Femme Remix

a four letter word called sex: Northern Voice 2010

fiercekitty — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 22:45:15 +0000

hello there.

this is a petition of sorts. a petition for challenge. a petition for inspiration. a petition for change. a petition for sex. at least the visibility of it within the tech/blogging community. it is sad for the idea of sex, and all of its wonderful manifestations, is often neglected when it comes to major conferences that revolve around new media, the internet and all things technological. as a complimentary resource for visibility, the sexual side of the internet has spawned separate conferences where its inclusiveness around sex and technology is the main and only focus.

i want to change all of this. at least for the internet community in vancouver.

my proposed panel for Northern Voice 2010 around sex and technology was accepted for the main schedule of the blogging conference. this proposal came reflexively from attending last year’s conference and really paying witness to the non-existent discussion in, almost utter avoidance, of sex in all of the main tracks of discussion. i felt this needed to be present in this year’s conference in order for a healthy balanced perspective to be achieved around blogging and the internet.

when my panel got accepted i immediately asked four of my dear friends to speak on the panel with me. Courtney Trouble, Jiz Lee, Dylan Ryan and the Control Enthusiast are all vital compenents to the potential depth of knowledge that my panel can attest to. each of these amazing people has a strong interest in sex, identity, the internet and the culture that revolves around all three. each of them would bring a different prespective to the discussion, specifically ones’ that Northern Voice may not have had the previous pleasure of presenting.

vancouver needs this type of diversity, fierce presence, open sexuality and fusion of online identity. i want to be able to bring all if not some of it to my panel presentation with it bleeding into the existence of the conference as a whole. vancouver needs this.

my petition:

dylan ryan’s submission for the Northern Voice 2010 Travel Scholarship:

the control enthusiast’s submission for the Northern Voice 2010 Travel Scholarship:
Spending Time with Sexy Brains

jiz lee’s submission for the Northern Voice 2010 Travel Scholarship:
Northern Voices

here are the lovely ones i have been talking about:

the control enthusiast
control enthusiast on twitter
control enthusiast website

photo by Courtney Trouble

dylan ryan
dylan ryan on twitter
dylan ryan website

photo by Courtney Trouble

courtney trouble
courtney trouble on twitter
courtney trouble website

photo by Courtney Trouble

jiz lee
jiz lee on twitter
jiz lee website

thank you. the non-visibility of sex is coming to an end.

(photo of the control enthusiast by Kris Krüg)

a personal story remix

fiercekitty — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 19:02:21 +0000

This is a personal story. All stories come forth from an experience or a moment of reflection that results in a revelation of circumstance, but this is simply a personal story. Nothing more and certainly nothing less.

The morning was unlike any other in a daydream. The rays of light broke into my eyelids, peeling them back like the sharp edges of an unripe pear out of season. I had spent many sleepless nights awake in a flutter of thought of how the day could have been better and how my words could have had better strike in delivery. Sifting through moments to rid myself of the coulds and the shoulds, I often was sidetracked by the actual happenings trapped in my spiral memory. I was neither the same nor any different with my memory in tact, for the holes let the light in very brightly.

This was how I awoke this morning. Ripped open from a thoughtless daydream during the evening hours, I just simply couldn’t hold onto it anymore. The feeling of accomplishment and a job well done was not to be had in this moment.

I was alone in this minute but surrounded by seconds that felt fuller than that hug that lasted forever and a day.

The morning came just after nightfall had held its monthly party. I heard the stars dancing on the top of my roof, pittering and pattering with icicle heels and dresses made of moss, clipped in the back. Those parties eclipsed the breath I held in, most hours in my bed. Wondering what the music sounded like, the evening before the morning, for the first of all times, I ventured into the darkness with hestitation and presumed notions of futility.

How stupid.

This was wrong.

I was the mistake I couldn’t fix.

This was not mine.

I messed up. again.

The same soundtrack outplayed itself in my head like a dime stuck to a record with clear nail polish. Skipping over and over the good parts of melodies, the droning dismal voices echoed in my head as I stepped out the window. Knowing not how I was going to ascend to the roof, I first felt the breeze on my face. Warm with the welcoming of the trees, the wind carried the dreams of anything it touched. Full with the banter of hidden nuts, broken wings, lost ones, new beginnings, lavender ribbon, dangerous trails and floating castles on the wet ground, this particular wind stung my face with the cold knowing that dreams carry over miles to unknown. Tinged on the ends with fresh wood chips, newly blossomed mint and the subtle rot of the dying in a corner, this wind wrapped around my face after initial contact to hold my bone structure in invisible hands. Each thought kissed my eyelids, each dream tickled my cheeks and I even heard the cries whisper in my ears with solace of finally being heard. Blinking half awake with the wind’s tough caress, I gazed to the sky.

This is where the shock settled in quite quickly. They say that shock often creeps up on you in a swift move of defeat for yourself, but I eased into it eagerly. I was ready.

The sky was the blackest of night, no sign of light, no stray glimmer of glitter caught in the sky tonight.

I knew it. I knew the sky would always darken as I pretended to sleep my sleepless night away in a bed that comforted only in the easiest of efforts.

I had little trust for myself. Placed before me was the first of many times where I could learn to trust everything I knew.

Snapping my head quickly to the pale ceiling of my room, I was not startled by the increased frequency of the clatter that collected up north. Starting off slowly the rhythmic matter ascended into a booming rattle of commotion that attracted the likeliest of ears. Close enough to feel it, I noticed it slowed to match my racing heart beat when I breathed deeply in. Finally, I was connecting.

My decision was made.

Turning back to the open window, I closed my eyes easily using the fingers of the wind as a guide for descension. My moment was almost up, timed perfectly to the last number called.

Breathing in at the perfect ratio: the equation of doubling the seconds of exhale to the slight seconds of inhale, proceeding to double the equation in the quietest of darkness, until the feeling bubbled to the surface that I may never need to inhale again.

Immediately I was wrapped in the spiral wind, a coil sprung shut by its own trap set. Doubling over in breathy need to feel the environment that encased my senses, I felt towards the dark and touched the rough gravel of my roof. The wind unwound its tangle of arms when my balance had been fully regained.

It was in this moment that everything I had spent every hour of my life distrusting, breaking down, criticizing in efforts of being the best I could never be, it was in this moment, that the wind carried it all away to unknown ears to weep over. I was left heartbroken by my own inferior need of sadist tendencies. I was lighter because I was empty and I was empty because there was nothing left to trust but the trust within me.

They hid in the night by a simple miscalculation of the eye’s dire need to readjust to any available light source. With out any means to adjust, the eyes will simply create motion within motion and fabricate the story as it supposedly happens. They danced in small circles with their heads down. Dripping in the ground coverings that no one ever paid attention to as our shoes crushed it, they were perfect apparitions of mist clad in moss clung tight to their curves and hiding most of the parts that would catch your eye.

It was only when their feet started moving together in the pitter patter that I had dreamed upon with my eyes squeezed open in the room below, it was only then that their eyes opened up above. It was only then did my eyes adjust to witness truly the only real moment that had ever happened.

The first step of the beginning was more of a pivot turn.

Their eyes darted from each other, to their skirts that they bunched their hands, to the trees that waved next to them braced by the dancing wind, their eyes moved in the same dance that their feet bore but with the intensity of concentrated light captured in just one tiny small space. The fractals of reflections gleamed off of dew drops clung desperately to newly formed leaves, to the watery eyes of the creatures asleep in dream, to the tears sliding down the edge of my face, the colors mixed perfectly with the dark sky to create a perfect circle of all that could have ever been and all that really was. The dance of the stars was not magical. The dance of the stars was not a spectacle. The dance of the stars was the simple truth that what was ever in that moment was forever in that moment with the intensity of all that ever was. Every moment carried everything, all the time. There was no potential, there was only witness.

Easing myself onto the edge of the roof, I was comforted by myself. Using the wind as a backing seat, I held myself softly, letting my soundtrack fade to an unknown memory. I was silence in its most basic state. Watching the stars dance for hours was a slight nod to the attendence of life itself, but I would have gladly watched them for all of time for that was all the time I had to give. I wanted to give them all of me, ripped open by the notions that I could trust myself to gift myself to them, but in all honesty, they didn’t want that nor did they need it. All they needed was my eyes for the presence of this time when we had met. This was the gift I gave that night, I gave myself to myself, holding my own hand, I accepted graciously with passionate dignity.

Hours after they tirelessly danced in frantic fury and soft passionate exile on my roof, the stars started to thin in their already barely visible attire. Slowly moss started to drop off their bodies, as if the full avalanche was right around the corner. I knew I was waking up the morning.

Slowly I turned my head around as my eyes sliced through the pink cloud that was peering through the tree line, just to the east of where I sat. The pink edged out a soft orange that clung to bits of yellow for support. Slowly swirling to the prepubescent blues that made up the natural gases of an everyday glance, I knew that this was it.

It was then that the rays pierced my eyelids. I was shocked at their brilliance, the sun was just tipping on the brink of breaking and the moss that covered my roof was a thick sponge of retractable thoughts. Pulled by the silver cord, I was done with my journey, the dances had ended on the note of remarkable fury, the gases were painting in aqua hues and I was struck by the stark reverence that the stars tolerated, no moss, concentrated light, sparking into the distance and snapping into the swirling hues of the sky’s every predictable palette.

The morning was unlike any other morning in a daydream. The morning was painted the same stain as the former ones but the missing element of filled with the newest of gods: silence, reverence, love and the knowledge that any moment is every moment awaiting to dance.

This is just a personal story. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.

(all photos by Kris Krüg)

Assumed authenticity : transparency remix

fiercekitty — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 06:30:03 +0000

It has become apparent that our world of understanding has been slowly moving towards a world of transparent understanding. Transparency tends to be a blanket term used to describe a nice sense of open-nes that develops dialogue, allows for insight and breaks down barriers into sometimes closed-door situations. The unfortunate underestimate of transparency is that it inadvertently proposes an assumption of authenticity. If this assumption is conveniently overlooked, any positive ripple effect that transparency could produce would ultimately be eradicated.

Digitally our world has moved from a closed circuit powder party to an open room loud with voices screaming. Everyone everywhere have something to say and are willingly open enough to say it. The internet provides relatively free platforms for us to document our lives in excruciating detail, with listeners worldwide holding onto the edge of their seats for a slight nuance of change, hope, inspiration, communication or anything. The saturation level of noise has deafened many ears but ultimately the openness of it all is pervasive and intense. The dissection of us for the sake of transparency has started with us holding the scalpel and making the first holy incision.

Like any experiment done in a proper scientific manner, the outcome is greatly affected by the variable that is tragically depicted as the witness. We witness and ultimately change the fate of an existence that once was never witnessed. We assumed that our play into the experiment was benign and our eyes could not ultimately jeopardize the desired outcome. The open variable of the witness actually being a malignant form in a controlled environment brings to light the same dialogue on an unintentional social experiment: do we alter the authenticity of our transparent existence by acknowledging the listener on the other end as a bonafide witness?

The question revolves around the clouded aspect that our continued state of transparency becoming a deluge of auto-responses to the listener’s trained ear. Our think veil of openness can be trained and refined, even our unrefined edges have a tailoring to them from their overexposure. When someone accentuates every aspect of their everything, the dialogue can be manufactured into a tailored direction of any particular liking. I write about said topic, become associated with said topic, engage dialogue on said topic and this have spun a cleverly placed yarn around said topic in every aspect of my transparent monologue. Convenience can arise from the fact that truth may be an element that exists but when compounded with transparency can actually become an magnifying glass to just one facet of a multifaceted diamond. We are what other perceive us to be and that is merely based on that fact that living in the world we have created, we are not the only ones living, breathing and engaging with our personal lives. There are witnesses to practically everything that we put on the plate and that can and will affect the outcome of further offerings. Each of this witnesses can change the pattern of our lives when they engage with our openness in its transparent format. Reality is never as transparent as it seems so the mere belief that true transparency exists can delude even the most delusional.

Being keenly critical of true authenticity should not necessarily be combined with the weight lifting feeling that the open movement has stirred awake. There is something to be said to the fact that our collective conscious has gradually moved towards a momentum that is inclusive in its decision making process and inclined exposure to the tight-lipped sections of private sectors in public communities. We have open governments, open videos and even an open encyclopedia. All of these aspects are a direct reflection of our participation. The key element of open participation is directly engaged with the transparency in a singular format. Yet these elements are not devoid of the fractures that can occur from the facade of assumed authenticity. Our interaction must be taken with them at face value for when we put our potentially exceeded expectations on them, we ultimately change them from their presented states of offering.

Our level of understanding has been forever changed by the immediacy and abundance of our results when given a specific query. The inundation of information on anything can allow us to pick and choice how we understand, and why we understand. The underbelly flipside is that it also grants us the ability to choose what we want to understand. The process of response is no longer a linear experience, we have permanently become part of the equation and in direct effect loop back around into a non-linear existence. We systematically choose our direct interaction with our query by own choices of what we want to understand. The authenticity of our experience with transparency is immediately forfeited when this happens. We are becoming a by product of our own interactions with assumed authenticity.

Transparency in digital identity and the internet can be a very confusing matter for the undertaking. Understanding a direct emotional connection utilizing cyborg technology that can start and stop your timeline wherever you freely choose can curate even the simplest of technology users into as cyborg anthropologist Amber Case claims ‘inventors of a famous machine’. We are creating the machines of ourselves, keyed into the information as open as it may be, but programmed nonetheless to portray the image we want. Our transparency through blogs, tweets, updates, photos, anything is merely a simplified creative programming of ourselves into this technological landscape. We are creating ourselves in the image of ourselves, filtered through the digital divide and perceived as a transparent mimicry. The unfortunate circumstance is that the digital medium allows us to filter, whether consciously or subconsciously. We are editing ourselves whether we realize it or not and editing can ultimately strip authenticity down to a unconscious contrived notion.

Our lives have never before had as much exposure as they do in the day we live in. Everything, everywhere is recorded or documented and then critiqued by players that may or may not have any connection to our daily existence. We are the digital creator are aware of ears and eyes playing out our key moves in our daily lives, the mundane and important details are mixed together to an inseparable format. This is new territory and is quickly mapping our wiring to fire in ways that can be stripped of all our normal checks and balances. We are aware that others are aware. We are open to the fact that others are open to us. We listen for people are talking. We talk because people are listening. Our timelines are concrete as far back as a search result goes and our authentic self can be commented upon. Our world is no longer our world and we share our everything with anyone is logged in at the same moment. Our common definition of transparency and authenticity ultimately falter at keenly applying to the new world we live in.

The question as trite as it may be is: a farmer lives her life as a farmer and no one knows about it. another farmer lives her life as a farmer and has a blog that she journals in it. she documents the food she grows. she tweets when her crops fail. ultimately she is a culmination of her digital identity which is a farmer. and the first farmer is a culmination of her life as a farmer. just as a farmer. which one excels? the farmer who knows that everyone knows that she is a farmer, even people that she does not know and this knowledge effects her. or the farmer who no one knows is a farmer but an unknown population can not effect her. this is the question.

universal truths – understanding remix

fiercekitty — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 21:37:58 +0000

photo by kris krüg

Universal truths tend to exist outside of themselves in a stillness that is eloquently unavoidable. Such truths can be spoken about in different contexts by various minds to pinpoint the center of such their essence. The beauty of universal truths is not so much in their undefinable definitions being coherently understood by the masses at the appropriate moment. Their actual beauty exists in the spontaneous realization at any approximate moment of understanding, with each understanding being held intently with the mind for which it is perceived upon. The universal element of such truths is the resonance that they create within us upon impact. When a building collapses upon itself with the greatest of all destruction. everyone inside gets hurt but their hurt is witnessed in emotional, physical and spiritual differences. The commonality held between them is the metaphorical hurt.
We can not escape such universal truths for when they reveal themselves they connect with the residual pieces of themselves that live in all of us. The primordial split has left dent, bruises, twigs, bits and leaves inside hidden corners that have never caught blown away in the commotion to wind ourselves into the frenzy of the unconnected. Some have spoken of this origin within the context of the primordial ooze. This idea of the primordial ooze is for which everything has come from and thus out of creation has everything been touched by the same creating essence with residual ripple effect. A ripple divides upon itself with each diligent descent but never entirely disappears. We have heard the principle of a butterfly’s wings creating the force for which halfway around the world manifests a powerful sea storm. If the universal truth plays upon the potential power of the movement of a small creature such as a butterfly, one can imagine such the power play upon a universal truth that is rippled upon the minds of connected and the unconnected that can instantaneously shatter hearts like glass upon pavement with the intensity of realization.

photo by kris krüg

A benign example of this idea of a universal truth can be held in the space of a scream. The very thought of a scream contextually references the dark and unknown in everyone’s initial existence but the truth actually held is far greater. When a scream is issued into a space of the unknown with variables far greater than the mind’s eye, I canter to the idea of universal truth being the complete of awareness of the felt power. We experience the scream by its connection to the scream living silently inside of us. We truthfully unlock the presence of the residual image of our own scream and thus universally, feel the presence of the scream inside of us because of our external stimulation by a scream outside of ourselves.
Masterfully the trick of such an experience is not in the gratuitous notion that we all discover what is behind the door unlocked. The contents contained are not the reflexive universal element within us. I can experience fear from my unlocked door, while my neighbor could experience grief tinged with sadness behind theirs. The Truly universal experience is which truth can sustain is that such a primordial experience, such as the scream, allows us to unlock. We can only unlock the pieces from which we came from, which are different in their personal residence, by connecting with the key of a base element. An instantaneous freedom within ourselves to connect our internal experience to the external happening of others’ internal processes is a completion of exploring large scale osmosis.

photo by kris krüg

There are many and few universal truths. Yet the boiled down base of each truth is that it unlocks, intentionally or perhaps unintentionally. The process of opening up is by far the greatest element of each truth. Universally, the truth is a key. The answer or chaos by which the key discovers is our internal elemental connection to the primordial from which we came from. The primordial, with its experience of everything, can be anything. With such knowledge is important to potentially realize that this is the least important element of all. With each key given to us, we are unlocked whether we choose to turn the key. Our only choice lies after the fact. When one hears a scream, we are all react differently because in the unlocking, we are connected to the once was which has never left.

the new story: the memory remix

fiercekitty — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 20:01:42 +0000

photo by kris krug

i’ve done the crazy and been the crazy. still, to no avail, the craziest ten hours of my life revolved around a bottle of whiskey and a couch. luckily for the couch, it wasn’t just me sitting upon and furthermore the bottle of whiskey was in good company because my lips never touched it. still nonetheless, i was settled in for the ride of the circus of a lifetime. the players were characters of themselves. characters wrapped in character suits, three sizes too big and lines that read straight off the back of cue cards. the miracle of the night was the timing of every situation, lapped upon each other and my fervent sober memory cells detailing the outlines of each account in the blurriest of all detail. this was the night that a couch saved my life.
the setting was of such that no light came in or out of the gallery. the darkness dripped over ripped shards of what was once considered furniture. balancing at the perfect acute angle, my ass did not approve of such precarious destinations. i just wanted to sit down. to my dismay, i did a lot of sitting that night and thank god my lack of caring extended to my ass, because the objects of such sitting were highly questionable. even for the uncaring.
i stumbled into this darkened cave by the off-handed reference of a distant friend. the conditions under which i was invited were about as clear as the firewater everyone was coating their insides with, but alas the uncaring care little about thoughts preceding the unknown. the darker the reason, the more unclear the emotion, the safer one feels. perhaps.
the red light coated everyone’s face in a sweet menace that was potentially highly offensive but ridiculous in its unabashed care of painting all of us. many photos were taken that evening in a hopes of capturing every perfect element in all of its perfect imperfections but everyone was too wasted to care to try to focus, not blink or position the camera without any movement. any physical capture of this evening actually perfectly captured the entrails of room. wavy unfocused people moving around haphazardly. a light defining a face gripped by industrial backdrops with no hope in sight. smiles that were washed out by general fade. blurry images clearly depicting all the blurry things that crawl through the night in hopes of finding solace. it captured the blur exactly as it was.

photo by kris krug

i can’t even remember if music blared through the empty walls that were dotted with canvases of all sizes, painted entirely in black paint. the walls had more escape black holes than the inside of my head but i was not going to be the first person to point out their glaring fact. my mind was represented in this cavern and i was terrified that people would recognize it for what it was. i played it out with everyone else but all the while feeling like i was playing too close to home with a comfortable audience. the only element that played a melody in front of me was the boy with the saxophone. he had no idea how to actually play it but the prop in his hands kept him with a purpose while the rest of the room droned out the lull.
the whiskey bottle never came into my careening eye with much vigor. it always just had a place on the sidelines, silent with its watch. occasionally it got the action it was looking for and the party promptly thanked it eagerly. the mood was saturated with the dark and the liquid was not excused. everyone proceeded to approach getting hammered but ultimately there was always a plateau that was hit. once the settling in was formulated, they couldn’t get past that last hump of inebriation. they weren’t any less coherent but perhaps more honestly open and apparent than ever before. the characters in the room were finally ready to read all of their lines with the systematic gusto that each approached it with. this was not a show nor was the spectacle for me, i was merely a character myself. my only stage direction was to simply: pay attention.
once the party of the evening was officially dead, the hours seemed to approach days. this is when the couch took center stage. my cyclic existence was a gratifying one because i existed solely on this couch for hours. some of the four remaining characters would gravitate towards me for entertaining or general playing, but my main attention was the simplistic nature of the couch. it had distinguishing characteristics about that were overtly memorable. if poked and prodded, i wouldn’t have been able to tell you the make, the mode, the color or even the fabric. i don’t remember if it was scratchy or old, or brand new or soft like velvet. all i remember is that that couch saved my life.
blasted by the fact that a couch could simply save someone’s life, i’m sure, but it’s true.

photo by kris krug

not so much memory was acquired while sitting on this couch, except the fact that i was literally transformed. the circus of earlier was no longer a theatre of the absurd, it had turned into my life. i was living my life on this couch with these characters, building upon story lines with references that had never happened. i was creating dissent out of thin air and life was breathing into me with the warm, dirty breath of a full night wide awake. people started to run out of sense to make and common areas like the simple touch lost any true value. words were spoken that night that could have been looked upon as seeds of the future. but i don’t care to think that deep without the proper tools by my side. so i kept the seeds in my pocket for further inspection at a later date with more light around me.
the night soon ended in that space like the ending of time in a vacuum. there was no loud brash bravado with closing doors and girls crying. there was no off handed remarks from characters that lay in the foreground trying to score the spotlight. there was no misunderstanding. there was no hangover of the dark paintings on the wall. there really wasn’t a couch at all because once i left it and closed the door, the show was over. the play was done. the characters kept rolling their lines in such proper format that i was brutally shocked at the length.
i kept up with my part. the whiskey bottle had proven that to me. and my time spent on that couch were simply my fifteen minutes of fame. i was a star that night about to burn out but for fifteen minutes, i held on to my light. no one saw it but really that was besides the point.
in all honesty.

possibility: the emotional remix

fiercekitty — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 06:25:20 +0000

photo by kris krug

The theory of emotions and possibility is always a very interesting, sometimes slippery slope down a subjectively intellectual landscape. Possibility is often expansive, pervasive and endless while emotions can be oppressive and constricting by the simple restrictions and mental boundaries. The intersection of the two areas is a simple one: emotional states create much possibility, though often times unnecessary noisy possibility that is destructive and distracting.

A remixed idea of such an intersection is acting about the inverse action proposed. If highly emotional states created noisy unneeded levels of possibility, is it possible that narrowed avenues of possibility obliterate the pathway for the fostering of highly emotional states? In the simplest idea process, if you care less about specific situations, can that eventually make you feel better.

Now I am not condoning the notion of self-proclaimed naiveness is a serving practice but we can have active choice in what our possibility is directed towards. We can have the possibility of exaggerated emotions causing loud brash story lines berating our heads or we can have the endless journey of bliss. The idea of bliss is not a plane of irrational happiness but of courtless jousts devoid of endless battles. The battles we pick can be the battles we ultimately choose but the battles we pick do not have to the authority of picking us.

photo by kris krug

There was a talk by Barry Schwartz published on the TED website called the Paradox of Choice. that detailed the idea that with more choice, we have more misery and more sadness. The more choice that is presented to us ultimately increases our notion of loss, apathy, guilt and mistake. Emotions can have the same effect on the psyche. The greater attention paid to enhanced emotions can cause us the unneeded sense of loss and failure.

We can fail at feeling when our feelings override what they are actually accentuating. When emotions lack punctuation, literally a mental semi-colon, they ride us to the every end. It may not be the simplistic equation of care less, feel better. The remix of the final emotional sentence might simply be: care with guided intention, feel better. When our intentions precede our delivery of how we care, our emotions can exclaim to the fullest extent for which they were created. To simply emote. Not to generate the unnecessary or the unneeded. Just to simply emote.

Once we are done emoting, the possibility of expansive possibility is limited by the grounds of the simple sense of the word: by which of what is possible. When our emotions allows us to believe that the terribly impossible can happen, everything in the world seems possible and plausible. The inverse can be sustained as well; when our emotions create the space for themselves and our possibility is not a contingent hinge, we can really and sincerely feel better.

femme manifesto: the remix of me

fiercekitty — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 18:40:57 +0000

I have many names. The one that matters the most is the one that I respond to.
I am a quantum femme. Challenging the proposition of femininity with my every step, I can be everywhere and nowhere in the same second. I leave a track in the dirt which marks that I have indeed touched the earth. The moment the wind takes it away does not lessen the moment it existed.
I am a fluid creature, ever adapting to my own personal existence. I cannot be pinned to futile labels that concretely identify the essence of me for one second. I must stand open in my own being to move freely.
I have skills that are ever evolving as I grow. Some are defined by conventional standards and those I track for remembrance and referral. Some of my skills are unspoken for and manifest in the moments that they are needed. These skills I must wholeheartedly trust in for they lay undefined but still just as powerful as those defined.
I am in the now because I am with myself. I like myself because I love myself. I love myself because I like myself.
I am grateful for my life just as I am grateful for the lives I encounter daily, and the lessons I learn from their lives. I can teach people by merely being myself. I am the muse I have always looked for.
I have natural gifts and I should hold dearly to those only for the sake of remembering to give them away. If I lose sight of the gifts I have and do not foster their growth, they are worthless for their gift to give away is often overlooked and forgotten.
I must never forget my sorrows and my sadness because they strengthen me when my happiness and joy is present. My emotions are the seasoning as to how I taste my life. It is not always bitter just as it is not always sweet.
I feast upon myself so that I can be the sustenance to others. I am full of life because I have breath. I am not my thoughts for my thoughts are merely a guide as to what my actions may be. My thoughts do not define my footsteps.
I can manifest the action of love by not only carrying love but emerging in love and swimming in it. Love can be fierce with sharp claws, but it is still love. I can be all of these emanations without losing the sense of action.
I manifest what I want in my life. Sometimes looking into the filter of my imperfections I may manifest the unpleasant and the unwanted but surely I must understand that I am not any less powerful. My manifestations are still my manifestations and I must relish in the complete action of such power. I can choose at any moment how I feel and what I do. Sometimes I need to choose the unpleasant and unwanted to know that I can choose the pleasant and the dearly wanted. I own everything I manifest.
The light I have in my life comes from the darkness it has grown in. I do not shy away from my dark hidden corners. I rejoice that I have such places to learn in, such haunts to grow from and such comfort that I may return at a moment’s notice. I am not afraid of such places. The only fear I have in my life is pulled from the gravity of the unknown. The unknown is simply such, unknown. I not know of its gravity or its defiance, so such is the fear that escapes there. I know fear as merely a hinderance to jumping. My fear of falling is merely a misplaced perspective of wanting to fly.
The only living death I shall know is the death of my dreams. The upmost importance should be forth put into maintaining a sense of freedom in dreaming. I can dream up any possibility, any ability, any adventure, anything. The first step is believing I have the freedom to dream. The only one who can take away such a freedom is myself.
I am impossible and in charge of my own possibility. I can be anything I want to be. The expansive universe does not exist outside for it is merely a region that exists inside me. I expand infinitely. I am the bright star of the sun, soon to burn out at the end of a very long line. I am the fierce light of the moon, silently playing many roles. I am the gravitational pull, drawing my manifestations towards me with force. I am the stars that line the way for myself and others to journey along safely.
I am the mother and child before they have separated.
I am the electric space between two lovers’ lips just before the first touch.
I am the softness of the wind that carries the sunlight upon its back, heavy and effortless.
I am the goddess particle: splintered, dented, bruised and multiplied.
I am a quantum femme.

Tweet Tweet Kitty: Digital Identity remix

fiercekitty — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 02:23:15 +0000

photo by kris krüg

The internet is a magical wonderful place of open-source living, multi-use platforms and a kid in a candy store’s viewpoint of fun ways to be creative digitally. When the ability to go digital and have an identity online first came into the household, it was often speculated if online identities paralleled and mimicked IRL (in real life) identities. For the first time since never we had at our fingertips to create and control how other people viewed us. Whether it was in photos, writing, or even our names, our identities were up for grabs and we were the ones selling and buying in this new virtual marketplace.
Gradually the fresh face reality of the digital world wore off and it became more apparent that the online world could really just be a connection and extension of our ‘in real life’ existence. Having not separate identities but one singular identity that was spread out digitally seemed to suit the generation of cyber punks, digital movers and shakers and internet townspeople that our world has cultivated. The beauty of the internet at this stage of its life is that it can foster and sustain the level of creativity that we have in our everyday lives and enhance, enrich and allow it spread exponentially to communities that have otherwise been unconnected.
And then there are the people that create online identities for cats.

draco hydra, taking a break from creating online content

Cats, or kitties as I like to affectionately call them, are well known for their striking personalities and cuddly features but maintaining and pontificating on the internet has not been one of their strong points nor have they ever expressed their necessity to do so. Because they are cats.
Yet. This proves a very interesting point and provides a very interesting social commentary to how the internet plays into our daily existence. No longer is the digital world a playground for the facade of who you are, but it is a world that is as tangible as the world we breathe in and such should all the elements begin to have a place there too.
This digital presence of mammals especially has saturated the airwaves of the Twitter world. Not only did our kitty Draco Hydra magically appear in the Twitter feeds this morning as @Hydracat but there is also the infamous Sockington cat who tweets under @Sockington, has over 600,000 followers reading his tweets, is following over 350 other cat friends on twitter, has a Sockington blog and even has a Sockington t-shirt deigned around his likeness.
Sockington the cat is still a a cat. Draco Hydra is still a cat. Yet their digital presence is strong even if their paws are lacking thumbs, I am totally in favor of this creative ownership and digital identity creation in the internet of today. We are making the world wide web, a web of streaming content that is directly connected to the lives we lead everyday.
And sometimes those lives include dogs, mice, birds, whales and even cats who might love a platform to tweet ‘i wish the window was open.’

Brothers Backward – Stupid Intelligent Mixtape

fiercekitty — Thu, 28 May 2009 19:32:58 +0000

passage and mike busse

A small distorted child-like voice opens this brand new spankin’ mixtape by Brothers Backword with the phrase ‘it’s a brand new party, the old one’s dead’. No truer could have been uttered in the opening steps of this barely 25 minute long perfectly titled Stupid Intelligent mixtape. The boys otherwise known as Passage and Mike Busse really take the effort of mixing in a mix of songs, new and old, into their new release. Whether it is spitting a clever trickle of spit over Stereo MC‘s ‘Connected’ or sweet talking an older women in my favorite track ‘Special Education’ with a touch of Seal‘s ‘Crazy’ as a closer, these boys never stop. Like good little hip young fellows they foil the gender folly and slip in some sweet female vocal sample remixes from Ladyhawke, the Millionaires, Shannon and even a sound clip from the Sound of Music.
These boys get the attention span of all of us wee ones unindated with youtube videos of fluffy kittens, internet memes that change quicker than your wpm and the memory span of how many years of constant partying. Passage and Mike make the art of mix a fun experience down memory lane and lay down the bed of hip-hop as colorful mix of fabric. The ride of this aural sensation is like a good fuck: nice, sweet and directly to the point.

this is where this mixtape lives: in the land of bomarr’s awesome blog.

Religious Iconography: Gender Remix

fiercekitty — Thu, 28 May 2009 02:09:23 +0000

I am constantly fascinated by the simplistic and often vague gender representation in religious iconography. As a young child I often would stare up at statues of the Virgin Mary and of a stigmatized Jesus Christ and think of the soft facial features, non-descript body structure and highlighted defining details. Sexualizing aside it appeared that the general obvious distinguishing features of man/woman, masculine/feminine were terrifically blurred for the sake of not ambiguous gender representation but more or less for the artistic visual dialect of mono-theistic Christian artisans. Delightfully so, such reverence is often taken into consideration even if perhaps it is merely stumbled upon commentary of gender theory. With this notion it warms my heart and grays my gender spectrum even more so when contemporary artists take their own ideals of such theory and drive them into artistic inspiration.

This beautiful piece of art included a faux gold- detailed frame and the holographic remix of the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ. Placed ornately over the toilet in the bathroom of the rad Austin, TX tattoo/piercing shop Shaman Modifications Tattoo and Piercing, this piece of art often would surprise the unsuspecting bathroom visitor by a simple hologram that depicted the Virgin Mary on one angle and then a holographic version of Jesus Christ in another angle.

Of course I choose to stand right in the center where the true remix happened: a perfect outline of a blurred religious icon devoid of any specific gender. My favorite.

The Virgin Mary

Jesus Christ