I wish to speak with, I am a nocturnal creature I kiss the sunrise as I lay my form to sleep, yet the one I long for lives outside of time, at least a time I cannot keep. My reach is for the beloved an ache leaving the soul rendered speechless. Sadness and reverence settle within my being, as there is no hope for this love. Yet I live for hope, I bask in it as other creatures bask in sunlight. I cry silent to the sky can you hear my weeping? Can you feel my longing? I reach deeply into all I know and find only captive wishing for saviour, for lost home, an aching for wholeness. Touch me, claim me hold me close to your gentle heart that I can hear it beat that I can tell time by your pulse and find myself once again within the world. Hold me. Take me in stillness. Gift me hope.

Words by Errant Satiety Image taken from here

My dog is nice

Still water

I once said in a response to a compliment “that is nice”, the Israeli man I was speaking with looked at me and said “my dog is nice, you are beautiful.”

I worked on a site-specific dance project a few years back. We spent 10 days in the harsh mountainous wilderness of New Zealand creating short pieces within the stunning but severe and changeable environment. The small crew was made up from dancers and cinematographers from the US, Indonesia, Australia and New Zealand. We departed on the first day to walk up the mountain with everything required. Once we arrived at the base hut we made home and gathered to talk. These daily talks became a source of wonder. In the first we discussed the faults that teach of us had and how this might impact the work.  The resounding flaw of mine that was raised was that I was, and I quote, ‘too nice’. I was bemused as to what to do about this seemingly negative trait.

We worked hard, in fact on the first day as we ascended to the mountain peak I was not at my best (at this time I was struggling with several undiagnosed auto-immune diseases) yet I made it with everyone else to the peak and we danced in an almost ridiculously dangerous gale force wind. This wind returned on another day to which myself and another beautiful dancer performed a near naked a duet. It was both insanity and stunningly sublime. The entire time we filmed I was aware of this statement that I was ‘too nice’. I thought because of this that I was a periphery to the work. It wasn’t until the final edit was released and shown publically that I realised I was equal to everyone else and in fact that I took a starring role in most of the final cuts. Again when it came to submitting our diaries for the website my work, although raw, featured significantly. This project taught me something about being ‘nice’; it is a part of me. It is not something I can shed and if that were the only thing these dancers who knew me intimately could come up with as a ‘negative’ then, well I am fine with that. I was in contact with the producer of this piece (editing some work he was writing) about 10 days ago and he had joked whether I was still being ‘too nice’. I assured him resolutely that I was.

This past week I was seriously challenged. I questioned my self, my deep self, that part of me that is kind and ‘nice’ to all in my life (except those I feel intuitively uncomfortable with and I generally have a very strong intuition). I thought seriously about changing who I am publically. I saw this week (once again) that my perhaps my true self is best kept under wraps and muted, when I let it out invariably trouble finds me, as it did this week. Yet a single comment from one person who I deal with almost daily yet do not feel ‘close to’ made me realise the futility and stupidity of this idea. She said, “You can’t change who you really are and you my friend are implicitly nice, you are beautiful. If anyone ever tried to do what that man suggested I know that there are easily a hundred people here in this work place alone that would stand behind you to be sure that either it never happened or if it did that he paid a very heavy price. That smile of yours is a blessing and I know I am not the only one who would fight to the death to make sure that smile is always in the world, unchanged.”

Humbled.

I am going to keep on being nice like that Israeli mans dog even if it means I get kicked occasionally because apparently there are more that see my light than those who wish to extinguish it.

Musical offering (a little bit of Christmas spirit and incredible beautiful)

Words and image by Errant Satiety

Humour me

snow-white

I want to talk of metaphor. How it shapes us, our thoughts, our self, our very being, of who we dream we are, who we were, who we are to become. I read a post today it reminded me of a passionate interest I have. I had been searching before reading this of something I wrote long ago, a series of questions during my master’s studies that I put to a group of people. I wanted to post it here but it has been lost, multiple changes of address and hard drives but the passion still excites me. I want to you ask you my dear readers what story defines you? What metaphor drives you? Are you aware or is it under the surface defining you without your knowledge.

Did you know that the brain cleverly and economically functions on metaphor. It is the most brilliant method of data storage we have in our organic super computer brains. We think the super computers we carry in our hands now days are amazing yet the function of our human brain is beyond anything we can create, yet. I refer to this as the human brain has an incredible ability to serve or destroy us. Created like the universe in a magnificent inexplicable evolutionary moment similar to the ‘big bang’ (or for the creationists among us when the word of God brought about the world) the Homo sapiens brain evolved and was able to remember, formulate future, to imagine, to plan and to create on a level that no other creature on Earth comes close. It didn’t happen to all of them, just some and over time there were more (through genetics and learning). Yet there was a cost, a high cost. The cost was the need for a high protein diet, the need to attend to our young for much longer than any other creature on this planet. These brains of ours are large and are not fully grown when we are born. We seem to be born with a relatively open template for growth that we can adapt to incredible differences in languages, in culture and in environment. To do so we spend 50% of our childhood sleeping in the REM state. What is the REM state? Dreaming. Did you know that within the cycle of sleep we spend a significant period of every 90 minutes dreaming? This dreaming period expends as much energy as the ‘awake’ brain does. Did you know that you experience the REM state while awake? Every 90 minutes (more or less, the time varies person to person) during your waking day you ‘trance out’ (know the feeling when you need a glass of water, a nap, a break, a walk, a coffee, some food….). This is the moment needed to solidify learning or let go of experiences not needed. Same as when we sleep.

Significantly we dream to release the emotional arousal or expectations of the day. We dream in metaphor to avoid any issues as the brain, elegant as it is, does not know the difference between the real, the imagined or the dreamed. This process is sometimes referred to as ‘Expectation fulfillment theory’ or the ‘flush toilet mechanism’. A simple example is perhaps the boss says something that you do not like but cannot without jeopardising your employment say what you would like to them. That night fuming you go home, fall asleep and dream of telling someone in authority, say an old teacher or public political figure etc, exactly what you think of them. You wake and return to your work environment without feeling emotionally aroused and ready to tell you boss: ‘F *%& you buddy you can F*&%ing stick your stupid job’.

But back to the point, what stories defined you as a child? Have you updated these ideas or inadvertently is your brain still seeking to fulfill these metaphorical ideals? My personal example is the classic ‘Snow White’ story. I didn’t have many books, in fact very few, but I had this one book with wood block prints and lyrical verse. I was lost to it. But this metaphor defined me far longer than I ever intended. Until I consciously realised and created a new metaphor for myself that launched me into something unexpected. I wrote something simple and childish to bridge the gap between where my metaphorical expectations were and where my adult self realized I wanted to be. I defined myself as a ‘knight in shining pink armour on a quest of knowledge and learning’. My metaphor before this (as defined by Snow White) was that I was persecuted for who I was and would be hunted by women of perceived power and those within the execution of their will and my only hope was to be saved by a prince on a white charger… seriously these stories we read have great effect (I am no feminist just one who has seen and experienced the difference this choice makes for man and woman). I have had several more metaphors since this first consciously rewritten one which was playful and made me smile in the face of adversary. Metaphors don’t need to be elaborate…. Can you remember what your favourite childhood story was? Is it relevant now? Does it still have a hold on you? Do you need to take charge of that magnificent brain of yours and feed it some better information setting it on a search for a much richer and wonderful tomorrow? Humour me. Lets see what comes to mind in the next few days….

Words by Errant Satiety image from here. Major credit to the Human Givens Institute.

Please feel free to email me privately with any questions.

The Artist and His muse; Bedtime

Paul Sieffert

Reclining Nude – Paul Sieffert

The Artist and His Muse continued from Bathed

I luxuriate in the pose, allowing myself to get wetter and wetter. I hear his pencil on the paper and know it is my form he draws. I sigh and settle only able to see the tiniest part of him. For some time I wait content. Then frustration enters me. My aching becomes an itch I must scratch. The pencil is scratching on the paper when I want friction on my clit or against my body. I calm and remind myself of our agreement… but I want that cock I have tasted to penetrate me, to slide in where his fingers have paved the way. I desire, my desire becomes stretching to elongate my form. I am posed poised for penetration yet I cannot bear the wait.

Irritable now I wait, knowing his are eyes upon me, drinking me in. His fingers and hands are sketching me; he is absorbed in me, yet I am irritable. The sexual tension honed and tempered between touch of gaze and physical touch has left me peaking. Remembered orgasm, his and mine, excites my appetite and I hunger for more yet this is unfamiliar territory. I am placed in a highly sexual pose, aching, wanting yet he seems intensely patient. I knew there would be learning in this arrangement but I begin to feel absurd. My lip pouts unintentionally. I return to my breath, my serenity, deeper I settle deeper into the pose. Moments later I stir. I venture a conversation:

“Sir?”

“Yes.”

“How does the sketching go?”

“I am sketching.” And I am posing. There are conversations to be had but not now. I know we will talk. I am being petulant. I cannot ignore my open labia, my swollen clit, my juices flowing for him. Perhaps it is saturation. It is the first day.

“You will not be still!” He does not make his voice louder just stronger, dominating. I cringe. His footsteps approach his hands on my rear, circular rubbing then a sharp crack. I am stunned by the sensation. Again his hand connects with my rear. I suck my breath in audibly. More strokes harder yet measured, then his contained hardness pressing against my aching cunt.

“You must learn to be still for me, we will talk when I desire it otherwise it is distraction nothing less. You are a spoilt child I should not have gifted you an orgasm so soon.” I whimper in embarrassment.

His hand strikes my other cheek again, and again and again. I am crying out loud.

“Please Sir, I understand I must be still and listen to you. We will talk when the mood takes you not when I am impatient.” My ass stings with the mark of his hand.

“Better.” He says. “But you have broken my concentration.” He pushes me flat and brings something from below the bed these are leather cuffs he places one on each of my wrists and my ankles. He moves me stretching my legs out and raises my arms above me. He secures my wrists close together to metal rings on the bed head and my ankles to the foot of the bed. I hear the resolute sounds of locks clicking and see the key he secrets into his jeans pocket, beyond my reach.

“You, my divine muse, need to sleep.” He kisses me deeply. He slides a finger into my naked depths and groans at the wetness he finds. His hands roll me over and deft fingers trail over my hot red buttocks, his mouth leaves a trail of heated kisses across my seared flesh. 

“You my sweet muse need to cum again. But you must wait as I do for the creative spirit to enter me, you must wait for me to enter you.” He teases my nipples, with fingers with his hot mouth until I am nearly in tears with want then he is pressing his hardness within his jeans against my lips, my mouth. I open my mouth and attempt to taste him through his jeans then he releases himself and my wanton whore mouth is open wet and willing to service him. The heat, the passion and scent of sex in my mouth are intense. He cums deep in my mouth and I swallow finding myself wholeheartedly thanking him. He kisses my eyes.

“Good girl, sleep. I will be back.” He zips himself up covers me with the blankets and walks out the door locking it behind him. Leaving me bound, panting and wet with want.

Words by Errant Satiety Image Paul Sieffert ‘Reclining Nude’

Continued with Evening Meal