Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Monday, September 28, 2009

See me, Feel me...

I step into a night which breathes and gallops want into the pale skin of my reality. Restless, anxious with that intangible, nerve-tingling, itching edge that ripples thought into skin and sends electric shocks to limbs that can’t relax; in my shoulder I feel the ache of unresolved want. The dogs snuffle and pull at the ties which bind their energy into sedation but the wind growls in my ear and licks need into my eyes which search a sky of roiling, twitching cloud and dark and feel on the periphery of soul the mumbling earth beneath my feet.

I unsnap the leashes and stretch my legs and feel the wind sweep me in its damp, triumphant want and pull me soaring through the night with my breath streaming into the smoke of mist and mingling with the roar of its passage. The sound of my steps are lost as the earth moves and the line between this reality and the truth as I once knew it stretches thin, shimmering in the Halloween night until the curtain of deception sighs defeat and I hurtle into the moment.

Swift through the night I flee, the shadows of the hounds with crimson eyes beside me, stretching limbs made of molten fire and need matching the fleetness of a strength forgotten. My soul stretches and pulses beneath the fragile flesh of my prison and yearns outward into the magic of this early morning storm and I open wide and allow all the words trapped beneath my throat to roar into the sky and be absorbed into the triumphant wind which embraces and buffets my desperation.

Because talking is so damn hard.

Communication is touted, revered, recommended, bleated as the panacea for all ills. But truly it is far easier to mouth the words as if they were a magic spell that restores confidence, instils understanding and begets a eureka moment than really internalize them.

The human beast when all is said and done has a genius for misinterpretation that despite the best communicator, can cause endless confusion and misunderstandings.

I think the term “communicate” is often mouthed with no true understanding of what that means. And to me, communications is so much more than sounds emitted from throats grown weary of hoping. Touch is perhaps one of the most powerful communication tools but to my mind, the single most powerful instrument is hearing.

And again, such is the complexity of the human paradox that even hearing can be problematic.

It is as if each of us carries inside us the constant hum of white noise, electrical impulses that create static and interrupt the flow of thought and speech. The baggage that weighs each of our unique personalities is incontrovertible and implacable; and can, will, usually DOES cause misunderstanding and confusion as the “white noise” of our own complexities twist the words that are being directed our way. None of us is inviolate when it comes to the human reality of fractured understanding.

JZ, Sir J , and many others have talked about the whole dynamic of listening, learning and communicating and touched on something I also believe true; submissives in particular are not the best at communicating their needs generally.

For in one sense, voicing a “want”, a “need” in a submissive mind seems like a ‘demand’, an anathema to the submissive personality – no matter how outwardly bold and brash that individual seems. Many of us too are unfair in our voiceless, whispering need to be “read”, interpreted and understood – all without providing the much maligned dominant one iota of a clue as to what we yearn for.

But ultimately, any relationship – no matter its designation or “name” – involves two people, both of whom must “listen” and truly HEAR and both of whom must at least make the attempt to communicate.

But as I said earlier, communication is not all about words. Bodies speak volumes and eyes can provide insight and comprehension. A cliché in one sense, that eyes speak but nonetheless to those who see with thought and caring, they are indeed windows to the soul.

Physical reactions, intangible but apparent and often decided, speak to those who choose to hear. Touch can be a powerful tool for communication. Which of us would deny that we can sense those sometimes almost imperceptible but unmistakable reactions of skin and muscle when certain demands are made, sexual, service-oriented or otherwise. Fingers which trace heat along skin can sense a denial or a welcome. Solid, real bodily realities provide rich fodder to those who care to understand.

For those who lack the courage or the will to say the words sometimes, the unspoken needs to be read.

I do not deny the need for classic “communication”; the simple imparting in straightforward words wishes, needs, confusions, irritations or questions. But when all is said and done, we are creatures of muscle and tendon, blood and skin and need and to truly “communicate” we must understand the need to use all our senses to impart the realities of words.

For words can be twisted and misinterpreted, frozen in voices unable to emit their need, tangled in confusion and fear and in the end, simply “sound” which can be so easily lost in the cacophony of our own thoughts….

The night cries out to me as my dogs and I race the roar of its demand and are swept into the maelstrom of elemental need. Over the humming, grumbling roar I hear the words echo clear then fade and then tangle in the swirling confusion of the storm and breathe deep the ozone-rich truth of its implacable pursuit and succomb.

THE WHO - See Me, Feel Me - Listening to You (1975)

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Rage, rage at the dying of the light


You will come driving
skeletal and stark, sockets
empty of eyes but full
of blaze and vision, and you
will rattle your bones bereft
of flesh, draped in
tatters and shatter

you will come driving
blurring the road and swallowing
my refuge and fodder. your ravenous
speed compressing my time
to moments without breath to gasp
the words I desperately need to shout,
but your driving frenzy will blow
away any sound of disclosure I utter.

you will come driving,
laughing the sharp edges of your
murk and zeal, you in your rush
for the finish, will rattle
my sanctum, and torment my fall,
with your handfuls of nothing
and mouthful of dark..

you will come driving
from the tumult to the halt,
from the flaccid to the fleeting,
your hingeless jaw laughing,
your fiery breath strumming
the air and bubbling the clouds
into a gulping dirge.

you will come driving
speeding, but leisurely stretching
your time to the limit, with
sulphur and sandalwood
and allure and aversion
you will laugh your demoniacal
laugh we use to share, and the
emptiness that were your
eyes, will sparkle at me
with glee, as I get in too
ride with you
when you come driving.

I find myself focused lately on death.  No, not my own (as other than my somewhat unbalanced obsession with ensuring if I did die everything would be taken care of, I’m don’t brood about my morality to any great extent), but the certainty and the final reality of it. The no more chances, no more possibilities horror of it. 

“compressing my time
to moments without breath to gasp
the words I desperately need to shout,”

says finbar in his morbid but powerful ode to the Pale Rider.

How true!  What a reminder to each of us to carpe diem (seize the moment), to internalize that life is ultimately fleeting and each moment precious in its uniqueness and in its ability to impart emotion, experience, comprehension and thought.  For we don’t know when the “bell will toll” for us.

Will we, when that moment comes – unexpected, shocking and unseen in its inevitability, will we regret those words left unsaid? Will we in those final moments feel our hearts contract as we wail the lack of a last chance to speak?  Will be think in those endless final moments of the things we did not do? The steps we avoided? The paths ignored and rejected through fear or trepidation or a simple unwillingness to upset the relentlessly even tenor of lives half lived?

It has been a year of death for me.  Two good neighbours, one perhaps less shocking than the other (for while his 70 years was not that long, my other dear neighbour’s 33 was an abomination); my precious, beloved, much missed friend Mel – taken so unexpectedly and even now, I find myself reaching for the phone to arrange a time to meet .... and now my cousin Jim, my tragic, sad, unhappy cousin Jim... my mind keeps going over and over his mindset.  I keep wondering if some small change, a phone call, a neighbour dropping by, a chance-met encounter, something might have stayed his hand.... given him the strength to meet another day.

“Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage rage at the dying of the light.”

Thomas’ words haunt me and fill my heart with a hot, rich comprehension for I too rage against the dying of the light. I do not accept death’s claims with equanimity nor a calm heart. I fight and rail against his inevitable victory and descry the frailness of our human state.

I do not understand, you see, where we go. 

Once upon a time there was a god and I thought a place beyond but that myth is no longer mine to hold as a comfort on those cold, dark nights when the sky wheels around me in its endless expanse of deep endless space and I look up and all I see in the glittering fabric of my world are the dying screams of stars.

And as I mourn bitterly the death of a good man, I mourn too the closing of a door I thought open, the loss of a part of my youth and the final tenuous hold on a land I hold dear, whose green fields and sweet air have too long simply been a fading memory, now destined to become muted and dusty and faded until the final tendrils of remembered thought dissipate and are lost.

Dylan Thomas

Monday, September 21, 2009

MEME - 56 things about selkie

Stolen (but with permission!) from morningstar

1. Nervous habits - bite my nails, wring my hands, CLEAN obsessively
2. Are you double jointed - I wish!  My flexibilty sucks.
3. Can you roll your tongue - nope, but I can do quite amazing things with it nonetheless
4. Can you raise one eyebrow at a time - yes
5. Can you blow spit bubbles - EWWWW - gross!
6. Can you cross your eyes - absoultely - but have to watch the wind doesn't change or they'll stay that way
7. Tattoos - "D"  on my butt, vine on my back, several more planned
8. Piercing - 3 in one ear, 2 in the other, 4 intimate piercings
9. Do you make your bed daily - yes (well technically, D does it most days as he is out last)


10. Which shoe goes on first - right
11. Speaking of shoes, have you ever thrown one at anyone?  actually no-
12. On the average, how much money do you carry - varies - whatever I have I seem to spend so try to keep it low
13. What jewelry do you wear 24/7 - only my silver necklace with O ring
14. Favorite piece of clothing - don't really have one


15. Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it - cut it
16. Have you ever eaten Spam - YUCK - nope, would never touch it
17. Do you use extra salt on your food - never
18. How many cereals in your cabinet - probably around 4
19. What's your favorite beverage - coffee
20. What's your favorite fast food restaurant - Mr. Greek
21. Do you cook - all the time


22. How often do you brush your teeth - probalby 4 or 5 times a day
23. Hair drying method - air! 
24. Have you ever colored/highlighted your hair - I like to put copper highlights in when I can


25. Do you swear - yes, I have an unfortunate mouth at times although I do try to ensure it is where people won't be offended
26. Do you ever spit - disgusting..


27. Animal - dogs, cats, rabbits, you name it
28. Food - chocolate
29. Month - October
30. Day - Sunday
31. Cartoon - don't watch them
32. Shoe brand - any cowboy boot with good leather
33. Subject in school - English and Classics
34. Color - RED
35. Sport - lacrosse
36. TV shows - not much of a fan of TV - maybe NCIS
37. Thing to do in the spring - dig in the garden (like morningstar) and clean up yard
38. Thing to do in the summer - hide from the sun and hike in woods with dogs, have evening fires outside
39. Thing to do in the autumn - hike some more, go outside a lot in the country, bake lots of soups and pies
40. Thing to do in the winter - shovel snow, hike with dogs and cook hearty meals


41. In the CD player - Sarah Brightman, Drop Kick Murphys
42. Person you talk most on the phone with - I HATE the phone too (morningstar's answer)- but probably my mum
43. Reading - Elizabeth George (mystery), Julia Cameron (writing diet) and Germaine Greer
44. Do you regularly check yourself out in store windows/mirrors - not if I can avoid it
45. What color is your bedroom - paris blue
46. Do you use an alarm clock - yes, but it seldom goes off as my internal alarm is almost infallible
47. Window seat or aisle - window - I hate people crawling over me or having to get up and down


48. What's your sleeping position - back usually
49. Even in hot weather do you use a blanket - sheet, sometimes nothing
50. Do you snore - not since I had my deviated septum fixed!
51. Do you sleepwalk - nope
52. Do you talk in your sleep  nope
53. Do you sleep with stuffed animals - nope - have various cats, dogs and D! no room for stuffed animals!
54. How about with the light on - off, I like it pitch dark
55. Do you fall asleep with the TV or radio on - neither - I hate noise, it distracts me
56. Last interesting person you met -morningstar and her Sir!

Monday, September 14, 2009

Body Image

Individual perceptions of our bodies are often problematic for many people, for reasons which can be as varied as the individuals involved. It is a subject close to my own heart, and one to which I return (somewhat obsessively at times) again and again. I find myself fascinated by insights offered by friends into their own struggles or perceptions of how they view themselves. A concept of self that includes confidence in appearance, a certainty of desirability and self-assurance or worth based on not just innate personality but on appearance, continues to elude me for reasons which continue to perplex and frustrate not just me but those who say they love me.

I follow with interest writings by friends whose inner perceptions of self have offered glimpses into mindsets that fascinate me and at times made me envious. For it seems my entire life I’ve struggled with an impaired sense of self that has resulted in most of my existence being caught up in a circle of self-loathing.

A friend once said in her own writings, she was taught to ‘look at herself through her Master’s eyes’ and in so doing, finally discovered her own beauty. How wonderful a concept! (What a wise Master!) And how true. I know that, I KNOW it and apply it generously and honestly to those whom I myself adore, but somehow I can’t seem to apply that same rule of thumb to myself.

Inevitably those of us who suffer from what is in truth, a type of body dysmorphia, think that changing our bodies to some dreamed off state of being will make our discontent disappear. We think if we exercise more, firm up the arms, develop washboard abs, get those calf muscles flexing ... if we whittle away the weight and somehow, magically, fit into that yearned for size 14, 12, 10, 8, 6, 4, 2 ...0.... pick a number ... pick a number ANY number – because when all is said and done our rational minds KNOW that simply squeezing into a given size is not going to – in the end- make us happy.

There will be momentary triumphs of course when we reach (usually) the next size DOWN but then, that won’t be enough. We barely give ourselves time to savour our victory, the achievement of our “goal” when our eyes are again looking ahead; again, thinking, if we got to THIS size, surely, surely, the next one will be even more wonderfully rewarding. Not just attainable, but won’t it make us SO happy. We’ll be content THEN, we KNOW that ... and we whittle away and we exercise obsessively and we get to that NEXT size and we’re barely there and the cycle begins again ...

And then, because ultimately, people like me are unbalanced when it comes to how we view our bodies, something will happen – often some emotional blow – or exhaustion, or demands so onerous it derails our carefully planned strategies, often, usually, it is emotional in nature the reason we use to derail our goals, to sabotage and undermine our quest for the “perfect” size – you know, the one that will make you happy, the shape that will make it all better, the body type that makes you, finally, finally, sexy, desirable, delectable, KEEPABLE.

Yeah, that size.

Then all our hard efforts, our hard work, our quivering, fragile pride in our accomplishment is shattered and damn, there we are at the bottom again, failures, losers, screwing up AGAIN ... not reaching our goals AGAIN...

And yet, and yet ... I KNOW that even reaching that random goal, that yearned for “perfect” size doesn’t bring peace, hell it doesn’t even bring a sense of validation.

At one point – a couple of years ago – I hit “the size” – yeah, the skinny one, the one where you go into a store, for once without cringing, and get a rush- a HUGE rush when you have to keep asking for ANOTHER size – yeah, ANOTHER size less than the one you actually tried on – and sometimes, even more exciting, you end up trying on one that is TWO OR MORE sizes less than you thought you would need.

Problem is, I wasn’t happy then either.

Oh, I was thin, hell at one point, skinny. But did I look in the mirror and say, YEAH SELKIE – you DID it! Nope- I looked in the mirror and thought, crap, look at that skin- so much of it! Crap- look at that, my boobs are so small now. Crap, ugly stomach or WHAT? Hell, look at my shoulders, how BONY are those ... YUCK.

Of course I realized, even then as I looked at myself with self-loathing that this was SO not about the physical realities and so much MORE about what was behind my eyes. Because I remember (before that skinny phase) losing just about half of the weight and being in such a wonderful space with D. that I felt lush, feminine, sexual and so deliciously desirable. The little rolls still left, the imperfections faded to nothing before his gaze and I felt confident, wanted, complete.

For a while, when things turned sour I kept losing ....losing, losing, losing... fading away, a skeletal wraith with gaunt limbs and sunken eyes until the emotional morass of my realities sought to fill the empty spaces with the momentary, fleeting and ultimately, deceitful comfort of calories.

And again, I sit here, feeling a failure, feeling defeated, despairing that I’ll ever get it right.
Yet I have learned.

I know that my physical realities are in my world, reflections of my emotional life. That I fill with food what I should be pouring out in words and gaining flesh is not the same as gaining insight. I understand that the diabolical dance I have engaged in a good part of my life has to end and the music stopped. I know that my self-worth should not be based on my pant size nor my self-esteem on whether I can get into a size smaller than I did before.

And all that is what I know rationally .. I just have to convince the emotional soul of me of its truth.

not really a 'friend'

for more than 25 years I have had a friend named "C". 

I met her when she was in what I didn't realize was to be the first of many "crisis" - she was in fact being stalked by an ex-boyfriend.  In all fairness, seriously stalked - as in coming out of her apartment to find the nearby bus shelter plastered with 100s of posters begging her to take him back, as in driving down a street, coming to a stop sign and having him leap on the front of her car, as in an average of 125+ messages a day on her phone ... and this was way back when stalking was not considered an issue.  When the one being stalked was inevitably considered "hysterical", "over-reactive" ...

I got involved becuase that's what I do - get involved.  Got in touch with a wonderful feminist on the local paper. Got her help. Got a cop who took her seriously - and after time, it worked - the psycho stopped stalking and her case was in fact one that was used to bolster Ontario's subsequent anti-stalking law.

But in hindsight, the 'stalking' was indicative of what I eventually learned to understand was the chaos of her life. 

She is, was, when all was said and done, unbalanced; in time I came to believe to my soul unbalanced in the sense of chemical imbalance, as in bipolar.  Several counsellors (to my knowledge she has been seeing a succession of psychologists, counsellors, psychiatrists, doctors for more than 30 years) actually highly recommended drug therapy - which she rejected outright and was insensed at the very thought.

For the reality is that it is NEVER EVER HER FAULT.  It is and remains ALWAYS someone's else's FAULT.

She is, in her opinion, painfully honest, straightforward and a wonderful person.  She doesn't understand how again and again she is betrayed, neglected, rejected and hurt.

She is, in truth, one of the most narcissitic, self-absorbed, delusional individuals I've ever known.

Not that I haven't loved and cared about her - recognizing both her pyschosis AND sometimes her innate sweetness.

But it palls after awhile.  She is so invariably high maintenance. You have to double-think everything you say to her, watch every word, and most of all- FOLLOW HER RULES or how she feels she should, deserves, MSUT be treated.

The psychosis, imbalance, whatever the hell you want to call it has been getting definitely worse.  And in so doing, she has becoming increasingly strident, increasingly demanding, increasingly intolerant of what she perceives as any "breech" of protocal with respect to how she is treated.  It has been incredibly wearing.

Two years ago when my own life became unbearably bleak and I entered a pit, I realized that after 20+ years of support, I simply had nothing left in me to give to her.  I told her that upfront. Told her I was going through the Inferno and dying with it and I couldn't balance her out anymore.  Ostensibly, becuase in her delusion she maintains she is a caring, nurturing human being - she pulled back, "gave me my space", but through it all I sensed the increasing anger in her at my withdrawal.

Several times we touched base (keeping in mind, that previous to this "break"- I actually moved her in and got her back on her feet after a HUGE psychotic break - she spent almost 8 months in my home - with no strings, tons of support, no charge for anything and lashings of food and love and ALWAYS an ear and sympathy) and met occasionally for supper or lunch. 

I maintained my distance; was honest with her that I was trying to rebuild my own life. Further, I found my sympathy was rapidly dispersing as she screwed up relationship after relationship, left jobs in a huff, accused "friends" of betrayal and not living up to HER standards. 25 years of the same pattern gets (at some point) very stale indeed.

So I got the letter last week. The terse, accusatory brief missive which basically dismissed me out of her life.

Because we had arranged to meet for dinner on a Friday night. And I emailed Friday morning, early - about arrangements - when and what time.  Apparently, that was a faux pas. I SHOULD have contacted her my PHONE at least three days previous - otherwise I was being "rude and inconsiderate" - and in my email I had mentioned I had been having some hard times - and was told I had NO idea what "real" issues were.

Apparently not.

Regardless, there is a part of me that is sad that this rather symbiotic relationship is done, becuase I'll worry about her you know - I will. Another HUGE part of me is glad if I never ever have to deal with her again.  And feeling guilty for feeling glad.

Friday, September 11, 2009

FFF#3 -

Sunlight spills light down the towering glass fronted building but the angle is perfect.

He sees her as he does each day, stretching, back to the glass wall, muscles rippling beneath smooth- slender legs, arms sweeping up, then down, and yes.. yes.. he strains and between his legs, his cock stirs, jerks and hardens... 

Yes.  YES.

He watches as she bends, skirt tightening, slipping up, UP and the sweet, plump cheeks of her ass, slightly spread as she grasps her ankles and he imagines, dreams, his hands on those hips and the feel of her as he pushes deep.

Spanky and Tiggs FFF Challenge #3: Write a short piece of erotic fiction containing exactly 100 words (or a drabble, as Flash Fiction writers call them) inspired by the photo above. How much heat can you generate in 100 words?

DAMN, 100 words?  That is bloody HARD.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

The Leap- Protection

Read Faith first and Honesty second

Oddly, I get the panic reaction when I think of submitting to someone to a level where I don’t anticipate or expect to be promised at least a comparable level of reciprocal honesty.  But then “honesty” as a concept is something that D. and I have struggled mightily with and in hindsight, has probably been one of our biggest issues.  Primarily because our interpretations, our concepts of what “honest” means have been radically different – a reality that we didn’t even recognize until the past couple of years brought our different precepts into stark relief.

There have been times during my relationship that what he termed my “duplicity” has driven him into a rage and a frenzy of accusations.  He has even (in the past) labelled what I term my ‘Celtic storytelling” as a variation of lying – which I found astonishing and wounding; it is almost categorically impossible for me to tell a story with no embellishments or fillips to amuse and enrapture the listener.  Nor are my exaggerations intended to be taken as the “truth” – so obvious are they, to me it is clearly simply part of a tale.

Where I am complicit, is my tendency to hide.  Because in a sense that is “lying” –sins of omission can be as calamitous and wounding as an outright lie after all.  NOT telling can be in itself a deal-breaker – a reason to shatter trust and create unease and a sense of distrust.

But then ‘hiding’ can quite frankly be a rational reaction to an untenable or irrational reaction, thus triggering what mouse terms the need to “self-protect”.   If revealing certain truths can trigger an unwanted and frightening response, then in one way, it is a RATIONAL reaction to ‘hide’ even more; even if (and of course, this is ultimately a subjective viewpoint) one is perplexed and confused at the intensity of a response to what you see as something innocuous.

One can eventually end up on a treadmill of subterfuge and reaction that is unhealthy and utterly destructive to any dynamic.

The upside however to this is that people can and do change.  Compromise and communication can clear up misinterpretations and a willingness to open minds to other interpretations of what you have always thought of as absolutes is essential to move forward.

Ultimately, it is figuring out what are the parameters of what you consider absolutes and what are the limits of what he (or she) considers absolutely untenable and absolute.  Then work from there.  Depending on the dynamic, there is compromise – or not.  Several of my online slave friends have been frank that while their 
Masters often do include them in their thought process, and often listen to their viewpoints, there are issues and times when his word is simply it – as ultimately in that power dynamic their agreement is unnecessary.

Which is why I probably could never be a slave.

Hell, sometimes I wonder if I will ever be a submissive again. 

For in the end, the damn void is there – you need to decide whether you HAVE the faith to take that leap over that dark crevasse where rocks and boulders jut and threaten to annihilate if you miss your step need to believe that the words and more importantly, the actions, are honest and most of all sincere... and in the end, you have to rigidly, strictly suppress that urge to –self-protect and JUMP.

The Leap - Honesty

Read Faith first.

I certainly agree with those who argue that total honesty is not always the reality to which anyone is entitled.  Frankly, I think being completely and utterly honest at every moment, about every minute thought and deed is an impossibility.  Nor is it deceptive if the rebellious thoughts are fleeting and internalized rather than externalized in action.  No human being has complete control over their thoughts; all we can guarantee is how those thoughts are expressed – or IF they are.

I also think our society is actually accepting and in fact encouraging of ‘small’ dishonesties .. those not meant to deceive but to be kind. Lies of omission perhaps are open to interpretation but surely to spare someone’s feelings it is kinder to utter words that are in essence, a “lie”.  These little subterfuges after all, are often called not lies but ‘social graces’.

But swan, alice n and chloe also tackle something far removed from that kind of benign omittace.

They admit instead that they have, in their submission, given full permission to their Masters to tell them as little – or as much – as he chooses. Further, each admits frankly that even when/if a lie is revealed, that is neither a deterrent nor a deal-breaker – because they have made the leap TO faith. That the person who steers their destiny is, by definition and agreement, exempt from the societal norm of “complete honesty between partners”.  The crux, of course, being they are NOT partners, for by definition, each of them has freely given up the right to equal treatment.

I find it telling that for me, my thoughts baulk at that kind of acceptance.  While part of me is in awe of the level of faith that incorporates, and yes, even admiring at some level – another part of me – the inner, reptile-brain of selkie – finds that frightening.  The feminist selkie screams this is what our mothers used to do and so many were deceived and left bereft.  The selkie with her life experiences knows that faith can be broken, trust shattered.

I comprehend that certain individuals have chosen to place their faith and offered their trust to individuals whom they have allowed a freedom of thought, action and intent radically different than that vouchsafed them 
– and that of course is their right.  In its own way it is breathtakingly admirable – and for me, impossible to emulate.

Which of course brings me to the next thought which I believe naturally flows from this ....

The Leap - Faith

Reading Swan  and then Chloe’s  blogs got me thinking about the concept of ‘faith’ – because when all is said and done, ‘trust’ is ultimately based on faith – faith in the integrity of the individual to whom you offer that trust, faith that your trust will not be misplaced, faith that the one whom you have entrusted with your heart and soul cherishes the gift and has – at all times – your best interests at heart.

Faith of course is one of those intangible concepts that you can neither quantify, nor touch nor prove empirically.  Soren Kierkegaard coined the phrase, albeit he called it a ‘leap TO faith” (the leap being required to resolve the paradoxes implicit to Christianity). That is actually substantively correct – after all when choosing to trust, you are stepping across a void TO something – in this case, a belief.

In and of itself – whether “to” or “of”, the context is clear.

And whether applied to believing in a greater being or believing in the person to whom you offer your submission, the precept is the same.  Faith.

Faith in a dominant’s strength of will, integrity and perhaps most importantly, RIGHT to live as he chooses and RIGHT to impart as little – or as much- of a given truth as he sees fit.  Because when all is said and done, Swan puts it beautifully – “I'd be a fool to allow that to be the case if I did not have complete and entire trust in His loyalty, integrity, and good faith.”

That one sentence seems to exemplify why a submissive or slave chooses to place her faith and trust in someone’s hands; hands which are, when all is said and done, HUMAN, and thus fallible.  Spare me those who cry that their dominant is ‘perfect’, ‘never wrong’, ‘all-knowing’, ‘all-seeing’ – the font of ultimate wisdom – damn, people, that is a fantasy!

“Perfect” works in novels but real people bring with them their own innate prejudices, flaws and perceptions coloured by their personal experiences and desires.  Yeah, even dominants.

However, this does not mean that you cannot trust.  For when all is said and done, faith is based on making that leap – feeling to your bone that those in charge of your well-being have at heart YOUR best interests.  

One chooses to believe in the good intentions; one chooses to believe the individual has perspective and experience to make informed and intelligent choices.  One agrees that while it is not always clear why, acceptance and acquiescence are the price of offering that faith.

Truth be told, I’m absolutely blown away by people who have the strength of their conviction.

Faith is something I’ve struggled mightily with the past several years, on every level. From belief in a higher being (i.e. god) to belief in a dominant being (D.)  Unfortunately, in both cases, reality bit deep and faith I believed sacrosanct and inviolable was shattered and shredded beyond recognition.

For when all is said and done, one of the cornerstones of being able to LEAP to faith is doing so with the knowledge not only that you COULD fall but the awareness that you very well MIGHT ... and making that leap regardless.

Entwined and inseparable from discussing the concept of faith, comes one’s interpretation of what is required in terms of “honesty”.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Flash Fiction FRiday, Challenge 2

I thought I would give this a shot - a good exercise and fun in the doing!  The brainchild of Tiggs and Spanky, a fun way to start the day.  Heres the link for today's offering. (and DAMN its hard for Ms. Wordy here to write a MAXIMUM of 96 words!)
Behind the glistening torrent, sunlight spills in molten streams of gold through the pale frothing surge, sparking ethereal gleaming gems that sparkle in the mist. My wild satryr, my Priapus , you press against my slick skin, hands cupping swollen breasts.  Moisture froths through our narrow cavern, licking coolness into fevered flesh as we move in the eternal dance.
I moan, and feel your thrusts against the plump, reddened flesh, abraded into hot need by your palm and breathe deep the moisture-laden air and bring its cool solace into the hot panting breath of my need.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Temper, temper

Vesta’s comments on my Scars blog got me musing on temper and the usefulness of certain emotions in dealing with the challenges that life throws up for all of us. I think she is correct that emotions such as my rage, for instance, CAN be a destructive and ultimately, self-defeating personality trait if allowed unfettered reign yet, conversely, time and a great deal of insight have shown me that even perceived negative traits such as “temper” can be a positive and liberating factor.

Any emotion in excess, allowed to explode without forethought, control and in circumstances which reflect the need, can be dangerous and ultimately self-destructive.

But as I get older, I am beginning to realize that some emotions have a better rap than others. Seldom do people see excess compassion as an issue – although that can result in someone making some poor choices in terms of their time and the distribution of their finances. Nor do people generally perceive those with empathy as individuals with a personality disorder yet again, an over-developed sense of empathy can hamstring the individual empathising in terms of their ability to cope and make decisions of a rational nature.

The truth of the matter is, any emotion in excess can be problematic.

My entire life, I struggled with what was termed my “bad temper”. I grew up feeling as if I were in some way damaged or emotionally disturbed, that my outburst were unhealthy, destructive and without reason. I was derided for my passion, criticized for my fierceness and admonished daily on “controlling myself”. And overall, I DID learn to control and internalize my anger, to swallow my passion and dampen my certitude of conviction.

I learned to master my tongue and discovered that white-hot rage could effectively derail one’s ability to be taken seriously. That taking that righteous rage and channelling it into action was far more effective. Take the heat, hone it and cool it until like ice it is sharp, glittering and lethal.

Because the reality was, my temper was very seldom based on a capricious sense of outrage. In fact it was usually fuelled by something that provided (in my eyes) a formidably rational basis. My outrage was seldom prompted by petulance or overriding sense of entitlement and was often provoked on behalf of a situation or person unrelated to me, or circumstances wherein I felt SOMEONE had to stand up and be counted.

My rage was my defence as well against prejudice and misogyny when travelling in professional circles then largely controlled by men with little regard for intellect and expertise when in a female guise. It’s icy strength bolstered me during times when life threatened to overwhelm me with demands I felt beyond my ability to handle.

My rage gave me strength and purpose and an iron will when negotiating the shoals of a relationship which threatened to consume me. At the same time, the dynamic of that relationship as it evolved more than anything else taught me to swallow it, to push it down deep into my soul, to lock it up and throw away the key for fear its clean, shining righteousness would wound the one I cared for above all others.

For my rage threatened to the core the ability I had to tolerate his even more formidable rage, clothed as it was in a fiercely passive countenance, against which my rage sizzled and expired. For my rage threatened the fragile balance that we maintained between us, the great yearning abyss of our need for each other. And so I put it away, dampened it and tried to extinguish it.

What I didn’t realize is in so doing I was excising a hugely important part of who I was. By refusing ingress to an integral part of my personality – my fierce, needful HONEST anger, I was slowly and inexorably undermining my very sense of self.

When the crash and burn happened, I was left gasping in a pit so deep I truly thought I would never climb out. Months of relentless pain and despair left me shattered, damaged, I felt beyond repair, a shell of the passionate, caring, intense person I once was. I felt as insubstantial as smoke, as if my very body was thinning and becoming opaque, soon to drift away on the tendrils of lost hope, to dissipate in the frigid breeze of rejection and repudiation.

For a very long time, I huddled shivering and bereft in the Dark Place, the only tether a fragile but unbreakable thread which lead to my children. Slowly, painfully, I began to gather the lost threads of self and with arthritic, clumsy fingers begin to stitch together what I knew to be an approximation of the person I once was… and as I searched among the skeins of wool, the colours muted and subdued in the grey light which drifted though the narrow windows of my soul, my eyes were drawn to the trembling, throbbing scarlet of my rage. Several times, I averted my eyes, for old habits are hard to break and my frozen fingers would weave in a less risible colour into the damaged fabric, but finally, one day I reached and burrowing among the shards of my life, found the hot, tensile strength of rage and wove it into the now.

And in so doing, it was as if the entire prison of my own making brightened. That one thread strengthened the hold I had on life and infused in me a desire and the commensurate strength to reach up. It cleared my mind slowly but surely and grasping its warmth to me, I was able to coax the weak, flickering flame of will into something stronger, something finer and slowly but surely, I began to find my strength once again.

And yes, for some months my rage fuelled a great and terrible anger, all the worse for its icy control and relentless condemnation. I allowed it to burn away the detritus of my despair (although the scars are there forever) and then, knowing that any fire untended can turn on its creator, I banked its bright, clean flames and carefully, grateful but determined, I opened the cupboard and hung it to the side.

It’s there though and I am happy it is there. I recognize that to try to kill a part of yourself does nothing but cause dissonance and an imbalance in soul and heart. My rage, when all is said and done, is merely another part of my complicated psyche and as such, has its place in my world. Like any other emotion, it is a valid and useful tool, there to be used when needed.

In the end, contrary to all the platitudes and the Christian ethics of turning the other cheek, it was embracing and using my rage that gave me strength.