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So I've been habitually posting on weekends. Then Dave came up for a weekend, then I went to a music festival for a weekend. This coming weekend my mom is coming to visit, and the one following that I'm going to hang out with a new um-maybe-friend in Williams Lake and eat oysters and see what physical proximity does to our interaction, then the one following that I'm heading to the Mission Folk Fest, and then to the other side of Canada for the first time to visit Nova Scotia with Dave. So there's a lot to catch up on, obviously, and I may not update lots.

I do, however, have lots of things going on in my head.

The level of casual friendly to strangers here is about the same as the level of casual friendly in Vancouver to someone you've been introduced to through a friend but not previously spoken to much. It's turned up a notch from Vancouver-stranger. I like it. It's ok to talk to folks, coworkers are more invite-able to things, every interaction is just a little bit closer or at least allows for more than the equivalent one in the city.

One of the fun/frustrating things about sex is that you basically reinvent it with each person (unless I guess you wanna follow the standard het escalator vanilla template?). You never quite know what's coming down that pipe.

The Smithers music festival was fun; it had more different types of music than I was expecting. I went up with two co-workers, Jeremy who was the instigator and who's my fellow summer hire, and Brett. It was nice to hang out with them some; they definitely viewed it as a drinking/hanging around experience, and were maybe slightly distressed that I wouldn't accept drinks. Thy hung out in a group together; I realized I'm maybe more independent than I think I am, an definitely moreso than my twenty-year-old self could have understood. I danced a bunch and stayed in a tent. It was really, really good for me. I discovered a couple local bands, one called Black Spruce Bog who write about things like salmon and who might play over here in Fort St James in the fall.

Instead of getting a ride home with my co-workers, I caught a ride with the okc person I met a couple weeks ago. It was basically an excuse to talk, and talk we did... and then the next night we spoke on the phone pretty late too. He lives about four hours away, towards Vancouver, so he's not entirely local, but he's close enough for visits. I'm enjoying the feeling of spark with someone. We'll see where this goes.

Interest in someone else is definitely making me miss Dave extra-much-a lot. Poly is always like this for me; my desire for long-term/current partners always flares up when I find a new connection elsewhere. I love how contrasts highlight each person's individuality. So even though Dave was just here, the separation is hard right now. I just got extended at work, so I'll be here, likely, till November. That's a long time to be away, and I guess that's also hitting me.

I have no idea what will happen in the future. My original goal taking co-op at school was to do a co-op term in a different place each time, to get to know different parts of BC and see where I wanted to end up. I really like it up here, though, I like the company I work for and I like the town. I likely could come back next summer no problem; it wouldn't let me go work on the coast or Vancouver Island to check them out. It's really far to visit.

I don't know.

An 8 month/4 month lifestyle split between locations is maybe even possible for awhile. Do I want that? It's early to tell. I need to sit with it. But, it's definitely in my mind as a possibility.

We'll also see how I feel about the town and the job in six months when I'm not flush with the novelty of it, or when the winter comes. If I'm here during snow, I've promised myself I'll learn to cross-country ski on the lake. How out of character is that?

Everyone here is really outdoorsy, not the Vancouver weekend-outdoorsy but they all seem to play on multiple sports teams and kayak and hike and camp all the time, not just once in awhile. And everyone means everyone.

And there are so many places that are logging-road or boat access only that you can go and there are trees and water and no people.

Yeah, typical poly dilemma of always feeling like, even when some things you love are here, others are distant. It's not like I'm any different with places than with people.

I want to write more, I may tonight, but now I have to (get this) clean my room for my mom. Ha. Since I'm going to install her here when she gets here, it likely shouldn't have clothes and sex toys in her way.

I'm really happy here. It's miraculous how repeatable and reliable the method for making me happy is. Outdoors all day, some space, some people, enough sleep.

Be well, folks. Love you.
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So, my plan did not involve canning or brewing up here. I brought my bow, I was going to practice, and I was going to work a lot.

Well, I'm working a lot.

There is such abundance of foraging foods here, though; I guess that's what you get when you're not really in a city. There are so many dandelions and spruce buds everywhere that I've got supplies to do a small batch of dandelion jelly, one of pickled dandelion buds, and one of spruce tip syrup or jelly (likely the former). The Amelanchier alnifolia is in full bloom, promising a great crop in the summer. I suspect I'll do something about that too. I'll need to haul everything back down to Vancouver when I'm done here, but it's good for my soul to make these things.

I'm also cooking meals a lot. I have a lovely source of local beef, there are lots of greens growing around, I'm stocked up on flour and butter and bacon and potatoes. I've been making myself the kind of traditional meals that have different parts: a meat component, a starch component, a veggie component. I've never really eaten that way before, since so much of what I make has been single-pot foods like stews or soups or casseroles. I think the grill helps with this, since I can grill my meat and bannock or potatoes, and then just make veggies to go on the side.

This was my first full week of bush work at work. That is, every day (it was a short week because of the long weekend, so just four days in a row) I put on heavy spiked caulk boots, headscarf, vest full of equipment, and hard hat and walked multiple kilometers in straight lines through a mix of underbrush, standing, and fallen trees. I am covered in sweat after the first ten minutes, which continues until I get back to the truck. The moose tracks never really went in the direction I was going. The work when we got to the plots was not particularly hard, though it too involved some climbing, but getting there is one of the more trenuous things I've done. There are tangles of trees that go on for great distances, so I need to walk on logs (thus the spiked boots) which is nice, or climb over them crosswise through spiky dead branches which is not so nice. There are swamps or thick underbrush areas that require high-kneed steps and have considerably more drag than walking through water. There are puddles of ephemeral orchids and green things unfurling and soon there will be flowers. Everything smells like pine and fir and spruce. There are so many bugs: flies that bomb past but can't get at me because I'm entirely covered except for my face, mosquitoes that make it hard to concentrate and stay away from my sprayed clothing so I just have to worry about them on my wrists and face, and these awful terrible bugs that fly straight into the eyes and stay there until they're pulled out. I imagine, awfully, that they are laying eggs. Believe me, it's a lot harder to walk on a log three to six feet up with no handholds when there are things shooting into your eyes. I don't walk on logs higher than that, or the really narrow ones, though I suspect that will come with time.

I am covered in bruises from the waist down, where I hit short sharp branch stubs while climbing over trees. I am full of thorn scratches. I have bug bites on my hands and to a lesser extent on my feet from when I take my boots off for the way home. I am tired a lot as I build strength. Last night, Friday night, I came home and showered and the feeling of being clean was astonishing. I am, however, very happy. I'm reminded that in order for my life to feel meaningful and fulfilling I don't need to necessarily do any particular moral thing, I just need to be outside for three to seven hours doing heavy work four days a week. I really miss people. I really miss physical contact. There are plenty of things I'd like to be doing but all I have time for is cooking, eating, sleeping, and working. But, I am happy.

I also have a feeling I haven't had much before: I feel completely unsexualized, but at the same time very pretty. I'm not sure how to describe this. No one is looking at me. I am covered head to tow in shapeless garments with equipment strapped over. Even my hair and throat are covered. My form, including the tan on my face, is a direct expression of the function I am fulfilling and is completely secondary to it. I do not view myself through the lens of desirability, do not think of it. When I look in the mirror I see myself happy, I am nearly always smiling (I pretty much only look in a mirror in the truck as I'm leaving the field and right after work to see how much dirt I need to scrape off each day), and I feel like a part of the outdoors I've been working in. That is beautiful. I really do feel like I'm outside the trap of sexiness.

I am not entirely outside the trap of surface though. I am meeting strangers all the time. I am careful what I say to them, especially in regards to poly etc. There are office politics. I do not feel completely comfy with anyone, and I am not sure I should. I am not always sure how to act. So though I am more comfortable with myself, I am also more watchful. This doesn't mean I don't enjoy the company of people up here, it just means I am always thinking, a little bit, about how I should be behaving.

It's hard and frustrating to be learning a whole new set of skills. I've been landscaping for a long time; I haven't had to learn a whole job from the ground up for a long time. I am literally learning from walking on up with this one. It's been thee weeks (admittedly only one and a bit in the field) and I feel like I should be competent. I am not. I want to feel productive and useful. Sometimes I'm not the one responsible for a lack of productivity -- a new GPS and software system mandated by the ministry for what I do is responsible for at least a week and a half of downtime as it gets implemented, other people forget to charge their equipment, etc -- but I like the feeling of making good progress and I'm not doing that right now.

It is beautiful here. I miss Dave. I get to eat outside. The earth is generous. So many feelings. Now, though, I will go make chimichurri sauce and pick dandelion flowers and stop thinking about it and just enjoy.
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Living in the whirlwind. Here's the change, the chaos, in which I ride like a cork. Even corks get sucked under, you know, but we pop up pretty quick when we're released.

I trust myself to pop up pretty quick when released. I'm still learning, but becoming better, at knowing what triggers that release. Funny how it's the same litany it always was: creation, intimacy of mind and body, assurance, love, home, connecting with my own body and with nature and with my thoughts.

So many things are forefront in my mind that they're getting lost. I don't want to start writing things down yet -- more paper, more to manage -- but shortly I'll have to.

Househunting is taking a tremendous amount of my motive power: either to do, or to procrastinate on, it takes the same energy. I build dream castles in the sky that come crashing down, I second-guess myself, it's not necessarily the prettiest scene but it's started rolling some. I need to go to the well pretty often to keep up with it.

Tenay is the well right now. She listens, she shares back in kind, she is snuggles and sex and approval in ways that leave me totally unconflicted about my interactions with her. It's pretty great.

It's important for me not to draw too hard on any one of my relationships to support any others. I don't like the idea of being in a relationship that's dependent on any of the other ones remaining the same; what happens then when things change? Does everything collapse? It has in the past.

So I'm thinking a lot about my relationship with Dave. I'm thinking a lot about this often-supportive, occasionally blindingly thoughtless, no-promises, somewhat ashamed of me, encouraging, sweet, sometimes surprisingly responsive, insightful, kind, steady and rather unruddered person I'm starting to have old relationship feelings about. I'm wondering whether it's a net drain or a net benefit. I poke at it a lot, and yes, I've initiated some self-examination on his part, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. What are we offering each other? Is it worth it? Short term? Long term? Should I be spending all this time and energy I use thinking about it on something else? Should I stomp out the fire and go searching for more appropriate tinder? I don't know. As Tenay reminded me, I'm acting on incomplete information right now. I'm looking forward to getting that information and going on with my life, whatever that looks like.

I'm also looking forward to getting through the waiting list for counseling and seeing if maybe I can find a good fit to talk about this stuff with. My boundary issues finally identified as issues, I'm eager to fix them up.

UBC, the giant machine into which I'm trying to cast myself, is also taking some time to get back to me. At least I can backburner that without worrying too much.

Yoga is fabulous but the difficulty of it is wearing off as my body adapts. Infuriatingly this doesn't mean I can do it better, it just means I get less exercise high and my butt is disappearing. I'm pretty much halfway through the 75-day commitment I made and it's starting to take more willpower to get there, what with less endorphin payoff and my desire to, you know, do things with folks sometimes. Still, I'll make it to the end, it's helping keep me engaged in my body, and by the time I'm done I'll be moved and onto my bike.

I've been ultra flirty lately, and strongly desirous of a new lover/playmate/more spark in my life. I have a couple flirtations that can't go anywhere, so I figure it's time to go out and start seeking folks. Seeking nonmonogamous kinky compatible folks, taking a pass on anyone who isn't actively involved in a compatible flavour of poly already. There are a couple avenues for this I suppose I should explore, but I am somewhat disincentivized by the work involved. So much work. Who knows if the payoff will be worth it? That said, I'm definitely nosing around and should do so in a more organized way to get what I want.

Valentine's day brought a ton of relationship articles from the woodwork. I am meditating on this passage
This person cannot handle sacrifice or compromise. She believes her needs and desires and opinions are simply more important than her partner’s, and she needs to get her way in almost any big decision. In the end, she doesn’t want a legitimate partnership, she wants to keep her single life and have someone there to keep her company.

This person inevitably ends up with at best a super easy-going person, and at worst, a pushover with a self-esteem issue, and sacrifices a chance to be part of a team of equals, almost certainly limiting the potential quality of her marriage.
from http://waitbutwhy.com/2014/02/pick-life-partner.html

Is this me? Is this a problem? I guess I still have trouble fighting off all that internalized polyphobia. I know poly is something I need. All evidence suggests it. But it's hard to remember that I'm legitimately allowed that need and allowed to choose relationships that fit it, instead of thinking that I should just compromise on it and then everything would be fine. It would not be fine. I would be, have been, and am a shitty monogamous mate over the long term.

To complicate everything a little further, my brother is staying with me. I ultra love him, it'll be good to spend time with him and have conversations with him, but... I need to wear clothes in my house, and not use loud vibrators or have loud sex, and I have to use roommate skills like self-checking frequently and knowing when and how to ask for alone time etc.

Plus, the friends group is drifting away a little bit, yoga is getting in the way of some socializing, there's no core of souls to hook my own onto. That's not awful or traumatic but it is different. I can see into a future where I leave Vancouver as gently as a dandelion seed in a slight breeze, nothing holding me here anymore.

Who ever knew, ten or twenty years ago, that all this could be? I never would have guessed. On the whole I'm happy with it, with myself and how I navigate my choices.

Enough of this update. Be well.
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Tonight Andrew gets home, so I'll be living in my home again, full-time, hereafter.

I've been chipping away at it, and it's going faster than I expected; I guess I had forgotten what it was like for something to be done, then stay done (except, of course, the animals).

An incredible amount of garbage is coming out of this place. I wasn't doing much critical sorting in the last while, and so things that weren't immediately disgusting but were useless/broken built up. Things didn't get put away to the extent that I need to create places for them. And did I mention a lot of my plants died in that interlude where I wasn't coming home much?

It feels So. Good. to clean things. It feels amazing to see something wrong and just-- fix it. Immediately. It feels so good for my floors to be emerging. I do clearly need more shelves, I need to figure out how I'm going to force that into a budget. There is just not enough space for everything to go somewhere.

I continue to be careful about spreading around my attention; getting together with friends sometimes and lovers other, with any given person only once per week, making some solitude in there (which sure, I've been using to nap or clean house, but whatcha gonna do). I've also been enjoying time to chat online with folks; it really is a mode of interaction I appreciate. It feels like my native tongue.

I cannot wait to have people over to my place.

I love anticipating when I'm next gonna see someone now, instead of feeling anxious if they're not around for a bit. I quite enjoy that switch.

I discovered a program called Snapchat. It's a surprisingly intimate-feeling photo-messaging program, and I've been using it a fair bit. Somehow the impermanence, mutability, and control of my own image has felt really empowering. I'm learning to take pictures of myself that I think are pretty.

I have in no way figured out how to cope with my sex drive. Despite having maybe 5 people who could be considered lovers to some degree or another I am not getting laid a whole lot, and when I do it takes significant time because that's what happens when you see someone infrequently enough that you don't drop into routine. So I can't just up the frequency of those dates; I'd never get anything else done. I'm in pretty much my ideal sexual environment right now, so I need to come up with some strategies, or maybe it will settle over time.

The people around me continue to amaze me with their awesomeness, forthrightness, with the sheer fun or love or caring or interestingness of interactions with them.

My grief process peeks out around the edges once in awhile but is still pretty much in hiding. Not sure what it'll take for it to feel safe.

Not A Week

Sep. 13th, 2013 08:33 am
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I haven't been eating enough; I'm shrinking physically, my breasts hollowing a little bit to what I consider their normal size, my belt suddenly another notch too small. I hadn't been eating well; broke and not wanting to go home to where all my food was, that's how it fell out.

Payday happened yesterday, and a counselor's appointment (free through work benefits, my boss doesn't even know) with someone I really hit it off with and now I feel super encouraged about counseling in general. I'm hopeful that I might not have to figure out my hard stuff totally all on my own, with no way of differentiating good from bad resources. The dude actually laughed when I said funny things, or winced when I said painful ones, and answered thoughtfully when I looked him in the eye and said, "do you honestly think..."

Then the rest of my tattoo got lined on. I had thought I'd feel a little sad to look in the mirror and know I'd never see my body free of those lines again, maybe a bit wistful for it sometimes. Right now, I look at myself in the mirror and feel complete. When my shirt rides up by my waist, my body reminds me "a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew". When I wear short shorts, or a short skirt, it tells the world "and enjoy the good of all his labor, it is the gift of God".

How can that not make you feel complete?

I have been reconnecting with so many friends. So many! Crushy architect okcupid boy is keeping himself pretty busy, which is good; I'm not resealing myself to one person. I am migrating back to my dear friends, to my heart, to my web; I feel so loved and people are so gentle to me and so caring. I feel lonely and weird pretty frequently, but I can more or less always text someone if I don't want to sit with that feeling and they will respond.

And some people (like you reading folks who responded) just spontaneously be nice to me. Seriously, guys, it's like being wrapped in the strongest cocoon ever.

So I know this is the crest of a wave. I haven't been sleeping well; date with okc boy followed by a night in the livingroom (Blake didn't want to sleep beside someone who was tainted by the touch of someone else, I suppose) and then another last night. This morning he came out of the bedroom and said I could sleep in the bed with him if I wanted. I do want, but it wasn't the time or place for me to have a discussion about how I had every intention of being an icky dirty slutty slut slut and having sex or sex-like encounters with my friends on and off as I felt like it, and did he want me to disclose that before I took him up on the offer?

My sex drive has apparently woken up. Not surprising, I guess, that it wandered off after being poked by a painful stick whenever it stepped out of line (and honestly, mine is always out of line). Gonna be a challenge to keep it pointed in productive, non-harmful directions. I've gotta remember my pretty fantastic options for lovers are mostly available to me now and not automatically cross them off the list because it's too much hassle to come home to a sad house after.

Um, but I did eat well yesterday, and the plan is to find somewhere better to sleep than my livingroom tonight (Taoshi the rabbit has learned that if she rattles her cage beside my head I will get up to feed her to shut her up, which causes her to rattle the cage more, unless that was Mella doing that). I'm having food with people tonight, so another full meal, and hopefully my stomach will expand to a reasonable size again. I told my counselor that food and sleep were my priorities this week, and he agreed that pretty much made sense (totally by his facial expressions, not some weird formal counselor-language. I seriously love this guy).

And apparently I'm kind of back to journalling. It's pretty damn good right now. You'll no doubt hear when it's not.

Grown-Up

Apr. 13th, 2011 10:40 pm
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Going to bed alone.

It's less luxurious when you'll be woken at some random time after 1am by someone coming in in an indeterminate frame of mind, smelling like a stranger, and you need to get back to sleep again because you have a 9am meeting.

It's more luxurious when it's your own goddamn bed and you lock the door and you're the only one with the key, but hey.

There are tons of great places for rent. I'm... torn. I could start viewing in my copious free time (did I mention I don't have days off anymore?) but then if I liked something I'd likely have a month overlap and that's $$$, plus I'd be moving soon, which is a hassle I may not have time for.

Gah. What to do.

In other news, reaffirmed the you-don't-love-me-but-I-love-you status I have with Michael the other night. Just a warning, if you've dated me you should stop reading at this point, but:

why can I not meet someone who can make their own life so interesting that they give a fuck about it, can support themselves like a grown-up, and actually cares about me? I mean, seriously.

On the other hand I'm playing in a garden full of friends right now. Paul is in town, Michael is neat and soothing, Andrew is reliable (rarest of traits!), other people who I like and who are sweet to me stick their noses into my life to offer nice things from time to time. Kynnin didn't even wait six months before seeing if we could find time to connect this time! I may hang out with people from school outside of school!

Physical things are receding. My sex drive has almost completely shut down; my ability to playfully have sex certainly has. I don't have the money/time matrix to eat particularly well and tastily, and I hardly notice how my food tastes most of the time. I'm biking again, to and from school (it's about 20k per day, that's just about an hour of riding all told) which is lovely but probably the least physical exercise I can do. I am touched seldom enough that the instinct is burying itself and touching people feels a little foreign. I am never naked except in bed, mostly because I am never home except in bed.

This is an impoverished existence in many ways. So many of the things I value are absent. Independence burgeons, though, self-reliance and pleasure in my own companionship rise up. My shell is forming, smooth and seamless against the world. I think some people are entombed halfway through it, half in and half out, and I can go to the edge and visit them there, but no one is within it.

I am grown-up, single in the sense of one entity complete in itself. Don't think this means I'm not sometimes lonely, or tired, or needy: there's just no face in that void.

I don't know what else to tell you tonight. I want to write a lot more than I do, but I'm never in front of a keyboard with enough privacy, energy, and lack of school deadlines.

Pretty much every word in here is lonely in some way, said when I don't have a person to speak to, when there's no one who can just listen and understand. This is no different, typed at night in an empty house to avoid bed.

Oh, enough of this. Goodnight.
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So my classes have been aimed at improving my model of the physical world. That is, directly (by teaching me how the world works) and indirectly (by showing me how to use tools which offer more information on how the world works) the simulation of the world in my head has been refined and now better approaches some theoretical consensus of objective reality which seems to map pretty closely to observable outcomes.

The scope of this model is pretty broad. It covers a great deal of the world: the sky (not astronomy, but some climatology), the ground and the bits that make it up (geology, which is the study of the more-or-less solid bits: how they formed and what they're doing and what makes them up and how to recognise them; earth science, which is the study of the loose bits at the top and how they move and what *they're* doing and how they formed and how to recognise distinctive parts of them and what that means), and this funny layer in between which contains a number of biotic elements (plants, animals, soil, water to an extent) and some of the processes involved (like fire). The tools at my disposal range from imap (which is an incredible tool) to statistical analysis to digging a hole and putting a bit of dirt between my teeth or noticing the shape of pebbles or a hillside. Some are very low tech or just very old and unappreciated tech; some are very high tech.

This doesn't mean I don't make errors in how I think about the natural or physical world. It means I am more likely to be right in the first place, more likely to think to check my assumptions, and more likely to know how to check those assumptions against the world effectively.

At the same time in the last couple of years -- let's call it three or four -- I've been making a lot of progress on refining my model of myself. I'm admitting to things, like my very strong drive for multiple partners, my need for certain kinds of independence, my better flourishing with certain kinds of food and sex and friends in my life, my sub-superhuman limitations on some hands and my nearly limitless capacity on others, and my ambitions, all of which are not necessarily convenient for me but which allow me to live a better life as myself. And I am myself. Not much I can do about that; I evolve, but I don't evolve unless I am unfolding in a direction which draws me.

This doesn't mean I don't make errors in infusing my life with meaning and joy. It means I am more likely to be right in the first place, more likely to think about a course of action, and more likely to know how to check that it's the best course of action for me. And like everyone, of course, sometimes I am just indifferent to the correctness of a course of action.

Then-- you know, the world has a human element. You know this; you're part of it. Today I'm having trouble with that human element. I have no consistent model for it. I have been learning how to make and keep friends and how to choose kind and caring lovers; meanwhile bad things happen to little girls in the states and to women in Canada and everything in-between and is to a certain extent condoned by this human element. My home country makes a mockery of democracy, etc and my adopted country isn't much better and sometimes seems plain crazy but at least, you know, isn't engaged in an all-out war with itself on my reproductive health with a side of making women in some places into Handmaid's Tale-style incubators and here too and all that sort of thing.

I don't know if it's that I'm becoming better at dealing with these other things in my life and so this human element is a problem by comparison, if we really are living in the end of times as was suggested in a comment on the post below, if I need an outlet for adversity, I could put a million possible explanations in here and it wouldn't change that I just don't know. I don't know if things are getting worse or better. I don't know if they will ever directly affect me, though I expect so. Any way you look at it, this portion of my world is a jumble and I don't know how to order, organise, and empower myself around it. I am tempted to flee, but there are people in my life I love too much and I have some sense of responsibility.

I'm going to put a cut here because the meat of this post is my musing about my sexuality, rape in the real world, consensual rape play, and how I feel about all this stuff, and people have kindly taught me that they appreciate the ability to avoid that sort of thing.

Read more... )

There's nothing more to write.

Mmmmmrrrr

Jan. 1st, 2011 06:03 pm
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How to Write an Erotic Letter

You must empty yourself first. Erase
everything you’ve written. If you’re naked,
revise all your clothes back on. Anyway,
they’re all you have. What matters
is the taking them off. Begin with a title
“Concerning insatiable carnal urges.”
Attach a handwritten note that says,
Keep your hair down and If you come here,
I’ll tell you something awful about someone perfect. Scathing
and lovely to hear. Remember,

each time, each letter is an entire love affair, say
‘A’ is for almost. ‘B’
is the emptiness that follows. The letter ‘O’
is what the body believes.

If she writes in a letter,
Sometimes our bodies are too much for us,
quote her. How she turns you on
turns her on. You can
quote me on that.

I am remembering the sweep of your hair, the light
on your breasts, your beautiful eyes expanding;
I am remembering the slickness inside you—
how wet, how deliciously warm. I think
of your uncontrollable breath; I think
of your nipples kissing my chest; I think
of your mouth on my neck and the sweet taste
of your tongue in my mouth.

Set aside nothing for later. Call this,
I was kissing and sucking and wanting so badly
to fuck you silly, silly. And erase it. But enjoy it first.

Feel free to write a pretend letter to her father.
Quote from it: “Dear her father, Sir, we are sorry to inform you, sir,
of the mysterious demise of your daughter. It seems she was somehow—
sorry to say this indelicately—fucked to death…obviously
a scandalous affair. Ropes and long-necked bottles and,
oh, we mustn’t go on. A man was dead too, sir—exhaustion it seems
or dementia. With sincere regrets,
I am yours.”

If she uses the word fuck in her letters
you use the word fuck
but at the end of the letter only. This
is not prudery, it is teasing
and she will appreciate it.

I want my face in your hair,
your perfume in my breath,
my finger tips softly
touching the sides of your ribs, your waist,
your thighs, your breast, your face—what is important here,
in this letter, your hand must touch her, in this letter,
so she wants, over and over, what is not there.

If you’re foolish enough to write Oh God prematurely,
you deserve what you don’t get. As a cautionary measure,
delete all references to god: Jesus it feels so good and Holy shit.
Consider keeping: God, you are so slick; so goddamn delicious.
But you’ve already used slick once. Now three times. There is nothing wrong
with I want to hear your voice coming and coming
but admit, it’s a one-shot phrase.

Damp cotton will open caves in your mind.
Promise her: I need you
electric in my mouth. Write: Concerning the art of seduction
and leave it at that. Tease her: Truth or dare? End
before you’ve said everything. Realize

everything you are, in this letter, precedes you—
which is the loneliness of writing. What you want
is never now. That’s the essence of desire. What she reads is always past;

that’s despair. Think about how—
if she could—she would swallow the world
(pillow and all) take it all inside—
all of you—so it could come shattering out
again. But don’t fool yourself,

this letter needs to be filled with sorrow. Write:
Sometimes I wish I could be in your body
so I could feel what you feel. Sometimes,
I wish you could be in my body—your own name amazingly
on the tip of your new tongue, the smell of you
(I mean me) in your fresh mind,
seeing your old body arch away from your new body,
hearing seeing feeling what was once you
hold her breath; hearing her becoming, coming

apart all around you. And then your own foreign release
beyond your whole body. The cracking—
it feels so open—this desire, almost to weep. Then
weep. In the space of a letter you once were.

Anthony Farrington

Unsexy

Dec. 24th, 2010 08:44 pm
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These have been a number of the most unsexy-feeling days of my life, but there's a great thread at greatpoets for 'erotic poetry, preferably funny' so I'm going to stockpile:

2 A.M.

When I came with you that first time

on the floor of your office, the dirty carpet

under my back, the heel of one foot

propped on your shoulder, I went ahead

and screamed, full-throated, as loud

and as long as my body demanded,

because somewhere, in the back of my mind,

packed in the smallest neurons still capable

of thought, I remembered

we were in a warehouse district

and that no sentient being resided for miles.

Afterwards, when I would unclench

my hands and open my eyes, I looked up.

You were on your knees, your arms

stranded at your sides, so still -- 

the light from the crooknecked lamp

sculpting each lift and delicate twist,

the lax muscles, the smallest veins

on the backs of your hands. I saw
the ridge of each rib, the blue hollow

pulsing at your throat, all the colors

in your long blunt cut hair which hung

over your face like a raffia curtain

in some south sea island hut.

And as each bright synapse unfurled

and followed its path, I recalled

a story I'd read that explained why women

cry out when they come -- that it's

the call of the conqueror, a siren howl

of possession. So I looked again

and it felt true, your whole body

seemed defeated, owned, having taken on

the aspect of a slave in shackles, the wrists

loosely bound with invisible rope. 

And when you finally spoke you didn't

lift your head but simply moaned the word god

on an exhalation of breath -- I knew then
I must be merciful, benevolent,

impossibly kind.

Dorianne Laux


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Crazygonuts weekend-- play play play, work work work, interpersonal interpersonal interpersonal. I'm glad the latter's going more smoothly cuz this week's not going to allow me the luxury. Two finals happen this coming week, midterms and some new classes the next.

I'm satisfied with my degree of social interaction generally and tentatively okay with how I've been keeping up with classes, though not thrilled. Next week, which is going to be demanding work-wise, will tell as to how well everything is doing in that regard.

School continues to make me happy; I come home after almost all my classes glowing. Math with a well-intentioned but very unhelpful teacher is the exception. Maps class today involved doing stream profiles, drawing contour lines onto elevation grids, and defining watersheds. This is stuff I could do as a dayjob if offered the opportunity. It's so relaxing; I love it.

This weekend is the apple festival, a meetup with some classmates to put together a presentation, tea, and a housewarming. Everything else will be modified forms of doing homework. Hell, I might bring something with me to the housewarming.

I'm remembering to keep a hand in at my hobbies, too. It's good to have my brain engaged. I'm loving it.

That was brief. Now to bed.
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The Place We Don't Name

The place we don’t name has become the default,
which is backwards.
I say
I want to fuck your mouth, or
I want to fuck your ass,
or
if that isn’t where I want slide in, I say
I want to fuck you -
making you the place where your biology defies your identity,
where your biology denies your identity
an idea so far from right that wrong doesn’t even seem to cover it.
The you of you is your brain, your heart,
but I can’t lick your frontal lobe,
can’t choke myself on your brain stem until I get it all the way down my throat,
can’t suck your cerebral cortex until it engorges, then explodes.
The you of you is your brain, your heart,
but I can't sink my seeking cock into the chambers of your heart;
coax your veins slowly down over my fist;
stroke your xyphoid process until it tingles.
Instead.
Instead I touch the furrow of your body with my hands
and the furrow of your brain with my words at the same time,
in the same way,
pushing my message into the wetness – roughly, intuitively, precisely,
wanting to integrate the experiences,
using all my skill to make you crave their penetration over and over,
fucking you,
holding you,
whispering to you,
naming you
and hoping that the language we’ve left behind can hitch a ride
to where we’ve ended up.






























S. Bear Bergman

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

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First let's talk about the corned beef hash. You know, I really like good corned beef. There's a guy around here who makes it in his garage, and I need to hook up with him. I'm not talking about that kind of hash.

I'm talking about hash made from the stuff in the red and blue can, distilled essence of slash-and-burn Brazilian rainforest, the pink untextured stuff that's slightly less aesthetically appealing than decent-quality canned dog food. Ya with me so far? I love that stuff. There's no way I would ever in a million years buy it, nor would I accept any of it from someone who would replace the can by buying it at a store, or who would buy the can for me. Not gonna happen.

Well, a friend of mine was gifted the stuff by his father, had no idea what it was, ands then his father left for Florida never to gift it again. I'm in posession of the stuff. So I come home from class to make myself corned beef hash which, in a head-on collision of yuppie-foodie values, contains that corned beef and organic purple potatoes.

It's got me thinking, perhaps my next fall dish will be hash. I have a really solid collection of sausage from a source I trust, and also some beef and lamb. I'm getting a little tired of frying it with sauerkraut (at least until I can make some of my own sauerkraut, the storebought stuff is mild and expensive) but frying it with potatoes and maybe rutabaga and peppers seems ideal.

While I'm thinking seasonal, it would be so helpful if I could find a way to put up maybe a hundred liters of applesauce for the winter. Now, it ain't gonna happen, but if I had a good source for cheap apple seconds I could make inroads. Does applesauce freeze okay or would I need to can it?

Now school: tonight's class was so packed with information that it felt like a pickup truck loaded by Dr Seuss, a tower of knowledge teetering all over the place and poorly organized. That's fun.

Even more fun is that I GOT TO USE A STEREOSCOPE. Now, it's been pointed out to me that the viewmaster I had as a kid was a stereoscope. That's awesome. Even more awesome would be a kid's toy that let you put two pieces of paper under it and draw until you figured out how to make something pop into 3d.

Because, for those of you who don't know, a stereoscope is a tool made from two mirrors that takes two photographs of almost the same area and USES THE BRAIN'S INTERNAL EVOLVED BINOCULAR VISION RESOLUTION SOFTWARE TO MAKE THOSE TWO FLAT PICTURES INTO A THREE-DIMENSIONAL IMAGE. And it works. And it's amazing-- it's an incredibly smart thing to do-- there's no software or math or data extrapolation needed aside from what your brain already does when processing an image from both eyes at once. It means that you use your brain's preexisting structures to make sense of a whole fuckload of data, as they were meant to be used-- the same information presented in any other way, say on a contour line drawing or something, is very difficult to get the hand of. This makes it intuitive, and allows the huge amount of info in a photograph to be even more easily absorbed. You can pick out clearcuts, types of trees, heights of buildings-- from a photograph. Amazing. It's right up there with the 5-cent can return as the smartest thing ever.

And further, from deep in the haze of second ovulation or whatever it is, people in my class are starting to look... interesting. Like the boy from South Africa who is pretty smart and his skin is a pretty colour who was my lab partner.

Life is pretty damn good. Now if only I had a little more time.. oh wait! I'll get a free Thursday evening once in awhile too. Ha!

Sex

Sep. 6th, 2010 05:26 pm
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It occurs to me that the conventional image of sex, where the dominant partner is on top, is backwards in my brain. To my mind, it's the sub who does the work (the servicing?)-- and so often ends up "on top" in a literal sense, because that's frequently where the most physical exertion is required.

So there.
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First, the ambiance. As always, put it on and listen but forget the video:


Second, the post:

Look at this! Two posts in a row. I'm not sure how long I'll hold out for, my right wrist is tweaking a bit (did I mention yesterday I did six hours of hedging with a heavy vibrating powertool and I tend to take most of the weight on my right wrist, being right-handed?) but here I am with the luxury of time, a glass of boyfriend-squeezed vanilla lemonade (one step up from "fresh lemonade" I can tell you!), an internet keyboard device, and a bit of a nap under my belt.

There are a couple things I had been intending to write about which my nap toned down a little-- also some paper journalling and first dinner with a friend of mine who let me talk away about it helped me to get most of my thoughts in order. Basically (no seriously, don't laugh!) I seem to be back in the real poly pool, and I'm having some feelings about that, namely, stark terror and nauseating guilt. I am only being a tiny bit tongue-in-cheek here. It was my original intent to go on at greater length about these feelings, and to justify them a bit, and to contrast them with how I feel about monogamy and 'sorta open' relationships. Then I could go on and discuss primary relationships vs anything else, and how that's been for me, and how all poly has been for me, etc. However-- I have done a lot of this before, here in this journal, and I'm not really feeling it. Suffice it to say that there's some internal conflict there, and move on.

I am thinking very seriously about throwing my livejournal a tenth anniversary party when I get to that point. I'm not sure what that looks like-- if it looks like a day of blogging, if it looks like me having a party centered around word-games and writing, if it looks like... well, anything. It's just sorta exciting to me to think about that happening. Ten years of written personal history means a lot to me. It's the way I remember, and so it means my memory extends back a whole decade.

Earlier I also intended to write about love. I was feeling particularly lyrical; love is a lot of things to me, and there's a lot of it in my life right now. That deserves recognition and tribute above all other things. It also deserves description, it deserves to be committed to this written memory, it deserves that I give it my best behaviour and every ounce of strength I have in me. It is an occasion to be risen to. None of that is anything new, but that doesn't make it unremarkable.

What is this, a piece of writing about things I'm not writing about? I guess so. I'm not very deep in my head right now; that nap after so many consecutive days of so little sleep left me stuck in my body like a heavy warm blanket. I can't crawl up into my head easily. This is not necessarily bad.

What I really should write about is my relationship to food of late. Food is one of my hedonistic vices, like sex, napping, sunshine, blankets, language, snuggling; well, name anything I do really. Thing is, I do those things for fun/connective reasons, to be inside myself better, and most of them I can just leave at that. Food, though-- I need to eat, and I need to eat frequently. I need to eat when I'm pushing my body hard. I need to eat when I don't have time to switch my brain over to pleasure mode. I need to eat when there's no food around up to my admittedly high standards. More and more lately, when I need to eat-- I just don't go to the trouble, and that's a problem. Add that to the fact that when I'm somewhere stressy I can't eat in that location-- it would be making myself vulnerable there, opening myself to experience instead of locking it down in my head --and things get really funny. When I have a ton of cash to throw around I buy food wherever I am whenever the mood strikes me, and that's usually enough. When I don't have the money to throw around, though... I just don't eat enough.

That seems to work out okay when combined with not sleeping enough, but I can feel my brain leaking out my ears when I ride that edge too closely. I can do things but I can't think. I will definitely have to figure this out before low cash/high stress/high thinky school kicks in.

What I really want to write about is sex, but I'm not sure I can. It used to be I'd write a lot about that kind of thing and very openly, and if someone was uncomfortable with some level of detail of their sex life being revealed online, well, they could stop fucking me. I've got a lot more respect for people's sensibilities now, and perhaps the details aren't as important to me as they once were. I keep learning things about myself, though, and rediscovering things that had temporarily drifted out of mind. It's neat how many very different ways the same themes surface.

This kind of feels like a failed entry-- I won't write about this, this, or this --so perhaps I'd better quit while I'm ahead. It's been calming to write it despite the terrible knot forming in my right shoulder (you try holding a hedger up for six hours then your arms out the next day!) and if I get into rats or todo lists that will be obliterated.

Oh, except-- the first full weekend in August I have scheduled, written down and calendared, to lie around eating proscutto and melon (and maybe artichokes etc) and watching West Wing and DOING nothing. I am so fucking excited.
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I view possessiveness, both the physical and mental 'you are mine' attitude, exactly how I view rape-- really super hot when it's consensual, or when you're playing. Explicitly: Read more... ) I put this in the same category as wearing a collar for someone, letting someone touch my collar or even wrap their fingers around my neck in any way (collar symbolism hits me very very strongly), and also in the same category as saying I'm yours or letting someone else make any decisions about my body-- from what I wear or whether I shave something to whether I can sleep with someone or am allowed to orgasm.

That is to say, I don't mind a relationship with implied ongoing consent (and can often love it) as long as I can safeword out when I need to. I may not need to, but I need to know I have the option-- and I always assume I do.

Needless to say, this wreaks havoc in conventional romantic relationships. It's been an ongoing issue, though I have had the blessing and immense pleasure of dating many people who, with a fair bit of personal effort, adapted to this and figured out ways to fit me into their lives anyhow.

On the other hand, people who have come close to me are undeniably a part of me, have undeniably marked me. That's another part of ownership, it's in the depths below conscious thought and so doesn't trespass so easily on my ability to make my own decisions. Here's something you don't know: it's been years since I wrote this but I still think of people I love very much and who I want to be in my life solidly and forever as bedmates and companions and spiritual partners and co-conversationalists and as another wing on my soul as 'my Kynnin's, like someone else would say 'my love'. It's a fingerprint-- like you can't avoid leaving fingerprints when you've been playing in the mud, you cannot avoid leaving fingerprints after a relationship that long when it's your first.

I was going to talk about other marks from other relationships-- I have so many. There has been so much love and intimacy and sharing in my life, so much intertwining. I've been wandering through old posts, though: this and this (and I suppose I do still believe that 'people throw you away'- not all fingerprints are quirky or shiny).

Oh, look how I fracture, how I coil up inside. I remember this:

Speaking of desire--
to dive into life like a wave
not sure about coming up for breath;
how a kite is nothing
without string.


I have thought that so often in the intervening years. A kite is nothing without a string, it just stuck there. A few weeks ago I started thinking a kite without a strong is a bird. It just changed, like that, a personal epiphany of some kind.

Oh, and there's the intimacy post.

And there's the most beautiful and meaningful exchange I've ever had with my mom, whose fingerprints are all over me.

There was
the head-shave.

I am reminded to read Kazuo Ishiguro's books again. I am reminded of the quote by Henry Morgantaler: "My father told me it was possible for everyone in the world to have a different opinion from you and you all to be right." I am reminded that I once wrote: "oh, fuck, hopefully I don't need to cut everyone I've had deep feelings for away just because they're emotionally unavailable pricks. Or, wait... hee. Okay. Hopefully everyone I've ever had deep feelings for aren't emotionally unavailable pricks."

I remember this poem: Read more... )

and posting this in response. I was not writing to anyone I then knew, perhaps no one I now know, perhaps no one I will ever know.

This was my first post about CrazyChris, who is still in my life (though not as a lover) and who still loves me, and who I still love very much. (In a later post about him I wrote: we'll just call him Chris. Not PretentiousBlonde, not EnviroDreads, but just Chris. Thus is my life made easier.)

I remember this, and when I read it I can safely say I am closer to achieving mastery of my life, but life is still not always safe.

This post is getting incredibly long, rambling, and inward-looking. It's been the proverbial walk down memory lane, it's been a wander through places where I no longer reside, and it's beautiful. My life is, and has been, beautiful.

I will leave you with this and a song: Read more... )
I will leave you with an image of me as a machine built, in my muddled way, to love things. And I will leave you with a poem and go out into the world:

There is earth
that never leaves your hands,
rain that never leaves
your bones. Words so old they are broken
from us, because they can only be
broken. They will not
let go, because some love
is broken from love
like stones
from stone,
rain from rain,
like the sea
from the sea.

-Anne Michaels

(but I'll tell you a secret: I like it here. I don't want to go into the world quite yet; I'm just getting bored with my own voice and there's no one else here)

((but for the sake of completion, which is an illusory and ever-retreating goal but perhaps means something, I will say: if you read all this, follow all these links, how can you doubt that I am the only one who can own the root of my being? Even if I give it, I am giving it; how could anyone else even really know what's there? There has been so much))
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When I say I haven't had time off in X long, this is the kind of day I have in mind as 'time off'. It's been a wonderful wander, gardening, breakfast, rats, dishes, farmer's market, nap, cooking (omg garlic scape season!), short visit with Ellen and care of my new plants, casual Angus companionship, blowing off the evening plans to just be lazy... this feels so good, it's so good for me. Unstructured time. I'm even starting to look at all those people I haven't seen in forever and think I have energy to spend time with them.

Also listening to lots of jazz and catching up on nonessential reading.

Also thinking. You know, whatever my own slant on relationships is, I'm definitely attracted to people who are somewhat idealistic about the whole love/romance thing. It's... special, not just a matter of pragmatics, though of course some of that is necessary. Together with the way my sex drive's been acting and my current nonmonogamous/nonsingle situation it takes some reconciling, but it's definitely *there*.

Also: being all activist-y again is catching up with me. If I'v been snarky or snippy about something you've said/done/haven't done, don't take it personally. It's going around. Latest mini-rant is about seasonal food.

This post was interrupted when I was writing it on Saturday by Eva dropping by, now it shall be posted. See the interruptions?
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There are a lot of things I could be writing about, and this would be a post on starting a menu for the housewarming except that I've been... inspired, I guess. I've had some recent experiences, and read a poem on greatpoets this morning, and I feel called to perhaps echo a post I made quite some time ago but don't want to dig out right now.

Lately-- last couple of years, last couple of months --I've been playing with and learning about my body's capability for lust. It's not something I come to easily, so to speak, because in my experience lust involves slipping the body off its leash, or perhaps letting it pull the rest of me along. Lust is a pull entirely physical, a sexual demand, and let's face it: for me sex is bound up in some pretty strange stuff. For me to surrender to my lust enough to even know what precisely I want, let alone to know how to get it, I have to feel really safe. I don't mean safe as in soft-blankets padded-room safe; I mean I need to feel like if there are other people involved they won't freak out, they won't be broken, and they can handle what comes up or call a stop to it if they can't handle it.

I wonder if that hasn't been part of my ongoing attraction to people who are jerks, who keep me at arm's length, who have egos beside which I am a mere shadow, who are emotionally distant or unavailable... at least at first, or at least until I become so trustworthy and available and giving that they let down their defenses. Hm. I wonder if that explains some of my rotating-door syndrome? We already know I like breaking through shells. There are beautiful things inside. I suppose, though, that in a lot of way those shells make me feel safer.

Now I feel like a jerk, but I will persevere (I typoed that as 'perseverse' which is awesome) because I really wanted to nail this desire thing.

Lust is about me. It's about what my body wants, what I want. It's active, it's about an end.

Desire is about another person. It's about immersing myself in them, surrounding myself, it's about experiencing them as deeply and fully as possible. It's a loss of self, if you like, submersion in the other. A conversation can slake desire; you know those long winding conversations that lead down deep surprising paths and cement immovable intimacies in your soul and then leave you in a quiet safe place together as if two worlds hadn't just shifted? Touch does it; taste, sight, no other person can stand in, can satisfy that specific craving that is desire for another.

Now most of my experiences involve some aspect of both of these, and I would write more about it, but I'm a little shaken by my jerk epiphany up there and I can't concentrate. Furthermore Angus is having his second bad day in a row, and although he's not in the room I can feel the pain radiating from him. He's rarely cried openly and loudly outright when he hurts in the last several months; things have been perhaps not so bad too. He's not crying now. Still, you become attuned to a person and that little catch of breath, the smell of their body, the way their eyes move, the type of sounds that come through the wall when they shift position-- it's really hard for him right now.

It's really hard for me, generally. Going into this I was so idealistic, naive, I had never done this. The things I thought would be hard (there, it's eased up, he just came past and smiled at me) like him being in pain-- well, when he's hurting really badly I can deal with that. He wants to be held or left alone or go out and smoke, it's something I can do.

It's harder not being able to do things together sometimes.

It's hardest not being able to read whether he's unhappy with me or just hurting. I often read his signals-- hunching away, or a clenched jaw-- as his being angry or feeling beat down because of something I've done or some interaction we've had. If I ask him-- hey, what's up-- sometimes that helps clarify, but the truth is that I spend a lot of time with someone my gut and my subconscious read as displeased with me a fair chunk of the time. It comes and goes in waves. It's not bad lately.

Also hard is some stuff where some of our stuff interacts in such a way that it's difficult to sleep closely cuddled together. He night sweats when he's really sick; when he's really sick especially, my dermatographia/whatever it is totally freaks out when I come into contact with that sweat, even through an allergy pill or two.

And I never knew just how much time being sick took. I'm a really busy person, and I schedule and plan things to within an inch of my life. I try to schedule and plan other people in as part of this, so I know how I can and cannot rely on them. Angus has a huge swinging block of ;he may feel great and be productive, he may be sick and stuck in the bathroom all day' in which case I need to take up some slack. Don't get me wrong, he pushes through more than I could -- he's had practice -- but sometimes he can't. And sometimes he doesn't engage the discipline to do things when he's well-- perhaps because he spends so much time pushing himself when he's sick?

I dunno. This has been totally hijacked. As if to disprove any points I've made, he's doing dishes and smiling and being loving now. Maybe that is the point, though: the thing is unpredictable. Neither of us know whether he will be worse or better in an hour, a day, a year, in ten years or forty.

I can't cure him. I can't even make him go to doctors, try new treatments, go for different tests when the last set comes back negative. I can't make him take pills on time. All of that is his, with me waving a pom pom in the back when I can and calling out in a thin voice from the distance.

And in this context desire is a strange beast. His body is becoming his enemy, if it isn't already. There is always some degree of pain, more or less. There are areas-- stomach, ass --to be avoided except by the gentlest occasional touch, perhaps forever, when my hands wish to taste the skin there. And when desire for him surges up-- him, him, only him-- he might well be buried, not only absent from his body but left emotionally tattered by just coping.

I suppose everyone has complications like this to some degree or other: I come home, I cannot take my head out of work, I'm short and snappish and go straight to the computer and stare through it for an hour. I am working this weekend and volunteering next and out of the country the one after and have no days off in-between. I have not had time to sleep and am floating in a haze all week, somewhere else entirely. I suppose everyone has barriers.

I didn't grow up with a normal family, with a normal relationship between my parents, and I seldom went to see how other peoples' families interacted. There was always a locked door between mom and dad when they were in the house for six months of the marriage once and I didn't even notice. I don't know what's normal; I don't know what's acceptable; I don't know what's tolerable. I know mileage varies per person anyhow.

I don't know where I'm going with this. Something about my Writer, though, about how those barriers are different, clearer, not entangled up with coming home from work and emotional support and the whimsy of an unpredictable illness. Something about how when I bury my face in his hair the world recedes, and how that has stayed simple so far, and how I always go looking for complications and so I drag my guilt behind me like a bloody mangled piece of my own soul sometimes, and other times I can leave it alone.

It's late. I'm tired. Someone made me dinner and did the dishes and I'm doing something that sounds a lot like complaining. I need to sleep, I need rest so badly. I need to surrender up my ability to affect the world for eight hours or so-- more than four or five, at least. I need to let bed happen to me.

Ha. Talk about rambling. Talk about incoherent. It's definitely bedtime. Be well, y'all, and remember I'm not really unhappy-- I just need to rest, and then engage with the lovely challenge of coming up with five or six or seven tasty vegan wheat-free dishes for my housewarming that can feed a horde, that will be cheap, that will be super tasty, that don't need a table to eat at, and that won't use up all the dishes in the house to feed people. I fully expect to have a brilliant stroke of genius about a way to serve quinoa tabouleh salad, to plagarize mimi's bean dip, to come up with a brilliant riff on pizza, to go through some sort of inspired root veggie thing, to do marinated mushrooms come hell or high water, to do something involving our lovely-textured friend the avacado and maybe his sidekick the mango (sushi? booooring...?) and to do something involving risotto and/or that amazing wild-rice-pecan-maple-orange-stuffed squash I did at Avi's thanksgiving. I wonder if I can figure out a tofu recipe that actually tastes like heaven?

I can *so* do this.

And then there'll be desserts. I wonder how I can serve fried bananas in a non-messy way. Corn tortillas? Hmmm. And some kind of sugar cookie. And... and... and...

This post is gonna have the weirdest tags ever.

Y'know, I really like cooking for people.
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 Cut so you can avoid reading about these things if you like.  I warn you, I'm not shy, and I'm not writing porn.

Read more... )

So I think that's all about that for now, but I realise I haven't been talking a lot about some of this stuff cause I've felt weird airing it out in public lately.  Not sure how I feel about that-- I know I don't want to share details about how and what with who (that's not mine to share) but it's an area of myself I continue to learn a lot about and writing surely helps me to recognise patterns and learn from the actual stuff that happens to me.

Anyhow, nothing more to see here.  If I don't cut these damn fingernails I'll never have a decent entry to post.

From Space

Apr. 27th, 2010 08:25 am
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Oh look, a keyboard. It feels so good to have this blank page in front of me. In my teens, when I wrote on paper, there was an electric sort of feeling to an empty page when I sat down to it; if I hadn't written in awhile it was especially compelling. Now I have that same feeling with my old laptop brick and notepad open; this'll end up on lj through a momentary tether, but right now there's no internet on this thing and that makes it somehow as desireable as blank paper, and my fingers remember how to write this way more easily than on paper nowadays.

It's been a long time. It's been a long time since I had a whole day which, though there are things in it (returning rats from quarantine, breakfast with a friend, maybe taking Angus to Kick-Ass the movie) had many white spaces in which I could pour myself out into words.

You often read that an ecologist, or a permaculturalist, is interested more in the relationships between things than in the things themselves. That's me, alright. That was my relationship to writing. I want to go into some detail on my relationship to people, especially when it involves kink and sex, and then my relationship to relationships. The word 'poly' has been popping up more and more often in my life again, and that can take some exploring.

You know, really the thing about caring about people is that your loyalties are by definition divided. I never did get the hang of that. I'm a perfectionist. It's only in the last two or three years that I realised that not only is it not possible for one person to be there for someone absolutely all the time, but that it's okay. I
've also learned, more and more, that I'm very good at being there for myself. I know what I want more than most people most of the time, I'm good at delivering, I generally am a good and sympathetic listener, and I know when I want to problem-solve or when I just want to hold myself and have a good cry.

In the last three years, since I got together with Angus initially, I've become more and more self-reliant. I don't know why I chose this time for it; maybe after Bob taught me that it was okay for someone to love me without divided loyalties, without being a jerk or unreliable, I figured out that I was worth it. Then Angus came along, and although it's not the only factor his illness is a big contributor to finding my own feet. Sometimes you just can't lean on someone, and if the choice is to find someone to lean on or to stand on your own, well-- look, here's a choice I've made in favour of my own feet for once.

I've been spending time with people again-- it's been awhile since my social calendar has been this dense, ditching my commute to North Van was a very good idea and leaves me with a lot more freedom. More to the point, I've been liking people again. They're no longer something I do because I'm supposed to, instead they're something I enjoy. I've done all this stuff lately-- rat show, spring mysteries, movie nights and imprompteau get-togethers and even, god forbid, dating and playing a little. And maybe it's because I have the time, maybe it's because I'm not completely burnt out and run down to the end of my energy, but these people are beautiful again, and many for the first time to my eyes.

I don't know what to do with it, because it's been so long. I'm sure if I Walked around saying, 'you know, you're completely awesome' I'd get slapped or something, and it wouldn't convey the point anyhow. It may be that, like any other kind of love, this is one of those inexpressible things, and I have to get used to that. It may be that, like any other kind of love, it wears itself a comfy groove and only rises up in sharp waves sometimes. It may be only a temporary feeling for me.

It's a good feeling, though. You know, I like liking people.

And that leads me into peril, a little bit. I've been sex goddessing lately (ovulation has not helped). I haven't been sleeping enough and I want to sleep less. I have things I need to maintain in my life that don't involve people. I have things I like to do that don't involve people. I don't want these things to fall by the wayside.

Oh, divided loyalties, you of all things I had not missed.

Last night I was at a table, and I used the word poly, and suddenly I was in a storm of questions. The night before I was at a movie, and I was doing some very light play with a guy, and I realised I was not in a poly context but his girlfriend was right there and it seemed to be okay so I was just running with it. Both situations are a little weird for me. I have definitely left the poly primary/secondary/tertiary jargon-thick world behind. I don't want to spend much time with people whose major hobby is poly, and that's basically the thing that takes up all their free time. I adore spending time with people who love something so much that they get off their asses and do it. At the same time I'm very verbal and analytical and I want a check-in in that direction most of the time.

All complicated, of course, by still loving the seduction, and by having my dance card overflowing at the moment.

Speaking of dance cards, and of people, and situations and of loving, I have a situation on my hands. I'm a little hesitant to write about it, it's a situation I walked into with open eyes, and it's pretty stable-seeming just at the moment. It's completely a contributing factor to my emotional peaks and troughs lately, in some shape or another it was inevitable, you're just gonna laugh and say 'well, duh' when I finally come out with it.

Which I won't do just now. Soon, but not now.

Suddenly I'm in less of a mood to write about my plant-sale booty (Eva, I have an Eva's Purple Ball tomato plant for you this year!) (oh wait, did I mention the PRICKLY PEAR CACTUS I got?) (okay, maybe plants really can take my mind off anything) or about how much I'm looking forward to Gavin getting here for good finally, or about watching Angus getting his feet wet in this area, or how wonderful it feels to have a home with my bed in it again, or how I'm getting back to sewing a bit, or how I have some good rats right about now. Well, okay, the plant thing really did lift my mood.

I'm gonna find some breakfast and a shower. I may well write more later today. The page is full now, and it felt good. Then again, maybe I'll go down to the stanley park swings and wade in the ocean in the rain.

Possibilities are opening up in my life. It is delicious.

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