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greenstormSo I've spent the last two months in my head, more-or-less. There have been a couple reasons for this. Some of them have to do with work, especially doing graveyards when I had to deliberately disregard anything my body was telling me. Others have to do with sex, or more specifically with desire and the way that pulled me out of the here-and-now in this particular case. Some of it has to do with stress, and with the way power dynamics operate for me. I'd bet the new phone has something to do with it too.
Tonight I got put back in my body. I'm gonna describe it a bit under a cut, and then ramble on for awhile. So I had a pretty big needle put into my breast, close to the nipple but not right under the aureola, and a syringe full of injectable saline put in there. I was at a workshop in which a dude's scrotum was being inflated via IV drip, and we were test-driving the feeling-- he had maybe 330 mls put in total via drip, I just had something like 20 put in by needle.
Now I love needles. Specifically, I love having big needles put into me, and/or lots of needles. I like the feeling of it, both the psychic feeling and the physical feeling. I have come to like the idea of it basically because I like the experience so much-- that wasn't a preexisting thing, I never fantasized about needle play until after my first proper needle piercing. And to be clear, I still... well, we'll get there, but it isn't a direct sexual thing for me. Having a needle stuck through my breast does not feel in any way like having my clit touched, for instance.
It does feel like having something inside me, though. It feels like having my envelope breached, like my defenses are violated; I find that feeling really pleasant in the right kind of circumstance-- that is, right partner, right chemistry, etc. We'll talk about me and pickiness some other time. And the point is, the saline prolongs that feeling. It's a very distinct feeling of there's something in there for quite awhile after. IT also makes the whole area pretty sensitive-- not painful, just more sensitive.
So there I am walking home and I am noticing the air particularly around my legs. It feels like rain. It's a little chilly. It's not quite cold enough to worry about, so my body is vibrating between being cold and comfortable, poised to do something-- either to settle or to be uncomfortable with the temperature --and I am particularly aware of the distinction between the inside of my body and the outside. My skin is, all over my body, a very particular sensing membrane that is the limit of my body. It's not just where my awareness ends; it's a thing in itself.
That was nice.
Here's a freewrite, fifteen mins, not supposed to make sense.
I'm so tired now. I want to write more. I want to tell you about this guy I met, and this other guy I met awhile ago, and Angus, and how hard it is to lay things all out in words to anyone, and just how much I like to play but how it's hard to find playmates, and how I'm just a machine made to love things and I'm tired about being so goddamn predictable. This is sort of turning into a freewrite because this is just how it's coming out, so let's see how far this takes us. I don't like to be alone unless I'm alone. That's one of the issues with the way I plan my time. I still have the mindset of this lonely kid whose best friends and upbringers are all in books and who has nothing to talk to but dogs and trees. I think that's why I overschedule myself-- that and I feel obligation to people for deigning to pay attention to me. It's funny how sometimes when I am alone or rarely with other people I feel so powerful, like the earth is shaking when I walk and like waves of self are just rolling off me, and yet when I am trying to figure out what to do with myself it never occurs to me to just leave myself time to wander around and be me. Sometimes I feel like I avoid spending too much time on that because if I got to be anymore me I would just leave the planet entirely, become totally incomprehensible to anyone around e and be alone again. Full circle. Being alone isn't so bad, though, it's missing people that I have trouble with-- I never trust them to come back. My memory is so terrible, too, so I just have this jewel of feeling in my mind as the images fade, like a mental shape. It's so rare that I remember what someone really looks like, though I recognise them of course. I don't know what I'm saying anymore, this is wandering but it's all wandering.
This journal is a sacred space for me. I've inscribed my self in it and kept it protected so much that it welcomes me when I sit down to it. It's a home. It's funny how it's entirely owned by other people, it could be taken down or altered on a corporate whim, and yet it's more mine than anything. Paper is so often a blank white expanse for me, whereas this sucks at me, it pulls to me, it wants me to write. And I love writing. I love the language, it feels to me like I imagine flying or swimming to feel. You can make choices in all dimensions, in tense and tone and tempo and sound, and although there may be a camp which says this way is the right way and that way is the wrong way it all falls apart without an audience-- and here I have no audience. You listen, sometimes I address you, but I am not writing for you particularly. I would like to segue into the ways in which writing is like sex just for stylistic closure, but it's not. Writing is a thing I do with myself to become more me; sex is a thing I do with the world, with another person, to become bigger, to expand my outer shell.
I imagine all this will read crazy later, but it does feel so good to just talk. I haven't had enough leisure to just talk lately, especially to someone who is not an Audience-capital-A. That's where this latest adventure in really enjoying someone's company has been getting me, actually. It's hard for me to talk to Angus about it. Of course I have to, but it's hard to say, 'yo, this is the situation, it isn't what we bargained at, I'm not talking about outcomes I'm just stating the situation', because, well, because it is. I don't want to hurt, him, I guess? And so I don't speak freely about it, I triple-think before I say anything and then I blurt out something totally weird because when it comes to Angus and I speech is not where our meeting of minds most often occurs. Or rather, this is my perception of the world, and the accuracy is questionable, but I don't keep records.
Dammit, why can't I just relax and trust things? I can't. I never have done, not for a long time at least. Grrmumble grr mumble. Mutter. Degenerate into incoherent ranting. Angus is home, gonna stop.
Tonight I got put back in my body. I'm gonna describe it a bit under a cut, and then ramble on for awhile. So I had a pretty big needle put into my breast, close to the nipple but not right under the aureola, and a syringe full of injectable saline put in there. I was at a workshop in which a dude's scrotum was being inflated via IV drip, and we were test-driving the feeling-- he had maybe 330 mls put in total via drip, I just had something like 20 put in by needle.
Now I love needles. Specifically, I love having big needles put into me, and/or lots of needles. I like the feeling of it, both the psychic feeling and the physical feeling. I have come to like the idea of it basically because I like the experience so much-- that wasn't a preexisting thing, I never fantasized about needle play until after my first proper needle piercing. And to be clear, I still... well, we'll get there, but it isn't a direct sexual thing for me. Having a needle stuck through my breast does not feel in any way like having my clit touched, for instance.
It does feel like having something inside me, though. It feels like having my envelope breached, like my defenses are violated; I find that feeling really pleasant in the right kind of circumstance-- that is, right partner, right chemistry, etc. We'll talk about me and pickiness some other time. And the point is, the saline prolongs that feeling. It's a very distinct feeling of there's something in there for quite awhile after. IT also makes the whole area pretty sensitive-- not painful, just more sensitive.
So there I am walking home and I am noticing the air particularly around my legs. It feels like rain. It's a little chilly. It's not quite cold enough to worry about, so my body is vibrating between being cold and comfortable, poised to do something-- either to settle or to be uncomfortable with the temperature --and I am particularly aware of the distinction between the inside of my body and the outside. My skin is, all over my body, a very particular sensing membrane that is the limit of my body. It's not just where my awareness ends; it's a thing in itself.
That was nice.
Here's a freewrite, fifteen mins, not supposed to make sense.
I'm so tired now. I want to write more. I want to tell you about this guy I met, and this other guy I met awhile ago, and Angus, and how hard it is to lay things all out in words to anyone, and just how much I like to play but how it's hard to find playmates, and how I'm just a machine made to love things and I'm tired about being so goddamn predictable. This is sort of turning into a freewrite because this is just how it's coming out, so let's see how far this takes us. I don't like to be alone unless I'm alone. That's one of the issues with the way I plan my time. I still have the mindset of this lonely kid whose best friends and upbringers are all in books and who has nothing to talk to but dogs and trees. I think that's why I overschedule myself-- that and I feel obligation to people for deigning to pay attention to me. It's funny how sometimes when I am alone or rarely with other people I feel so powerful, like the earth is shaking when I walk and like waves of self are just rolling off me, and yet when I am trying to figure out what to do with myself it never occurs to me to just leave myself time to wander around and be me. Sometimes I feel like I avoid spending too much time on that because if I got to be anymore me I would just leave the planet entirely, become totally incomprehensible to anyone around e and be alone again. Full circle. Being alone isn't so bad, though, it's missing people that I have trouble with-- I never trust them to come back. My memory is so terrible, too, so I just have this jewel of feeling in my mind as the images fade, like a mental shape. It's so rare that I remember what someone really looks like, though I recognise them of course. I don't know what I'm saying anymore, this is wandering but it's all wandering.
This journal is a sacred space for me. I've inscribed my self in it and kept it protected so much that it welcomes me when I sit down to it. It's a home. It's funny how it's entirely owned by other people, it could be taken down or altered on a corporate whim, and yet it's more mine than anything. Paper is so often a blank white expanse for me, whereas this sucks at me, it pulls to me, it wants me to write. And I love writing. I love the language, it feels to me like I imagine flying or swimming to feel. You can make choices in all dimensions, in tense and tone and tempo and sound, and although there may be a camp which says this way is the right way and that way is the wrong way it all falls apart without an audience-- and here I have no audience. You listen, sometimes I address you, but I am not writing for you particularly. I would like to segue into the ways in which writing is like sex just for stylistic closure, but it's not. Writing is a thing I do with myself to become more me; sex is a thing I do with the world, with another person, to become bigger, to expand my outer shell.
I imagine all this will read crazy later, but it does feel so good to just talk. I haven't had enough leisure to just talk lately, especially to someone who is not an Audience-capital-A. That's where this latest adventure in really enjoying someone's company has been getting me, actually. It's hard for me to talk to Angus about it. Of course I have to, but it's hard to say, 'yo, this is the situation, it isn't what we bargained at, I'm not talking about outcomes I'm just stating the situation', because, well, because it is. I don't want to hurt, him, I guess? And so I don't speak freely about it, I triple-think before I say anything and then I blurt out something totally weird because when it comes to Angus and I speech is not where our meeting of minds most often occurs. Or rather, this is my perception of the world, and the accuracy is questionable, but I don't keep records.
Dammit, why can't I just relax and trust things? I can't. I never have done, not for a long time at least. Grrmumble grr mumble. Mutter. Degenerate into incoherent ranting. Angus is home, gonna stop.
