This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine...

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Another Golden Nugget in the Argument Against Abstinence Only Teaching

Via Democracy Now from The Washington Post

Abstinence Pledges Ineffective, Study Finds

A new study has found teenagers who pledge to remain virgins until marriage are just as likely to have premarital sex as those who do not promise abstinence and are significantly less likely to use condoms and other forms of birth control when they do. The Washington Post reports the study is the latest in a series that have raised questions about programs that focus on encouraging abstinence until marriage.

Saturday, December 27, 2008

Letting Go

I woke from a dream in which I had done nothing right feeling sore and rankled. It all started yesterday.

I'd held balance all through the xmas festivity, but then I was given advice. I didn't ask this connected woman to divine anything for me, I was at her studio getting a Raindrop Therapy massage at her request, for her benefit of practice (not that I'm complaining!). We talked for much of the 2 hours I was there and she laid out all sorts of her insights about Aquarius me and my path. Much of what she said was pleasant to the unattached listener, which I was not. I am attached to my nice idea of a future in massage therapy, but she told me I'd be bored by the schooling bureaucracy and the lack of spirituality in the reality of massage therapy. She gave me suggestions for other elements to focus on - anointing, baptizing, christening, marrying, and administering spiritual hope to the dying, a sort of non-denominational last rights. I'm honored at her confidence in my healing ability and that she saw so clearly my devotion to whatever I'll wind up calling the Divine. Maybe I'll call it Her, or The Wind; at any rate it was good to have these encouragements but it was, an hour after I left, agitating me as well.

I stood at the bus stop, the air stunk of city exhaustion and it was misting a fine rain in the chilly air. When my pen wouldn't write smoothly while I stood waiting that was it, I got irritated. No, it was before that. When I walked to lunch and made a wrong turn, when the bathroom was occupied for 20 minutes, it began to bubble up then and the pen's insolence showed it to me. The young boys wouldn't stop cussing - even that pissed me off. My thoughts ran a route of I didn't ask her for advice. I didn't want it! I liked my happy little ideas just how they were!! She'd probably laugh at my reaction right now...silly ideal Aquarius, never listens! And while I'm at it, D___'s pissed me off too with his calling my beliefs naive yesterday. Fuck!!! Thank god, there's the bus. I need to calm down.

For the rest of the night, a night which I packed full of running around in a crowded and foggy city, I was on edge and more sensitive than usual. My emotions batted me around from crying jag sad to seething rage snappiness. I maintained a bevel of calm publicly speaking but my wise friends were on to me, helped by my occasional sharp snapping. I had said I'd go rest at home to my masseuse. She'd warned me that this technique was one for balance and had a detoxifying effect on many people. I countered the simple answers at every turn; but she meant body didn't she? Her words spun in my head until I came apart at the seams and accepted that I'd worn myself out.

In my dream I had a fancy new laptop and assignments from work. But we weren't at work, we were in a big theater preparing for something momentous for the company and I kept procrastinating, kept watching daytime TV and not working. (Where did the TV come from?) Finally, when I was ready to give effort, and the deadline was about to drop on me like a guillotine, I lost the laptop. It had been moved and I couldn't find it anywhere. It wasn't mine to begin with and I was frantic with searching. I woke up after 30-or-so dream minutes of searching for this laptop that wasn't mine but that I'd held responsibility for.

So...is this some kind of unconscious message to me? Shana, let go. Be still. Be at peace. There are many reasons to be content. You didn't really lose anything. I'm going to go not to eat cake for breakfast now.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Damn, but Art is amazing

Info. from the Wooster Collective led me to one the top 5 most visually pleasing things I've seen all year.

I can say that, the year's almost over.

Making Books, André Bernard

One of the best descriptions on my feelings at this time of this year:
Yet I can't help thinking that as this year gasps its way to its merciful end, something terribly sad is happening, that a vague, general shift in the cultural landscape will alter how or what we read in some still indefinable way; that a quirky, creaky, financially insupportable business that in spite of itself produces that most desirable and perfect of objects -- the book -- is perishing, and that we are yet to fully feel the loss.



From The Washington Post on-line yesterday
Click the title of the blog post to go there.
Emphasis mine

Meeting Eat, Pray, Love

In honor of the Solstice I took the day off yesterday from responsibilities to others (except my hungry cats). It was so lovely. I began reading Eat, Pray, Love which is going to be "one of those books" which consumes me. I've been thinking about something I heard on a podcast from a Zen teacher in which he spoke about the mind. The mind, he stated simply, is the most malleable thing. If you do not consciously shape and discipline your mind, it will be shaped for you by the world; by society, popular culture, family, "norms", etc. It's a simple idea, but not necessarily an obvious one.

I think my quarter life crisis was, and has been, primarily made of my first time attempt to shape my mind for myself, despite the influences (and there are SO many) around me. I have been learning how to cope with suffering without letting it stop me, I have been learning how to discern more mindfully what I allow to mold myself. One of my best qualities is my childlike enthusiasm for the world at large, but it has also been my Achilles heel because I soak up many things that are detrimental.

Eat, Pray, Love is going to be a great book to read right now because I'm becoming more fully aware of the kind of person I am and the kind of things I want to endow my future person with and that's what it's all about. It's a nice touch for me that she too is a passionate goofball writer with a love of language and a compulsion to seek "The Love that moves the sun and the other stars".

Thursday, December 11, 2008

From I Wrote This For You: The Water

The Water


You make me want to drink water. Not soda. A salad. Run every morning. Get enough sleep. So when I end, I'll know I had all the time I could get, with you.



(A good 100th post for 2008, I think!)

Emotional transferrence

So there I was, with my new Cadillac-of-a-vibrator, sexy underwear, and my new friend in bed. He knew about my story before we ever met in person. We talked about it and about statistics, safety, and boundaries and I felt immense relief at not having to wonder about all the variables and possibilities that accompany me and I navigate this turbulent new path. It's been just over 6 months since my life changed and I just recently accepted that my life has, in fact, changed. I didn't want to think of it like that; I didn't want to accept that this nuance to my being must alter everything - if just for awhile. There's a lot of story here but I have a more pointed place I'm going to.

So I got to be slutty again. I got to go home, after 1 drink, with a man I hardly know beyond attraction. I got to have him in my home and play coy for a bit before leaning over to kiss him. His beard is soft and his lips firmly agreeable. One of the many places our interests intersect is kink. He's into a tantalizing variety of things and last night I got to be tied up in a what I'll call a tits bind (partly because that's just fun to say): tits bind, tits bind, tits... It was so good.

And it was so difficult. The point that I'm coming to here is about my healing. I am holding the irrational but true feeling that I'm damaged. I'm coming to accept that a very large part of my identity is my sexuality; a part of me which I've imprisoned since late May. One of the things I know is that you cannot fix problems until you know they exist. I feel good that I know this one exists now. I have recognized the imprisoned, damaged part of me and can begin to rehabilitate her back to not just her former glory, but a glory she before did not know. I will have to be so vocal, so proactive, about my virus statistics that I will become an advocate for others like me. This isn't going to happen quickly, but it will happen. The woman of my future, the idea of me that I fall more in love with everyday, is going to be so huge, so exciting.

So there I was, the vibrator whirring beautifully, me moaning softly and recognizing what I have to do to get to deep orgasm right now. My imprisoned self hasn't had many conjugal visits; she's worried she doesn't know how anymore. It terrifies and frustrates her and makes her cry and hide her face. Emotions of anger, seething rage at the perpetrator (I like that traitor is in the end of that word) bubbled up a couple of times and I had to actually look at my sweet, innocent companion to remember that it wasn't his doing. I had to talk my rage down and appropriate it. I have never been cognizant of this happening before; my emotions seemed to transfer themselves onto a situation in which they didn't belong. It was pretty fucking heady.

So what's a woman to do? I slowed and stopped when I felt my capacity shrink and my good nature evaporate. I couldn't allow myself to just break down into tears of rage or despair in front of this innocent, so I smiled as gracefully as I could and bit back my explanations and just let it rest. I didn't cry when he spoke of the fantabulous squirting female he knows (which I really, really wish he hadn't). I didn't scream for him to get out when he fell asleep faster than me, because it's not his job to stay awake longer so I can be calmed...plus, I didn't ask him to.

I'm the only one who can really heal this prisoner, but I can let others help. These are good steps forward, as fucking confusing and confounding as they may feel. I will be whole again.

Friday, December 5, 2008

Something, but what?

A strangely familiar unease. I'm having "one of those days" where my apartment is far too small, far too centered on electronics and this computer. I feel something closing in on me and that something might just be me. Everything except eclectic drifting is too much a task for me. Does this always happen when I sleep too much? I thought I was sick, so I stayed in bed. My apartment is freezing, so I stayed in bed. Then my body began to ache and the day seemed over before I ever began it. I'm not processing some things, they're sitting there, and they don't feel benign. When masturbation seems like too large a task to attempt it's a sure sign for me; something is not ok.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Comforting Stokes Forward

After a harrowing week with Devyn I'm finding myself again feeling stuck. He left Friday night and I didn't let anything "hit me" until Monday. I was looking forward to therapy a lot, and when I started crying because of a poem my friend wrote, for she and her girlfriend's anniversary, I knew it was going to be one of those epic feeling sessions.

I found myself curled into a fetal position crying and wanting to sob harder. Wanting to wail "it" out. My wonderful therapist made some helpful observations and then helped heal me further by leading me through some guided relaxation and imagery before my hour was up. I left there, bought some Ben and Jerry's, and found my bus home. Monday night was a night of self care in the most comforting ways possible: beer, herb, wintery scents of nutmeg, orange, cinnamon, cardamom and coriander simmering on the stove, bathrobe, and finally masturbation. I came to some helpful decisions for the future.

By Tuesday morning I was a new woman. I took my time, wrote myself a love letter:
The lunch you packed me was perfect...Come to think of it - you did me a TON of favors yesterday! You're so awesome! As in - I'm filled with AWE (not to mention awwww). From morning - that rosewater lotion you got me is Lovely - to noon (have I mentioned yoga??), to night (therapy, thai food, ice cream, beer, weed, a clean house, spices, and a hearty mouthful of pussy?!?!?!?!?!! God bless the universe that blessed me with YOU!


I felt empowered, in control of my happiness, and wise. So today's crash back down is much more frustrating. Can I blame it on the alcohol? I did go home a bit tipsy last night, but it was a good night, wasn't it? I sat in front of my computer, while mourning the quiet chill of my apartment, and stared blankly. There's a lot I need to get down on this blog, but I'm preoccupied right now.

I wanted to take a "mental health" day today and meditate and care for myself, but feared that it'd look bad after taking a sick day last Monday. So here I am, at work. It's been a slow day and the attitude that's dragging me has my body aching too. I looked up some guided imagery and meditation podcasts. There are yoga podcasts too. So tonight, the first thing I'm doing, before I do my Vagina Monologues work, before I read a bunch of jargon about my medical/financial benefit options for work, before I get high or any other distractions, I'm going to work on this block. I'm going to find the space I had created where the good energy lived and I'm going to stroke it's proverbial back (always makes me feel better) until it loosens up a bit. I'm going to stretch and breathe and sit and notice and I'm not going to force anything. Maybe I won't "get there" tonight. Maybe I won't be laughing with glee before bed today, but I'll loosen up this knot and reassure myself that I know how, I have access, and I am in control of my own happiness and success.

Because that's all there is too it.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

the one where she plays jenga while drinking merlot

i just sent a "tidbits" e-mail called "things i thought to tell you while online just now". i haven't told julian that she's been hanging out lately at night in my dreams. i'm enjoying the secret. i like telling myself it's a secret.

semi-interesting-relatedly; i can't seem to find the "a softer world" that talks about secret plans.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

The Practice of Tonglen, Pema Chodron

While trying not to try to not think in yoga today I thought of author who wrote on the subject of the breathing through pain, Pema Chodron. I read an interview with Chodron when I was still living in Marquette. The message stuck with me and continues to develop meaning for me as I grow.

Below is an excerpt. To read all of this short essay click here.

[T]he core of the practice: breathing in other's pain so they can be well and have more space to relax and open, and breathing out, sending them relaxation or whatever you feel would bring them relief and happiness. However, we often cannot do this practice because we come face to face with our own fear, our own resistance, anger, or whatever our personal pain, our personal stuckness happens to be at that moment.

At that point you can change the focus and begin to do tonglen for what you are feeling and for millions of others just like you who at that very moment of time are feeling exactly the same stuckness and misery. Maybe you are able to name your pain. You recognize it clearly as terror or revulsion or anger or wanting to get revenge. So you breathe in for all the people who are caught with that same emotion and you send out relief or whatever opens up the space for yourself and all those countless others. Maybe you can't name what you're feeling. But you can feel it —a tightness in the stomach, a heavy darkness or whatever. Just contact what you are feeling and breathe in, take it in —for all of us and send out relief to all of us.

People often say that this practice goes against the grain of how we usually hold ourselves together. Truthfully, this practice does go against the grain of wanting things on our own terms, of wanting it to work out for ourselves no matter what happens to the others. The practice dissolves the armor of self-protection we've tried so hard to create around ourselves. In Buddhist language one would say that it dissolves the fixation and clinging of ego.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Dear Blog

Hello Blog. I miss using you. That said, therapy is going startlingly well. I'm now communicating with my inner 12 year old (she's snarky!) and have released some of the pain/horror at the memory of having mostly mediocre sex until I had terrible UTI's (which I kept more painfully secret) with my high school b.f. Why? Because him wanting to fuck me meant he loved me in my very twisted 17 year old brain/hormones/world. It's sad, but at least it's not hurting me anymore and that is the point.

Now where's that quote I love on experiencing pain? ...In order to let it go...

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Following Up

While riding the bus to work this morning I tried to journal some of my experience of the rally in Grant Park on Tuesday night. There was an enormous amount of energy in the air which definitely affected me, and probably everyone. I've been doing a lot of processing this week. It's been a huge fucking week.

I began feeling guilty last night when wondering why I've been posting the happenings regarding Jovan on the internet for "all" to see. I began wondering why I've done that, should I remove it, and what's my point or aim. I think I'm wanting affirmation. I'm trying to learn how to grasp the power I sometimes feel within. I'm trying to learn and teach myself how to be actively pursing my goals and envisioning my future as though I have achieved all I set out to do. This activity has shown me that I have a very difficult time actually setting out to do anything specific because so many things interest me.

I've been wanting my own cheerleader. I want a voice, mine or someone else's, to reassure me that I'm doing the right things, or to tell me that I'm doing what I do well enough. Knowing I want those affirmations has made it easier to give them to myself. I think I posted the earlier two posts because I wanted to see them at a slightly removed distance (my blog?) and also offer them up as a picture of my behaviors for others to comment on.

I think I've done the best I can do. All I can do now move forward and keep teaching myself the power of positive forward thinking and imaginative goal setting.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Obama Win Makes Me Feel Like Superheroine

((Though...don't get me started on Prop 8, I'll do that tonight.))

Sent mail at 10:57 AM

Dear Jovan,

Last night was an amazing night for me, I spent it with my friend Amanda in the midst of the gigantic crowd at Grant Park. I'm overwhelmed by the emotions coming out of last night's victory and the possibilities of the future. It's led me to think about my trajectory; past and present behavior; goals.

You'd be missing out on a lot if you decide you don't want to know me. I know we're supposed to be humbly silent about our good qualities in this culture and that I'm risking sounding egotistical in saying this to you. However, in addition to being extremely sensual (sometimes bordering feral) I'm attractive and sweet, smart and complex, grounded and imaginative. I thrive on the beauty of contradictions and in-between spaces. I have a poets heart and determination for healthy expression and living.

I'd be missing out too. I'd be missing an opportunity for sexual healing; for using all of the benefits of my past toward the project of another human relationship; for finding out more about what you have to offer; for experiencing your delicious looking cock, mouth, mind and body...

I just wanted to state my case one last time before I wait to find out what'll happen. I'm not sitting idly by here: I'm hoping you want the opportunity to have me as a friend, lover, and general play mate in the human drama. I respect your choice no matter what and hope you take my honesty as a sign of my good will and strength. Herpes does not need to be devestating or passed along, there are precautions and behaviors I can use to keep partners who do not have it from getting it. My sex life can be as exciting as it was before as long as I'm given the opportunities and as long as I try to reach for them.

Shana

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

That all being said...

GoddamnitSonOfAFUUUUUCK!

Here's to Hope

I'm glad this happened on a day in which my spirits can only be broken by a McCain win for Presidency. Since I'm confident that won't happen and since I gave myself a pep talk following this disheartening IM conversation, I'll hold my head up, ask my friends for support, and hope the future holds good things for us all, my poor neglected cunt included.

Jovan (11/4/2008 9:43:07 AM): good morning
Shana: why hello there. i'll warn you, i'm addicted to the smileys on yahoo messenger :)
Jovan: that's cool
Jovan: did you get my email?
Shana: haven't checked it yet today, running a bit behind schedule
Jovan: oh that reminds me, I have to read your latest blog
Shana: in response to your email.
Do you have something in mind for our in person meeting?

I suppose we could do the whole formal date thing where we tell each other our life's story and I learn what your favorite flavor ice cream is and where you attended school. Yes, I'm interested in discovering all those things in time but you've already ignited my imagination and desire so my mind is fixed upon ravishing you the moment we're alone.
It's been so long since I've felt skin again skin, my limbs entwined with another's in post coital bliss. I want that. I want to undress you slowly, have you spread your legs wantonly then give you head.
So, I think you should invite me over and in the unlikely event the vibe isn't right no hard feelings. On the other hand should there be that spark in person be prepared to be fucked long and hard, your down covered legs hoisted over my shoulders, our eyes locked together while the swollen head of my cock inches inside you. You bite your lower lip, wincing slightly to accomodate my girth.

Shana: um...yes!
Jovan: :-D then let's have a sex date!
Shana: wahoo! this day just keeps getting better!
Jovan: what better way to get to know each other?
Shana: ha. well, it's one way for sure.
Jovan: I'll have to refrain from masturbating for a few days in advance so I have a fountain of cum for you
Shana: do i have to refrain?
Jovan: no
Shana: splendid. perhaps i will send a picture. how's friday?
Jovan: please do. friday should work
Shana: Yum.
Jovan: what will you be wearing as you answer the door?
Shana: haven't decided yet...
Shana: you are a respectable gentleman? worthy of being invited to my home and trusted?
Jovan: yes, can you assure me you are totally STD free?
Shana: no. (heartbreak). this is a conversation i prefer in person. i cannot. i am on medication, protection is fully required.
Jovan: well I assumed we would be using protection regardless
Shana: well, yes, there is that anyways.
Jovan: so does that mean you have something you don't wish to pass on?
Shana: herpes was passed to me by my current long distance partner in may. having a trusted partner "do that to me" has been very difficult, but i'm growing and learning as I cope.
Jovan: oh, well I thank you for your honesty
Shana: and i can only hope for the best from any subsequent partners. my responsibility is to be fully honest and cautious about my behaviors
Jovan: I thought I asked you upfront about that before though
Shana: it didn't come up specifically. since i was hoping for a friendship with sex with you i wanted to say it in person. i neither confirmed nor denied the presence at the time. but i was fully conscious of the need to tell you before any sex. we haven't met yet, in person, it complicated my plans.
Jovan: no offense but that takes the wind out of my sails a bit and I need to think this over
Shana: i understand. here's to hope.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Today's Postitive Affirmations

My posting has been extremely light this late summer and autumn. That has mostly to do with my feeling dull and in and out of heavy malaise/depression. Today I don't feel so good. My muscles are kind of burn-y, my joints kind of stiff, my head a little pounding, tense, belly full of acidic messiness. That sounds like a lot of symptoms, and some, like my doctor, would even wrap it into the fold of "mild fibromyalgia". I try not to blow the presence of these symptoms up. The harder work is to actually listen, and respond to, the messages my body is sending me. It's so much easier to feel the pain without registering it. I find my mind migrating toward all sorts of negative ideas and guilt when I feel so physically shitty. I noticed this correlation last night and noticing it allowed me to relax my tense and tired muscles and self and fall into sleep.

Since I made delicious, but decadent, apple bread last night my sweet tooth won out over my good sense and I had a large piece before breakfast, even before water, this morning. That was not a smart move as it made my stomach churn and my burn within an hour later. I'm staying away from sugar today, even honey for my tea. I'm drinking as much water as I can stand and going to be sure to run for at least 20 minutes this afternoon.

My friend made the very important distinction last weekend that the simple thing is not necessarily the easy thing. He's so so right. I know how to live healthfully, and even enjoy doing so, especially when the reward is feeling like a glowing (gloating?) super goddess. The crux of my failure is that making the simple choices to live well are not my habitual choices of inertia and over-indulgence.

Much as I've struggled these last few months, I've also grown accustomed to a new level of determination. I'm making seriously lovely progress on all fronts and remain proud of it no matter how many loved ones point out to me that I'm bored, dissatisfied, or whatever. To them I say, "look around!! Shit is Fucked (Capital F) Up! If I'm being level headed or sensible or even fucking boring at least I'm not out smashing the windows of Hummers or robbing from the rich or..."

wait...

that train of thought derails into questions of why I haven't turned vigilante and then to fantasies of divine violence. I'm going to back up from that edge and simply congratulate myself on learning the following:
I am a beautifully faceted and competent person who knows how to try things she does not yet know how to do,
who can care for herself better than anybody else and wants to,
who can care for others with an honesty of heart that will make sure they know they are cared for and acknowledged,
who can let difficulty exist in her life without needing to make a big drama of it, who can invite the sex pot and the sugar daddy and the teacher and the small voice and all the other incomplete characters of her psyche come together in a crazy submarine orgy of lush oil paints and chocolate ecstatic singing to create a very beautiful outer world even when others try to cover it over.

(So can you!!)

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Déjà Vu All Over Again

I spiraled down several layers and cried a bit to finish that week. I watched several chick flicks and tried not to emulate their character and drank some glasses of red wine. When I'm sad I am happiest living inside familiar clichés and costumes. When I woke Saturday morning it was the quintessential mid-west fall day in my city. The sky was a plane of serene blue milk glass. I wanted to crack it into shards and rain clouds. I lay restless and inert in my bed, limbs akimbo, wondering why I felt nothing. Hopelessly it seemed that nothing was worth feeling. I came to the understanding that this deceptively pretty Saturday was going to be a day in which I became completely unstable like liquid mercury from a dropped thermometer on the kitchen floor. And so it was. From it I pulled out of my swollen soggy eyes and red nose toward a sharp clarity like the wreck I would break the sky into. I donned oversized sun glasses and make-up, scarves, gloves and cigarettes and laughed mirthfully with my friends. I breathed into my diaphragm and chest and let the nasty energy go away. Of course, the blood that brings positive change and strength followed, ushering me in to another cycle in the life.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

I Refuse to call this Growing Up

It's been just over a year since I moved into my apartment, which I thought was the beginning of my hard work paying off. It seems now that it was actually the beginning of working harder to make the bare minimum but not "enough". I remember feeling so full of positivity then. My apartment was the color of the September full moon on which I bled, I was in love with two amazing new people, I'd made sacrifices, and carved something out of this big place for myself. It feels silly to me now. It feels distant and envious.

I hadn't been to therapy in three weeks before I went last Saturday. When I'd seen Dr. A last I'd just put a cap on my reconciliation with Devyn and I was excited. I was glad to have the anger mostly washed out of me and felt renewed remembering all the things that amaze me about him.

These therapy sessions are good for me, but the idea that I'm going to therapy is still so foreign. In so many ways I feel I'm turning into this dull sitcom version of the person I wanted so strongly NOT to become when I was young and didn't have to deal with the problem of money and begging someone to buy my time for it constantly. My mom did an amazing thorough job of sheltering me from any "grown up" problems which has turned my twenties into a crash course of learning how to suffer without halting life. All sorts of sudden realization come up in these suspiciously unpaid for therapy sessions like the fact that we were living in middle class white suburbia on blue collar income. Growing up poor and not knowing has come around to bite me in the ass. Every well suited and fashionable person walking by me, while I'm wearing thrift store/hand me downs can sometimes feel like a punch in the gut. I'm trying to unlearn a sense of entitlement that I was only fooled into feeling entitled to in the first place.

On August 18th I wrote in my journal that I was "starting to come down after a long up". That down has enveloped me in a shroud of bewildered disinterest. I'm trying to learn my mood cycles, how long they tend to last, and what tends to impact or bring them on. I can't get the thoughts of bi-polar people out of my head for I feel like one who's described what it's like to be on Lithium: no staggering lows, but no sparkling ups either. I'm flat-line and it's confounding me. I keep hoping that it's going to get better soon because surely I've hit the bottom of this well but every day blurs into one same week and suddenly it's October and I didn't even notice the Solstice and greeting the new moon was just an after thought, something I forgot until it had past. I continue to be unable to delve into all the unsatisfactory things I'm surrounded by simply for the fact that it will only make me feel worse. This conscious refusal to over-process my feelings is a stark contrast for me too. At least in the past if I felt I couldn't process the reasons for my depression I could get properly worked up over it and focus on dramatic inner narratives of being "stuck".

While all this gray scale is frustrating, part of me acknowledges several positives too. For instance: it is a considerable success that I'm not over dramatizing my feelings and reactions because that means I'm learning how to pass through difficulty with more grace, it means I have more stamina in depression and don't collapse into existential crises or elaborate escape route planning, and it means I am, in fact, making progress in learning how to take my goals one day at a time, even if it takes many many more days to accomplish things than the pushy part of me thinks it should.

This is all very interesting for you, isn't it dear reader?

How about a list of my favorite things about being depressed: I get to cry whenever the fuck I want to whether it's over the memory of a fall in the North Woods, the song "Sing" by the Dresden Dolls, or the Heart Sutra posted on a blog. I get to have a chocolate bar on my night stand, take a bite immediately upon awakening and feel that rich feeling of self loathing all before even getting out bed. I get to be endlessly self deprecating and smoke a cigarette whenever I want. I get to congratulate myself on my blog on how much better I am at being depressed now than I used to be.

I may be better, but I'm still terribly suspicious. I fear that I'll get so good at being depressed that I'll forget about my mania and ecstasy and come to inhabit the pre-Oz colored world for years before something snaps and I remember, and go berserk, and skip town, and move to Guatemala to live in a hippie commune on the shores of the beach at the edge of a jungle full of howler monkeys and hammocks.

Not that I've thought about it much or anything.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Grounding Truth

The man I love called today and told me of some distressing, as yet mild, symptoms he's experiencing. My concern for him is tangible, yet I am far away and do not want to give more power to negative thoughts than they're due. I sent him a text message full of positive statements to help him feel strong, healthy, loved, and in control of his outcomes. I pushed 'send' and thought about the words I'd sent and how true they felt. I was grounded.

I try never to blow up the magnitude of health aversions, but to tread thoughtfully on the ground of real symptoms, life style, personal history. I see it as counter productive to worry and fret and internet diagnose in a world already so filled with negative energy and treating symptoms rather than people. I never want to over react or be over concerned but I worry a lot that I might under play something important in my efforts, it's an important balance.

My Mom and Dad were in a motorcycle accident Tuesday evening. They are, thankfully, ok. Mom fractured her right wrist and they're both shaken, bruised, and worn, but they had the same lucky light with them as I did the night I crashed my bike. My Mom is irritated with her family's continued asking if they can help. "If you want to help" she says, "just come over and help."

This time around with Devyn I don't think much about our age difference. His uniqueness and individuality is not scary to me anymore, but encouraging. Through the shit we've been through I've learned more about myself in a year than I have in the nearly three I've been in Chicago, and learned even more about loving, giving, accepting, and forgiving. When I dropped the positive statements around him, hoping he'd take them to heart, I felt that same golden healing light I always feel when I'm close to the heart of my matter; they were truths. I wasn't saying something to someone I cared about hoping to make them feel better. I was saying somethings to someone I love because he needs to hear them and remember his strength when he might be feeling weak. I'm going to Mom and Dad's after work tomorrow to make them healthy comforting dinner and to do the same there.



images from: Pink Dog Designs

it's called Rises Arose

and it's where I've been for the last month or two. Well it's one of the places anyway.
rises AROSE unveiled.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Don't Let It Hit

These last few weeks at work have been mostly about looking busy while really "successfully pissing the day away", as my co-worker put it. This does make me feel some guilt and some paranoia that 'they're' going to catch on to me and fire my ass sooner than later, but I can't seem to care. I can't seem to muster up the strength to get to work on time, to be proactive at my desk, to give a shit about making money for other people. Sure, sure, we're doing good. We help surgical patients by helping surgeons, ya ya ya, I know.
All I can think about with regularity are sex, writing, and my new diet (which isn't really a diet so much as trying to integrate exercise and balance into my every day life). I have so much writing out there, and I spend more than a few hours a week doing it for free, probably making other people money in the process. This shit is starting to make me itch. It's stupid. I'm broke, can't pay the bills every month, and yet I'm giving several of my assets away for free.
I don't know where the button to make me work harder after hours is. I struggle between wanting to go home and write and look for ways to make myself some money, but I also want to go out and find people to meet and have sex with (or go on the 'net and find people...). A little fear is growing in my belly that this complete lack of interest in the job I have that's helping keep me housed is going to really bite me in the ass and cause misery. A bigger fear is growing in that same belly of mine that this complete lack of motivation (and unwillingness to sleep only 3 hours a night) is going to continue until all of the sudden I realize, at age 45 or something, the following:


Now that's terror.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

So, what's new?

I'm naked, it's raining, the big three are letting me down: Sex, Money, Work. Another thing too, I have to fess up. Yes, this concerns Devyn. I've been clandestinely rekindling something with him, slowly, for the last month at least. I've been talking more and more to him, I've been working with myself and him to understand my boundaries and where I'm at. I'm circling down into the familiar depression tinged with desperation but have kept my feet planted pretty well so far and that, at least, feels really good.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

This is a Rich Man's War, What is the Poor Man Fighting For?

This is one of those moments when I should take the time to sort it out before coming to the keyboard. It's one of those dozens upon countless dozens of moments when the magnitude of injustice perpetrated by this country (and its corporate backers) upon United States citizens pulls me into an eddy of disgust. The best way for me to break myself down and reach the points my rants are based on is to look at what happened leading up to it.

Amy Goodman, Nicole Salazar, and Sharif Abdel Kouddous of Democracy Now were arrested yesterday afternoon while filming the riot police in St. Paul, MN.
I heard yesterday that 2 of her producers (Salazar & Kouddous) had been arrested and that she'd clamored up a fence to try and interview the arresting officers. I learned this morning, when I checked the website, that she'd been arrested in her attempt to get to those officers. The footage of Salazar being taken down by riot cops (ration 5:1), which was self shot, is totally unnerving. Watch it on YouTube, or, if you're easily upset just rate it 5 of 5 stars and up the chance that a "Major Media Outlet" will take notice and report it somewhere.

One of my favorite things about Democracy Now! are the breaks between stories. When watching the breaks on the web version of the show you get to listen to soul or folk or fight songs in the background of video footage of riots, injustice, war zones, neglected areas, etc. It's more uplifting than it sounds.
The first break today had a Leonard Cohen song about democracy playing behind images of full gear riot forces marching on civilians. It just gets me going. I've spoken of riot porn before.

I came home after a long day being busy and "responsible" and turned the broadcast on again since I didn't get to finish it at work. While I sat on the floor, eating raw garlic to eradicate my head cold, making another impossible budget, footage of the aftermath of Katrina played and talk of the way Gustav was dealt with went on. I wrote down my monthly bills, other debts due, other expected upcoming expenditures. The column was long. I wrote down my monthly income; a terrifyingly short column. In the end I noticed that this first half of the month require that I make another $400 just to be in decent standing and still get to eat/keep my plasma (the stuff in my blood, not a teevee...in case you wondered). I sighed, set my graph paper and calculator aside and cut up some cantaloupe. Where's that going to come from? What plausible options do I even have?

Sometimes I feel like I'm looking down a very long barrel of a very powerful gun and I panic, I don't know what options are available to me besides ducking, running, screaming for help...Democracy Now! played on. No brilliant ideas popped into mind. No motivation to continue my quest for income for more hours this day spurred. Now they were showing images of the Iraq Veterans Against War.

"JACQUIE SOOHEN: As the march ended and veterans gathered back on the Capitol steps, some overwhelmed with emotion, we were reminded once again that behind each of these men and women in uniform is a powerful story. Former Abu Ghraib prison guard, Benjamin Thompson, shared his story with Democracy Now!

BENJAMIN THOMPSON: One of my prisoners at Abu Ghraib, a place where you saw all those photographs come out—you [don't] know the half of it. Most of our people didn’t live in those cell blocks. Most of the people lived outdoors. They’re killed by enemy insurgents, in our camps...

We had ten-year-old boys in my camps. We had an eighty-year-old blind man in my camp. They were killed by enemy fire, because we did not protect them when they were in our custody. They were not worth protecting. The generals that came to my base came with three helicopters apiece. And when they left, they took them with them.

We were giving them food that made them sick. We were giving them water that gave them kidney stones. We weren’t supplying them with medical attention. They were dying from lack of heart medication that they had been on for twenty years. You never heard about this, ever, because of the [expletive] photographs. The Department of Defense focused all of the attention upon those atrocious acts committed by war criminals, my brother and sister military policemen. And then everything else that happened at that prison, to the other 95 percent of those prisoners, went unreported in the media. This is not OK."


It's all so overwhelming. It's all I can do to keep my own small corner of this country to keep from crumbling around me. At times like this I wonder why I even try. I wonder why I don't let it crumble around me. Why don't I let the debt wash over me, take everything it can and then walk off into the hazy horizon to do what I can with what I really have: my legs, what's on my back, my conscience, and my creativity.

I wonder, and then I acquiesce. I think that both of them are pitiful options and that I have to do my best with what I have and pick a route to stick on, at least to stay sane. The route I've chosen is the more beaten path right now. I am learning about goals and that there are steps to take to get to them. I am learning how not beat myself up for not being able to do it all. I am learning to read the fine print and the interest rate and I'm learning how to fly my freak flag - you fucken heard it - learning how to fly my flag made up of sex, justice, linguistics, heart, seeds, nutrition, and muscle no matter where I'm stationed in the fight.



And to think, I could have spent my night trying to write the best online dating ad ever.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

I stood still, agape.

There's a girl I love that I'm not supposed to love so much. I do anyway and at least she knows. She makes me feel acutely aware of myself when we're together, it can be unsettling. I told her about a dream I had a few nights ago. Telling her gave the dream and story of it new dimension. I dreamt of spiders.

There were spiders all around. I held a small, "baby" - I told myself, tarantula in my left palm. Adrenaline pounded in me but I fought the terror wanting to steam out my throat. The tarantula didn't want to hurt me and so I resisted over-reaction and held my palm out steady fingers open. The calm I washed with cleaned the fear into exhilaration.

I was in a room and small light gray spiders streamed on the floor. They moved quickly in lines, hundreds of them. They came from and went to cracks I could not see. I stood still, agape.

I'm growing out of the habit to react loudly and before the last word's meaning has stopped ringing or being spoken. I'm learning that I can keep my hand steady and palm open, no matter how scary the situation might look.

I told her this story, we sat on my bedroom floor. I was facing the wall, facing west and she facing my windows, south. I felt anxiety, fidgeted. I got up, drank some water, sat facing her and was at peace.




There is so much power in these images and ideas for me. I want to be able to write it as such, but I have a surprise party to throw. September new moon is fast approaching; my mantra has been, must go. do. be.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Whatever I Wanted

we are dancing

My head tilted
down to right
shoulder
nipple
shirt bunched on
left hip
hung off
sweaty collar
I finally looked up

Your brown eyes
waited openly
whatever came
whatever you wanted
I straightened up
courage
shot to my nostrils my throat
slackened down.
I stepped to you, because I am
either bold or fearing.



My courage learns its way to center

Right hip towards opposite
Your cheek bones long and
filling the hollows down to your
Naval. I wanted.

What a difference just to look at you.
Shoulders squared to one another
And pelvis I imagined slicking
over
and under

I am not afraid of my own power.
I am afraid of how I will use it.

Friday, August 22, 2008

It's just so true

Went on a date last night. Has me pretty rosy and aroused today and yet, last week's This American Life on break-ups, still reels me in.

This is the 3rd time I've listened to it and I still love love love the first act in which Starli Kine writes a break up song, a lot of the audio clips are Phil Collins.

I know I'm still reeling from all the shit with Devyn because those Phil Collins songs are poignant rather than hysterically cheesy.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Holy Without Warning

Saturday morning I woke up with a friend in bed and friend on floor. I asked, "If you dream about being abducted by aliens, do you think that means you were?"

Talking about dreams immediately upon awakening is the best way to remember them. The second best way is to write them down. I let sleep fall off a bit before I spoke but here's what I remember. Not aliens, but abduction by life filling love.

I was on a journey of epic proportions (as usual). There was a house of reclamation. A house about to crumble held up by found cinder blocks, teetering brick, and glass cube window pieces. The roof was half off and the plants were fighting the good fight to take back space for the earth. Vagabond gypsy reality thieves were lolling around, it seems there was a fountain somewhere, pouring like a fire hydrant in the city, or like teevee portrays broken water mains. I don't know what I was journeying for.

The sky was black. It appeared a storm front was rolling in: all thunder wall and lightning clouds. I watched in awe and electricity for the storm to hit, but instead of rain, blue lights fell. Actually, they didn't fall, they formed individual orb stars. They formed individually and then got in a single file line and curved and fled a sky dance. The lights waved like Borealis do way up North. One orb of electric blue energy broke off. It sped toward me, me alone, and I saw it coming without fear or question, just observation.

The blue light blended right into me. It entered my body at my chest and I was full. I filled with exorbitant peace, joy, and love. I loved the whole humanity and myth of life with such fervor I thought I would fly. I did fly. I loved all and was one. My dream self slowly gave way to consciousness and deprecation crept in-in the thought of "I am enlightened". This grand conjecture pulled me from real oneness and I awoke.

I made a joke about alien abduction but knew I had just experienced something holy. So holy and so without warning or foreshadow. Just like life itself and all its brief rainbows, bud blooms, and storm clouds.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Dog(ged) Days

Wow. Wow, so busy. This month of August is burning up like wild-fire with no signs of rain. Let's see... there are the vagabond, lovely friends crashing with me for a bit, the other, slightly more anchored, vagabond lover that was here last week. Next week it's the marriage of two wonderful souls (by me, the Reverend!) and the week after Mom's surprise 50th that I'm throwing. Toss all that in with needing to make more money and generally live from day to day and time for writing or reading gets mega crunched. It could also have something to do with a new blog and a tumblog. I'm pretty stoked about tumblr, it encourages me to look for beautiful and interesting things and then to be succinct as possible. The new blog you can check, but the tumblog is my secret for a bit longer.

In fact, if you're a bisexual and would like to participate in Stuffbisexualslike, then let me know and I'll have you send your piece so we can put it in and credit it to you.

I spent 4 hours on Craigslist "adult gigs" this afternoon, while the Chicago world was bathed in perfect blue sky and temperature. I'm very intrigued about what may come and dragging my feet on getting into a another part time wage slave situation. It just doesn't seem smart, even though getting it may be easier. I need to take the time now to set some hustling up right so I don't have to continually earn money, but make it and make it my own.

Ah. I'm done done done with this computing. It's cozy, in bed, Sunday night time.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Living Chair!



Found while traipsing through Stumble on Pooktre

Friday, August 1, 2008

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Sage Advice from a Loon

"The unhappy person resents it when you try to cheer him up, because
that means he has to stop dwelling on himself and start paying attention
to the universe. Unhappiness is the ultimate form of self-indulgence.
When you're unhappy, you get to pay a lot of attention to yourself. You
get to take yourself oh so very seriously."
- Tom Robbins, *Jitterbug Perfume*

Monday, July 28, 2008

To Be Something Somewhere

Is my spirit something I can just wink at when it suits me?



I feel as much adrift as I did before, lost at sea not even knowing if I want to find North. More likely I've dropped anchor without a shoreline in sight and decided to hang out until starvation, scurvy, or a strong wind batter me toward a direction. He has managed to cultivate himself into a compelling person, perhaps too strong in head, but so driven to be something somewhere that he gets what he asks for. I ask for nothing, not knowing even what I want, but my dreams.

I ask no companions, no beloved snugglers, no specifics. My dreams have not had words put to them, I am filled with imagery and emotion, laughter and dance and when that runs out, pity for not asking for something more stable. What discipline, to ask for what I want, can I cultivate when my belief is so feeble? There is a world in my heart and wisdom inside me speaking to the worship I have for life, but I give it little direction toward the greatness that I imagine.
I wonder: does he ask for lovers, manifest affection? Why does he get to have all that he does? Why does he get to flirt, be turned on and excited, be hugged and held? Is it because of asking? Forward eyelash batting? Faking it til he makes it?

My cheeks flush to think of playing with someone sexy. A feeling of determination overcomes me. I want to stop mourning the loss of what I was before. I want to feel sexy again. I want to feel carefree and scintillating, but I don't want it just because I am determined any more. I want a fairy tale dropped into my lap.

My little lost ship of a self is floating around, trying to avoid sun stroke and enjoying the job of quietly tying knots and drifting as best I can while my legs long for land again.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Tricksy Clockses

I'm working what my employer refers to as "Summer Hours" this week, in which I work 8:30 - 6:30 (or 8 - 6) M-Th and get Friday off. Having Friday off gives me a three day weekend, which is pretty sweet, but there is a sour to this candy as well.

The vicious cycle starts on Sunday night, when I stay up too late because my body is still running on its own, primal time. I get through Monday alright, but don't get home from work until close to 8 pm. I've been at work all day and I want some time that is my own, so I stay up too late. I could be sleeping, but instead I'm reading a trashy summer novel, knitting, playing with cats, tidying, cooking, whatever I while my hours away with. On Tuesday I'm a little more tired, and by the end of the work day the corner of my left eye is twitching. At home again, though, I can't (won't) ignore the impulses to create and do. There's a cat toy I want to finish sewing, a new version of chickpea salad I want to invent, a letter I want to write. I finally get into bed at midnight, knowing it's too late, and read a couple pages anyway because sleep just doesn't sound as fun as having time to myself.

Now Wednesday morning, my left eye is still twitching and having decent posture (i.e. not sitting with my gut slumped onto my lap at the desk) is torturous.

My goal in all of this is to control my caffeine consumption and not get addicted again and to stay positive so that I don't turn into a sad & cranky sack of despair. Also, I'm learning a lesson. I'm mentally writing my secret manifesto for my future world order. It includes lots and lots and lots of primal time telling.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Summer Book Review! Nickel & Dimed

Barbara Ehrenreich is not poor. She has been nominated for a National Book Critics Circle Award and has written a New York Times Best Seller. Barbara Ehrenreich is not disadvantaged. She is highly educated, middle class, white, disfigurement and debilitation free, and heterosexual. Ok, maybe she's a little too tough to go unnoticed as "lady-like", but that plays into her investigative journalist life anyway.

These reasons were the foundation for my skepticism regarding Nickel and Dimed, a book in which the author leaves the trappings of her middle class Key West lifestyle for a year to work in different cities around America in low wage jobs. She slices through her doubts and mine two-thirds of the way into the introduction by saying "my aim...was straightforward and objective--just to see whether I could match income to expenses, as the truly poor attempt to do everyday." She's writing about a very divisive reality and subject matter and her success comes only because of this scientific objective clarification and her own outrage. She makes off color jokes about social classes in ways that most liberal writers avoid, even in the "post p.c." age of the late 90's, in which she writes.

She spends a year doing the research. She uproots from her home and job for months at a time, bringing provisional clothes, money and her only connection to her "former life as a journalist", her laptop. In each of the cities she writes about, her goal is to make enough money to pay rent, eat, and buy enough gas to get to work. She acknowledges that she has the advantage of being childless and a native English speaker, but disadvantages come in the form of being single (no other incomes to help) and being a native English speaker. Managers ignore jobs like cleaning hotel rooms or working food counters to instead assign her to waitressing, even if she'd rather clean rooms.

The best parts of Nickel and Dimed are the footnotes. They are rife with informational citations ranging from government sponsored studies to local newspaper reports. She cites figures on income to housing ratios, Wal-Mart's denial of overtime to employees, and what the terms for migrant workers are in various cities. The second best parts of the book are when Ehrenreich's sense of humor take over to keep her from flying into bitter rages. She describes Portland, ME as having "demographical albinoism", wonders about a "secret division" among the female gender into "breeders and drones", and rails against the big-box corporatization of the Western world for a good while.

Nickel and Dimed doesn't present any exotic information, but Ehrenreich does give deeper meaning to the figures of unemployment, housing rates, and welfare collapse that get tossed around in the left-wing news so frivolously. She re-ups the information that the poor in America live in a constant, or near-constant, "state of emergency", but she does so for all the middle class white people that will read her book. I don't know what good this book did for anyone, except for Ehrenreich. Maybe there's the off chance that some kid will read this book and become catalyzed into welfare reform or union organizing action, but it's hard to guess really.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Strawberry Sex Stories #1: the John

It's May. May is verdant seedlings, buds readying to pop, copulation crazed spring fever. I'm a jitterbug in a musky breeze.
I haven't seen my boyfriend in 5 months and my local fuck-friends have all dried up leaving only remnants and debris: unused phone numbers, mix tapes, lube stained bed sheets. My spring fever turns into cock hunger. I got an itch even my best vibrator can't cure.

This is the tale of a big ache that finds remedy with an Ok Cupid cruiser.

I had been noticing that in the BDSM world, kink and play took time. Also, it often did not include the kind of cock to cunt action I was craving; no matter how much waiting, baiting and finally, begging I did.
The john baited me with a two line e-mail; some play on words hinting at rough sex. His next e-mail bluntly drew out our mutual kinks. He was looking for a woman to tie up, so I proposed a trade. The stipulations from me were simple: hard and ideally to orgasm. "I usually can only come from anal" he said. I told him to meet me at 8 and that I wasn't promising anything.
I arrived at the bar in his neighborhood early. The chill wasn't quite gone from the air as I waited outside the unassuming hipster bar. Despite living alone, I'd been having problems with the Egyptian neighbor downstairs making creepy remarks about hearing me "making love", and thought an escape route would be more easy to execute than an eviction process should something go wrong.
Waiting wasn't as difficult as I imagined it "ought" have been. I cooly postulated about societal rules, radical self actualization, and what my Grandmother would think. Another average looking guy approached, but this one was searching for a set of eyes to contact. I smiled, he held the door to the bar open.
Despite our shared mission we made small talk for half a beer, perhaps to show how civilized we "normally" were. The second half of the beer was consumed quickly as deviance danced in my eyes. He said, "You wanna do this?"
So suave. So succinct. So..."dude".
I chuckled, "yes," I did, and continued to observe the scene. His house was close, and I have no idea what we talked about because I was thinking about his cock. What would it look like? How long would it be? How girthy? Cut or not? Curved? Would he really fuck me hard enough? The word echoed in my head: hard, hard, hard. I fixated on the image you see in all heterosexual male porn: In Out In Out Red Wet In Slit Out Cream In Out In Out...

In his room, a bottle of Charles Shaw Chardonnay, the Shins, a hookah. He has sleek metropolitan taste, an architect degree, a hippified past turned consumer future, framed prints above his bed, candles, a weight bench on top of which sits a duffel bag. We make more conversation, though it comes easily and soon the first bottle is gone. I think about sobriety and kink. He again says, "You ready?" but this time, there's a difference. He's switching gears, going to a head space that intones: I am in control. I let a sparkle twink in my eyes: "Sure Am," and lick my lips.
My clit, growing rotund and hard, begins to pulse.
He pulls out lengths of rope and begins unraveling them. He tells me how usually the sub would do all the untying and tying of the ropes before and after play. I sit, and wait, and wonder what I need to do to get what I want. I cannot know at this time, but I will not find my power back in this interaction. I will give it up willingly, concede it to a person I have no emotion for, and let his desire dictate the realization of my own.
The night does not go ideally, but it goes. The john hogties me. I'm on my belly with my arms bound behind me at their wrists. My wrists are bound to my hips, rope runs the length of my girl-seam to my tail-bone and is then bound to my ankles. He makes a gag also out of the rope and the Shins continue wincing the night away. I am not in the blissfully high space that BDSM practitioners can get to, but am distant. I'm acting, for his sake, and observing from my internal vantage point with keen interest. I am disappointingly analytical.
His tying takes 20-30 minutes, he is clothed and I naked. I'm drooling all over the gag and am immobilized, the rope in my cunt is rubbing and it feels good. My muscles begin to strain, the pain is different, I am not controlling it. The pain brings me back to a human state, I am soft, immobilized, and contorted; finally I am getting turned on.
The john reaches back into his big bag of tricks. He flogs me lightly, then builds up steam. He moves from synthetic flogger to bamboo rods to paddle. My ass is unseasoned as of late and my lowered pain tolerance surprises me. When I am not committed to the one mastering me, I do not push my endurance. I yelp and squirm through my gag, and like any unfamiliar Top should, he backs off. My impatience is growing, I want what I have come here for.
He relents. It is 1 am. He leaves my reddened ass cheeks and I hear the unzipping of trousers. I crane my head around to see a nice looking cock in the brief glimpse I manage. He is arrow straight, practically parallel to the ground, nicely round and thick, about 6.5 inches hard. I'm pleasantly surprised and practically bucking like an excited kid at the rodeo. He snaps a rubber on and barks at me to get the gag back in my mouth.

The grand entrance, my favorite of any phallic entrance, is sublime. The eager nerves lining my tunnel ricochet with glee. The second and third thrusts are as good as the first and he begins to ramp up his speed, I give a squeal of delight, but the gold is not to be mine on this voyage. The john leaves me dangling, tangled in ropes and unfulfilled too soon. He does not come, simple stops after less than ten minutes and gets cleaned up. He unties me and goes to the kitchen for another bottle of two buck chuck. I am disappointed.
I am not mortified or bitter though, and stay longer. His conversation is as stimulating as it need be at 2 am on a work night and the Whigs are now lulling me and my worked muscles to dreariness. He says I can stay if I like. I am skeptical but very tempted. I have nothing to lose, so bluntness is working in both our favor. I ask if he will cuddle and he promises. He finished off the second bottle while I wonder about his drinking habits and ask him personal questions. He cuddles me well and all night.
At 5:30 his alarm begins going and I do my best to ignore it. He does the same until I feel him roll over and spoon me close. I know what's up, I love morning wood. He presses his warm body and thickening cock against my sleep droopy ass and sighs. I pretend to be asleep. He snuggles closer still and I give an "mm" in response. This goes on and I'm smiling with my eyes closed, having fun playing and being warmly tired.
When his alarm goes off again, he kills the buzzer and rolls half way onto me. His hands begin to rub and probe and I moan responsively. His voice comes rough and fatigued in my ear. His breath is hot, he knows my body is willing. He says, "You didn't think you could come to a stranger's house for sex and not get fucked in the ass did you? You didn't think you were going to get away that easy, did you, whore?" I fill up swollen and wet and respond humbly, small, "No. No, of course not."

Live! From the Gurnee

I was deleting pictures of the ex from my phone the other day when I came across a video I'd made of myself, restrained as can be, in the ER about an hour after crashing my bike.

You wanna see a distraught face? Check it out.
video

This age of technology. Ain't is something?

It's been really nice, in some ways, not having a long distance relationship to tend to. I lose my phone for hours at a time now, I like it better that way. I sometimes wonder if text messaging is ruining our ability to discern between meaningful and drivel.
But texting did create this,
<3
which is ever adorable.

Thursday, July 3, 2008

Blame Canada

I'm so bitter at my ex right now that any time I hear mention of Toronto, I get a little mad. The most irritating part of this is that I really like Toronto. It's a great city - the people are friendly, chatty and more relaxed, the culture is more vibrant, Dufflet's. Etc.

So when cruising around a softer world I read that one of the co-creators Emily, is moving to Toronto this fall, that irritation shot up in my throat like bile again. Rrrg!! Her section of the site is called i blame the sea. I got to wondering where she's moving from, then saw Victoria. I google mapped it, and holy shit, what a location!!

Good old pacific northwest. Always pacifying my bile.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Ripe Berry Red

One of my traits is a sense of urgency. Patience and I are mere acquaintances, but I'm learning. This sense of urgency is over-developed, but it can yield good things. When I'm down I am determined to work my way out of it as soon as possible.

When, three weeks ago, I learned that my ex has herpes, it took a minute for the implications to sink in. As a result of his dishonesty (10 months in the sack with me before the big H was even mentioned) I too have this common std. Yeah, it took a minute for the lying, the disease, the ever-changed-life-aspect to begin to sink in. Not only was I infected but for the first time in my love/relationship history I'd been really lied to. A big ass lie too.

The first week I read about the physical manifestations, the prodromal period, foods and moods that can trigger it, how people cope with medicines. The second week I didn't want to think about it, I wanted to feel good and forget about the mess. I am forcing myself again to learn so I don't do the idiotic thing he did, which, as I see it was a combination of fear, ignorance, denial and dishonesty. Now I go to the myriad websites and feel I've stumbled into a whole new subsection of the population; 20% of the Americans have this. Maybe I can have herpes potlucks: I'll bring the argnine free vanilla bean sorbet Gina, you bring the Valtrex and dental dams! I click on the life-style information sections. How do I cope? How do I tell people I'm dating or going to date? What have others done before me? What ways other than meds and denial can I deal?

Something that's bringing me down is the aspect that my once cherry red hot sex life is now going to have to go through some procedure changes. It was actually the first thing that helped me get to the tip of the iceberg of my feelings towards the ex and his action. I thought to myself, after half a dozen years of being 98% sexually realized and liberated, screwing who, how, where and when I want to; after doing sometimes stupid things with people I don't know and coming out pussy unscathed; after all that; after I make a commitment to this sometimes challenging relationship NOW I get fucking herpes from the fuck I just committed to?!?!

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm living in the age of Irony.

Well, to help me deal with these lifestyle changes I'm committing to three things for myself:
discipline (to get my body strong, healthy & happy),
honesty (so I don't commit the kind of ass-hattery that others have), and
optimism (strawberry moon inspired story telling of sexcapades that have rosied my cheeks, cherry, and bottom in the past).

Today I'll put glints in my eye thinking of where to start.
Sweet? Like when Shuggie Otis and foreplay changed my life at 21?
Sour? Like the orgasms that brought me to hot tears in the back of my car parked in the restaurant lot?
Scintillating? Like clothes ripped and tangled around waists and ankles while fucking on the kitchen table?

Co-workers, read at your own risk.
Friends, Voyeurs, Strangers enjoy the Strawberry Sex Stories to come.

Writer's Block

i am utterly stuck with words and grieving the loss of some personal freedom. i'm feeding on a strange new fuel, biting anger. hatred.

me: i need my mojo back, need to crow again. need more cock in my doodle-doo...not literally though.
xx: snorting laughter
me: literally there will be no real cock, synthetic cocks only. my doodle-doo is just fine with that, thank you.

marquette woods, sands, waters, stars, air in 15 days.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Got to End Bee-otches.

Wow. It's been 1 hell of a month. For some reason the outcome of it is just hitting me right now. I haven't come in nearly a month. I haven't felt sexy in almost as long. I haven't been on any fun dates with friends or new interests.

Definitely not the best start to a summer.

And now that's got to end bee-otches. I am newly single! It is warm out! I have a renewed sense of what makes me feel good! I am out of pussy control!

It's Pride this weekend!!

Give the Kid Her Candy

Ways that I indulge, listen to, or notice my inner 5 year old.

Jumping as high as possible when the elevator in my office starts to go down. I swear I gain like 4 inches on my vertical. The possibility (however imagined) that I will land too heavily in the elevator and have a hair raising fall from the 25th floor is exhilarating every time.

Attempting perfect 360 spins on one foot in my dressy work shoes on the stone floors of the office. The possibility that an adult will happen upon me in the middle of this harmless game is part of the excitement.

Does typing at my desk at home in my underwear indulge my inner 5 year old? No, that's my inner exhibitionist.

How do you?

Monday, June 23, 2008

Brave New World, Summer Book Review

I found myself without a book to read during my morning commute a few weeks ago so I turned to the ol' bookshelf. I have dozens of reference books and books of unknown poets that are untouched, along with a few "gems" I was supposed to have read in high school or college, but never did. If I decide to give out meaningless and random awards to the books I read this summer, my 1989 paperback copy of Brave New World will win the ugliest cover award. The award for most likely to be judged by cover. (what you see here is far more interesting than mine.)

Brave New World is a classic from the past. It's one of those books that I enjoyed more than I expected to. Huxley was around my age when he wrote this novel, and his writing technique is sometimes slightly labored over. Enough so that I can pick out the tools he uses to get the reader into his world of bottled up fetuses and "everyone belongs to everyone else".

Written in the late 1920s, early '30s, the book is loaded with some impressive foresight on subjects like language, war, and machinery. Unlike contemporary writers of his time, Huxley doesn't beat around the bush when talking about sexual relationships or egos. He isn't overly descriptive. His character sketch of a complete, yet honorable, man centers around three male character parts: Bernard Marx - the overcompensating smart man who has a good heart but a bad temper because he is short, Helmholtz Watson - the star quarterback who goes to Harvard type, good at everything he does but unsatisfied with the easy life because it comes so easily, and John, "Mr. Savage".

John is the star of the second half of the book, his was born from an actual woman as opposed to all other "good civilized" people. Those people are made from sperm and egg, grown in bottles, kept on conveyor belts until they're 18 months and raised in child conditioning factories (schools) until they can go out in the world and join the ranks they're born into.

The only turn of plot that kept my attention held was the fate of Mr. Savage. I knew going into this book that a character would be making a choice between civilized comfort and unconditioned suffering (free will). Lucky for me, the writing was succinct enough to keep hold over me. If Huxley had written like others of his time I wouldn't have finished the book.

John "the savage", comes from a reservation in the American southwest, where he has been an outcast all his life for being white, to the bustling city of London where is a freakshow. He winds up being a Shakespeare quoting masochist who chooses to whip himself rather than 'have' his love (1 of 2 small female 'roles') Lenina. Lenina is pneumatic - a word that is used all too often in this book, to mean pretty much "everything nice". Not only does he whip himself for wanting physically but is used to make the point that suffering is the human condition and a condition worth fighting for.

No wonder The Canon loved this book. It ties up very neatly into the privileged White's order of honor and ethics wherein it's ok to scorn your mother for drinking and fucking and it's better to suffer nobly than to have sex with all the easy lays in the world.

This book was like a boring date. It wasn't all bad, we had a few decent moments together, but now it's over and I want to think about my grocery list with a bubble bath and glass of wine.

Summer Book Review! Low Down

The bike riding season had made a noticeable dent in the number of books I read; then with all the e-dating and wellness drama I didn't pick up another spiny backed friend for several weeks. Candy Girl, by Diablo Cody, got me back into the game; a quick read with some laugh out loud moments, an "aha" moment in which I related to the author/narrator, and the best line- from when she talks about another day walking in strippers' heels: "In direct opposition to the 1987 Swayze edict, everybody puts Baby in a goddamned corner."

Oh, books. Hooray for them.
So I picked up another one after speeding through Cody's fluffy bildungsroman. Holding the paperback calmed and focused me, reminded me what quality time is all about. Predictably, I'm calmed for one moment by the written word and the very next popped in the kisser with an idea:

Subterranean Fire's Summer Book Review
(woo hoo!)

the Gist: give me titles! synopses! recommendations! I'll choose a book, make it my duty to read at least two a month, and review each of them based on my exquisite taste and beta training.

that brief "caste" mention above is the perfect segue into my first review.
and now you, reader, drop me a comment with a book suggestion, so I can start me next read!

Friday, June 20, 2008

The Littlest Bird Sings the Prettiest Song

I told him that I walk up and down 46 stairs several times a day. I can do it really well now. I walk to the train and back once a day. I see how all the walls around me change.

The challenge is in retaining my anger and sense of wrong done while using that to fuel the creation of peace. I am being a warrior for my own strength and future. I remind myself, relax your shoulders. I tell myself, go get exercise. I prod myself, look around you.

It's not a pretty place, but parts of it will be home. I want parts of Chicago to sidle up to my heart. I don't have plans yet, but my green future is out there. When I go I imaging taking pieces of this city with me and remember how the highway near by made a nice white noise and how all the activity when muddled together is so impressive. I love riding my bike SE on Milwaukee and watching the big skyline loom up closer over the bridge that crosses the Dan Ryan highway. I like sitting in Humboldt Park's grand Rose Garden near the iron Bison set down a hundred years ago. I love walking the shore in Rogers Park where the yippies live and quietly looking for beach glass. The pigeons (rock doves) coo me to sleep at night, the wrens and other warblers wake me up in the morning.

Feeling alone when so much is happening around you can be depressing. However, savoring stillness, in my brightly painted corners, while the world whirs on is also delectable.

On Reviving Myself

Adam instructed me to be a warrior. He said, "You want what isn't there. Start wanting what is." He doesn't mean settle he means work. Work for what you want. Figure out what you want to work for. At night, when I'm high, my pessimistic thoughts cave in on me. No one can be trusted, my muscles are all knotted. Rain has clogged the sewers and this city smells like shit. I tremble and it's 80 degrees out. I shake, not knowing why.
It's when my eyes dart mercilessly and my heart beat rises. My spine feels crooked, I swear I hear it creaking, thanking life for teaching me the difference between a gunshot and a bottle rocket isn't funny comforting any more. The irony drains out of me and I'm pale with negativity.
Adam, though, Adam instructed me to be a warrior. No one ever spoke to me like that. No one ever skipped over puffing me up about smarts and articulation before passing advice. No one ever cut through the bullshit quick enough to bypass my hard headed stubbornness. His equal opportunity insults spared no one and seeing his open heart took years.
I tell myself to breath normally. I tell myself to walk fucking tall. To lead with my tits. I tell myself to lead with my tits because they naturally stick out farther than any other part on my front and it makes sense to my spine and energy. I tell myself to teach the ways of my woman the way we taught preschoolers - gentle and positive. Leave the "no" out of it and give clear instructions. I lead with my tits and tell myself to focus my eyes. I need glasses and to stop medicating this drama with weed. My eyes become lazy, red, and half lidded by the end of these days and I tell myself. Breath regularly. Look straight ahead. Look with your third eye. Look into they eyes of passersby if you want to.

All the rules of society women are taught go against my nature. I look people in the eye at night in the city in a dress. I show off my curves because it makes me feel great. I use words like cunt, cock and pussy without batting an eye - no because I'm making a point. I say cunt because there is no other word in the English language so honest and concise. Cunt is a beautiful word. It's like hard powerful sounding German with a soft Latin NNNNNN keeping it real.

"At this age they lose confidence in themselves, they become very uncomfortable with their voices, often practicing alone at night in mirrors to find the voice that sounds sexy, but not too sexy. Strong, but not too strong because everybody knows that boys don't like girls that are bitches. Soon, their natural voices get lost behind the performance, the constant performance, the constant depersonalization mindfuck of the performance. It's exhausting and it leaves you empty and unsure."

When I was still a girl purple and pink were my favorite color. I sang at the top of my lungs, wore dresses with mud on them, ate mushrooms and followed the moon. I wrote stories about aliens, poems about boredom and wished on the first star at night. When I was twelve I started singing quietly so no one could hear. I decided my favorite color could be blue or maybe black. I stopped eating mushrooms and wondered how the moon still knew where I was every night. I got older, stopped wearing dresses, started memorizing booty shakes on MTV and wrote only about boys I liked and girls that spited me. The stars became secondary and I tried to forget Luna's name.

Davka's
words above remind me of all those times and point me in the direction I still travel. I've finally circled back. I'm 13 two times now and my voice is coming out of the closet. It brought gifts with it from the past. I sing as loud as I please, at bus stops, at home with my flimsy walls. Purple is the color of the dresses I wear and the color of my strap on harness. My girls, those I've known and those I'll meet are the base for me now and Adam knows my real name. He says "Kung Fu is all about practice. You do something everyday, do it enough times and you're going to be good at it. You've got to be a warrior."

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

The Plan Is Full

The moon will be full today.
It takes me so long for some realizations.
The plan is: use Chicago to learn myself like I learned the trails of the North Woods.
Then, flee to Woods (Northwest?) ASAP.

The plan is: live for each day, not for each weekend. Even if work is work.
The plan is: read more
The plan is: smile more

The plan is: it's optimism's turn now.

Plus I feel good because some internet human I don't think I know outted Devyn & his particular STD on his blog. Mirth and spite - they can get me going in the morning at my desk.

The plan is: notice how gorgeous sunrises are again

Blogging, texting, long distance e-dating...It's all so weird. So detached. That's one of the reasons I liked it I guess. All the intimacy without any of the compromises.

There are many reasons to be optimistic.
Tonight, stop and feel the sweetness of the Strawberry Full Moon

Sunday, June 15, 2008

On Being A Warrior

The only war I'm fighting for is the one of my own success. A sense of accomplishment from this weekend. I didn't break. I didn't let sadness pull me down and out. I finished some things that needed finishing. I flirted and forgot for a second about this shitty situation. I stood and orated and forgot about this shitty month I've been dogged by. I wrote some poems. I sang some songs. I got some sun. I pulled some weeds and my friend reminded me to be a warrior in the present and make the best of the here and now.

Success.
Now bed.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

5 days later

the irony of 5 years of promiscuity
cantering about, on two legs.

so bury me in wood
and i will splinter

the irony of vows i meant
his roses are less than dirt.

bury me in stone
and i will quake

i broke up roots in the soil.
i pulled yarrow from the garden

bury me in water
and i will geyser

and laughed at myself
with mirth. the tarot card reader,

the fenced in metaphors...

bury me in fire
and i'm gonna phoenix

i'm gonna phoenix

lyrics from "say valley maker" by smog

Friday, June 6, 2008

L-I-V-I-N

New Song to Love:
Vein of Stars by The Flaming Lips.

I wish I was lying on the ground by a small morning fire in the sunlight. Will I ever get over camping? I hope not. I hope it continues to dog me, to leave me feeling parched, until I return to the woods that birthed me.

There is nothing I love more than the earth and her bounty. Lying directly on the worn dirt of a campground is heaven. It is rich, whole, right. It coats my skin in dust, fills my nose with reality, and quiets my head then heart then whole. I say nothing because there is so much to be heard living. I study the tiny green speck bugs ambling along their vast deserts. I listen to the birds calling back and forth and discern which directions they are in. I watch the sun chase the moon chase the sun and know where I am and where I am headed.

My doctor has basically prescribed that I move to a different place, one where I can have myself whole again. Others have said the same; profession makes no difference, they are right. Do they know that I'm fully aware? That I prescribed this myself years ago?

But I have to learn the hard way. I have to test my limits. I have to put on all these hats, costumes, and duties just to find out they're not right. I have to test out all the things I am not, before I can return to the things I am. It's a sadly exhilarating task. Chicago and I are just not finished with each other.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

Under the Weather

It's been three crazy weeks since I crashed my bike and landed in the hospital. I'm learning that I do, in fact, possess that folly of youth: unconsciously thinking I'm indestructible.

I've been feeling physically like shit since the crash. For several days, over a week, I didn't really pay attention to it. Then it bit me in the ass and I'm still paying dues. I should have called in sick to work earlier this week so I could spend a day in bed and sleep as much as I need to. Yesterday we got a temp that I'm in charge of, so I knew I couldn't call off today, no matter the fact that getting out of bed after a solid 8 hours of sleep was astronomically difficult.

I bit the bullet and told boss lady that I'm taking the afternoon off because I'm exhausted and it's killing my productivity anyway. I can't wait to go home. My bed is calling me.
But first I have to trek to Lincoln Park to the doctor to see all what may be causing my troubles. A very unenthusiastic yay.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Oranges in the Break room

"Let's take a break." I said
so we took the elevator up.
The fruit she'd brought inspired me
and I passed along the three
golden rules to choose an orange.

First, the orange has to be the best
color of the bunch. Bright and even
like a marigold. Second, the orange
should be firm and without soft spots.
Finally, most importantly,
the naval should be small.

A pin-prick is best; it shows
that the orange was allowed to
live on its stem, at home among
the leaves and branches
in the wind until
maturity and best juicy,
sweet taste.
"In Phoenix," she said "in March,
you can smell orange blossoms
in the air.

It smells like
gardenias or expensive perfume.
I forget what it is sometimes,
when I return home
that time of year.
I used to pick the fruit
for my choir teacher to get them
off the tree before they fell
and rotted and browned."

She looked at her orange, "I got these
from Costco, in a box."
"Let's do a taste test"
I suggested "to compare the method of choosing."
Her orange,
from a box congruous
to all the others that came,
flown from the south
or southwest, chosen indiscriminately,
tasted better.