Friday, February 27, 2009

Submission - Part Three (it's all about choice)

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Read Part ONE here

Read Part TWO here

So what’s the point of this meandering discussion?

Basically what I’m (badly) arguing is that unlike our need to eat, sleep, defecate and breathe, we are not physiologically FORCED to explore and enjoy our submission.

I am also saying that while society encourages submission as a gender-based role in society, that form of submission is distinct and separate from the type we speak of in terms of dynamics in a BDSM world. It is also artificial in society (but that’s another fight for another day).

That being the case, does that then give us a CHOICE to explore a part of our personality that we know, sense, induce to be supremely satisfying and spiritually fulfilling?

Because, this is my argument; it IS a choice.

Choice

Not as in “I choose to be submissive – or not” – because to some extent, I believe we are who we are.

I’m hot-tempered .. always have been, most likely always will. That temper is part of what I am, an intrinsic, complicated trait that is very much a part of my personality. But I learned a long time ago, that my quick, hair trigger temper was not an acceptable way to conduct my life. And so I work, hard, at controlling it, at keeping it in acceptable limits. It is my CHOICE to exercise restraint over my temper.

So too it is my CHOICE whether to indulge and explore my submissiveness.

I am submissive; I believe that and know that, based on my life experiences. I have been D’s submissive since I first laid eyes on him all those year ago. I didn’t call it that, I didn’t have a name for it – not for many many years – but nonetheless that is the exact dynamic our relationship encompassed, first unnamed, then named ...

I am passionate, strong-minded, opinionated (you guess?) and out spoken. I am a committed and vocal feminist, a leader in many areas of my life (past and present) and have never kneeled to any but one man. AND I’m submissive. It’s still there you know– suppressed right now, pushed down and ignored, controlled with an iron will and refuted, but THERE.

Ergo, I am submissive because whatever personality traits I was born with, influenced to some extent by my experiences in the world in which I live, the pressures exerted by the society of which I am a part, but ULTIMATELY, based on how I feel when I allow my desires to be expressed and fulfilled, make me what I am.

I am not submissive because I have never been given the opportunity to exercise any dominance in my personality; in actual fact, over the course of my life (in hindsight) I was with several submissive men, who very obviously relished that strong, committed, forceful part of my personality (both men of whom I am thinking asked me to marry them).

And they did NOTHING for me.

I have never had the least desire to dominate in a personal relationship; and had to work hard (because I am, at heart, innately kind) not to be cruel – because I find passive, submissive men who try to submit to ME off-putting (no problem with them as friends, acquaintances – just not the sexually based dynamic).

Thus, there is no doubt in my mind, I am submissive.

HOWEVER, I DO have a choice on whether I allow that particular part of who I am be expressed and explored.

It’s a CHOICE I make as to whether I choose to allow that part of who I am to express itself ... it is a CHOICE I make whether or not I am strong enough (yes), determined enough (yes) and committed enough (yes) to ruthlessly suppress the need, the ache and the desire.

Is it easy?

Definitely not.

My submission to D. was one of the most peaceful, spiritually fulfilling and soul satisfying actions of my life. When we were in sync, I experienced such an intensity of purpose and emotional rightness that at those moments, all the restless, anxious, unbalanced aspects of my id were quiet, serene, RIGHT. And, as I am a very physical person, my sexuality is inextricably and irrevocably entwined with my submission and it was through the dynamic that I achieved the most sublime heights of physical pleasure brought far beyond the realm of the corporeal into that of the spirit.

Thus, when it broke down, it was profoundly, massively devastating.

And I had a choice .... (continue to do so, really, because I remain a submissive without a Master.) I could choose to seek a new Master or I could choose to remain with D. but in a different context.

My choice is to stay with him on a different level than the one we have overtly lived for many many years (and subtly for many years before that) – as a d/s dynamic. For should I seek another Master (even if I wanted one, which was never an issue for me - D. was and remains the only man I have ever wanted to kneel to) then I am very aware that in so doing I would sever ALL our ties irrevocably.

I am not someone who can divide her life into little emotional boxes. Love here, submissiveness there, rationality in this box, spirituality over here ...

Where I submit, I love; for me that is the reality. I believe there are individuals who CAN divide the two emotions; indeed, from a rational perspective I understand it. I cannot, however, submission and love to me are indivisible.

Where I submit, I want; my sexuality is inextricably and inevitably entwined with my submission. I am never more sexual than at my most profound moments of submission. I could not imagine having a Master with whom I did not (at the most profound level) interact sexually for the eroticism of domination and submission is to me, overwhelming.

And the bottom line is that to make that kind of a choice would destroy the ties that continue to bind D and I together on so many levels.

And that is an unacceptable cost to me.

Yes, ONE more Part then my meandering is over, I promise!

Submission ... Part Two (Nature vs. Nurture)

Read Part 1 here

Nurture versus Nature

One school of thought about submissive and dominant personality traits is rooted in the nurture versus nature debate.

The “nature” advocates assert that it is all about basic male/female dynamics; men are larger, stronger, the warriors, the protectors and (in my opinion) the berserkers! The females, smaller, weaker, more vulnerable – needing protection and help when bringing up young. To me that is just not a valid argument.

To begin with, there are MANY examples of larger, stronger females in nature so it is not a legitimate argument to make a blanket statement that the male is naturally dominant. Then again, even in many apparently dominant species, it is actually the ‘smaller’, ‘weaker’ female who directs the relationships (again, google if you want to confirm this).

Also, pure muscle power aside, from a physiological perspective, this “nature” argument is seriously flawed. Females are the ‘original’ sex and continue to remain the ‘stronger’ sex in terms of genetics so in that sense we ARE the stronger sex. We are more hardy in the womb; more premature girls survive than premature boys; boys have FAR more genetic defects than girls, and women, while `carriers`of many other genetic problems, do not actally get the disease which will show up in the males in their genetic pool.

Therefore, arguing "nature" as the basis for the dominant/submission dynamic IS seriously flawed from both an academic and scientific perspective.

So what about nurture?

We live in a very male-dominated society – both in the Western and Eastern hemispheres. Largely the construct of artificially imposed religious doctrine, a trickle effect into almost every stratum of society has ensured there is a continued emphasis on the secondary stature of females and a persistent belief entrenched in law, more and belief, that females are less capable.

As pointed out above, we are inundated with pressures and strictures in our society that perceive women as the nurturer, the mothers, the caregivers and the helper. Conversely, the male is “naturally” the head of the home, the ‘do-er’, the powerhouse, the mover and shaker.

Little girls and little boys are moulded and influenced from birth about their roles, what acceptable behaviours encompass, career choices, even the types of toys they play with. for god's sake, childrne are even segregated according to the COLOUR of their clothing! As if pink will somehow emasculate or blue create a masculine mindset!


The resultant individuals are sometimes fine and sometimes not. Certainly, there are MANY individuals out there who end up with a lot of confused thoughts, heartache and self-hate when they find their natures war against artificially constructed societal imperatives.


In short, throughout our entire lives, each of us is innundiated with imperatives inextricably caught in our concept of our femininity and masculinity. Sadly, even the lexicon in which we commnicate is rife with negative and positive words, many of which have masculine or feminine constructs (calling someone a "cunt' outside of a scene is pretty well universally considered an insult, for instance).


Based on the "nurture" concept therefore, all women should be naturally submissive and all men naturally dominant ... which just isn't the case! Because people WILL be people and invididual characteristics, no matter how fiercely denied or fought, will eventually come out.


Basically, the entire "nurture" debate tries to bring female and male down to simplistic terms and people are just too unique, too individualistic for that to be successfully accomplished.


Keep in mind also, that for a dynamic to work, there is a very individualistic spark that occurs between TWO people - submissive feelings are not engendered by someone merely because they happen to have a penis!

Part Three to follow

What is submssion? and can it be suppressed? put away?


PART ONE
(a reposting after rethinking some parts)

An interesting question arose at Pygar’s blog (see here) detailing his recent actions in releasing a submissive. In short, a submissive asked for her release as, new to the dynamic, she underestimated the impact her submissiveness would exert on her regular life and could not find a comfortable balance.

In the subsequent comment section, Pygar mused whether in fact ‘submission could be put back in the box’... sparked by several commentators who feel once experienced, once embraced, the inner submissive aspect of an individual’s personality cannot be “put away”.

First, while self-evident, this is MY opinion (of course I think it’s the right one (grins – that’s a JOKE)) I do not think it the only valid one, nor am I out to attack anyone- however, I enjoy a good debate and heated arguments are fine insofar as people keep some rationality intact.

So, my take on submission

What is submission?

First, I think one needs to have some concept of what submission IS. Do you perceive it as a personality trait? A state of mind? Something you are born with? Do you see it as something physiological – i.e. it’s somewhere there on your gene strand? Or is it a trait triggered by psychological impacts over the course of your youth?

I’ve thought long and hard on it and while I don’t have a definitive “description”, I have come up with some conception of what having submissive tendencies means in terms of the human animal.

At its most simplistic, I believe submissiveness is a personality trait. The psychological lexicon incorporates five “traits” (openness, conscientiousness, extraversion, agreeableness neuroticism) as a starting point to establishing an individual’s personality through a battery of tests, studies and enquiry into the human personality.

I’m not going to get into an empirical discussion about it – google Big Five Personality Traits and you’ll get enough to keep you busy for the next week, but at the core is I believe those who perceive themselves as “submissive” would most likely score high on the “agreeable” spectrum and most likely (for service-oriented submissive in particular) on the conscientiousness spectrum as well.

The reality that each of us is remarkably unique in our personality and individuality in itself makes it difficult (thankfully) to slot any one of us into a little “box”. That very uniqueness will make each individual’s submission distinctive to her (I use the female gender in this instance and for this discussion as that is what I can talk to, I’ll save male submission for another discussion).

I also believe implicitly, as in any dynamic (be it with fellow employees, siblings, friends or acquaintances) the maner in which two distinct personalities interact are unique and individual to those two people. In short, "submissiveness" like other traits, is quantifiable in the manner in which it is affected by another person's unique traits. In short, "submissive feelings " are not triggered to any individual calling or presenting themselves as “dominant”.

To my mind, someone who styles themselves submissive and then submits easily and on being told to, to any self-styled “dominant” is not submissive, but a doormat and more than likely, psychologically damaged; someone who seriously needs to work on their sense of self-worth.

Thus, I do not think it valid to simply state “I am submissive” and leave it open-ended. Submissive to whom? Submissive to what dynamic? What triggers that deep emotional reaction? What personality traits in another elicit a submissive response from you?

Conversely, too with dominance .. stating categorically “I am dominant, always have been, always will be” is just silly – the reality is that if all those dominants were bred in the bone to ALWAYS be dominant in every situation, there would indeed be too many cooks and not enough chefs in the world at large!

So, if submissiveness is part of the makeup of the individual, a character trait in short, how much control does the individual hold over that part of her personality? Can such a trait together with the emotions engendered by those feelings be controlled? directed? rebuffed? restrained?

And this is where I know I will digress from a lot of opinions.

PART TWO TO FOLLOW

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Friendship blogs

My dear friend, moringstar (aka littleone) http://wtsubbie.blogspot.com/2009/02/and-award-goes-to.html was so kind to give me a "friendship award"! The award is worded as follows:

“These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and
be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that
when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated.
Please give more attention to these writers.”

Thank you so much! I'm flattered and touched! I'm supposed to nominate 8 others but anyone that knows me knows I don't tag so as lovely as I find this - please don't be insulted that I don't tag ... know that I value each and every friend here in cyberia!

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Remembering

Sunlight spills across the window, filling my eyes with a radiance that enchants and pulls me to the panorama spread below. Light glints, sparkling twinkling diamond dances along the graceful sweep of needle of the Tower while in the distance, white caps sparkle and froth on a lake benign in the promise of warmth to come. Shadows dance and cavort across the fa├žade of buildings, sliding and slipping and misting in the eddies of smoke belching from funnels, frosty breath giving lie to the promise of spring.

I mourn the dreary day which bleeds into dreary day, the monochromatic sameness of grey skies and the loss of shadows and an unending blend of greys and blacks and pale silver and the stained detritus of once pristine snow, and my mind forgets the clarity that light brings and the beauty of watching shadows prance and frolic and the contrast of dark and light which delights.

I remember those crisp days of before, when the smell of spring wafted on the cool breeze of still winter, but beneath, the smell of growing things tickled that part of us that is linked to the earth and the trickle and spill of water beneath banks piled high with snow and ice belie the reality of its frozen expanse and the sun blinds our eyes as we turn our pale faces to its golden caress and yearn towards its life-giving need.

Do I sense a thaw beneath the frozen landscape of a soul burrowed deep within, pulled tight and small to protect its fragile remains? I don’t know. I know that still my body slumbers and worry that its sleep is one of permanence, that like the slumbering princess of yore, it lies unknowing and untouched but outside the thorny wall of my denial there is no prince to wake me from the greyness of endless nothingingness into the glory of colour and sharpness of now.

Yet, yet… a trickle, a touch … a gossamer strand of maybe, delicate, fragile possibility …. I ponder the resiliency of the human spirit and think hope extinguished yet wonder still.

I yearn into the cool slick glass, and lay my forehead against the kiss of its cool surface and feel removed from the vibrant symphony of colour which delights and saddens at one and the same time.

I remember other crisp spring days, when the endless blue of sky wheeled above us, pristine and infinite and sunlight spilled and danced and wove a dance of cool golden light around our bodies. When your hand was warm in mine and our breaths still frosted in the Montreal sky but the sun’s embrace licked hope into our pallid cheeks.

I close my eyes and lean my cheek against the slick glass of memory and remember with piercing clarity the smells and sounds of Atwater Station. Cacophony of voices and swish of coat and squeak of shoes and the muttering, restless sound of crowds, crackle of static as trains are called and the vibrant, tugging pull of journeys and possibilities, surrounded we sit, with the buttery, rich smell of toast and mesmerizing lure of coffee wafting in air stained with the fumes of diesel and the chugging monochromatic chuffing of trains and screech of track and the day stretches before us, endless in its possibilities.

Such perfect moments in time I remember with a yearning which threatens to overwhelm, perfect clear moments in time when life right then, right at that moment, had such relevance and perfect meaning. Sitting beside you as you finished your and then my, thick, crisp, golden toast, butter dripping, laughing as I hand you a napkin and we sip hot sweetened coffee from stubby thick china cups, white porcelain with pale brown stains on the saucers where trickles of coffee slip over the thick lip and dribble down..

Hand in hand, wandering out into the thronging, busy city streets, cheeks flushed at the cool air, but buoyed in our souls with the sunlight which spills between the soaring towers and kisses pale gold into our eyes which meet and tangle and melt into each other’s souls.

Your hand in mine and the promise that life is returning to a cold city and the simple, indefinable joy of simply being, there, with you and the promise of your body, the feel of you against me as you lean over and your cold lips meet mine and our breaths, warm and fragrant, mingle and join and your tongue hot and insistent, claims my mouth and dances the dance until my nipples peak beneath my top and my legs tremble.

I want that simplicity again, that sense of complete happiness in the now. I want that. I want to feel my body waken and stretch and moisten and tremble before you. I want that certainty, that I am where I am meant to be. I want to simply be joyous in the moment without the detritus of broken dreams and promises not kept cluttering the moment and clouding the beauty of simply existing.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Patterns

Patterns seem to be an inevitable rut into which the human species is doomed to fall again and again. It is as if our feet get stuck in the groove of our own making, and without conscious thought or volition, we trudge forward, placing each foot squarely in the same imprint made a thousand... a million times before.

Why do we do so?

I think it gives a spurious comfort to perform repetitive functions, to create in a sense, a ritual which can be enacted and completed without challenge to thought or effort. For while ritual can provide meaning and focus and encourage one to enter a state wherein you are open to and able to internalize thoughts and emotions not readily quantifiable in our workaday lives, “ritual” performed by rote, without introspection and thought, becomes not insightful but destructive.

Ritual done without intent becomes a pattern and a pattern is, when all is said and done, a predictable sequence of behaviours.

Predictability has its place in every life, but when it permeates every facet of existence it becomes stifling, destroys creativity, smothers possibilities and leaches colour from your existence.

Most decidedly, there is something in the human psyche that seeks order. We even create deities and then mythologies around those deities in an attempt to create reason and order out of what often feels like a chaotic universe.

The universe itself seems to favour order and pattern, as sequence, patterns and order are increasingly revealed as the preferred status quo. Science and technology continue to affirm again and again the hypothesis that where there is chaos, the universe demands harmony.

The problem of course is that while there can be comfort derived from ritual and equilibrium from a pattern in your days, mindless rote in the end serves only to undermine creativity, spontaneity and ultimately, can be and is often used as a substitute for insight.

I’ve also always found it mystifying why we continue to engage in patterns that are patently destructive to our peace of mind, happiness and ultimately, the quality of our lives.

Why do we do that?

I’m not talking about patterns we don’t see (because, like it or not, each of us engages to some extent in a groove of repetitive habits that through their very predictability, have become invisible and fallen off the edge of awareness). I’m talking about patterns about which, through trial and error, through experience and repetition, are obvious and in their obviousness, destructive to our peace of mind, quality of life and happiness.

What are your destructive emotional patterns?

Do you have insight into why you continue to follow that path?

I sure as hell don’t.

I consider myself relatively intelligent, with a modicum of insight and believe I at least deserve credit for determined if not fruitful contemplation of esoteric meanderings yet damned if I can figure out why I engage in the same self-destructive patterns decade after decade.

I think fear has some bearing on it; there is a comfort, spurious or otherwise, in “known” actions – in being able to anticipate and even predict outcomes. Breaking a pattern brings with it the loss of certainty (in essence, inviting chaos); the question of course is WHY is that seen by many of us as a negative consequence?

While “patterns” are often seen to be synonymous with “harmony” and thus desirable, I think that is perhaps a rather shallow interpretation of the balance in life. I think sometimes that chaos is far more gratifying, more life-affirming in its own way than peace.

Chaos in short has had a bad rap.

If the point of life (and I believe it to be truth) is in fact for each of us to strive to live up to our fullest potential, then I believe that too rigid an adherence to patterns can stultify and impede our journey to true self-insight and discovery.

The reality that in many instances we are our own jailors is moot; our fear is strangling us.

In ancient Greece, Chaos was the dark, silent abyss from which all things came; as in life, as in the creation of same. But somewhere along the philosophical trail of history, we’ve redefined it as a negative, something to be avoided.

In doing so, those of us who rigidly, persistently and blindly continue in our repetitive, often self-destructive behaviour are in essence contributing to the hobbling of our own probabilities. And that is just plain sad.

Sometimes it takes a hint of chaos, a small tremor of disorder, a frisson of turmoil to open our wilfully closed eyes to the realities of our existence and, while that can sting, hell it can be quite agonizing – I think the most important thing to bring away from the pain is self-realization ….

Friday, February 20, 2009

ties that bind

I run the tips of my fingers across the creased, soft surface, tactile proof of words said and feel the dusk of history sighing memory in my soul. Gently, I unfold the whispery murmuring paper and caress the words which spill out in a stream of thought and meaning and feel in my heart the resonating vibration of before.

September 19, 1975 ... I remember and my eyes leak poignant want as time contracts and springs the then into the now and I am huddled on my bed in the small, over-heated room, radiator shaking and rattling and fall colours already spilling crimson and gold onto the dusky carpet, a thousand miles between our realities.

I sit on our bed and read your words and marvel at how time is so capricious ... and think of you then with your spill of fair curls halfway down your back, your predator’s eyes, narrow and glittering, tiger eye’s devouring my green gaze.

January 16, 1977... and the words mumble want into my ears and I feel the ache of your absence and the anxious fear of you and the knowledge of lust and need and the compelling, inescapable reality of you brings panic and obsession to a crescendo of anxiety and a solid orange cat purring calm into my ears and warmth and soft paws around my neck bring a modicum of solace.

I pick up another memory and caress the fading indigo of the lined vellum, fading like thought into a soft, wisping grey against the yellowing ivory where your words in their sharp staccato thought lick poignancy into the reality of my now.

I remember hot summer nights on Cardinale and the pungent, musky smell of our coupling, the sticky proof of your wanting on my glistening thighs. Your restless, edgy body is quiet for the moment, the long lean arm lying relaxed across your pillow, your tiger’s eyes closed. I remember lying on my side, devouring the long, sharp lines of your body, nuzzling want into the prickling 2 day growth along the line of jaw and smelling the sharp, musky smell of myself on your mouth. I remember the smooth line of chest and your narrow waist and the sharp delicious jut of your hips and the aching sweet lust I felt as my insatiable gaze devours the still slightly swollen cock which lies against your thigh, shining with the glittering moisture of my lust in the muted yellowed light spilling through the wine dark window.

I’ve always loved your cock.

The delicate, painfully tender skin of its pale length and the wrinkled promise at its tip, skin shyly creasing, embracing the smooth firm crimson nut inside. I used to love creeping up your lean thighs to breathe please into its soft tumescence and lap want gently, a butterfly’s kiss along the length, a soft, firm tongue lipping sinuous in the tip, pushing narrow into the sighing soft folds of skin and I remember how lust would tighten deep inside, until I felt my womb contract with need and the pale tips of my breasts brushing now against your sharp hips, harden, turn crimson and swell into supplicating, yearning want.

I loved the way you would harden, quivering, jerking growth as your cock woke even as you slept on ... until the pulsing, smooth head emerges glistening with the proof of your need and I, gently, lap the swelling, glittering fluid that welled up, a magic elixir of soul satisfying desire wrapped up in a throbbing, moist cock...

And as I would sigh and push into your groin, breathing deep to swallow the hot hard length, gagging greedily and wanting to devour the essence of you, I would feel your hand tangling in my curls and the hot tugging want deep within me would meld with the sharp, demand of your fingers as they pushed my eager lips around your full length until my lips would kiss the soft, painfully tender skin of your balls, swelling now and reaching toward my greedy mouth.

The paper in my hands, worn smooth with the passage of our lives, rustles dryly as I gently refold its creased thoughts as if it sighs a breath into a universe that devours promise and dreams and the words blur and swell as my eyes remember then and yearn for the innocence of certitude.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Stealing ...

I have a million things I need/want/yearn to write.... but my enemy time refuses a truce and I continue to languish in the drudergy of days .... so here's little one's meme, crassly stolen ...http://wtsubbie.blogspot.com/2009/02/its-all-about-me.html

1. Can you cook?

Damn right - I'm a very very decent cook ... my family has very seldom 'eaten out of a box' but what I love to do best is bake ...

2. What was your dream growing up?

To be a writer (sighs).

3. What talent do you wish you had?

self-discipline? is that a talent - I think it is ....I'm a loser when it comes to that - and let things slide I shouldn't

4. Favorite place?

the ocean ... and I'm talking Atlantic here - not tropic -

5. Favorite vegetable?

I like them all, pretty well

6. What was the last book you read?

God is Not Great - Christopher Hitchens - bitching book, read it.

8. Any Tattoos and/or Piercings?

Two tats, 5 piercings in ears (and those I got 30 years ago- rebel selkie!), 4 VERY private piercings - more tats planned

9. Worst Habit?

emotional eater - its insidious and encompassing

10. Do we know each other outside of blogging?

Nope - but I'm hoping we can actually meet on one of my "commutes" to your city!

11. What is your favorite sport?

lacrosse ! LOVE it!! for watching - cycling for doing

12. Negative or Optimistic attitude?

depends - I probably tend more on the negative side

13. What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator with me?

probably catch up on things, most likely be irreverant and rude about our relationships and then aid and abet each other in harrassing the elevator people to hurry up.

14. Worst thing to ever happen to you?

Read me - then you'll know.

15. Tell me one weird fact about you:

I've almost died three times.

16. Do you have any pets?

2 dogs, 4 cats, guinea pig and rabbit

17. Do you know how to do the macarena?

damn right and I can line dance in a pinch too.

18. What time is it where you are now?

7:38 a.m. and I should be working - been swamped since I walked into work at 5

19. Do you think clowns are cute or scary?

HORRIFYING - I HATE THEM.

20. If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be?

overall - weight - and specifically, my belly - its revolting.

21. Would you be my crime partner or my conscience?

It completely depends on the situation - I am FAR from sanctimonious - but I have my own strict code of conduct and hopefully, stand by what I taught my kids- stand up and be counted and do the right thing - so probably, overall, conscience.

22. What color eyes do you have?

green

23. Ever been arrested?

don't think so ... but threatened with it a couple of times when in the newspaper business

24. Favorite fictional character of all time?


25. If you won $10,000 dollars today, what would you do with it?

pay off debts.

26. If you could have one superpower, what would it be?

to fly ...

27. What’s your favorite hangout?

my secret garden (see little one, we DO have lots in common)

28. Do you believe in ghosts?

no, but I seem to have a lot of phantoms around ..

29. Favorite thing to do in your spare time?

read or write


30. Do you swear a lot?

depends on the situation - day to day, no - but when my temper is triggered .....

31. Biggest pet peeve?

people without a work ethic.

32. In one word, how would you describe yourself?

complicated.

33. Will you repost this so I can fill it out and do the same for you?

have done!

Monday, February 16, 2009

Friday, February 13, 2009

Fading...

Winter breathes its cold, hoary breath against panes of glass kissed by spring, shuddering now as frost licks truth into the opaqueness of pale sky. Padding in on velvet dark paws, night steals crimson from the horizon and slashes gold from the distant sun with its false promise of heat.

She shivers, fine hairs lifting on the long arms, nipples tightening. The night slips around her, rubbing dusk against the spring green of eyes and leaching colour from the pale face. Freckles stand stark against the alabaster skin and shadows cast time against the hollows and planes of her face.

She stares into the mirror. It is so odd. The edges of her body seem to blur and blend as if reality is leaking into the fabric of possibilities once promises, now fading memories dreamed in a bedroom while lying on a maple sleigh bed, hewn from logs taken from a borealis forest when forests swept across endless acres of wilderness and the stars blazed the sky silver and in the distance, wolves howled.

Her skin, always pale, starkly white, freckles glowing on its skin seems to thin and become transparent. She leans forward and stares intently into the mirror. It is as if she can see the delicate tracery of blue veins beneath the skin, as though the very blood coursing through the complicated highway of her existence is exposed and raw. Her eyes, uncertain like her, green bleeding into blue into grey, unable to prove true colour. Like her mind. Like her existence.

She feels as if those traits which make her unique have been rejected, suppressed, dismissed. A cardboard cut-out, she makes her disjointed, awkward jerking movements approximating real life – but inside her mind and heart are slowly being squeezed to annihilation.

Her past several years have revealed a reality she mourns and the realization that those who profess to love, have loved their perception and not the reality of her. They desired what they perceived to be her and rejected, denied and hated those fallible parts that make up the myriad aspects of any individual.

Her writing is a threat. Kill it. Her social ability undesired. Suppress it. Anger? Nope – not allowed. Give, give, give …

Be what I wish you to be…

She realizes what she finds truly frightening is her inability, her frightening lack of will to salvage the reality that is her. Rather, she curls mute within the confines of her ugly body and watches with passive eyes as the things that she has always seen as intrinsically her are quashed, destroyed and bled out of her skin like bleached riverbeds of despair and regret.

She sighs and her breath is barely a thought, a slight shiver against the thread of life held taut by the Moraie.

She feels the reality of who she is fading into the fabric of reality around her. She feels the essence, the soul of her trickling away into the infinity of the universe where the blending and melding of that which makes her unique wanes into the vast abyss of sameness.

She is broken inside. She feels, profoundly, as if her existence is insubstantial, wisps of smoke and reflections in the mirrors. That she exists right now merely as a reflection ...

She opens her mouth and exhales thought against the mirror. But there is no substance behind the reflection and the glass reflects the ghost of maybe into her tormented eyes, and sighing, reality drifts ethereal into the now.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Symbols

The human species finds itself endlessly seeking reaffirmation of itself in the symbols which represent the concrete, the abstract, the spiritual and emotional lodestones of their lives. We grasp a concrete example of reality and pull it to our hearts as if infused with the essence of that which we seek to quantify.

We adorn ourselves with jewellery, we engrave meaning on our skin, we look at the way the sun rises and the clouds bloom and call the early falling of dusk an omen.

We humans are nothing if not credulous, infused with the yearning to look beyond the mundane and find significance that somehow makes sense of the chaos of an uncaring universe.

Even the most self-named sceptic has some small part of them that hopes, perhaps quietly, secretly, for a sign that a certain path, once taken, is one which lead to ultimate contentment.

I certainly am no different and truth be told, am probably more credulous in some respects. My Irish upbringing has infused my life with the concept of wonder beyond the mortal ken, of things unseen and emotions felt and perceptions intrinsically sensed not with the gross reality of touch or sight but deep inside where our reptilian brain quivers.

Mind you, that fey quality battles with the hard practicality that a hard-headed, practical person has needed all her life when organizing, taking charge and dealing with the messy realities of her birth family and subsequent relationships.

And the symbols we infuse with meaning are fiercely personal to each of us – albeit some are universal in nature, it is the interpretation and individual experience that infuse them with import and meaning.

Thus, for me, the wedding ring I put on almost 27 years ago was taken off within months as while I can admire rings on others, my ugly fingers (washerwoman hands I call them), are not designed for rings with their thin length and knobbly knuckles. His commitment to me that July day was all the proof I needed of his intent and caring, I didn`t need a gold ring to prove it. Yet for most of our time together, I have worn his silver necklace around my neck ... and his “D”, tattoed on my buttock remains a poignant and unregretted reminder of how we related for so many years. The silver rings in my most private places remain – for now at least (although I ponder and am uncertain of their future), nestled in among the hidden places, screened and lost among the curls which in themselves are yet another sign of change ... but each time I hold him or kiss him, I see their mates in his ears and am reminded.

I have no regrets about these permanent symbols of my commitment and adoration of him. No matter what the future holds, the past remains what the past was – and I cannot and do not regret actions taken in joy, in affirmation and in the belief that while change is inevitable, one gambles on hope.

Symbols are in the end, intensely and uniquely personal to the individual. Each of us grasps to our hearts the concepts and intricate reminders of emotions felt, memories infused with the realities of our existence, our beliefs and our dreams.

There are no certainties, just the whisper of perhaps in the ether of futures which remain possibilities only.

Monday, February 9, 2009

I support gay marriages


"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo.

the above video is from the Courage Campaign - people who believe that love is love, no matter the colour, complexion or gender.

if you support this, please follow this link http://www.couragecampaign.org/page/s/divorce and sign the petition.

On a personal note, let me tell you about my mum.

When she was younger, for many years, my mum volunteered in the pallative care in Royal Victoria Hospital in Montreal. This was in the 70s and 80s when AIDS was rampant, there were no treatements and it was an automatic - and relatively fast - death sentence.

Brought up in Ireland by nuns, innundiated with Catholicism and both secular and religious strictures, in many ways she rose above her upbringing and was an openminded accepting woman - kind beyond mention - but she did NOT get or accept in any way, homosexuality. She just could not get her head around it - saw it as "unnatural", "twisted", even evil....

until, week after week, month after month she watched as AIDS-wracked individuals were admitted to the unit where she volunteered, to die, emaciated, wracked with pain, in grief. And watched, night after night, as that their same sex partners came religiously, with love, with grief, with a deep abiding caring that she could neither deny nor reduce to simplistic terms. She watched as these partners washed with loving hands their lover, as they wiped faces, and cleaned vomit, and sat, night after night after night and saw them out of this life... and mourned with them as the patient died and saw and understood the deep, real, TRUE and abiding grief of the one left behind.

And realized, reluctantly, still not entirely comprehending, but understanding - and telling me, love is love, whatever its guise.

The world is a harsh place; each of wrestles with despair, with economic hardship, we watch wars and human cruelty play out in our cities, our nations, our homes.... I, for one, will NEVER reputidate, deny nor do anything but celebrate love ...whatever its guise.



Sunday, February 8, 2009

words

Sticks and stones can break your bones
but words can never hurt you

Except they can.

Words can rend and tear and slash agony into spirit and heart. Words can nibble away at self confidence and belief in certainty and nudge indecision into thought and ambiguity into action.

If the word has the potency to revive and make us free,
it has also the power to bind, imprison and destroy
.
~ ~ ~Ralph Ellison

Words can crush belief and erode trust and confidence until the essence of who you are spills out in a veritable stream of pain and esteem and belief to pool on the ground beneath your feet and trickle into the crevasses and crannies, detritus of your broken thoughts, which trip your feet and make you stumble on the reality of your life.

Humans have found, throughout history, a comfort, a belief, a passion in words. Words which hurt and words which uplift, words incandescent in their sublime visions and words which baldly, cruelly embrace the frailty of human endeavours.

Incantations, invocations, ritual – all use words which the credulous feel bestows at least a semblance of order over a universe whose randomness can sometimes confuse and frighten.

As a teenager I used words to bamboozle and confuse younger siblings in an attempt to prevent sticky fingers and curious eyes from invading personal space. Aleister Crowley, Madame Blavatsky, the lurid, purple prose of Lovecraft, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, books of spells and herbal tonics ... I convinced them their sister was a witch, a caldron-stirring, powerful mage with untapped magic and though I laughed at their credulous awe, I secretly yearned to be an initiate in the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.

Words are powerful and the proper usage and correct ritualistic incantation is seen as a key to the opening of a doorway into another realm.

And not just by the seekers of esoteric lore (or indeed, perhaps it is, for what else are the great religions but another form of magique) – for words in the established institutions of our day continue to bestow power on words... “eat my flesh, drink my blood’ and unleavened bread, bad wine become the flesh and life-giving blood of a god and open the door (the belief is) to immortality.

Most of us hoard certain words to our heart and soul, secreted away in pixels on the laptop, or folded sheets of promise in our wallets or next to our heart, threatening disintegration each gentle time revealed to read the words within, words written indelibly on heart and soul, never to be forgotten nor dismissed, words saved and savoured time and again, corporeal proof of our desirability, our worth, our credulousness and our yearnings.

I find myself amazed that the scribbling of black scratches on a pale sheet take form and metamorphsize from shape and two dimension into thought and form, burgeoning, swelling into life as my fingers fly across a keyboard and impart meaning to their birth.

You can taste a word.
~
~ ~Pearl Bailey

For words for me are silent in the throat, held prisoner by inarticulateness and fear, swollen prisoners clamouring beneath the pale column of throat, throbbing reminders of failure and cowardice and an inability to set them free. But my fingers speak for that silent voice, they give resonance to the thought and emotion that impregnate their form and shape the moment and create the meaning and impart the emotion I seek to set free.

Words.

So many thousands of the children of my heart lost in the maelstrom of angst and agony and rage. Gone, mourned, unforgotten and irretrievable.

Words... to be silenced yet again?

Friday, February 6, 2009

Carpe diem

See http://seafoamselkie.blogspot.com/2008/09/rage.html

Carpe diem
Memento mori
(Remember you must die)

Because no one knows when the sand runs out for us.

Choices are made – that is the nature of life – even not making a choice is, in itself, a choice. But while perhaps one is making a choice (or not, thus a non-choice), life is occurring elsewhere ... time continues to trickle possibilities like grains of sand into the abyss of possibilities, each granular stream someone else’s reality.

Carpe diem.
Abyssus abyssum invocate
(Hell calls hell; one mistep leads to another)

Because THAT moment, that second, once lived is gone, never to be recaptured nor re-experienced ... and time and the impact of choices that other people make reshape and change the landscape in which one stands, frozen in indecision, unable to commit to a course of action. Remember too, words once uttered, cannot be unsaid.... actions once done, cannot be called back.

Carpe diem.
Acta non verba
(Actions not words)

Because hesitate, allow fear to rule your emotions, entangle you in unbreakable strands of irresolution, stop you from stepping forward into ANY forward, ANY possibility... and the paths are no longer open to you – the vistas you thought immutable waver and disappear, illusions and phantoms of possibilities you chose not to take.

Carpe diem.
Mater memento mori
(Remember your mortality
)

Because despite the philosophies, the concepts, the mythic proportions of some of our fantasies, THIS life, THIS one is all we`ve got, solid, corporeal, touchable, in our reality of mind and thought, ALL we can truly prove.

Carpe diem.

None of us lives in a vacuum. Our choices or our failure to make choices impact on those entwined in our lives. And the passage of time and the constant proximity can lead to a form of blindness, a failure to recognize what is in front of your eyes. More damaging is the insidiousness of not hearing ... of at some level closing your ears to the words being said and interpreting situations in a manner palatable to what one WISHES to hear.

Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes
(It is foolish to fear that which you cannot avoid. (Publilius Syrus))

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Changes (2)

oddly, d. told me that he has been working on thoughts about change too... but then, again, perhaps not so odd. 35 years together and there are often eerie coincidences, insights garnered from proximity, intimacy and the never-ending dance that today is as complicated, heart-rending and rage provoking as when I was 17.

I have written about change before, more than once, as I remain fascinated, even obsessed. with the mercurial nature of its reality... how you feel its impact so powerfully yet when you reach out to grasp it, it is simply dust drifting on the winds of past lives ....

I went through my archives, and was certain I had posted these thoughts before ... but there is no sign of them. Perhaps I did and in the quixotic way I have of doing things, removed them, or maybe these were thoughts from another venue of thought and musing, and these few words exist, representing only a fraction of the thousands upon thousands forever lost.

Changes … I talk about them all the time … the ebb and flow of life is never-ending and constant … like the sweet swell and flux of my beloved ocean. The reality of change is that outcomes and repercussions are not readily apparent or quantifiable. Change happens whether you choose it or not – it is the very inevitability of it that somehow makes it bearable, for knowing that life cannot stay still carries with it a comfort in itself and an understanding that it is far better to embrace the change rather than fight it. Static and life, are after all, mutually exclusive – for even when still, the body itself is constantly in action, lungs breathing, heart beating, the flow blood through veins, the snapping of synapses in the brain …. quiet, complete and utter stillness, means of course, death.

Whether embraced or not… looked for or denied, change will happen. It happens in the minute aging of our bodies, the slow release of collagen, the siren call of gravity, the almost imperceptible delay in synapse and reaction … it occurs in how we view the world, in the undulating ever-changing reality of our relationships with friends, family and lovers.

Like the ocean, the surface may appear calm and placid, gleaming and reflecting back the light which spills from the sky. Look closer and you will see its multifaceted twinkling reality as greens and blues and greys and soft pale whites eddy and flow together in an ever moving tapestry of light and dark and mirror and illusion. Beneath the surface, worlds collide and clash, lives explode into being while others wink out of this sphere and to our human ears only the sound of the waves lapping at a distant shore intrude on a quiet day but if you have true ears that hear beyond, the plaintive haunting melody of whales and other denizens of this underwater world fill the ocean with a cacophony of sound and life …

So too is our understanding of each other – in our misguided, human way we struggle to interpret and understand the changes in our lives and how those changes affect both our own lives and those close to us. But often, all that we see is the surface … placid, seemingly static, yet beneath passion boils and perceptions and understandings clash and form and are dispersed and reformed as something else.

And just as our eyes play havoc with our perceptions when gazing through the ever shifting kaleidoscope of restless water, so too do is our comprehension and understanding of another’s words subject to misunderstanding and confusion. The shark we see may in fact be an innocent dolphin... or conversely, the dolphin we greet with relief and delight could in fact be a predator.

For such complicated beings, we have truly been handicapped by the inadequacy of words given us to explain the complexities of our own souls, poor tools indeed to truly express our inner motivations and understandings. Touch, however, although not something most associate with communication is ultimately one of the most effective forms of communication available to us. Touch can convey what words cannot … skin upon skin, the soft caress of a hand, the feel of warm lips … it is not merely physical but somehow conveys emotionally and spiritually what cannot be articulated.

How very odd that the older I get the more I embrace and relish the reality of the corporeal and see in it not the crass physicality I perceived it to be when young, but rather feel and incorporate within myself the wonder that is our physical body. How indeed can we – as flesh and blood denizens of the universe – deny the complexity of our physical form? For what many forget is that we are a changing, living organism whose many unique facets are inextricably entwined and enmeshed to a degree that to try to undo the Gordian knot that is us, would cause a dissemblance and destruction of the entity that makes up that complete human individual.

And finally, like the phases of the moon which call to the ocean below and breathes its silver breath and seduces the tides which ebb and flow, ebb and flow, the undulating, changing human personalities entwine and mesh, entwine and mesh … our relationships, our dynamics with other individuals recede and surge, recede and surge … and while some follow the variations of ocean tributaries and currents to slowly drift away to explore the depths and breadth of other life and other forms, others remain close and struggle within the reality of their opposing motivations to mesh and entwine once again …

First steps

I want my bike.

I want to feel the rhythmic slash of tire rolling along the pavement, I want to feel the flexing of muscle as I pump the pedals and feel the flush as my body warms, my heart rate accelerates and my pale skin pinkens and moistens.

I want my early morning rides back when the world flashes by silently and the cool, moist air fans freshness into my eyes and I fall into this wonderful, meditative half trance, just my body and the world waking up around me, and glimpse into the warmth of kitchens spilling golden light into the gloam of early morning and the wonderfully freeing sense of traveling through time and moment that I ache for this cold, frigid winter morning.

I want my bike.

Time stretches forward in a frozen wasteland of slick, icy roads and banked snow spattered with the debris and waste of a city’s leavings. Spring is not even a breath as I exhale frost into the shivering dark and the dogs gambol ahead of me, oblivious to the unwanted embrace of the frigid now and I yearn with intensity painful in its need for change.

So quixotic! I seek and embrace change and in the next breath, deny her reality and mourn her former incarnations.

I am changed though and recognizing that reality has been a journey fraught with anxiety, depression and denial. But change is inevitable, an intrinsic part of every life. Sought or unsought, change licks new landscapes into being and destroys realities once thought immutable.

I miss my bike.

Last year was a bad “biking” year for me. A combination of events from an unusual number of rainy days (beyond sprinkling but skies which spewed water in torrents of biblical proportions), a pervading and persistent depression, and D’s commnd that my early morning forays desist due his fears for my safety combined to undermine my former three to four day commute to work and back again.

and I missed it.

This year will be different. I have vowed to start biking again on a more frequent basis. Weather permitting I shall bike 2-3 times per week, depending on my schedule. I ache for the early mornings that I gave up in deference to his worry and his desire and reclaim them in my new incarnation.

I am capable and strong and far from careless and basic precautions will be taken.

But I’m taking back the night.

Reclaiming the feel of my world at 4 a.m. and the encapsulated realities of muscle and sinew, of sweat, fragrant and clean trickling between my breasts, of muscles unchallenged waking and remembering the rhythm of health and well-being.

A baby step... one of the first steps ... my own decision, no longer deferring in the totality of my being to his wishes. I sense further changes ahead as I stretch and find the beloved fetters are tattered and falling away ...

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Phantoms...


Do you believe in ghosts?

I do.

They are insidious, the wraiths that plague my life, persistent and implacable. I see them behind the yellow of your eyes, peering out with their hot cruel gaze, meeting the spring green of my pain with a twisted rapture in the bleeding. I hear your cries of despair beyond their cruelty and feel your struggle to contain them.

Ghosts ride our shoulders like demented jockeys, digging spurred claws into our decisions and choices, twisting thoughts and emotions into a confusing morass of subterfuge and decisive repudiation.

My ghosts, your ghosts … they’ve been with us a long time …. and I wonder often just how much our demons have controlled who and what we are – how much have they influenced the essence of who you are? What words have been their words from your beloved mouth?

Does everyone have ghosts? Phantoms from the past who defy the logic of the space/time continuum and reach into our now? Demon memories, sinuous and patently, frighteningly real, yet insubstantial as smoke…. reaching, you are unable to grasp the corporeal reality of these wraiths yet the sting of their venom strikes agony into the reality of the now.

It is also often impossible to truly gauge the impact that one’s own ghosts have upon our psyches and our decisions, how much do they in truth guide and demand? As I trudge through the blandness of my daily rituals, I seek insight, awareness of the spectrum of their influence.

There are benign ghosts as well, soft, drifting spirits who envelop me in a poignant regret for past moments of pure delight and create in me a yearning for the innocence and purity of crystal seconds of joy.

I remember moments in our lives together of pure understanding, a touching of mind and spirit and soul, a pure, hushed clarity of purpose and meaning that transcended the crassness of the physical world

I remember cold Montreal streets and the warmth of your hand in mine and the sensuous, cerebral scent of fresh baked croissants drifting enticingly in the crisp snap of snow which slicked tears against the pink of my cheeks and kissed curls into the throbbing crimson of my hair, vibrant against the grey of winter.

I remember your hair, long curls kinky and plumped by the humid air, your eyes brilliant, cheekbones rapier sharp in the emaciated loveliness of your face.

I close my eyes and can smell you… the rich sharpness of your predator’s scent, the loamy, fertile fragrance of your arousal, intoxicating, enticing and remember my breasts swelling, nipples hardening and yearning towards the coolness of your snow-slicked palm and the trembling desire between my thighs, the slippery slick need to feel your long hard cock push up into the swollen want.

Phantoms … ghosts of a past regretted, thrilled to, embraced and done.

Wraiths, secret and cruel, insubstantial and corporeally alive, twisting lies into truths and truths into remembered lies.

Ghosts…. riding the tidal bore of our tumultuous lives.