Total documents from 1987 until 2009. It's mostly 2005 onwards. I know I have notebooks and notebooks from 1986-2005. Only 1/10000 of them have been logged into a computer.
I'm overwhelmed with where to start. I don't think I want to be this kind of editor. It all seems interesting to me because it's my own history. Could it be another girl's life? Would someone relate to this? How boring is this? The latter, I've decided to follow the principle that if I feel like it's a dreary task to spell-check and capitalize, then I should move on to the next more interesting bit. Whether any of this is good is beyond me. Hell, I have no idea why I'm doing it, except there's just so damn much of it!
Showing posts with label observerations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label observerations. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Reine des Reinette
They're not Gala or McIntosh apples.
Harvest: late September; Season: October - January
Description: Gourmet dessert apple. Flavor on the sweet side.
Wikipedia's French page translated:
The queen is a variety of apple relatively old, whose maturity occurs in late summer - early autumn.
The INRA d'Angers got around 1975 a mutant characterized by a more intense staining and early maturity. His name is Belrène.
Description of the fruit
The medium fruit has a thick enough skin, slightly rough, heavily dotted with gray, yellow streaked with dull red. Her pale yellow flesh, fine juicy, crisp and tart is very pleasant to chew. This is an especially suitable for pies, especially the tarte tatin.
* Shape: cylinder-conical, slightly depressed on one side at each end.
* Peduncle: medium length, strong, especially at the base, obliquely inserted in a narrow and deep basin.
* Eye: large, half-closed, very large cavity whose edges are generally united.
* Water: sufficient, sweet, tangy and deliciously scented.
* Maturity: December-March
* Quality: First.
* Wood: hard [1].
* Palm: generally small, slightly spreading, the largest and longest, very geniculate and very fluffy, green tinged with red red slate.
* Lenticels: elongated, very large, abundant.
* Pads: very emerged.
* Eyes: large, ovoid, obtuse, clad in bark and downy.
* Leaves: excessively large, oval, somewhat hairy and brownish green above, greenish-white below, shortly acuminate and deeply toothed.
* Petiole: Short, very heavy, tomentose, often fluted.
* Stipules: the longer and wider.
* Fertility: Ordinary. Bon pollinisateur. Good pollinator.
Culture
For full wind, graft flush with the ground, this apple is admirably suited and makes trees rod straight. Dwarf forms, it thrives quite well but needs to be budded on apple Paradise, about making it more productive by lessening the excess vegetation. The variety is particularly susceptible to aphids and has a strong tendency towards alternation.
Obtained in Holland, the tree is hardy and bears the very cold climates of Northern Europe.
The Queen of pippin is particularly recommended in all the orchards because they can pollinate many other varieties. It reached full flower 2 days after Golden Delicious and is pollinated by 'Granny Smith', 'Golden Delicious',' Starking Delicious.
History
Our Queen of Reinettes - whose original name seems to have been "Kroon Renet", belonging to the Batavian language and meaning "Pippin Crown" - was born about 1770. The Netherlands, where it has long cultivated several varieties of apples Kroon, is regarded by the pomologue Diel German as the source country of the latter, he described in 1802. He had received from the Hague under the label Kroon Renet.
In English, the variety called "Queen of the pippin" distinct variety of "King of the pippin", even if the two are often confused.
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I just ate one of these drizzled in the honey from my love affair last year with the Economist Beekeeper Sex God.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Lighthouse
Celine gave me good hash.
It's been nice to remember my relationship with drugs. It's been nice to roll a joint again. I have fond memories of this. I have skills. It's why I dropped out of college. I discovered that I had other talents - not just for debating Kant, analyzing the diverse voices in a work by Sherman Alexie, or writing incredibly descriptive essays for English class -- for an assistant professor who invited Gordon Gano, from the Violent Femmes, because his dad was their lawyer. I had other talents, too, though. Rolling joints, getting high, fucking, and rockin' out at punk rock shows. Not that those, in and of themselves, say something - but they do point to a certain release and re-evaluation of my abilities. All of these activities brought out something more deep in me. Revealed new parts of myself to my eyes.
I remember sometimes losing my grip on the roach holder. Or, nights where everyone took turns rolling a joint - and, would compare techniques. Filterless. Dan, with the redhaired afro, who listed to Pavement all day long, made pizzas all night, and was so riddled with shyness that he barely spoke a word. The Teller of Penn. He'd sometimes roll two papers together and make us all high for the night. There'd be boys and girls who'd come and go. Taylor, the jock-ish kid who embodied "tall, dark, and handsome." Not too wise, but smart enough. Not as many girls came through the mix. But when they did, those boys fell so hard in love.
We never talked much about that though. We'd talk about scoring, pooling our cash, meeting the kid down at the Jim Carroll show at The Whole (or insert your choice: Scooby Don't, The Strike, J Church, Dillinger Four, Avail, Man Afraid, Propagandhi, Tribe 8). Or, someone would collect, and then all of a sudden between morning classes and your afternoon lab, Dan or Eric or Shane would show up with a big bag of grass. We talked about how to do this, and we talked about doing it, with dry gutter weed, or sticky sweet dope, picking the seeds out, and gazing in awe at how hairy it was, glistening under the one lamp in the room, the individual scent of each bag, or the familiar smell of the same batch in town, how the body would buzz or zone or hunger or fuck. We, also, talked about musical notes, we turned up the music real loud and stuffed a towel under the door, and after a while, we started getting up. Inevitably, we would end up in a slow, shoulder-hunch slinky line to the doors of the dorm. There was always one kid who'd wandered around "the other day" and found this "fucking cool ass spot." Sometimes we jumped fences. Sometimes we hid in shadows. Sometimes we got caught - and were lucky they had a girl with them.
I could never roll a perfect joint. They always looked like a snake had eaten an elephant. Or a hat.
This summer, Mr FD reminded me about this. He liked joints. Ones with tobacco and weed mixed. I could remember this from doing it in Spain. It's a nice high, where instead of the brain turning to trails of lights and feeling unable to move, it feels capable and alert, yet overwhelmingly mellow. I learned how to roll, man, did I learn. Filter, long Rizlas that I wasn't familiar with, loosening the tobacco in a small dish, de-steming the grass, mixing the two into a once-in-a-while perfect cone. We'd listen to music, too. He had the tall speakers, and he'd move the ottoman to the center point of listening, I'd sit and sometimes just rock out - Aidonia from "Jamaica's Most Wanted Mixtape," Baden Powell, Antipop Consortium, Gnarls Barkley, Reverend Charlie Jackson, Ann Peebles, and then old familiars from the college days, Praxis and Parliament.
So, now, I'm rolling my own tonight. Re-learning my way around hash is fun. Celine's 24-year-old roommmate (who sports a 7 o'clock shadow, spiky hair, and used to work for Quicksilver) scored some. Apparently hash is what you smoke when there is no grass around town. It was funny to have drinks with Celine this past weekend and watch four guys his age get high and doll up for going out clubbing.
Interesting. She said a few things while we watched some UK humor flicks. Things like, I'd "never let her before." To my comment that we should have spent more time together hanging out during school. Things like, "Are you comfortable? You're leaning on your hand. You can sit back if you wanna." I found them just friendly gestures at the time. Hm.. I guess I did kiss her and fondle her tits the other night.
So, now, I'm sitting outside on the balcony terrace, it's night cold, and the Eiffel Tower light sends out its beacon like the lighthouse. The stars are out, hazily winking through the light clouds. I can barely differentiate the clouds from the sky but for a faint hint of grey contrasting to a darker dark blue. Yes, one could say, a midnight blue.
And then an interesting thought. There might be nothing that can be done about the past, but the future you can change.
It's been nice to remember my relationship with drugs. It's been nice to roll a joint again. I have fond memories of this. I have skills. It's why I dropped out of college. I discovered that I had other talents - not just for debating Kant, analyzing the diverse voices in a work by Sherman Alexie, or writing incredibly descriptive essays for English class -- for an assistant professor who invited Gordon Gano, from the Violent Femmes, because his dad was their lawyer. I had other talents, too, though. Rolling joints, getting high, fucking, and rockin' out at punk rock shows. Not that those, in and of themselves, say something - but they do point to a certain release and re-evaluation of my abilities. All of these activities brought out something more deep in me. Revealed new parts of myself to my eyes.
I remember sometimes losing my grip on the roach holder. Or, nights where everyone took turns rolling a joint - and, would compare techniques. Filterless. Dan, with the redhaired afro, who listed to Pavement all day long, made pizzas all night, and was so riddled with shyness that he barely spoke a word. The Teller of Penn. He'd sometimes roll two papers together and make us all high for the night. There'd be boys and girls who'd come and go. Taylor, the jock-ish kid who embodied "tall, dark, and handsome." Not too wise, but smart enough. Not as many girls came through the mix. But when they did, those boys fell so hard in love.
We never talked much about that though. We'd talk about scoring, pooling our cash, meeting the kid down at the Jim Carroll show at The Whole (or insert your choice: Scooby Don't, The Strike, J Church, Dillinger Four, Avail, Man Afraid, Propagandhi, Tribe 8). Or, someone would collect, and then all of a sudden between morning classes and your afternoon lab, Dan or Eric or Shane would show up with a big bag of grass. We talked about how to do this, and we talked about doing it, with dry gutter weed, or sticky sweet dope, picking the seeds out, and gazing in awe at how hairy it was, glistening under the one lamp in the room, the individual scent of each bag, or the familiar smell of the same batch in town, how the body would buzz or zone or hunger or fuck. We, also, talked about musical notes, we turned up the music real loud and stuffed a towel under the door, and after a while, we started getting up. Inevitably, we would end up in a slow, shoulder-hunch slinky line to the doors of the dorm. There was always one kid who'd wandered around "the other day" and found this "fucking cool ass spot." Sometimes we jumped fences. Sometimes we hid in shadows. Sometimes we got caught - and were lucky they had a girl with them.
I could never roll a perfect joint. They always looked like a snake had eaten an elephant. Or a hat.
This summer, Mr FD reminded me about this. He liked joints. Ones with tobacco and weed mixed. I could remember this from doing it in Spain. It's a nice high, where instead of the brain turning to trails of lights and feeling unable to move, it feels capable and alert, yet overwhelmingly mellow. I learned how to roll, man, did I learn. Filter, long Rizlas that I wasn't familiar with, loosening the tobacco in a small dish, de-steming the grass, mixing the two into a once-in-a-while perfect cone. We'd listen to music, too. He had the tall speakers, and he'd move the ottoman to the center point of listening, I'd sit and sometimes just rock out - Aidonia from "Jamaica's Most Wanted Mixtape," Baden Powell, Antipop Consortium, Gnarls Barkley, Reverend Charlie Jackson, Ann Peebles, and then old familiars from the college days, Praxis and Parliament.
So, now, I'm rolling my own tonight. Re-learning my way around hash is fun. Celine's 24-year-old roommmate (who sports a 7 o'clock shadow, spiky hair, and used to work for Quicksilver) scored some. Apparently hash is what you smoke when there is no grass around town. It was funny to have drinks with Celine this past weekend and watch four guys his age get high and doll up for going out clubbing.
Interesting. She said a few things while we watched some UK humor flicks. Things like, I'd "never let her before." To my comment that we should have spent more time together hanging out during school. Things like, "Are you comfortable? You're leaning on your hand. You can sit back if you wanna." I found them just friendly gestures at the time. Hm.. I guess I did kiss her and fondle her tits the other night.
So, now, I'm sitting outside on the balcony terrace, it's night cold, and the Eiffel Tower light sends out its beacon like the lighthouse. The stars are out, hazily winking through the light clouds. I can barely differentiate the clouds from the sky but for a faint hint of grey contrasting to a darker dark blue. Yes, one could say, a midnight blue.
And then an interesting thought. There might be nothing that can be done about the past, but the future you can change.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
finished
I have just finished the saving the entire history of every CDOA. I now saved every motherfucking entry I have written.
Now, comes the task of re-reading and sorting them into something that makes sense. Short stories - with photos where available. Poetry - the good, the bad, and the worse. Essays - on politics, current affairs, past memories. Longer stories - of love, of lovers, of ghosts, of dead people.
I've gone as far back as 2001.
That's a lot of fucking words.
Now, comes the task of re-reading and sorting them into something that makes sense. Short stories - with photos where available. Poetry - the good, the bad, and the worse. Essays - on politics, current affairs, past memories. Longer stories - of love, of lovers, of ghosts, of dead people.
I've gone as far back as 2001.
That's a lot of fucking words.
If by, you mean
Thursday, August 29, 2002
life is so beautiful some days
when you find the perfect quotes:
"Drink you under the table? I believe I'll drink myself under the hostess!" .. unknown
"If you mean whiskey, the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.
"However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into Texas treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it. This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle." ... anon
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Today:
"Anon" has a name and immortality.
"In political discourse, if-by-whiskey is a relativist fallacy where the response to a question is contingent on the questioner's opinions and use of words with strong positive or negative connotations (e.g., terrorist as negative and freedom fighter as positive). An if-by-whiskey argument implemented through doublespeak appears to affirm both sides of an issue, and agrees with whichever side the listener supports, in effect, taking a position without taking a position." (wiki)
"Anon" is actually Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr., a young lawmaker from the U.S. state of Mississippi.
Columnist William Safire popularized the term in his column in The New York Times:
IF BY WHISKY
THE GREAT POLITICAL straddle exemplified by the if-by-whisky speech was attributed here to Gov. Fuller Warren of Florida in the 1950's [incorrect attribution]. An earlier and richer formulation was submitted by Norman L. Simpson of Syracuse, who found an undated and unattributed clipping in his family archives; he dates it to the 1920's, during discussions of the repeal of the Volstead Act prohibiting the sale of liquor:
"[insert the above quote by 'anon']"
The if-by-whisky technique is still in active use. Asked by Jonathan Alter of Newsweek if he was not too sensitive to criticism, Gov. Mario M. Cuomo of New York replied:
"If by thin-skinned you mean very, very quick to respond -- that's what I've done for a lifetime. I'd been a lawyer for more than 20 years. You can't let the comment from the witness pass.
"If [ by thin-skinned ] you're talking about being personally sensitive to criticism, that's a lot of [ expletive ] ."
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The other two Safire columns on that page are awesomeness. Jungle becomes Rain-forest.
life is so beautiful some days
when you find the perfect quotes:
"Drink you under the table? I believe I'll drink myself under the hostess!" .. unknown
"If you mean whiskey, the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.
"However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into Texas treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it. This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle." ... anon
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Today:
"Anon" has a name and immortality.
"In political discourse, if-by-whiskey is a relativist fallacy where the response to a question is contingent on the questioner's opinions and use of words with strong positive or negative connotations (e.g., terrorist as negative and freedom fighter as positive). An if-by-whiskey argument implemented through doublespeak appears to affirm both sides of an issue, and agrees with whichever side the listener supports, in effect, taking a position without taking a position." (wiki)
"Anon" is actually Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr., a young lawmaker from the U.S. state of Mississippi.
Columnist William Safire popularized the term in his column in The New York Times:
IF BY WHISKY
THE GREAT POLITICAL straddle exemplified by the if-by-whisky speech was attributed here to Gov. Fuller Warren of Florida in the 1950's [incorrect attribution]. An earlier and richer formulation was submitted by Norman L. Simpson of Syracuse, who found an undated and unattributed clipping in his family archives; he dates it to the 1920's, during discussions of the repeal of the Volstead Act prohibiting the sale of liquor:
"[insert the above quote by 'anon']"
The if-by-whisky technique is still in active use. Asked by Jonathan Alter of Newsweek if he was not too sensitive to criticism, Gov. Mario M. Cuomo of New York replied:
"If by thin-skinned you mean very, very quick to respond -- that's what I've done for a lifetime. I'd been a lawyer for more than 20 years. You can't let the comment from the witness pass.
"If [ by thin-skinned ] you're talking about being personally sensitive to criticism, that's a lot of [ expletive ] ."
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The other two Safire columns on that page are awesomeness. Jungle becomes Rain-forest.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Cheating Death - v.1
The Doors
Jim: I feel most alive confronting death, experiencing pain.
Pam: I think you're most alive recognizing beauty, seeing truth. Does death turn you on? You love death?
Jim: Life hurts a lot more. When you die, the pain's over.
Jim: I feel most alive confronting death, experiencing pain.
Pam: I think you're most alive recognizing beauty, seeing truth. Does death turn you on? You love death?
Jim: Life hurts a lot more. When you die, the pain's over.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The secret conversations I have in my head
When Flickr is uploading and/or I've had sufficient wine.
My neighbor man knocks on my door:
Man: I'm sorry, I really need to sleep tonight. Could you keep the noise down?
Me: [You can't always get what you want - Rolling Stones - is playing in the background] You know those times when you tap tap tap your fucking razor on the wall of your bathroom and it tap tap taps my wall? Well, that's fucking annoying. And, the times when you plug in that fucking amplifying speaker cord into your goddamn computer or whatever and there's that horrible loud zap sound? Or, how about your fucking teenage daughter has parties late and loudly? Or, how about the loud ping ping ping of your goddamn online chat? Or when you come home and jingle jingle jingle your fucking keys? Or, when you always slam your fucking door? Or, how I hear your moan moan moan of fucking? ... Well, I never said a goddamn fucking thing because I remember back when we ran into each other in the bouglangerie and you pretended that you didn't hear my cough cough coughing. I base our relationship on a fooling of secrecy and silence. So, fuck you. You don't hear a goddamn thing tonight.
Like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.
I could totally marry someone if we promised to live without open relationship drama and shared a housing situation wherein we each had our own apartments. I could stop by, rub his back while he painted. He could stop by, rub my back as I wrote. We wouldn't have to talk while we were in the same room though. It would be a shared appreciation of physical shared space. Just because I was there, he wouldn't have to talk - or engage me or ask my opinion or ask for my help or even acknowledge my existence. But we'd know we were there for each other.
Does anyone know an easy way to compress an MP3? Because I have a kick ass song I want to post online. Fuck Audacity - it's too complicated.
I really shouldn't have emailed that guy back last night. I was too manic to sound sane.
I dreamed I was pregnant. I know I'm not. I know this bloated belly is just PMS. But I dreamed the Spaniard knocked me up. I sent my sister an email. We started chatting on Skype and I asked her if she wanted it. We swore never to tell the child that I didn't want it. I would have to go into hiding for the 9 months. There would never be any photographs of the pregnancy. I would treat it like a niece or nephew. I would enjoy eating whatever I wanted to and lazying around the house. Childbirth would bring no feelings of regret. .... My cousin had a baby a couple of days ago. My younger cousin. The one I grew up with playing "store" in our grandparents' house. The one I told about cool music and gave mixed tapes to. The one whose brother I drunkenly sucked off in the entryway to my hotel room the night of her wedding (and who won't speak to me now - I fear I've damaged him). She's had a baby. My baby cousin. She doesn't look like she's grown up enough to do so. I can imagine her, when thinking about making the baby, giggling to her husband, shrugging her shoulders, and childishly goofing as she says, "So, whaddaya think about makin' a baby?! Hahahahha!" And then she'd do a little goofy kid dance where she'd kick up her feet a bit and square-dance her elbows out. She's a successful pharmaceutical marketer rep or something. He makes the internet buzz with interactive activity at football games and such. They live in a top floor apartment of a high-rise in Chicago. Their dog is named after a park nearby that sounds like Jackoff. They are not old enough to have a baby. Their baby does not wake my ovaries, but it makes me feel more lost. Am I really missing something? What's wrong with me that I'm not even the slightest interested in this for myself? I'm beginning to think I'm slightly developmentally slow. I mature slowly. I am only now realizing the value of my family. Will I realize the value of making my own too late?
It wasn't nice that Tall Tom didn't invite me to his party tonight.
The reason I brushed him off was for his random insistence that we hang out. I'm not "on-call" for him. He has no idea what's happening to me. He has no idea what good information I could impart to him for his second year. I feel like I'm 15 again and rejected. It's all very silly.
Yeah, that's all the conversations I've had for tonight. Or, at least those that I want to write out.
Shhh don't tell.
My neighbor man knocks on my door:
Man: I'm sorry, I really need to sleep tonight. Could you keep the noise down?
Me: [You can't always get what you want - Rolling Stones - is playing in the background] You know those times when you tap tap tap your fucking razor on the wall of your bathroom and it tap tap taps my wall? Well, that's fucking annoying. And, the times when you plug in that fucking amplifying speaker cord into your goddamn computer or whatever and there's that horrible loud zap sound? Or, how about your fucking teenage daughter has parties late and loudly? Or, how about the loud ping ping ping of your goddamn online chat? Or when you come home and jingle jingle jingle your fucking keys? Or, when you always slam your fucking door? Or, how I hear your moan moan moan of fucking? ... Well, I never said a goddamn fucking thing because I remember back when we ran into each other in the bouglangerie and you pretended that you didn't hear my cough cough coughing. I base our relationship on a fooling of secrecy and silence. So, fuck you. You don't hear a goddamn thing tonight.
Like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.
I could totally marry someone if we promised to live without open relationship drama and shared a housing situation wherein we each had our own apartments. I could stop by, rub his back while he painted. He could stop by, rub my back as I wrote. We wouldn't have to talk while we were in the same room though. It would be a shared appreciation of physical shared space. Just because I was there, he wouldn't have to talk - or engage me or ask my opinion or ask for my help or even acknowledge my existence. But we'd know we were there for each other.
Does anyone know an easy way to compress an MP3? Because I have a kick ass song I want to post online. Fuck Audacity - it's too complicated.
I really shouldn't have emailed that guy back last night. I was too manic to sound sane.
I dreamed I was pregnant. I know I'm not. I know this bloated belly is just PMS. But I dreamed the Spaniard knocked me up. I sent my sister an email. We started chatting on Skype and I asked her if she wanted it. We swore never to tell the child that I didn't want it. I would have to go into hiding for the 9 months. There would never be any photographs of the pregnancy. I would treat it like a niece or nephew. I would enjoy eating whatever I wanted to and lazying around the house. Childbirth would bring no feelings of regret. .... My cousin had a baby a couple of days ago. My younger cousin. The one I grew up with playing "store" in our grandparents' house. The one I told about cool music and gave mixed tapes to. The one whose brother I drunkenly sucked off in the entryway to my hotel room the night of her wedding (and who won't speak to me now - I fear I've damaged him). She's had a baby. My baby cousin. She doesn't look like she's grown up enough to do so. I can imagine her, when thinking about making the baby, giggling to her husband, shrugging her shoulders, and childishly goofing as she says, "So, whaddaya think about makin' a baby?! Hahahahha!" And then she'd do a little goofy kid dance where she'd kick up her feet a bit and square-dance her elbows out. She's a successful pharmaceutical marketer rep or something. He makes the internet buzz with interactive activity at football games and such. They live in a top floor apartment of a high-rise in Chicago. Their dog is named after a park nearby that sounds like Jackoff. They are not old enough to have a baby. Their baby does not wake my ovaries, but it makes me feel more lost. Am I really missing something? What's wrong with me that I'm not even the slightest interested in this for myself? I'm beginning to think I'm slightly developmentally slow. I mature slowly. I am only now realizing the value of my family. Will I realize the value of making my own too late?
It wasn't nice that Tall Tom didn't invite me to his party tonight.
The reason I brushed him off was for his random insistence that we hang out. I'm not "on-call" for him. He has no idea what's happening to me. He has no idea what good information I could impart to him for his second year. I feel like I'm 15 again and rejected. It's all very silly.
Yeah, that's all the conversations I've had for tonight. Or, at least those that I want to write out.
Shhh don't tell.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Entertainment for today
I am going over 8 years of Cheating Death Once Again and cataloging all my posts. The count on my dashboard says that since 2001 it's been 937 posts. The count I have between half of 2006 and today is 487 posts - including this one. I guess it makes sense.
I haven't stopped to read them, as that's the next phase. But in glancing and not remembering what I wrote three years ago, it looks damn interesting. I made some really quirky titles for my posts. And, as of now, I've yet to come across two of the same. That's encouraging.
I really like this McSweeney's 2006 entry that has nothing to do with cuteness:
SILLY THINGS MY 3-YEAR-OLD SAID THAT I'M CERTAIN THE REST OF THE WORLD WOULD FIND SWEET
AND CUTE.
And, then, because I need a silly break:
I AM: sitting cross-legged in a horrible chair.
I JUST NOW: poured the last of a bottle of Merlot.
I SAID: nothing to anyone today.
I WANT: to keep the big tits associated with PMS, but not the bloating belly balloon.
I WISH: sometimes when I see a star, sometimes on my birthday, and then whenever the hell I feel like it.
I HATE: nothing really, but sometimes I use the word for emphasis.
I MISS: daily newspapers (for the crossword), Wired magazine, Newsweek.
I FEAR: fear.
I HEAR: way too much on this street: scooters, motorcycles, horns, cars, buses, babies crying, people screaming, and random birds - usually pigeons.
I WONDER: all the time, and it's a great activity.
I REGRET: nothing - still - and that's a great thing.
I AM NOT: a man, but sometimes I feel like I have penis.
I SING: the song of freedom - but only in the shower, and only in my head.
I CRY: when I cut fucking leeks; and then, not enough.
I AM NOT ALWAYS: pretty.
I MADE: dookie this morning.
I WRITE: when inspired, since 1986.
I CONFUSE: memories.
I NEED: sunshine or Vitamin D daily.
I SHOULD: do and be so many things, but I'm not Catholic so I don't care too much.
I START: books and often never finish them.
I FINISH: when I have to.
I haven't stopped to read them, as that's the next phase. But in glancing and not remembering what I wrote three years ago, it looks damn interesting. I made some really quirky titles for my posts. And, as of now, I've yet to come across two of the same. That's encouraging.
I really like this McSweeney's 2006 entry that has nothing to do with cuteness:
SILLY THINGS MY 3-YEAR-OLD SAID THAT I'M CERTAIN THE REST OF THE WORLD WOULD FIND SWEET
AND CUTE.
And, then, because I need a silly break:
I AM: sitting cross-legged in a horrible chair.
I JUST NOW: poured the last of a bottle of Merlot.
I SAID: nothing to anyone today.
I WANT: to keep the big tits associated with PMS, but not the bloating belly balloon.
I WISH: sometimes when I see a star, sometimes on my birthday, and then whenever the hell I feel like it.
I HATE: nothing really, but sometimes I use the word for emphasis.
I MISS: daily newspapers (for the crossword), Wired magazine, Newsweek.
I FEAR: fear.
I HEAR: way too much on this street: scooters, motorcycles, horns, cars, buses, babies crying, people screaming, and random birds - usually pigeons.
I WONDER: all the time, and it's a great activity.
I REGRET: nothing - still - and that's a great thing.
I AM NOT: a man, but sometimes I feel like I have penis.
I SING: the song of freedom - but only in the shower, and only in my head.
I CRY: when I cut fucking leeks; and then, not enough.
I AM NOT ALWAYS: pretty.
I MADE: dookie this morning.
I WRITE: when inspired, since 1986.
I CONFUSE: memories.
I NEED: sunshine or Vitamin D daily.
I SHOULD: do and be so many things, but I'm not Catholic so I don't care too much.
I START: books and often never finish them.
I FINISH: when I have to.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
I only cried once
When I walked out of the Customs and Immigration area, I spotted my sister coming toward me from behind a column. I could have sworn I saw my dad there, and that he'd leaned back behind the column so I wouldn't see the surprise. But, she and I hugged and walked toward the parking area, and he wasn't there. I almost cried from the made-up surprise and my need to hug him.
My sister and I had even planned a good ol' cry-fest, which sent her fiancé looking forward to an evening work event. We made some guacamole, turned on the TV to some modeling show where people get criticized and voted off at the end, and drank some white wine. I needed to cry so badly. We'd half-jokingly planned this night after she'd told me she didn't cry at dad's cancer diagnosis. Even when she'd Skyped me about it, neither one of us did. We processed the news with red eyes. We considered the next steps. We questioned and answered and shared information. We moved forward.. calmly.. toward the exit signs as flight attendants signaled the procedure of crossing our hands over our chests. We went feet first. We took command of the lifeboats - hers in the white and grey hospital, mine in the grey and yellow city. She only cried when she got back to her fiancé, holding it together over the long, sad, free distance of the highway. Now, it was my turn. It was my time to let it out. But the TV moved images and the wine sank feelings. It was nicer to go outside than inside.
After the surgery, on the last day with my parents in the small hometown, I had packed the car, we had lunch and I was waiting for a friend to call so I could swing by on my way to Minneapolis. We waited, with nothing new to say. Dad wondered why the reading chair was pulled so far away from the wall. Mom, curled up on the couch with her legs tucked under her, said it didn't need to be. There wasn't anything much to say. He'd showered. She'd already been to the pharmacy the day before. She and I both had been to the nearby farmers' market - the first test of leaving my father alone in the house. And, we all knew I was leaving. It was kind of a drawn out silence. I always hated those. And their house is always that kind of bored silence. Just waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Dad had gone upstairs for a nap. Finally, I got the message that my friend was free. It was getting late. I ran to the bathroom for a last pee. Ran upstairs and hugged my dad, we'd already talked about my promises to come home in a couple of months, and he was already dozing into a sick man's rest. I wanted to cry but it would have cost too much energy. I jogged down the stairs quietly. Put my arms around my mother's shoulders and smelled her sweet, soft skin. When did her skin start changing into an old lady's? I still couldn't cry. Pulled away from the house and waved out the window for the full block, even after I'd turned the corner. It's just tradition. Wave until you can't see them anymore.
The only time I cried was the day of the surgery.
Another role I'd taken on was the documentarian. The first photo: of my sister's face as she drove us away from the airport, along the US highway to her house in the 'burbs. The photos of my aunts, uncle, grandmother, and parents at dinner. The photos of my parents in the hotel room. As my sister had described it from her living room, "There's no modesty. Mom's changing into her nightgown in front of you. Dad's using the bathroom all night. That's why I asked for two separate rooms the night before surgery. It's just too much, really." I'd already brushed these things off. Maybe it was working in health care (albeit the politics of it, but I still learned how to answer imploring, semi-public questions about "What do I do if [insert 'I find a red rash' or 'my boyfriend forgot a condom' or 'I've got this kind of itch' or 'a friend of mine - ahem - thinks she might be pregnant']?"), but all of this stuff didn't really phase me when I imagined the hospital or the hotel room. It was like we were kids again, staying in some chalet at the base of the Alps. Dad and mom sleep in this bed, we sleep in the other one.
And it was just like that. Dad was already in his pjs when my sister and I arrived to the hotel. (After all, I had to wait out a tornado eating a veggie sandwich at the Subway in Hastings. My sister had to hide in the basement with her dogs and cats. And the traffic was miserable between the Cities and Rochester.) He shoo'ed us out for dinner, which he wasn't allowed to have the night prior to surgery. It was a miserable dark, drab, yellow restaurant on the first floor of the hotel (although I did just now almost type 'in the basement' because it was that miserable). The waitress must have been in her mid-twenties, and she shouted everything. I imagine she did this because most of the customers are elderly, although I could tell by the hush in the place that the customers were just fine of hearing. Maybe she imagined the opposite. Or, maybe she couldn't handle the silence of the sickly and their loved ones. Either way, the place was fucking freezing and I had to run upstairs to get a sweater. The wine was already on the table - a horrible white. My sister and mother sat opposite me and we toasted, a little like strangers, a little like family, a little like a family of strangers really. My mother a beedy-eyed, wrinkled, pink and burnt rust, twitchy mess. (I'm sure my ADD comes from her side. I'm still grateful she refused the doctor's orders to put me on meds when I was a tyke, but I often wonder if she couldn't use their assistance. At least I got my father's genes to balance out the mania.) My sister, god, looking at her, I can see the amazing genes of youth in our blood. We don't age. She more than anyone. No one would know she's close to forty. She's a bit more plump than years ago, well, she's leaning toward fat, but it's still a controlled, Aphrodite, roundness. But her skin! In that dark, yellow haze, she looked angelic, Cherubic, like Rubens' Venus.
We got up at 5am and met our parents at 5:35 at their room. Dad was in his track suit. There's a photo of my sister as we're leaving the hotel lobby. A blurred photo with her eyes wide and tongue kind of sticking out, like we're off on a skiing adventure. I suppose that's really the last time we were all a family together, as opposed to angry or hating each other, or adolescents, or for a funeral, or a quick lunch. The next photo is of my father, facing us, explaining something and moving his hand in a hard, chopping motion, as if trying to show he was still in charge, at 5:35am, without any food in his system, facing a full day of surgery, about to lose a major part of his manly innards. I can't remember what he was saying. I think we were debating crossing outside or using the underground tunnel. The hospital entrance was literally across the street.
They weighed and measured him. He'd lost half an inch from his standard height. He's starting to shrink. God. He was changed into a light blue gown. People always write that, don't they? No one really knows what the hospital light blue gown is unless they've seen it. My sister's right. There's this side of the game and the other side. When you're on the non-cancer side, the cancer side seems very, very far and foreign. But once you've landed into the cancer club, there's a secret understanding. It's not a cool place to be, not a club with discounts or two-for-one cocktails. But everyone in this club does, at least, get you. Yeah, the light blue gowns. Sure. I know what you're talking about.
I took photos as we sat there. My mom and sister looking at their iphone or blackberry. My dad talking to the pretty lady nurses, trying to charm them. (Of all the 20 or so nurses over the 9 days only 2 were men, although almost all the techs who irrigated and aspirated were men.) Then, we walked down the hall. He and the nurse turned the corner, and he almost kept on going, but I stopped him. "Hey, give us a hug." "Yeah, Dad," said my sister, "you gonna leave without a hug good-bye?" He hugged us both, kissed our foreheads, and kissed my mom on the lips.
I can't remember how that first day went for food. At some point, my sister or mom went and got coffee for us. Then, at some point, we left for lunch all together and came back and they'd crossed our names off and written "See Desk." He'd now been assigned a room on the 5th floor and we could go there to wait. He wasn't out of surgery and recovery until 8pm. His face was as puffy as the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, tucked up over the hospital blankets. At about 9:30pm I offered to call and order in pizza for delivery. Not much would happen the first night. He was too drugged up and wasn't even moving.
They met me over at the hotel room. My sister's fiance had - in his wonderful wisdom - packed us like 3 bottles of wine. My mom - not one to be without her own - had brought 2 small boxes and a couple of bottles. Strangely, she still followed her routine and stashed the wine boxes under the sink. Alcoholics don't change much - anytime, anywhere, I guess. Even after I told her she didn't have to keep it under there. They still never moved until we packed up and left the hotel.
We toasted, a simple toast, "Yay!"
We ate the unimpressive pizza.
We turned on the TV.
I went to the bathroom and was just completely overcome. He hadn't died in surgery. (I had asked him nicely not to slip off into anesthesia land ne'er to return.) The doctors had said he did well. They'd gotten most of the tumorous cells. He was going to be fine. My sister and I hadn't killed each other. In fact, I loved her more now. My mother hadn't driven me crazy. In fact, I was finding myself pitying her less and accepting her more. Things were going to be fine. But I just couldn't help it. Out of nowhere I was sobbing and I unlocked the bathroom door, walked slowly over to her bed, and curled up next to my mother in a ball. Like a little girl.
She patted me and asked what was wrong.
"I'm sad," I said. I didn't know how else to explain it. I wasn't really sad. I wasn't all that exhausted. I wasn't too terribly overwhelmed. I was actually relieved. But that's not how I could explain it.
"Oh, don't be sad, sweetie." She said he was fine. He'll be fine. Why am I crying. There's no need to cry.
My sister, from the opposite bed, said, "It's okay. She's just got to do it. She's finally letting it out. It's not that she's sad really. She's just got to cry.... You know, mom, the day I left the hospital last time, it took all my energy not to break down in the car on the way home. It took Alex hugging me to let it all come out."
She was still patting me. But it was as if she was stroking a dog. There was no movie-style embrace, where the mother rolls over and engulfs her child, shielding them from the world. She kind of kept on watching TV. I know, it's not all her fault. After all, there were many times before and even at least once during this trip that I told her to stop staring at me. But, maybe, she could have been a bit more gentle or caring.
I asked her if she'd cried yet. Or, had she gotten comfort yet. "Well, Jackey and I talk. And Pamela and I meet for coffee and talk. But..." I can't remember what she said between my sniffling and deciding to stop crying. That was enough. That was good enough. In her explanation though, I'd sensed she didn't really either want to talk about this with us or didn't know how. I sat up. Finished for now. Looked over at my sister. "Thanks for interpreting."
&&&&&&&&&&&&
Thinking back on it. If it hadn't been that my mother was in the room. If it hadn't been for some kind of pride. If it hadn't been for her forever thinking that she was more of my mother than my own mother was (although she might be right), I would have gone to my sister's bed to cry. And, I know she would have rolled over, engulfed me, stroked my hair, hugged me hard, and told me it was ok. Or, not said anything. She would have just been there.
&&&&&&&&&&&&
inspiration from The Easter Parade by Richard Yates
"I don't know. He said once -- this was when I was engaged to Donald Clellon -- he said that a man ought to be happy in his work before he got married, and maybe it was partly that. He was never happy in his work, you see. I mean, he'd wanted to be a great reporter, somebody like Richard Harding Davis, or Heywood Broun. I don't think he ever understood why he was only -- you know -- only a copy-desk man."
And that did it. They had been holding back tears all evening, all night, but that phrase was too much. Sarah started crying first and Emily got up from the floor to take her in her arms and comfort her, until it was clear that she couldn't comfort anyone because she was crying too. With their mother lying in a coma twenty miles away, they clung together drunkenly and wept for the loss of their father.
My sister and I had even planned a good ol' cry-fest, which sent her fiancé looking forward to an evening work event. We made some guacamole, turned on the TV to some modeling show where people get criticized and voted off at the end, and drank some white wine. I needed to cry so badly. We'd half-jokingly planned this night after she'd told me she didn't cry at dad's cancer diagnosis. Even when she'd Skyped me about it, neither one of us did. We processed the news with red eyes. We considered the next steps. We questioned and answered and shared information. We moved forward.. calmly.. toward the exit signs as flight attendants signaled the procedure of crossing our hands over our chests. We went feet first. We took command of the lifeboats - hers in the white and grey hospital, mine in the grey and yellow city. She only cried when she got back to her fiancé, holding it together over the long, sad, free distance of the highway. Now, it was my turn. It was my time to let it out. But the TV moved images and the wine sank feelings. It was nicer to go outside than inside.
After the surgery, on the last day with my parents in the small hometown, I had packed the car, we had lunch and I was waiting for a friend to call so I could swing by on my way to Minneapolis. We waited, with nothing new to say. Dad wondered why the reading chair was pulled so far away from the wall. Mom, curled up on the couch with her legs tucked under her, said it didn't need to be. There wasn't anything much to say. He'd showered. She'd already been to the pharmacy the day before. She and I both had been to the nearby farmers' market - the first test of leaving my father alone in the house. And, we all knew I was leaving. It was kind of a drawn out silence. I always hated those. And their house is always that kind of bored silence. Just waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Dad had gone upstairs for a nap. Finally, I got the message that my friend was free. It was getting late. I ran to the bathroom for a last pee. Ran upstairs and hugged my dad, we'd already talked about my promises to come home in a couple of months, and he was already dozing into a sick man's rest. I wanted to cry but it would have cost too much energy. I jogged down the stairs quietly. Put my arms around my mother's shoulders and smelled her sweet, soft skin. When did her skin start changing into an old lady's? I still couldn't cry. Pulled away from the house and waved out the window for the full block, even after I'd turned the corner. It's just tradition. Wave until you can't see them anymore.
The only time I cried was the day of the surgery.
Another role I'd taken on was the documentarian. The first photo: of my sister's face as she drove us away from the airport, along the US highway to her house in the 'burbs. The photos of my aunts, uncle, grandmother, and parents at dinner. The photos of my parents in the hotel room. As my sister had described it from her living room, "There's no modesty. Mom's changing into her nightgown in front of you. Dad's using the bathroom all night. That's why I asked for two separate rooms the night before surgery. It's just too much, really." I'd already brushed these things off. Maybe it was working in health care (albeit the politics of it, but I still learned how to answer imploring, semi-public questions about "What do I do if [insert 'I find a red rash' or 'my boyfriend forgot a condom' or 'I've got this kind of itch' or 'a friend of mine - ahem - thinks she might be pregnant']?"), but all of this stuff didn't really phase me when I imagined the hospital or the hotel room. It was like we were kids again, staying in some chalet at the base of the Alps. Dad and mom sleep in this bed, we sleep in the other one.
And it was just like that. Dad was already in his pjs when my sister and I arrived to the hotel. (After all, I had to wait out a tornado eating a veggie sandwich at the Subway in Hastings. My sister had to hide in the basement with her dogs and cats. And the traffic was miserable between the Cities and Rochester.) He shoo'ed us out for dinner, which he wasn't allowed to have the night prior to surgery. It was a miserable dark, drab, yellow restaurant on the first floor of the hotel (although I did just now almost type 'in the basement' because it was that miserable). The waitress must have been in her mid-twenties, and she shouted everything. I imagine she did this because most of the customers are elderly, although I could tell by the hush in the place that the customers were just fine of hearing. Maybe she imagined the opposite. Or, maybe she couldn't handle the silence of the sickly and their loved ones. Either way, the place was fucking freezing and I had to run upstairs to get a sweater. The wine was already on the table - a horrible white. My sister and mother sat opposite me and we toasted, a little like strangers, a little like family, a little like a family of strangers really. My mother a beedy-eyed, wrinkled, pink and burnt rust, twitchy mess. (I'm sure my ADD comes from her side. I'm still grateful she refused the doctor's orders to put me on meds when I was a tyke, but I often wonder if she couldn't use their assistance. At least I got my father's genes to balance out the mania.) My sister, god, looking at her, I can see the amazing genes of youth in our blood. We don't age. She more than anyone. No one would know she's close to forty. She's a bit more plump than years ago, well, she's leaning toward fat, but it's still a controlled, Aphrodite, roundness. But her skin! In that dark, yellow haze, she looked angelic, Cherubic, like Rubens' Venus.
We got up at 5am and met our parents at 5:35 at their room. Dad was in his track suit. There's a photo of my sister as we're leaving the hotel lobby. A blurred photo with her eyes wide and tongue kind of sticking out, like we're off on a skiing adventure. I suppose that's really the last time we were all a family together, as opposed to angry or hating each other, or adolescents, or for a funeral, or a quick lunch. The next photo is of my father, facing us, explaining something and moving his hand in a hard, chopping motion, as if trying to show he was still in charge, at 5:35am, without any food in his system, facing a full day of surgery, about to lose a major part of his manly innards. I can't remember what he was saying. I think we were debating crossing outside or using the underground tunnel. The hospital entrance was literally across the street.
They weighed and measured him. He'd lost half an inch from his standard height. He's starting to shrink. God. He was changed into a light blue gown. People always write that, don't they? No one really knows what the hospital light blue gown is unless they've seen it. My sister's right. There's this side of the game and the other side. When you're on the non-cancer side, the cancer side seems very, very far and foreign. But once you've landed into the cancer club, there's a secret understanding. It's not a cool place to be, not a club with discounts or two-for-one cocktails. But everyone in this club does, at least, get you. Yeah, the light blue gowns. Sure. I know what you're talking about.
I took photos as we sat there. My mom and sister looking at their iphone or blackberry. My dad talking to the pretty lady nurses, trying to charm them. (Of all the 20 or so nurses over the 9 days only 2 were men, although almost all the techs who irrigated and aspirated were men.) Then, we walked down the hall. He and the nurse turned the corner, and he almost kept on going, but I stopped him. "Hey, give us a hug." "Yeah, Dad," said my sister, "you gonna leave without a hug good-bye?" He hugged us both, kissed our foreheads, and kissed my mom on the lips.
I can't remember how that first day went for food. At some point, my sister or mom went and got coffee for us. Then, at some point, we left for lunch all together and came back and they'd crossed our names off and written "See Desk." He'd now been assigned a room on the 5th floor and we could go there to wait. He wasn't out of surgery and recovery until 8pm. His face was as puffy as the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, tucked up over the hospital blankets. At about 9:30pm I offered to call and order in pizza for delivery. Not much would happen the first night. He was too drugged up and wasn't even moving.
They met me over at the hotel room. My sister's fiance had - in his wonderful wisdom - packed us like 3 bottles of wine. My mom - not one to be without her own - had brought 2 small boxes and a couple of bottles. Strangely, she still followed her routine and stashed the wine boxes under the sink. Alcoholics don't change much - anytime, anywhere, I guess. Even after I told her she didn't have to keep it under there. They still never moved until we packed up and left the hotel.
We toasted, a simple toast, "Yay!"
We ate the unimpressive pizza.
We turned on the TV.
I went to the bathroom and was just completely overcome. He hadn't died in surgery. (I had asked him nicely not to slip off into anesthesia land ne'er to return.) The doctors had said he did well. They'd gotten most of the tumorous cells. He was going to be fine. My sister and I hadn't killed each other. In fact, I loved her more now. My mother hadn't driven me crazy. In fact, I was finding myself pitying her less and accepting her more. Things were going to be fine. But I just couldn't help it. Out of nowhere I was sobbing and I unlocked the bathroom door, walked slowly over to her bed, and curled up next to my mother in a ball. Like a little girl.
She patted me and asked what was wrong.
"I'm sad," I said. I didn't know how else to explain it. I wasn't really sad. I wasn't all that exhausted. I wasn't too terribly overwhelmed. I was actually relieved. But that's not how I could explain it.
"Oh, don't be sad, sweetie." She said he was fine. He'll be fine. Why am I crying. There's no need to cry.
My sister, from the opposite bed, said, "It's okay. She's just got to do it. She's finally letting it out. It's not that she's sad really. She's just got to cry.... You know, mom, the day I left the hospital last time, it took all my energy not to break down in the car on the way home. It took Alex hugging me to let it all come out."
She was still patting me. But it was as if she was stroking a dog. There was no movie-style embrace, where the mother rolls over and engulfs her child, shielding them from the world. She kind of kept on watching TV. I know, it's not all her fault. After all, there were many times before and even at least once during this trip that I told her to stop staring at me. But, maybe, she could have been a bit more gentle or caring.
I asked her if she'd cried yet. Or, had she gotten comfort yet. "Well, Jackey and I talk. And Pamela and I meet for coffee and talk. But..." I can't remember what she said between my sniffling and deciding to stop crying. That was enough. That was good enough. In her explanation though, I'd sensed she didn't really either want to talk about this with us or didn't know how. I sat up. Finished for now. Looked over at my sister. "Thanks for interpreting."
&&&&&&&&&&&&
Thinking back on it. If it hadn't been that my mother was in the room. If it hadn't been for some kind of pride. If it hadn't been for her forever thinking that she was more of my mother than my own mother was (although she might be right), I would have gone to my sister's bed to cry. And, I know she would have rolled over, engulfed me, stroked my hair, hugged me hard, and told me it was ok. Or, not said anything. She would have just been there.
&&&&&&&&&&&&
inspiration from The Easter Parade by Richard Yates
"I don't know. He said once -- this was when I was engaged to Donald Clellon -- he said that a man ought to be happy in his work before he got married, and maybe it was partly that. He was never happy in his work, you see. I mean, he'd wanted to be a great reporter, somebody like Richard Harding Davis, or Heywood Broun. I don't think he ever understood why he was only -- you know -- only a copy-desk man."
And that did it. They had been holding back tears all evening, all night, but that phrase was too much. Sarah started crying first and Emily got up from the floor to take her in her arms and comfort her, until it was clear that she couldn't comfort anyone because she was crying too. With their mother lying in a coma twenty miles away, they clung together drunkenly and wept for the loss of their father.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Missed the tornado by 6 miles
Dad heads in for surgery tomorrow. He checks in at 5:45am. Who on earth gets up that early?
noman, I've got both the books you sent me for distraction. Thank you so much again! the Richard Yates comes with its own bookmark ribbon. Swoon!
More comments on the days of late on tumblr.
noman, I've got both the books you sent me for distraction. Thank you so much again! the Richard Yates comes with its own bookmark ribbon. Swoon!
More comments on the days of late on tumblr.
Monday, August 10, 2009
What to say?
I met the subletter who will take the apartment for the next 3 weeks. She stayed here before, when I was traveling with my sister around Europe, but we didn't meet before.
"You look different than your photos," she said.
"Oh. Well. I dyed my hair brown and got it cut."
or
"Well, those were before I started sulking in Paris with no clear direction for my life. Before I found out my dad's got cancer. Before I decided to drink a ton. Before I decided to stop drinking. Before I decided to stop smoking. Before I had an erratic bed-time/wake-time schedule. Before I started sitting around my apartment for days. Before I got fat."
Instead
"Yeah, well, you know, photos never really reveal the whole person." [Bitch.]
"You look different than your photos," she said.
"Oh. Well. I dyed my hair brown and got it cut."
or
"Well, those were before I started sulking in Paris with no clear direction for my life. Before I found out my dad's got cancer. Before I decided to drink a ton. Before I decided to stop drinking. Before I decided to stop smoking. Before I had an erratic bed-time/wake-time schedule. Before I started sitting around my apartment for days. Before I got fat."
Instead
"Yeah, well, you know, photos never really reveal the whole person." [Bitch.]
Monday, May 4, 2009
and then...
Yeah,
total embarrassment.
Love letters shouldn't be shared to the world really. Unless they're written by the dead poets. Otherwise, they're like weird, disjointed declarations of overly grammatical syntax and over used adjectives to tedium.
Ugh.
Retract. Delete.
Or suffer in my ridiculousness.
total embarrassment.
Love letters shouldn't be shared to the world really. Unless they're written by the dead poets. Otherwise, they're like weird, disjointed declarations of overly grammatical syntax and over used adjectives to tedium.
Ugh.
Retract. Delete.
Or suffer in my ridiculousness.
Self-inflicted pain
I was never a cutter. I mean, I once hated my dad so much that I carved his initials into my ankle/heel area so I'd never forget what an asshole he was. I once hated being a teen so much that I took one of those tape dispenser things with the jagged edge teeth and sawed it over my wrist. It bled and I covered it with a big band-aid and told everyone it was from a volleyball accident. There's still a hint of a scar. But I never continued the sporadic moments into a stream of being a cutter or the like.
So, when I have tense days I turn to porn for a quick release. And lately I've watched my porn sometimes with the nipple clamps on.
But it's only on Skype with Mr FD that I found myself digging my nails into my inner, soft thigh and loving it. The mixture of him telling me to rub my clit and my automatic response to dig my nails simultaneously is an amazing feeling. Endorphins of all proportions running through me. The hunger in my sopping wet cunnie, the swelling of my clit to a mini-penis, the twang of pain zipping through my nerves and filling my veins even fuller with lust.
It's an amazing thing.
I can't see myself pulling a Maggie "Secretary" and trying to spank myself, because just as she found, there's really not enough force in my limbs to want to hurt myself badly. I'm also not interested in directing hurt on purpose. But there is the shared desire for some kind of stimulant like that. Some kind of shock wave supreme that acts like chiropracty and realigns all the fragmented parts of myself through the pain+pleasure mathematics.
And, really, it makes me more content and satisfied to do it for Mr FD, in front of him, in the comfort of his non-judgment, in the embrace of his encouragement than to do it alone where my mind can wander into questions about my sanity.
UPDATE:
Mr FD: Funny how memory goes: I told you to start pinching you inner thighs and then saw you were quite in it and did just let it flow naturally.
Me: I think I might have pinched before then though. It was a rush of all good things last night. And thank you for that.
Mr FD: I was looking at you and controlling each of your moves: you didn't. It doesn't matter (but is interesting ;-)
Me: Really? I could have sworn that I had leapt to grabbing them with my nails myself just out of desire while fiddling myself inside my panties on the stool the 2nd time. ... If it's the case that I was doing everything you told me to do - being controlled by you - then it felt like myself at times and that's very strange.... interesting.. and perplexing.
Mr FD: Yeah. Good sign.
Again the sequence was I controlled every movement and had you pinch yourself to add another feed point in the circle of energy I was building with the different predicaments.
Then I saw you dwelled into it deeply and just let it be for it was extremely intense and having a life of its own which was what I would have ultimately had it do, so no need to micromanage anymore.
;-)
Me: Interesting... something to ponder.
Thank you for letting it have a life of its own.
So, when I have tense days I turn to porn for a quick release. And lately I've watched my porn sometimes with the nipple clamps on.
But it's only on Skype with Mr FD that I found myself digging my nails into my inner, soft thigh and loving it. The mixture of him telling me to rub my clit and my automatic response to dig my nails simultaneously is an amazing feeling. Endorphins of all proportions running through me. The hunger in my sopping wet cunnie, the swelling of my clit to a mini-penis, the twang of pain zipping through my nerves and filling my veins even fuller with lust.
It's an amazing thing.
I can't see myself pulling a Maggie "Secretary" and trying to spank myself, because just as she found, there's really not enough force in my limbs to want to hurt myself badly. I'm also not interested in directing hurt on purpose. But there is the shared desire for some kind of stimulant like that. Some kind of shock wave supreme that acts like chiropracty and realigns all the fragmented parts of myself through the pain+pleasure mathematics.
And, really, it makes me more content and satisfied to do it for Mr FD, in front of him, in the comfort of his non-judgment, in the embrace of his encouragement than to do it alone where my mind can wander into questions about my sanity.
UPDATE:
Mr FD: Funny how memory goes: I told you to start pinching you inner thighs and then saw you were quite in it and did just let it flow naturally.
Me: I think I might have pinched before then though. It was a rush of all good things last night. And thank you for that.
Mr FD: I was looking at you and controlling each of your moves: you didn't. It doesn't matter (but is interesting ;-)
Me: Really? I could have sworn that I had leapt to grabbing them with my nails myself just out of desire while fiddling myself inside my panties on the stool the 2nd time. ... If it's the case that I was doing everything you told me to do - being controlled by you - then it felt like myself at times and that's very strange.... interesting.. and perplexing.
Mr FD: Yeah. Good sign.
Again the sequence was I controlled every movement and had you pinch yourself to add another feed point in the circle of energy I was building with the different predicaments.
Then I saw you dwelled into it deeply and just let it be for it was extremely intense and having a life of its own which was what I would have ultimately had it do, so no need to micromanage anymore.
;-)
Me: Interesting... something to ponder.
Thank you for letting it have a life of its own.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Something is brewing
Mid-life crisis?
I'll be 34 in 10 days.
Last month, I heard "Would?" by Alice in Chains on KEXP and promptly downloaded the studio album and the Unplugged album (latter rocks it).
Tonight, I'm watching "Singles" (1992).
I was 17 when it came out. And it's got Pearl Jam and Alice in it and features a love story and a "when I grow up" story that I imagined I'd have when I went off to college and then graduated.
I'm not sure what this all means to me - yet.
I guess I'll find out in a week or so.
I'll be 34 in 10 days.
Last month, I heard "Would?" by Alice in Chains on KEXP and promptly downloaded the studio album and the Unplugged album (latter rocks it).
Tonight, I'm watching "Singles" (1992).
I was 17 when it came out. And it's got Pearl Jam and Alice in it and features a love story and a "when I grow up" story that I imagined I'd have when I went off to college and then graduated.
I'm not sure what this all means to me - yet.
I guess I'll find out in a week or so.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
In the quest
I was so hungover this morning.
Yesterday, went to lunch with a school chum, toured through LaChapelle's exhibit (I adore religious iconography mixed with sex and gay boys), and ran errands to fulfill a request from Mr. FD (make-shift maid outfit with white blouses and black skirt - cheap as possible so they could be mangled and maimed ala "damsel in distress"). Then, last night, almost all the kids in my second year got together for dinner and drinks. So much wine flowed over dinner that I ended up stealing the last full bottle and packing it in my bag as we all piled out of the restaurant to go to a bar. I love Europe - passing the bottle around in the metro to my friends as we obnoxiously talk loudly in English, Spanish, and French, and think we're the only people on the train. Got the bartender at this hipster place to re-fill the bottle and I just swigged out of it all night, causing great distress to some French bike messenger guy. Found a cab, came home and confessed my drunken longing to Mr FD, who proceeded to tell me that he'd posted some of the "homestay" photos on FetLife. (We had discussed posting pics online before (abstractly) and agreed on criterias for possibly doing that.)
Him: Just exposed you online, horny slut.
Me: Eh? Pardon?
Him: On Fetlife, little girl.
Me: ohgod
Him: So you can become a virtual cumbag ;) [one of my expressed fantasies has to do with being a cumdumpster]
Me: fuck.
Me: why?
Him: I thought it would tease your exhibitionist side. Was I that wrong?
Of course, he wasn't wrong. It was just the initial shock factor I guess. The first time revealing a part of me to the WHOLE WIDE WORLD that I only keep locked down under invitation (Flickr) and only mildly alluded to (FetLife posting) and described through words but not wholly graphic images (CDOA).
Him: All this said, if it doens't make you secretely proud (or wet) and if it provokes too odd feelings, we can discuss the issue and I can envision removing the pics.
Me (drunk schoolgirl): I feel like Venus de Milo to the unknown sculptor or Sistine Chapel to Michelangelo. I'm flattered to be shown and created. (OCD: want to center the images and spell check the details).... flattered is the least of my vocabulary right now. Overwhelmed in a good way.
Him: Daddy is a bit of a perv, you know that much I am sure.
Me: Please stay this way......
Me (this morning): oh, I can be so dramatic and poetic and just like a teen girl when I get drunk. (totally embarrassed now)
Him: It''s ok. I like it.
So, for the life of me I cannot figure out how I stumbled upon Spiritual Polyamory, but I did. I think maybe it was through searches on Amazon for spiritual BDSM, but I landed there and the guy is pretty silly (totally not into the web design or the banner at the bottom blaring "tarot cards"), but I like what he says in the short video piece. Anyway.. it set me off through the rabbit hole some more (which I've been adding to my Naughty Wishlist).
And, then, I got caught at Spiritual Transformation Through BDSM. It sounds kinda hokey, but I do find it all converging together for me. Religious iconography (The Italian gave me a lovely wooden rosary, I'm into the mysticism of sex in other religions), a Master or dominant as a healer or a Orisha priest releasing a sub's inner torment, etc... And then, I got caught in this dude, W. Henkin "Psychotherapist"'s comment (on the above link). I didn't even finish reading his whole comment, I just got stopped dead at "Discussions about the relationship between BDSM and spirituality are not new. The topic was not new in December, 1995, when I joined Joseph Bean, Cléo Dubois, Sybil Holiday, and Fakir Musafar on a panel to discuss the subject for the Society of Janus, nor was it new when Fakir talked about the role of the Ka-See-Ka in guiding SM journeys, or Joseph explained the spiritual dimensions of bondage in an essay by that name, both in Mark Thompson's seminal 1991 anthology Leatherfolk."
And then, I had to go off and follow and find out more about Fakir Musafar and this Kaseeka idea. This interview was one of the most interesting things I've read for a long time (warning: this guy was really into flesh hooks - no photos behind the link, but graphic description nonetheless).
Of course, I did go to school today - twice in fact - and paid my landlord, so it's not like I'm in grad school to cruise the web... although, secretly I am.
Within Musafar's interview was a mention and link to my good friend Ram Dass. Well, good friend in that I read his "Be Here Now" book when I was like 19 and it changed my life as it linked together my high school readings on the Beat Poets, and my skimming through the I-Ching and superficial studies of Buddhism.
I wanted to know more about who was running this website and found a plethora of other cool (and lame: Jerry Garcia) interviews. "Mavericks of the Mind": This site has the complete texts of two remarkable books, as well as additional material for you to enjoy. Mavericks of the Mind and Voices from the Edge contain thought-provoking interviews with over thirty of the leading thinkers of our time on the subject of consciousness.
And, then I had to do some homework. I'm forgoing any booze tonight for the safety of my poor brain cells and because, frankly, I think I've been drinking way too much in a response to some of the fear I've got buzzing inside right now. Not that I need to launch into it, but I'll show you a bit of my hungover freak out today:
Me (final analysis of my reaction to the FetLife photos): All of a sudden - there I was - in bright colors, totally exposed. And then, I wondered what your motivation was and was a bit worried that the images might frighten other interested subbies - and I caught myself at that point, remembering that it's not for me to be concerned with either of these issues. And then, pride and excitement filled me... and I did a little "He really likes me! He really likes me!" dance.
Him: Does it come as a surprise that I really like you, insecure little girl?
Me: Ughhh.. I dunno... My life right now just feels a little like a tornado. This is obvious by just looking at my apartment. It's a total mess.
Everything is surprising me right now. I'm totally hungover today and feel like an idiot. I've been drinking too much lately because I'm scared (and it's fun). I'm overwhelmed with the fact that I look around me and I've got to pack up all my things someday soon but have no idea where I'm going. I know what I think I want to do next (life-wise; career-wise - about which I have questions for you) but it's enormous and a free-fall. It's been gorgeous weather, and Paris almost made me cry with its beauty. I realized last night that I really do love all the kids I've gone to school with and will have to say good-bye soon. I'm going to fucking Croatia in 4 days and have no idea what I'm doing there. I had this complete purpose a year ago and knew what I was doing (school papers were being written, summer internship was already locked in, and I just knew I'd find a fab place to live). Now, I have no fucking idea and it's really freaking me out. Every time I think of you, I feel this weight/pressure/ache like a gigantic tree stump is sitting on my chest. I can't breathe with these feelings. I knew in January that I wanted to fall in love, that Charlie Brown Christmas Song was telling me so, that all the boys I was fucking was fun but unfulfilling. And having all this emotion, amazement, swooning, falling in love with you and panting like an eager puppy for every task, finding such enormous joy in doing things for you/for me, finding myself pinching my nipples and longing for more pain/confinement/placement... it's so fucking surprising and scary. And that you really like me back.. yes, it's a surprise, too.
... I'm ok. Really, I am, but I'm spinning... and I can step outside and see it and remind myself to thoroughly enjoy these moments because right now I am SO ALIVE.
[not to mention that my sister is engaged and will most likely be coming to my graduation with her fiance and might get married here; that my best friend from when I was 15 is visiting in a couple of weeks - after my next "homestay" in CH - and I haven't seen her since 1992; that I've got 2 big papers to write and 2 memos for classes, that I've got a huge final graduation project in the works - hence, Croatia; that my sister's ex-husband's daughter is coming to stay with me at the end of May; that I'm plunging back into bdsm; that I'm being trained on orgasm control and haven't had a full-blown cum in weeks; or so many other things!]
Riiight. So, no booze, earlyish to bed, drinking lots of water, wondering what alcohol withdrawal feels like and if I'm suffering that right now, and gonna maybe watch a movie. Mr FD hasn't emailed since my freak out email, but I'm guessing it's because he's letting me cool off a bit. Our back-and-forths get me pretty excited and it's good to give me breathers. Lord knows, I don't know if I could stop myself right now, but I am letting rationality in every once in a while. Yeah, this is all big, fast, hard, deep. Kinda like chocolate porn, but more overwhelming. Heh.
Yesterday, went to lunch with a school chum, toured through LaChapelle's exhibit (I adore religious iconography mixed with sex and gay boys), and ran errands to fulfill a request from Mr. FD (make-shift maid outfit with white blouses and black skirt - cheap as possible so they could be mangled and maimed ala "damsel in distress"). Then, last night, almost all the kids in my second year got together for dinner and drinks. So much wine flowed over dinner that I ended up stealing the last full bottle and packing it in my bag as we all piled out of the restaurant to go to a bar. I love Europe - passing the bottle around in the metro to my friends as we obnoxiously talk loudly in English, Spanish, and French, and think we're the only people on the train. Got the bartender at this hipster place to re-fill the bottle and I just swigged out of it all night, causing great distress to some French bike messenger guy. Found a cab, came home and confessed my drunken longing to Mr FD, who proceeded to tell me that he'd posted some of the "homestay" photos on FetLife. (We had discussed posting pics online before (abstractly) and agreed on criterias for possibly doing that.)
Him: Just exposed you online, horny slut.
Me: Eh? Pardon?
Him: On Fetlife, little girl.
Me: ohgod
Him: So you can become a virtual cumbag ;) [one of my expressed fantasies has to do with being a cumdumpster]
Me: fuck.
Me: why?
Him: I thought it would tease your exhibitionist side. Was I that wrong?
Of course, he wasn't wrong. It was just the initial shock factor I guess. The first time revealing a part of me to the WHOLE WIDE WORLD that I only keep locked down under invitation (Flickr) and only mildly alluded to (FetLife posting) and described through words but not wholly graphic images (CDOA).
Him: All this said, if it doens't make you secretely proud (or wet) and if it provokes too odd feelings, we can discuss the issue and I can envision removing the pics.
Me (drunk schoolgirl): I feel like Venus de Milo to the unknown sculptor or Sistine Chapel to Michelangelo. I'm flattered to be shown and created. (OCD: want to center the images and spell check the details).... flattered is the least of my vocabulary right now. Overwhelmed in a good way.
Him: Daddy is a bit of a perv, you know that much I am sure.
Me: Please stay this way......
Me (this morning): oh, I can be so dramatic and poetic and just like a teen girl when I get drunk. (totally embarrassed now)
Him: It''s ok. I like it.
So, for the life of me I cannot figure out how I stumbled upon Spiritual Polyamory, but I did. I think maybe it was through searches on Amazon for spiritual BDSM, but I landed there and the guy is pretty silly (totally not into the web design or the banner at the bottom blaring "tarot cards"), but I like what he says in the short video piece. Anyway.. it set me off through the rabbit hole some more (which I've been adding to my Naughty Wishlist).
And, then, I got caught at Spiritual Transformation Through BDSM. It sounds kinda hokey, but I do find it all converging together for me. Religious iconography (The Italian gave me a lovely wooden rosary, I'm into the mysticism of sex in other religions), a Master or dominant as a healer or a Orisha priest releasing a sub's inner torment, etc... And then, I got caught in this dude, W. Henkin "Psychotherapist"'s comment (on the above link). I didn't even finish reading his whole comment, I just got stopped dead at "Discussions about the relationship between BDSM and spirituality are not new. The topic was not new in December, 1995, when I joined Joseph Bean, Cléo Dubois, Sybil Holiday, and Fakir Musafar on a panel to discuss the subject for the Society of Janus, nor was it new when Fakir talked about the role of the Ka-See-Ka in guiding SM journeys, or Joseph explained the spiritual dimensions of bondage in an essay by that name, both in Mark Thompson's seminal 1991 anthology Leatherfolk."
And then, I had to go off and follow and find out more about Fakir Musafar and this Kaseeka idea. This interview was one of the most interesting things I've read for a long time (warning: this guy was really into flesh hooks - no photos behind the link, but graphic description nonetheless).
Of course, I did go to school today - twice in fact - and paid my landlord, so it's not like I'm in grad school to cruise the web... although, secretly I am.
Within Musafar's interview was a mention and link to my good friend Ram Dass. Well, good friend in that I read his "Be Here Now" book when I was like 19 and it changed my life as it linked together my high school readings on the Beat Poets, and my skimming through the I-Ching and superficial studies of Buddhism.
I wanted to know more about who was running this website and found a plethora of other cool (and lame: Jerry Garcia) interviews. "Mavericks of the Mind": This site has the complete texts of two remarkable books, as well as additional material for you to enjoy. Mavericks of the Mind and Voices from the Edge contain thought-provoking interviews with over thirty of the leading thinkers of our time on the subject of consciousness.
And, then I had to do some homework. I'm forgoing any booze tonight for the safety of my poor brain cells and because, frankly, I think I've been drinking way too much in a response to some of the fear I've got buzzing inside right now. Not that I need to launch into it, but I'll show you a bit of my hungover freak out today:
Me (final analysis of my reaction to the FetLife photos): All of a sudden - there I was - in bright colors, totally exposed. And then, I wondered what your motivation was and was a bit worried that the images might frighten other interested subbies - and I caught myself at that point, remembering that it's not for me to be concerned with either of these issues. And then, pride and excitement filled me... and I did a little "He really likes me! He really likes me!" dance.
Him: Does it come as a surprise that I really like you, insecure little girl?
Me: Ughhh.. I dunno... My life right now just feels a little like a tornado. This is obvious by just looking at my apartment. It's a total mess.
Everything is surprising me right now. I'm totally hungover today and feel like an idiot. I've been drinking too much lately because I'm scared (and it's fun). I'm overwhelmed with the fact that I look around me and I've got to pack up all my things someday soon but have no idea where I'm going. I know what I think I want to do next (life-wise; career-wise - about which I have questions for you) but it's enormous and a free-fall. It's been gorgeous weather, and Paris almost made me cry with its beauty. I realized last night that I really do love all the kids I've gone to school with and will have to say good-bye soon. I'm going to fucking Croatia in 4 days and have no idea what I'm doing there. I had this complete purpose a year ago and knew what I was doing (school papers were being written, summer internship was already locked in, and I just knew I'd find a fab place to live). Now, I have no fucking idea and it's really freaking me out. Every time I think of you, I feel this weight/pressure/ache like a gigantic tree stump is sitting on my chest. I can't breathe with these feelings. I knew in January that I wanted to fall in love, that Charlie Brown Christmas Song was telling me so, that all the boys I was fucking was fun but unfulfilling. And having all this emotion, amazement, swooning, falling in love with you and panting like an eager puppy for every task, finding such enormous joy in doing things for you/for me, finding myself pinching my nipples and longing for more pain/confinement/placement... it's so fucking surprising and scary. And that you really like me back.. yes, it's a surprise, too.
... I'm ok. Really, I am, but I'm spinning... and I can step outside and see it and remind myself to thoroughly enjoy these moments because right now I am SO ALIVE.
[not to mention that my sister is engaged and will most likely be coming to my graduation with her fiance and might get married here; that my best friend from when I was 15 is visiting in a couple of weeks - after my next "homestay" in CH - and I haven't seen her since 1992; that I've got 2 big papers to write and 2 memos for classes, that I've got a huge final graduation project in the works - hence, Croatia; that my sister's ex-husband's daughter is coming to stay with me at the end of May; that I'm plunging back into bdsm; that I'm being trained on orgasm control and haven't had a full-blown cum in weeks; or so many other things!]
Riiight. So, no booze, earlyish to bed, drinking lots of water, wondering what alcohol withdrawal feels like and if I'm suffering that right now, and gonna maybe watch a movie. Mr FD hasn't emailed since my freak out email, but I'm guessing it's because he's letting me cool off a bit. Our back-and-forths get me pretty excited and it's good to give me breathers. Lord knows, I don't know if I could stop myself right now, but I am letting rationality in every once in a while. Yeah, this is all big, fast, hard, deep. Kinda like chocolate porn, but more overwhelming. Heh.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
without a skin
I cried tonight.
Not for torture, but for those that are tortured.
She broke his heart. Her mom was schizophrenic. She is acting out.
He loved her so much. He did all he could.
I love them both.
And there is nothing I can do.
She has tortured me by my willing to let her insecurities in.
I torture myself with his torment.
I grabbed his lapel. I love you. I respect you. I don't know what to do with her. She aches and cries and is longing and I have learned now to repel it. She could easily bring me into her spiral downwards but I can't let it feed me. I have to let her be who she is.
My mantra: accept you all for who you are.
But don't let you come live inside me.
I have enough personalities inside.
I love you both and you are now divorced, separated, free from one another. She is crazy and hurtful and he is desirous and wanting.
All I can do is let you both have space near me, but not within me.
It's so hard to not feel what they feel.
I rub my arm over and over thinking I can coat it in protection.
But I love you both.
So, I cry. Emotional ejaculate. Eye expression. Soul living.
I hug him. She is abroad and far from reach. He needs to be free. She needs to be released.
I cry tears to him. I love you, man. I do.
Not for torture, but for those that are tortured.
She broke his heart. Her mom was schizophrenic. She is acting out.
He loved her so much. He did all he could.
I love them both.
And there is nothing I can do.
She has tortured me by my willing to let her insecurities in.
I torture myself with his torment.
I grabbed his lapel. I love you. I respect you. I don't know what to do with her. She aches and cries and is longing and I have learned now to repel it. She could easily bring me into her spiral downwards but I can't let it feed me. I have to let her be who she is.
My mantra: accept you all for who you are.
But don't let you come live inside me.
I have enough personalities inside.
I love you both and you are now divorced, separated, free from one another. She is crazy and hurtful and he is desirous and wanting.
All I can do is let you both have space near me, but not within me.
It's so hard to not feel what they feel.
I rub my arm over and over thinking I can coat it in protection.
But I love you both.
So, I cry. Emotional ejaculate. Eye expression. Soul living.
I hug him. She is abroad and far from reach. He needs to be free. She needs to be released.
I cry tears to him. I love you, man. I do.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
24-7 in 3 recap
[To the tune of "Teenage Riot," "Sugar Kane," "Bull in the Heather," "Self Obsessed and Sexxee," "Kool Thing" - Sonic Youth; "Cherry Chapstick" - Yo La Tengo // on repeat and turned up real loud]
One of my memo tasks for this past week was to write a re-cap of the weekend in Switzerland. It's time to let that weekend rest. It's been buzzing in my mind to the point where I feel consumed by a bee hive between my ears and a high-speed electric beater in my belly.
It's very strange to know exactly what I want to do with my life for the next phase, but not knowing how to get there.
There is something blossoming inside me. I can feel it in the deepest pit of my belly and in my exploding heart. It's almost like leaning my face into the most beautiful flower ever seen, looking at this aching beauty, its perfect petals, its intricate pattern, its most sweet color. It's so beautiful it hurts to look at it. It's so perfect in its expression of naturalness and existence. It just is. It was made this way and it just is this way. It's terrifying in its perfection and overwhelming. So overwhelming I want to look away and cry. It burns my eyes and I want to weep at how such beauty is possible.
This turmoil, this growth, this spring bloom - I have to remember to enjoy it while I frenzy about and while I stretch to let all the air and sunlight in. It is always in the periods of confusion and lack of direction that I end up finding my way. So, I am watching it, feeling it, aching with it, rolling around giggling with it, beating it down, tenderly loving it, fearing it, drowning it, and appreciating it. There will be an end to this stage and I'll emerge better off and renewed for the next chapter. For now, I have to ride this out and remind myself that the journey is the destination.
"It was my first understanding of the difference between process and goal, my first awareness of the truth that the goal of life is in the living of it." - Henry Miller
##############
I can't write every moment or every feeling from the weekend in Switzerland (aka "homestay"). There was just too much. From the butterflies in my belly the days preceding it, the doubt and fear, to the strange calm on the train that allowed me to do school work reading. From the deep drive to be and do the best, to the laughter over shared jokes. The calming of my mind while wrapped so tightly, to the torture of my body that now turns into Easter egg yellow. The constant swooning and the short bursts of fear. I just can't cover it all here, or in the re-cap I sent to Mr FD. There is just too much. I have changed entirely and I'm not sure what it will mean in the end. Only time will tell and hindsight will confirm.
Friday, 20th:
I traveled up, up, up into the mountains. I hadn't seen snow like this for two years. Piled high and melting as it does in the spring sun. I arrived at the station, waited a bit, and was greeted with a kiss on my right cheek. We went to a nearby cafe and smoked, drank a bit, and talked without formality or tension. The only buzzing was the clock counting down the 1.5 hours before we'd go to his apartment, and I would cross the "threshold" into 3 days of ..... well, at that point I had no idea what.
I took a deep breath at the doorway to his apartment. We didn't start right away, we didn't start heavily. He wanted to ease me into it. In thinking about the gravity of the activities and situation I was entering, I had built up fears of a cruel and torturous exchange. That I'd walk in, be stripped, and beaten right away. Of course, this is not logical and was proven to be just that: imaginary fears. Dominants - if they are not assholes or idiots - do not want to break their toys, but want to court them and seduce them into wanting more.
Me: "I truly hope you can help make me become the best sub that I can be."
Him: My principal plan for the weekend.
After talking and being informal we started in slowly.
Nakedness (with and without sound): I undressed and was naked. Not the kind of naked in the locker room of the gym. Not the kind of naked at a nude beach. Not the kind of naked with a lover. This was raw, plain, transparent, exposing nakedness. It was me, in front of him, for all the world that is in his eyes to see. And when he shut down the PC in the other room, it was completely silent, and my nakedness was even louder.
I wanted to please him with my body in its natural state and was worried he wouldn't find me attractive. I was nervous as hell and my body was tense. He gave me space to "sink into my skin." I was happy I practiced the positions the night before and that he didn’t find it necessary to tweak me much.
Positions - standard, exposition, kneel, on all fours, on all fours higher difficulty (on only elbows and knees).
Schoolgirl gets tied: Yum! I put on the white blouse and green, short skirt. I laid on the wooden floor face down and he tied my arms behind my back and my feet up to my ass.
The first test of trust was through all the emails and exchanges. The second, meeting him at the station - my intuition is expert and I follow her. The third, seeing eye-to-eye in the cafe and hearing my intuition scream "Go for it! Don't even wait the 1.5 hours! Go now! Ok, ok, enjoy the cafe time, but you get it. You've got my approval." The fourth example of trust was when my hands, tied behind my back, started to feel extra funny. Not just the tingling of rope bondage, but the dead weight, can't really lift them anymore feeling. I told him about this and he responded. My mind, where it had just 5 minutes earlier started to grin in the bobbing endorphins of rope on my body, had started to panic a bit for fear of my hands. He untied me and we realized that something was pinched... Well, he explained it all and understood this situation. I was less focused on the pinching or the elbow or the nerve or the veins or the whatever, and more focused on the awesome response I received to a moment of "too much."
Meeting all of my friends: It's a blessing to not have eyes in the back of one’s head to see one's ass. He welcomed me to the bedroom/playroom. I lay on my belly on the bed and one-by-one was introduced to some of my "friends": cane, bee sting (paddle), paddle, nasty motherfucker, bull, and “lola’s friend.” I loved hearing the sound of air moving around him and me, and the anticipation of weight, degree of impact, and spectrum of sensation. For some strange reason, while this all hurt very much and in different intensities of pain, I couldn't help but to giggle. It seems like one of my automatic reactions to this pain was to out-right laugh - and especially, when he caned me. No idea why, but I don't question this beauty. At the last round, I had to recall all their names and then choose one. I went with "bee sting" and had to choose a number. I thought of something like 6, but oh no, nothing below 10. So, we went with 10. And I had to count them out loud. I had such a high, such an incredible feeling, maybe a few tears, a lot of screams, and loved that I was a giggler.
Of course, after every intense activity he provided wonderful aftercare. I'm not going to write about every moment of this intimacy, but I was thoroughly grateful and relieved with the care he gave me. He's well practiced in ... what would one call the art of chakras? Well practiced in moving energy, channeling energy, and the like. So, a big part of aftercare - and some during care - was me, enveloped by his body, being cuddled, and his hands warming and moving me through my chakras. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I needed to snuggle in closer. Blankets around me. Light caresses, strong holds. And then, good wine or champagne or fine whiskey or rum with smokes.
Saturday, 21st:
The pee experiment: Since I have a pee fetish, I was warned about being micro-managed in this area. I had to ask when I needed to go. And on Saturday, when I asked, he wanted to know how long I could hold it. Half hour? Good, go get me a glass of water and help yourself to one, too. Maybe four tall glasses of water later my belly was full and pooching out. He led me to the bathroom, into the shower, and squatting with my hands outside the shower stall on the bathroom floor (making me lean over and making it harder to get the pee out). Simultaneously, I had to poop. Ugh. To get the pee out, I'd have to push. To push would make me go poo. Mannnnn.... Since I couldn't pee, I had to drink more water. And then jump up and down. Back to the shower and if I couldn't pee, then he'd have to leave me to do both and I'd have to clean up. Ughhhhh! I started to cry. It was so much pressure and I didn't want to make a big ol' mess. He left me for a second and I was able to switch the levers in the Wizard of Oz control room in my brain. "Wait, wait, I can do it! I can pee!" [To a vanilla reader I'm sure this is so weird.] He came back in, praised me, and let me use the toilet alone.
Protocol: Not only did I have to ask to use the bathroom, but by the end of "homestay" I asked for drinks and food and my smoking was controlled by his decision. I said thank you after any demonstration of his goodwill toward me. And when I'd forget, he'd remind me. I loved this so much more than I ever thought I would. I'm a pretty fucking independent person - raised to be so through traveling and military life, cursed to be so through my own nature. But I found myself realizing that I wanted more than anything to give this to him. Trust him enough that I knew I could stop thinking about myself, and instead, demonstrate my appreciation of his status by deferring to his judgment.
Meals: Our first meal and he cooked this incredible mash-up of lovely smelling food. I juiced the oranges and cleaned up the rope and toys and stirred the mash-up while he showered. I got a big dog bowl to eat out of. My arms behind my back, my nose covered in sauces, my tongue stretching to reach the crevice of the bowl. For the last bits he let me use my hands. I forgot to say thank you and was poignantly and properly reminded on my hands and knees with cane swats, repeating "thank you" over and over.
We left the apartment once the whole weekend. He wanted to pick up some hooks and screws for the playroom and before we left his apartment for the big world, I got a super sweet treat of a kind of "chastity rope tie" around my belly and cunnie. I've never worn bondage under my clothes. I basically wore what I had on to meet him on Friday: wool tights, fluffy wool skirt and a sweater. The rope fit just fine underneath. Walking was a fun feeling. I was definitely conscious of being with him and didn't forget what the purpose of my "homestay" was. I loved the secret we had from all these other people.
Doggie play: I kneeled on the bed, facing the wall, eyes closed. He put a big, rubber, spiky bone into my mouth and tied it around my head. I closed my arms together, with my hands touching my shoulders, and he wrapped bondage tape around my arms and elbows. I closed my hands and he wrapped bondage tape around them. Bondage tape binding my thighs to my calves and tape around my feet. I was slowly converted into a pink and red doggie. Collared and leashed and taken to the hallway on my bare knees and covered elbows. With a few foot prods, I was told to hurry through the apartment. Oh my god what fun and what a challenge! The competitive nature in me came out and in my mind I was in a race. But with my legs immobile I had to scurry using these muscles I hadn't felt in a while. And scurrying turned to "oh my god this hurts my fucking knees, what's the best way to maneuver quickly?" When I made it back to the playroom, I got a rest on the bed and he took the bone gag out. Then, he sat in a chair and we played fetch. Me, scurrying across the floor for the bone and bringing it back to him. Tiring! Exhausting! And totally fucking brilliant. I loved this beyond belief. I've always loved getting rugburn on my knees after a good fucking on carpet. I've always been a bit of a tomboy. I'm always slightly competitive and love exercise. And, I've always wanted to try being a doggie. My god! What fun! ... The knees are healing still, lovely scabs.
Purple tits, metal saddle, and crying: My breasts were bound tightly. They throbbed and felt like they were pressurized with little chunks of glass – it freaked me out. I got a cloth gag in my mouth and tapped around my head, and was blindfolded. My tits were aching so much. When he caned them it was almost a relief. I tried to communicate this - more caning! more caning! But couldn't. He put me on this metal horse and I tried to stay on my tiptoes. But my tits. My god! They were screaming in my mind and I just couldn't take it any longer and had to come out. I cried and cried and cried. It was a huge breaking point. And again, he proved I could trust him. He let me out, let me cry, and comforted me.
Sunday:
Little girl with socks and Hello Kitty undies. I try to make an omelet without oil (red wine, onions, tomatoes, garlic; eggs; fresh coriander).
Him: "It's okay if it's not perfect. Everyone knows that when little girls are the kitchen it's an experiment." It becomes scrambled eggs. I get to eat with my hands. He says he wants to buy me a little baby bowl and small spoon for eating like this next time. I swoon - again in a million times.
He sits on the couch, I sit on the floor between his legs and get a special pacifier. He touches my body and warms it. Energy flows through me and shoots out my cunnie like sunrays -- or at least, that's how it feels. Tenderness.
I do all the dishes, clean up, and I write a brief explanation of the multiple personalities of Lola (ie, Adam, etc).
I'm not allowed to smoke cigarettes for a couple of hours.
Breath play: tied to a small stool, neck slightly choked with rope, hands behind my back, feet behind me around the stool. He reminds me about my curiousness about the photo on his FetLife of the hooded girl with tube coming out. I channel, I center, I prepare, I am calm. My eyes closed. He puts a plastic bag over my head and reaches between my legs with a vibrator. Intermittently holding the bag tightly where I'm gasping air between erotic huffs.
Then, I'm allowed to get out of the bondage. I sit still and a long tube is inserted into my mouth. I ease into breathing through it and he puts a light clothespin on my nose to practice breathing through my mouth only. I am blindfolded with bondage tape, untied, hands on knees, and wrapped in full hood bondage tape. He picks me off the stool, spins me, pulls me backward so I fall into his arms, spins me again, pushes me gently and then really hard so I fall backwards - onto the bed. There is saliva caught in my mouth and I'm not sure how to get it out, I panick a bit and then calm. He plugs the end of the tube and I can't breathe, then he lets it open again. Then, a breathing exercise where he breaths into the tube and I inhale. Back and forth. Practice giving up control of my breathing to him. It's exhillerating. When I come down I feel high and want to do it again.
[Break, aftercare]
I am in the bedroom, tied spread-eagle to the bed. With the amount of scare-talk and pain discussion, I imagine hours of caning my inner thighs, belly, and breasts. Instead, he removes my Hello Kitty undies and uses them as a mouth gag and I am told to keep my eyes closed. He clamps my pussy lips and slaps my open cunnie. He steps out to let me enjoy the sensations and comes back in, when he asks how I'm doing, I want to convey I'm awake and alert, and instinctually open my eyes. I am reminded not to do this and get the cane to my inner thighs (showing lovely train track bruises still now). The clamps come off and I feel something wet being inserted into my cunnie hole. I saw it the first day I was in the flat - ginger! A figging!
Going off from the writing about "Adam," and the insatiable cunnie hunger, she is filled. And it burns like my whole cunt is on fire. I feel like I'm in a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. Or, a kinky version of "Like Water for Chocolate." My cunnie is exploding fire balls and will burn alive like a pyre momentarily. It hurts. I'm afraid. It stings. I cry so hard. And moan and groan. My head starts to sway side-to-side like I'm saying no, and I'm thinking this exactly. It's soothing. My head turning side-to-side. Some other movement to express the anguish. A new pacifier, he says. He starts talking about the empty sex I've been having, the Charlie Brown Christmas Song plays in my head, I know it's been empty and longing, I've been trying to fulfill things that aren't possible in these dates. I sob. I sob and sob. Letting go of all the sadness and pent up frustration. I don't want boring, vanilla sex anymore. He tells me I should stop having sad sex. He has no idea how much I want to do so. How much I want to fulfill myself and who I am supposed to be. How I love having sex, but want it with some kick. How I've been craving this kind of release. .... Or, maybe he does know this. Maybe he knows much better than I do. At the end, he puts the vibrator to my clit and I cum and cum and cum and even squirt a little. [The last time I squirted was by myself. The last time I squirted with someone was soooo many years ago.]
After, he holds me for a very, very long time. He had promised me a movie night and I bundle in the blanket and we go to the living room. He pulls down his movie screen and we watch Asoka, a Bollywood fim, and drink and smoke. He goes to the bedroom to work on his back and falls asleep. I fall asleep during the film, wrapped in a blanket, curled up on the floor. I miss the end of the film but he wakes me up and invites me back to the bed with him. And then he reminds me of how I want to experience 24-7, what it is, and how I'm at his bequest. While I might be sleepy, we had a long nap earlier, and he now wants me in the sexiest outfit I brought without too much effort. He wants me to roll a joint and bend over, and make porn for him. He wants a hand job while we have a deeper discussion about what's going on this weekend and what could happen further down the line. He tells me there are some things we should discuss and the direction of going deeper and further. I bring up the most relevant things that seem to impede the possibility of a deeper, longer term experience together: my need for solitude, relative freedom, career, etc. And then we talk more honestly than I could have expected. We call an invisible truce on things we omitted from each other, and we forgive. I am surprised and elated at our disclosures. It makes me feel closer.
Then, he wants to see my porn. My porn. I've only shared the deep, dark, private dreams of my inner mind with maybe 3 people, and only 1 I knew in real life. I'm excited to share and to be free of any secrets. But I'm also so shy about this. He says he likes me shy, but wants me shameless. We try to get off together, but I'm too tired and my cunnie goes shy. We sleep from 8am until when he wakes me at noon, hard and horny, he fills me with his cock and cum.
We nap as best we can and get up at 2pm. Fruit for breakfast and I'm stuffing it into my mouth and he notices how hungry I am and gives me the last bits. I offer him the last pineapple and he takes it. I'm so giddy and I'm so high and oblivious and not paying attention to lessons learned. He had pointed out hours earlier that I should ask if I can have something, like water. I finish the fruit and wash it down with water. I exhale loudly in fullness of the moment, turn to him and see his eyes. A look of "Who do you think you are?" I get a face slap and my eyes tear up. Not for the pain, but for the disappointment and rudeness. He immediately changes the tone of things and makes a joke of me being a silly girl. He brings the conversation to a light place and removes the heavy guilt I could have had.
It's a challenge to break the independence streak, to realize I could be looked after and could be dependent upon this person. I want to be dependent. I respect him for his intellect, taste in music, how well read he is, his caring, his professionalism and expertise in bdsm, his seemingly genuine good-person-with-mean-bastard streak, the way he lives his life and work, his imagination.... and so it's not difficult to want to be the best sub I can be. It's just not automatic in so many regards. I have the feeling I would like to satisfy him, and in turn want to give up the self-consciousness I have, the independence and placement of my regard. This in no way means I become a doormat or a helpless, weak person or forget who I am. Who would want to hang out with that? But it means that my priorities are re-aligned. For example: our night snack of fresh salmon as a sashimi. There were 2 cuts of fish. In wondering if I should cut both or just one, I asked if I could have some, as well - for proportion judging. He suggested I ask, instead, if I should cut both and then serve him, then he'd decide if I should have some (which would happen in this instance - why deprive my starvation if it's good for me and wouldn't complicate anything [reference withholding cigarettes prior to breath play]).
My god, re-reading this just now makes me so wet. "Of course," says my mind. And, "finally," says my being.
Different mind thoughts (priority of wrap-up before the train back to Paris): Me: clean the kitchen, let it all dry while cleaning the bedroom and toys, then pack (thinking of self last); His: pack to be ready to leave any time, clean the bedroom and toys, and then dishes/kitchen - more important to have a sub clean her toys than doing the dishes.
His comment: Yes. Pack first so we can then use time as its best and you don’t forget important stuff such as your camera (silly girl). Also it frees your mind of one mandatory to do and keeps you fully here until leaving time.
And then, the loaned movies, the reading, the homework, the work to center and focus myself between now and the next "homestay." The music. The wine for our last talk about channelizing and if we have anything else to share or discuss. I did not get to shower - to learn to get over being self-conscious, and to keep the scents and stink on me from the past couple of days.
I’m not the main event or the main focus. This, in bdsm, is not about me. And I don’t want it to be about me. Riding the train back, as a grease monkey was a challenge, for sure. I did brush my teeth. Despite the fact I felt I looked disgusting, I continued to notice men noticing me – just like when I was on my way to “homestay.” Leering eyes, hungry eyes. Strange.
Him: Not that strange if you really think about it.
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I've posted the photos from the weekend on Flickr.
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Me: ...And, please, when you decide our time is up - after April / May, whenever - please be gentle in letting me know. I'm falling deeper and deeper into you/this, and know I can survive heartbreak (as Hedonyste pointed out so eloquently on FetLife comments), but would gratefully appreciate a soft letting go to a sadistic one ;)
For now, being here now... I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world.
Him: It's always a good omen when one writes "I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world."
I don't recall mentioning anything about any time up, little anxiety bomb.
I remember mentioning I can offer continutiy and care.
Now, your life as a whole comes first and things will move and shift around a lot in the next few months. I will help you in making your choices with the most benevolent heart.
In the meantime you focus on two things: acing the end of your studies and being the best sub you can be to me. Live to the fullest in the here and now. Have faith.
#####
photos ©Mr FD
One of my memo tasks for this past week was to write a re-cap of the weekend in Switzerland. It's time to let that weekend rest. It's been buzzing in my mind to the point where I feel consumed by a bee hive between my ears and a high-speed electric beater in my belly.
It's very strange to know exactly what I want to do with my life for the next phase, but not knowing how to get there.
There is something blossoming inside me. I can feel it in the deepest pit of my belly and in my exploding heart. It's almost like leaning my face into the most beautiful flower ever seen, looking at this aching beauty, its perfect petals, its intricate pattern, its most sweet color. It's so beautiful it hurts to look at it. It's so perfect in its expression of naturalness and existence. It just is. It was made this way and it just is this way. It's terrifying in its perfection and overwhelming. So overwhelming I want to look away and cry. It burns my eyes and I want to weep at how such beauty is possible.
This turmoil, this growth, this spring bloom - I have to remember to enjoy it while I frenzy about and while I stretch to let all the air and sunlight in. It is always in the periods of confusion and lack of direction that I end up finding my way. So, I am watching it, feeling it, aching with it, rolling around giggling with it, beating it down, tenderly loving it, fearing it, drowning it, and appreciating it. There will be an end to this stage and I'll emerge better off and renewed for the next chapter. For now, I have to ride this out and remind myself that the journey is the destination.
"It was my first understanding of the difference between process and goal, my first awareness of the truth that the goal of life is in the living of it." - Henry Miller
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I can't write every moment or every feeling from the weekend in Switzerland (aka "homestay"). There was just too much. From the butterflies in my belly the days preceding it, the doubt and fear, to the strange calm on the train that allowed me to do school work reading. From the deep drive to be and do the best, to the laughter over shared jokes. The calming of my mind while wrapped so tightly, to the torture of my body that now turns into Easter egg yellow. The constant swooning and the short bursts of fear. I just can't cover it all here, or in the re-cap I sent to Mr FD. There is just too much. I have changed entirely and I'm not sure what it will mean in the end. Only time will tell and hindsight will confirm.
Friday, 20th:
I traveled up, up, up into the mountains. I hadn't seen snow like this for two years. Piled high and melting as it does in the spring sun. I arrived at the station, waited a bit, and was greeted with a kiss on my right cheek. We went to a nearby cafe and smoked, drank a bit, and talked without formality or tension. The only buzzing was the clock counting down the 1.5 hours before we'd go to his apartment, and I would cross the "threshold" into 3 days of ..... well, at that point I had no idea what.
I took a deep breath at the doorway to his apartment. We didn't start right away, we didn't start heavily. He wanted to ease me into it. In thinking about the gravity of the activities and situation I was entering, I had built up fears of a cruel and torturous exchange. That I'd walk in, be stripped, and beaten right away. Of course, this is not logical and was proven to be just that: imaginary fears. Dominants - if they are not assholes or idiots - do not want to break their toys, but want to court them and seduce them into wanting more.
Me: "I truly hope you can help make me become the best sub that I can be."
Him: My principal plan for the weekend.
After talking and being informal we started in slowly.
Nakedness (with and without sound): I undressed and was naked. Not the kind of naked in the locker room of the gym. Not the kind of naked at a nude beach. Not the kind of naked with a lover. This was raw, plain, transparent, exposing nakedness. It was me, in front of him, for all the world that is in his eyes to see. And when he shut down the PC in the other room, it was completely silent, and my nakedness was even louder.
I wanted to please him with my body in its natural state and was worried he wouldn't find me attractive. I was nervous as hell and my body was tense. He gave me space to "sink into my skin." I was happy I practiced the positions the night before and that he didn’t find it necessary to tweak me much.
Positions - standard, exposition, kneel, on all fours, on all fours higher difficulty (on only elbows and knees).
Schoolgirl gets tied: Yum! I put on the white blouse and green, short skirt. I laid on the wooden floor face down and he tied my arms behind my back and my feet up to my ass.
The first test of trust was through all the emails and exchanges. The second, meeting him at the station - my intuition is expert and I follow her. The third, seeing eye-to-eye in the cafe and hearing my intuition scream "Go for it! Don't even wait the 1.5 hours! Go now! Ok, ok, enjoy the cafe time, but you get it. You've got my approval." The fourth example of trust was when my hands, tied behind my back, started to feel extra funny. Not just the tingling of rope bondage, but the dead weight, can't really lift them anymore feeling. I told him about this and he responded. My mind, where it had just 5 minutes earlier started to grin in the bobbing endorphins of rope on my body, had started to panic a bit for fear of my hands. He untied me and we realized that something was pinched... Well, he explained it all and understood this situation. I was less focused on the pinching or the elbow or the nerve or the veins or the whatever, and more focused on the awesome response I received to a moment of "too much."
Meeting all of my friends: It's a blessing to not have eyes in the back of one’s head to see one's ass. He welcomed me to the bedroom/playroom. I lay on my belly on the bed and one-by-one was introduced to some of my "friends": cane, bee sting (paddle), paddle, nasty motherfucker, bull, and “lola’s friend.” I loved hearing the sound of air moving around him and me, and the anticipation of weight, degree of impact, and spectrum of sensation. For some strange reason, while this all hurt very much and in different intensities of pain, I couldn't help but to giggle. It seems like one of my automatic reactions to this pain was to out-right laugh - and especially, when he caned me. No idea why, but I don't question this beauty. At the last round, I had to recall all their names and then choose one. I went with "bee sting" and had to choose a number. I thought of something like 6, but oh no, nothing below 10. So, we went with 10. And I had to count them out loud. I had such a high, such an incredible feeling, maybe a few tears, a lot of screams, and loved that I was a giggler.
Of course, after every intense activity he provided wonderful aftercare. I'm not going to write about every moment of this intimacy, but I was thoroughly grateful and relieved with the care he gave me. He's well practiced in ... what would one call the art of chakras? Well practiced in moving energy, channeling energy, and the like. So, a big part of aftercare - and some during care - was me, enveloped by his body, being cuddled, and his hands warming and moving me through my chakras. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I needed to snuggle in closer. Blankets around me. Light caresses, strong holds. And then, good wine or champagne or fine whiskey or rum with smokes.
Saturday, 21st:
The pee experiment: Since I have a pee fetish, I was warned about being micro-managed in this area. I had to ask when I needed to go. And on Saturday, when I asked, he wanted to know how long I could hold it. Half hour? Good, go get me a glass of water and help yourself to one, too. Maybe four tall glasses of water later my belly was full and pooching out. He led me to the bathroom, into the shower, and squatting with my hands outside the shower stall on the bathroom floor (making me lean over and making it harder to get the pee out). Simultaneously, I had to poop. Ugh. To get the pee out, I'd have to push. To push would make me go poo. Mannnnn.... Since I couldn't pee, I had to drink more water. And then jump up and down. Back to the shower and if I couldn't pee, then he'd have to leave me to do both and I'd have to clean up. Ughhhhh! I started to cry. It was so much pressure and I didn't want to make a big ol' mess. He left me for a second and I was able to switch the levers in the Wizard of Oz control room in my brain. "Wait, wait, I can do it! I can pee!" [To a vanilla reader I'm sure this is so weird.] He came back in, praised me, and let me use the toilet alone.
Protocol: Not only did I have to ask to use the bathroom, but by the end of "homestay" I asked for drinks and food and my smoking was controlled by his decision. I said thank you after any demonstration of his goodwill toward me. And when I'd forget, he'd remind me. I loved this so much more than I ever thought I would. I'm a pretty fucking independent person - raised to be so through traveling and military life, cursed to be so through my own nature. But I found myself realizing that I wanted more than anything to give this to him. Trust him enough that I knew I could stop thinking about myself, and instead, demonstrate my appreciation of his status by deferring to his judgment.
Meals: Our first meal and he cooked this incredible mash-up of lovely smelling food. I juiced the oranges and cleaned up the rope and toys and stirred the mash-up while he showered. I got a big dog bowl to eat out of. My arms behind my back, my nose covered in sauces, my tongue stretching to reach the crevice of the bowl. For the last bits he let me use my hands. I forgot to say thank you and was poignantly and properly reminded on my hands and knees with cane swats, repeating "thank you" over and over.
From "Insert: Dreaming" March 8: I asked my parents why they spanked me (since it's such a taboo for parents to do now). They both said there was no other way of getting my attention. Explaining or talking sternly to me wasn't enough for a punishment when I did bad things. Grounding didn't really affect me (as a kid - as a teen it had greater consequence) since I could sit in my room and play with my imagination. Scolding didn't do it. Threatening to hit me with a wooden spoon didn't do it. Sitting in the corner didn't do it. But spanking always always got my attention, they said.
We left the apartment once the whole weekend. He wanted to pick up some hooks and screws for the playroom and before we left his apartment for the big world, I got a super sweet treat of a kind of "chastity rope tie" around my belly and cunnie. I've never worn bondage under my clothes. I basically wore what I had on to meet him on Friday: wool tights, fluffy wool skirt and a sweater. The rope fit just fine underneath. Walking was a fun feeling. I was definitely conscious of being with him and didn't forget what the purpose of my "homestay" was. I loved the secret we had from all these other people.
Doggie play: I kneeled on the bed, facing the wall, eyes closed. He put a big, rubber, spiky bone into my mouth and tied it around my head. I closed my arms together, with my hands touching my shoulders, and he wrapped bondage tape around my arms and elbows. I closed my hands and he wrapped bondage tape around them. Bondage tape binding my thighs to my calves and tape around my feet. I was slowly converted into a pink and red doggie. Collared and leashed and taken to the hallway on my bare knees and covered elbows. With a few foot prods, I was told to hurry through the apartment. Oh my god what fun and what a challenge! The competitive nature in me came out and in my mind I was in a race. But with my legs immobile I had to scurry using these muscles I hadn't felt in a while. And scurrying turned to "oh my god this hurts my fucking knees, what's the best way to maneuver quickly?" When I made it back to the playroom, I got a rest on the bed and he took the bone gag out. Then, he sat in a chair and we played fetch. Me, scurrying across the floor for the bone and bringing it back to him. Tiring! Exhausting! And totally fucking brilliant. I loved this beyond belief. I've always loved getting rugburn on my knees after a good fucking on carpet. I've always been a bit of a tomboy. I'm always slightly competitive and love exercise. And, I've always wanted to try being a doggie. My god! What fun! ... The knees are healing still, lovely scabs.
Purple tits, metal saddle, and crying: My breasts were bound tightly. They throbbed and felt like they were pressurized with little chunks of glass – it freaked me out. I got a cloth gag in my mouth and tapped around my head, and was blindfolded. My tits were aching so much. When he caned them it was almost a relief. I tried to communicate this - more caning! more caning! But couldn't. He put me on this metal horse and I tried to stay on my tiptoes. But my tits. My god! They were screaming in my mind and I just couldn't take it any longer and had to come out. I cried and cried and cried. It was a huge breaking point. And again, he proved I could trust him. He let me out, let me cry, and comforted me.
Sunday:
Little girl with socks and Hello Kitty undies. I try to make an omelet without oil (red wine, onions, tomatoes, garlic; eggs; fresh coriander).
Him: "It's okay if it's not perfect. Everyone knows that when little girls are the kitchen it's an experiment." It becomes scrambled eggs. I get to eat with my hands. He says he wants to buy me a little baby bowl and small spoon for eating like this next time. I swoon - again in a million times.
He sits on the couch, I sit on the floor between his legs and get a special pacifier. He touches my body and warms it. Energy flows through me and shoots out my cunnie like sunrays -- or at least, that's how it feels. Tenderness.
I do all the dishes, clean up, and I write a brief explanation of the multiple personalities of Lola (ie, Adam, etc).
I'm not allowed to smoke cigarettes for a couple of hours.
Breath play: tied to a small stool, neck slightly choked with rope, hands behind my back, feet behind me around the stool. He reminds me about my curiousness about the photo on his FetLife of the hooded girl with tube coming out. I channel, I center, I prepare, I am calm. My eyes closed. He puts a plastic bag over my head and reaches between my legs with a vibrator. Intermittently holding the bag tightly where I'm gasping air between erotic huffs.
Then, I'm allowed to get out of the bondage. I sit still and a long tube is inserted into my mouth. I ease into breathing through it and he puts a light clothespin on my nose to practice breathing through my mouth only. I am blindfolded with bondage tape, untied, hands on knees, and wrapped in full hood bondage tape. He picks me off the stool, spins me, pulls me backward so I fall into his arms, spins me again, pushes me gently and then really hard so I fall backwards - onto the bed. There is saliva caught in my mouth and I'm not sure how to get it out, I panick a bit and then calm. He plugs the end of the tube and I can't breathe, then he lets it open again. Then, a breathing exercise where he breaths into the tube and I inhale. Back and forth. Practice giving up control of my breathing to him. It's exhillerating. When I come down I feel high and want to do it again.
[Break, aftercare]
I am in the bedroom, tied spread-eagle to the bed. With the amount of scare-talk and pain discussion, I imagine hours of caning my inner thighs, belly, and breasts. Instead, he removes my Hello Kitty undies and uses them as a mouth gag and I am told to keep my eyes closed. He clamps my pussy lips and slaps my open cunnie. He steps out to let me enjoy the sensations and comes back in, when he asks how I'm doing, I want to convey I'm awake and alert, and instinctually open my eyes. I am reminded not to do this and get the cane to my inner thighs (showing lovely train track bruises still now). The clamps come off and I feel something wet being inserted into my cunnie hole. I saw it the first day I was in the flat - ginger! A figging!
Going off from the writing about "Adam," and the insatiable cunnie hunger, she is filled. And it burns like my whole cunt is on fire. I feel like I'm in a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. Or, a kinky version of "Like Water for Chocolate." My cunnie is exploding fire balls and will burn alive like a pyre momentarily. It hurts. I'm afraid. It stings. I cry so hard. And moan and groan. My head starts to sway side-to-side like I'm saying no, and I'm thinking this exactly. It's soothing. My head turning side-to-side. Some other movement to express the anguish. A new pacifier, he says. He starts talking about the empty sex I've been having, the Charlie Brown Christmas Song plays in my head, I know it's been empty and longing, I've been trying to fulfill things that aren't possible in these dates. I sob. I sob and sob. Letting go of all the sadness and pent up frustration. I don't want boring, vanilla sex anymore. He tells me I should stop having sad sex. He has no idea how much I want to do so. How much I want to fulfill myself and who I am supposed to be. How I love having sex, but want it with some kick. How I've been craving this kind of release. .... Or, maybe he does know this. Maybe he knows much better than I do. At the end, he puts the vibrator to my clit and I cum and cum and cum and even squirt a little. [The last time I squirted was by myself. The last time I squirted with someone was soooo many years ago.]
After, he holds me for a very, very long time. He had promised me a movie night and I bundle in the blanket and we go to the living room. He pulls down his movie screen and we watch Asoka, a Bollywood fim, and drink and smoke. He goes to the bedroom to work on his back and falls asleep. I fall asleep during the film, wrapped in a blanket, curled up on the floor. I miss the end of the film but he wakes me up and invites me back to the bed with him. And then he reminds me of how I want to experience 24-7, what it is, and how I'm at his bequest. While I might be sleepy, we had a long nap earlier, and he now wants me in the sexiest outfit I brought without too much effort. He wants me to roll a joint and bend over, and make porn for him. He wants a hand job while we have a deeper discussion about what's going on this weekend and what could happen further down the line. He tells me there are some things we should discuss and the direction of going deeper and further. I bring up the most relevant things that seem to impede the possibility of a deeper, longer term experience together: my need for solitude, relative freedom, career, etc. And then we talk more honestly than I could have expected. We call an invisible truce on things we omitted from each other, and we forgive. I am surprised and elated at our disclosures. It makes me feel closer.
Then, he wants to see my porn. My porn. I've only shared the deep, dark, private dreams of my inner mind with maybe 3 people, and only 1 I knew in real life. I'm excited to share and to be free of any secrets. But I'm also so shy about this. He says he likes me shy, but wants me shameless. We try to get off together, but I'm too tired and my cunnie goes shy. We sleep from 8am until when he wakes me at noon, hard and horny, he fills me with his cock and cum.
We nap as best we can and get up at 2pm. Fruit for breakfast and I'm stuffing it into my mouth and he notices how hungry I am and gives me the last bits. I offer him the last pineapple and he takes it. I'm so giddy and I'm so high and oblivious and not paying attention to lessons learned. He had pointed out hours earlier that I should ask if I can have something, like water. I finish the fruit and wash it down with water. I exhale loudly in fullness of the moment, turn to him and see his eyes. A look of "Who do you think you are?" I get a face slap and my eyes tear up. Not for the pain, but for the disappointment and rudeness. He immediately changes the tone of things and makes a joke of me being a silly girl. He brings the conversation to a light place and removes the heavy guilt I could have had.
It's a challenge to break the independence streak, to realize I could be looked after and could be dependent upon this person. I want to be dependent. I respect him for his intellect, taste in music, how well read he is, his caring, his professionalism and expertise in bdsm, his seemingly genuine good-person-with-mean-bastard streak, the way he lives his life and work, his imagination.... and so it's not difficult to want to be the best sub I can be. It's just not automatic in so many regards. I have the feeling I would like to satisfy him, and in turn want to give up the self-consciousness I have, the independence and placement of my regard. This in no way means I become a doormat or a helpless, weak person or forget who I am. Who would want to hang out with that? But it means that my priorities are re-aligned. For example: our night snack of fresh salmon as a sashimi. There were 2 cuts of fish. In wondering if I should cut both or just one, I asked if I could have some, as well - for proportion judging. He suggested I ask, instead, if I should cut both and then serve him, then he'd decide if I should have some (which would happen in this instance - why deprive my starvation if it's good for me and wouldn't complicate anything [reference withholding cigarettes prior to breath play]).
My god, re-reading this just now makes me so wet. "Of course," says my mind. And, "finally," says my being.
Different mind thoughts (priority of wrap-up before the train back to Paris): Me: clean the kitchen, let it all dry while cleaning the bedroom and toys, then pack (thinking of self last); His: pack to be ready to leave any time, clean the bedroom and toys, and then dishes/kitchen - more important to have a sub clean her toys than doing the dishes.
His comment: Yes. Pack first so we can then use time as its best and you don’t forget important stuff such as your camera (silly girl). Also it frees your mind of one mandatory to do and keeps you fully here until leaving time.
And then, the loaned movies, the reading, the homework, the work to center and focus myself between now and the next "homestay." The music. The wine for our last talk about channelizing and if we have anything else to share or discuss. I did not get to shower - to learn to get over being self-conscious, and to keep the scents and stink on me from the past couple of days.
I’m not the main event or the main focus. This, in bdsm, is not about me. And I don’t want it to be about me. Riding the train back, as a grease monkey was a challenge, for sure. I did brush my teeth. Despite the fact I felt I looked disgusting, I continued to notice men noticing me – just like when I was on my way to “homestay.” Leering eyes, hungry eyes. Strange.
Him: Not that strange if you really think about it.
#######
I've posted the photos from the weekend on Flickr.
#######
Me: ...And, please, when you decide our time is up - after April / May, whenever - please be gentle in letting me know. I'm falling deeper and deeper into you/this, and know I can survive heartbreak (as Hedonyste pointed out so eloquently on FetLife comments), but would gratefully appreciate a soft letting go to a sadistic one ;)
For now, being here now... I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world.
Him: It's always a good omen when one writes "I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world."
I don't recall mentioning anything about any time up, little anxiety bomb.
I remember mentioning I can offer continutiy and care.
Now, your life as a whole comes first and things will move and shift around a lot in the next few months. I will help you in making your choices with the most benevolent heart.
In the meantime you focus on two things: acing the end of your studies and being the best sub you can be to me. Live to the fullest in the here and now. Have faith.
#####
photos ©Mr FD
Thank you, but no thanks
Remember when I was smart and he was dismissive?
This came on Sunday:
Hello Lola,
Not sure that you remember me, months having passed…We met for a drink one evening at the XYZ bar in late November/early December and I’m a very tall and (rather;-) ) mature Frenchman.
Saw glimpses of you on Alt, hope you have found interesting partners in all kinds of activities! Lol!
Just wanted to let you know I have set my strictly private “dungeon” up again, somewhere in the #eme, in a largish (85m²) flat. The place is great but it may be too much for you.
In case you are interested to hear more, let me know.
#####
Well, I thought about it for a while. Sitting on the Seine, at the base of my new favorite tree, in the sun, I decided I wasn't interested. Sure, the lure of having access to local punishment, fun, and challenges is tantalizing and dreamy and makes me wet, but he was so impatient in addressing my concerns. He wanted a fast and shallow slave slut. Frankly, the path I'm on right now with Mr. FD is so much more exciting, filled with swoons, and turns me into a fountain of wetness. And, more importantly, the path is open to deeper meaning and activities that I've dreamed about for a long time.
I didn't want to write The French Dom off right away though. I wanted to mull it over, consider my options, and keep opportunities open. Yes, I'm falling for Mr. FD and what he offers and demands, but I still want a degree of autonomy and to live in a place where freedom reigns: if a healthy, happy offer arises, I should be free to take it right now. But The French Dom's offer couldn't even begin to meet where I'm at right now: I'm respected, pushed, challenged, immersed in genuine training, my concerns are met with validation and acknowledgment, my trust is recognized as integral and is "the ground of legitimacy which is my play league" (Mr. FD).
But, just in case I was missing something in the invitation, I forwarded it to Mr. FD for his insight. His comments were helpful and his compliments on my tuned awareness were flattering. Of course, it was still my prerogative whether to engage or not.
Here's the reply:
Hello,
Thank you for contacting me again and for your offer to give me more information on the dungeon, should I have interest. I'm happy to hear that you've got a dungeon going again.
I'm actually already on a fruitful path of exploring what "too much" can mean, but wish you well in finding partners for all kinds of activities.
Cheers,
Lola
#####
Hope it wasn't too snarky, but ... seriously! I was obviously not being respected before this email, or in this email. Sheesh.
This came on Sunday:
Hello Lola,
Not sure that you remember me, months having passed…We met for a drink one evening at the XYZ bar in late November/early December and I’m a very tall and (rather;-) ) mature Frenchman.
Saw glimpses of you on Alt, hope you have found interesting partners in all kinds of activities! Lol!
Just wanted to let you know I have set my strictly private “dungeon” up again, somewhere in the #eme, in a largish (85m²) flat. The place is great but it may be too much for you.
In case you are interested to hear more, let me know.
#####
Well, I thought about it for a while. Sitting on the Seine, at the base of my new favorite tree, in the sun, I decided I wasn't interested. Sure, the lure of having access to local punishment, fun, and challenges is tantalizing and dreamy and makes me wet, but he was so impatient in addressing my concerns. He wanted a fast and shallow slave slut. Frankly, the path I'm on right now with Mr. FD is so much more exciting, filled with swoons, and turns me into a fountain of wetness. And, more importantly, the path is open to deeper meaning and activities that I've dreamed about for a long time.
I didn't want to write The French Dom off right away though. I wanted to mull it over, consider my options, and keep opportunities open. Yes, I'm falling for Mr. FD and what he offers and demands, but I still want a degree of autonomy and to live in a place where freedom reigns: if a healthy, happy offer arises, I should be free to take it right now. But The French Dom's offer couldn't even begin to meet where I'm at right now: I'm respected, pushed, challenged, immersed in genuine training, my concerns are met with validation and acknowledgment, my trust is recognized as integral and is "the ground of legitimacy which is my play league" (Mr. FD).
But, just in case I was missing something in the invitation, I forwarded it to Mr. FD for his insight. His comments were helpful and his compliments on my tuned awareness were flattering. Of course, it was still my prerogative whether to engage or not.
Here's the reply:
Hello,
Thank you for contacting me again and for your offer to give me more information on the dungeon, should I have interest. I'm happy to hear that you've got a dungeon going again.
I'm actually already on a fruitful path of exploring what "too much" can mean, but wish you well in finding partners for all kinds of activities.
Cheers,
Lola
#####
Hope it wasn't too snarky, but ... seriously! I was obviously not being respected before this email, or in this email. Sheesh.
Needs v Wants
Sure, I've thought about this. I know the difference in life in general. But it's interesting to frame it within the bdsm lola-ville.
In my 24-7-3 recap, I noted that crying in scene and at the end of scene was liberating. He might have laughed at me as a suffering little girl, crying for the pain of labia clamps or doggie competition exhaustion. And then he would hold me after a scene when I'd sob as the only way to let all the endorphins and emotions release. But I made the comment in my recap: "Crying. I need it. You need it. Enough said."
His feedback on this statement was: "You have nothing whatsoever to do with thinking about my needs. I take care of them. Crying is something I enjoy a lot, but nothing more than that. Some of my partners never cry and I have no problem with that.
More widely I have wants and fancies, lots of them. The more one person can deliver, the more she interests me.
I am of course glad that crying is a need for you."
This has launched me into an exploration of need v want. As I said, I know what mine are in life in general, but in this special bdsm world? Not sure if you can read this link on FetLife without joining the group, but I'm in the middle of reading this. (Although right now I'm trying to pay attention to some bullshit about epistemic communities within diffusion of innovation and policy-making. Bleh.) Someone in this discussion linked over to The Submissive Guide website. I started the reading of this series and it's really rather trite and almost condescending in its simplicity. But it's got me thinking. And I'm going to spend some time exploring this in the blog.
For starters, I don't think crying is a need. I think it's a want and even a sub-want. But I do note a longing to cry when I haven't for a while, a want to cry at least once in a year. But is it a need? I've got to dig around here, and then start being more succinct in my use of words.
In my 24-7-3 recap, I noted that crying in scene and at the end of scene was liberating. He might have laughed at me as a suffering little girl, crying for the pain of labia clamps or doggie competition exhaustion. And then he would hold me after a scene when I'd sob as the only way to let all the endorphins and emotions release. But I made the comment in my recap: "Crying. I need it. You need it. Enough said."
His feedback on this statement was: "You have nothing whatsoever to do with thinking about my needs. I take care of them. Crying is something I enjoy a lot, but nothing more than that. Some of my partners never cry and I have no problem with that.
More widely I have wants and fancies, lots of them. The more one person can deliver, the more she interests me.
I am of course glad that crying is a need for you."
This has launched me into an exploration of need v want. As I said, I know what mine are in life in general, but in this special bdsm world? Not sure if you can read this link on FetLife without joining the group, but I'm in the middle of reading this. (Although right now I'm trying to pay attention to some bullshit about epistemic communities within diffusion of innovation and policy-making. Bleh.) Someone in this discussion linked over to The Submissive Guide website. I started the reading of this series and it's really rather trite and almost condescending in its simplicity. But it's got me thinking. And I'm going to spend some time exploring this in the blog.
For starters, I don't think crying is a need. I think it's a want and even a sub-want. But I do note a longing to cry when I haven't for a while, a want to cry at least once in a year. But is it a need? I've got to dig around here, and then start being more succinct in my use of words.
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