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Who owns the copyright to my fucking Life? Or my life in Fucking?
11/10/2007 7:52 pm Last Read: |
Though it has been a while for me, a conversation today triggered a memory of a scene from a while back that I never wrote about, but would make in interesting scène report. Then the larger question of BDSM reportage came to mind. Usually, one does ask the person about whom you are writing if they are OK with you writing about them. Usually, they are OK. I have had several situations where people were NOT OK with my writing about our encunters. Part of me is miffed by this, and not because I am a blabbermouth. Because, strangely enough, I am very capable of shutting the fuck up. But as a writer, when I feel inspired to write, I loathe the idea of being squelched. I have had several variations of external censorship. I had one person nonplussed about my writing about and in fact using our scene in my curriculum when I taught classes about Taboo Play and another class I have taught on Extreme Edge Play. This may well have been because this was a textbook example of how to not manage a scene that has detailed. To be fair, missteps occurred on everyones part, and I did not undercut my part in the situation. But they weren't too thrilled, especially as a public Leather Community figure, to have that less-than-optimal situation live on. After some discussion, I made it clear my intent was not to damage, but to help other folks learn from those that have gone before and paved the Way Of Whoops! Plus, the versions that were circulation only made the situation even grimmer than the reality, so getting it from the horse's mouth is only going to serve to put the period on the end of those speculations. I had a profound moment of Zen when, years after the fact, a former lover asked me to remove references to him from my online writings because he was upset that such explicit materials referenced him online. Though I had received permission, in the past, to tell that story in the course of my solo show, a change in his level of notoriety prompted him to become indignant that such intimate details of his sexual appetites were searchable online. On the one hand, I understand, and can empathize. Certainly, someone gushing over your sexual prowess, the magnificence of your penis, the thoroughness of your hotness and how generally amazing and brilliant you are, in explicit terms, is a dangerous thing.  I tried to explain that, frankly, the djinni is out of the flask and, thanks to Google and the WayBack, nothing can ever be erased. I also gently pointed out that he never asked me if it was OK to write half an album about me, and furthermore to actually use my fucking name for one of his songs and if he was concerned about people making the connection, he well should have considered that first.  I have also had a preemptive strike levied, where someone with whom I was very briefly involved specifically insisted I not write about our encounter, as it might muddy the waters with someone he was in the process of wooing, and that wasnt OK. THAT situation was cunningly crafted by the very Gods to take me out at the knees, and sucked in several ways. I wish Id had the ovaries at the time to hash that one out, but instead my submissive reflex kicked in, to my detriment, and I just caved to the command. SO, today, I found myself in a room full of perverts, smiling and laughing and the whole nine yards. Among the people there were several with whom I had played and had various levels of emotional attachment. I thought, wouldn't it be funny to have a scene report recalling .... [insert reference I don't feel like digging up right now] and then fast forward to so many years later, looking around and seeing how all of these interactions, that heat, that fire, that lust and energy are naught but fugitive ghostly memories and ash in my heart... ... it is a very odd sensation to feel like your own life and the means by which you express that to the world is possibly offensive, probably unacceptable, certainly cumbersome, often unwelcome, whatever . Really, the main intent I have, in my life and in my writings, is to illuminate. To use my own voice, my own light, to refract the gloom of the quotidian into a kaleidoscope of fresh perspective. I am not sure when speaking my piece, in my way, became such a minefield.  Mollena
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 11/11/2007 12:26 am |
Oh SNAP there is a hilarious Freudian typo in this post. I'm not even gonna correct it, I am laughing too hard. Mollena
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11/11/2007 4:36 am |
well, i missed the typo. but i'm too busy thinking about this to go back. funny - i rarely, rarely reference specific people in my writing. (although the writing i'm doing is considerably different than yours.) i've had folks ask me to "name names!" but since i'm so completely protective of my own identity, i sometimes take great pains not to point any one person out. written into my contract right now are specific negotations about my writing. occasionally i'll write something that i'm not sure about, and i do check with him first about whether or not he'd prefer me to not make it public. but i don't not *write* it - that's not possible. i'm not sure how i'd handle it if my writing was already a part of my public persona and/or my career. interesting stuff. thanks. "If you can't be a good example, then you'll just have to be a horrible warning." - Catherine Aird
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11/11/2007 4:23 pm |
Beautifully said, yet sad that some people live in fear of their own life and own actions.   
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