greenstorm (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
greenstorm) wrote2010-06-19 09:43 am
greenstorm) wrote2010-06-19 09:43 am
For The Record
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: There have been a few people in my life who have permission to grab my pigtails and yank me down to my knees when I walk in through the door with a bad of groceries. I would love to find someone I trusted, liked, and thought was hot who was also into laying me out on the floor despite any struggles I could put up, etc. 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:
The Quiet World
by Jeffrey McDaniel
in an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided to allot
each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
when the phone rings, i put it
to my ear without saying hello.
in the restaurant, i point
at chicken noodle soup. i am
adjusting well to the new way.
late at night, i call my long-
distance lover and proudly say:
"i only used fifty-nine today.
i saved the rest for you."
when she doesn't respond, i know
she's used up all her words,
so i slowly whisper i love you,
thirty-two and a third times.
after that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
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:
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))
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:
The Quiet World
by Jeffrey McDaniel
in an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided to allot
each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
when the phone rings, i put it
to my ear without saying hello.
in the restaurant, i point
at chicken noodle soup. i am
adjusting well to the new way.
late at night, i call my long-
distance lover and proudly say:
"i only used fifty-nine today.
i saved the rest for you."
when she doesn't respond, i know
she's used up all her words,
so i slowly whisper i love you,
thirty-two and a third times.
after that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
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:
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))