Archive for the ‘prose’ Category

The Ramblings of Insomnia, Memory and Choice..

In D/s, Bdsm, prose on March 13, 2009 at 6:58 pm
Damn the insomnia. I’ve nearly gone out of my mind with it tonight.This is a time of transitions and the vessel is not empty.I long for some time in the country alone…complete solitude from which to map my location.

There is so much happening, mostly subterranean, but that is when the most fertile breakthroughs loom close by.

…altho those sweet pink cuffs beckon…alt. is a smorgasboard of choice, complete with mouth watering options…and as Clarissa Pinkola Estes states in her book Women who run with the Wolves, one CANNOT choose a lover from the smorgasboard one must choose alover from soul hunger…something far more primal than simple enticement.

I think I have always chosen my lovers from soul hunger ..and the war paint with which I cloak my wounds is simply attitude bandaging scars. These scars are still mine dammit..they speak of the courage to risk.

Shackling my ankles and wrists is relatively easy..shackling my heart..ah now theres the vision quest…
Insomnia, babi..it gets cold where I live at four in the morning. I sit smoking a cigarette, the only point of light in the night.

Trail to the bathroom , look in the mirror, the ghosts of past lovers, friends, appearing beside me. Go away, I’m NOT laughing.Rest.
But these visions we all carry. They are part of OUR stories.

They are where we have been.
Absolutely I covet those pretty pink cuffs and the pretty pink collar but ultimately I covet more the real and flawed man who will gift me with them.

It may not come to pass. I had the occasion to supper with a beloved relation of mine tonight, I had not seen her in 4 years, she is turning 90 and catching a flight tomorrow to an almost certain death before I see her face again. I held her tiny body, felt her enormous strength of self, grown more luminescent with each year.

Her face was remarkable in its beauty…she has outlived 3 husbands and numerous lovers.
Raised a small country of step children.
Still travels the world with aplomb..get outta my way..I will carry my own bags!
I so love this woman!

I thank  J..you know who you are..for this jewel..kinks just groovy and all, but it really would be nice to wake up with someone in the morning….

Insomniacal ramblings. But desicions made.
Breathing easier, dawns afoot in my hood and it is time for a walk.
If you got this far, namaste, I am certain I will be back to edit this..
Chastened and subdued,and VERY very quiet,



Healing in D/s , forget the self help industry.

In D/s, Bdsm, Philosophy..sociological commentary, prose on March 13, 2009 at 11:54 am

I’m not into self help.That enormously popular industry…I refuse to put my money into their self inflated paws.I don’t buy into ..”every day in every way I keep getting better and better”..
laughing here..
what alot of these authors seem to fail to mention is that we are indeed hurtling towards are own deaths.

Passed an accident tonight on the road..I heard a crash in front of me/ I don’t know the outcome…someone could have been dying..and I find the spectator mentality to such things..the roadshow zoo..irreverent. But it was a reminder.

I read a profile recently..I do not recall whose, but I’d like to thank them. Somewhere in the text was something to the effect of looking for someone…
“who will love me in all my glorious fucking humanity.”

Wow. I love it.And I would add back..and someone I will love in all theirs.

Right there is Kingdom Come.

As regards getting better and better in every way, everyday..the commitment to the calling and art of dominance or submission does require learning,mastering, and improvement.
It is one ancient recognized form of the Way…

As long as we keep in mind that it is in the journey where we find ourselves …and not in the goal…. that we are “gloriously fucking human.”….
and loveable in that humanity,  failures , flaws and all.


In D/s, Bdsm, prose on March 13, 2009 at 1:44 am

It is strange the appetites.There is the appetite for lust. Then, there is the appetite for Beauty….
Beauty being subjective and happened upon in the oddest and ugliest of moments.
Beauty being that strange hunger that mixes with sorrow and catches in the base of your throat, making a little sound escape.
I cannot speak for a man, but I DO know this..you hunger for it also. It cannot be owned or it eludes.
For me, I bow in reverence to Beauty/ it humbles one.
I have a whole body response to its mysterious appearance..I ache from somewhere in my core..I feel in its prescence the urge to cry.
My fingers tingle..the desire is to reach toward..to close my eyes and feel the shape of its message.
Beauty humbles the visual sense to take it in almost begs a lowering of the eyes , so that one might FEEL it with the other senses.
In these things have I found Beauty..
the Misfit on the streets..
a twisted tree stripped of bark
a teasing child begging to be chased
a word hovering between your Mouth and Mine
and the cast of Light, everywhere ..
in Aesthetics, with photography and other
artistic mediums one is taught to
look beyond the surface
to look at the space that surrounds an
object, to see the negative prescence..
the tricks of light..
The Phantom is always Present..waiting
to be revealed..
I cannot imagine living unaware of the
Phantom, and not paying homage to it.

Some do.
I watched dawn this morning alone..
momentarily a line of telephone
poles stretched as a row of crucifixes
silhouetted against the hills..
a trick or the Phantom? the reality that
lies behind all things?
Does it Matter?
It moved my throat…

Beauty ..that strange
Silence/that moves me to the
smallest of Sounds..

Babiblue Skies and Silver White Dime of a Sun.Yes!

In My journal, prose on March 11, 2009 at 5:01 pm

What a scrumpdilicious day here in the heart of downtown!

I bounced out into noon, in my brooks brown worn runners, my son’s stretch ribbed navy t..my soft as flannel denims, sloping off my hips, and my ubiquituous blackshades, copper hair in a top knot,falling, falling, curling..

Skies baby blue, sun white as a silver dime, and laughter like some frolicking god resounding off the curbways, clapboarded chaos of history,  unsung joy from the rooftops, echoing back and forth across the harbor between the hills.

I am a postcard, winged feet, heart on a string, streetcat for my loves…

my boys

my words

my flowers

my Lucifer

some days, some days, it just doesn’t get any better.