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And so, Farewell.
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Mar 14, 2007 3:00 am
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(Scottish Men of the Cloth are known for their astere fanatacism to their church. Thus, Phantastes written by George McDonald, is rather unique, as it tells the story of a man who makes his way into Faerie and wanders there - and even dies there. He learns to lose his shadow (essentially his dark, oppressive half of self) and often finds himself looking for a way back into the wonder he experienced in Faerie. Whilst it is believed to be very Christian, it is also a very pagan work, and there is very little mention of typical Christian paradigms within it. It's reminiscent of the Steppenwolf in my mind, and therefore has a very special place in my heart.
There is therefore no more obvious choice for me to close this journal, but from the final passage of Phantastes - I too hope to keep my Shadow forever lost, and will look for my return to Faerie...and of course, good is always coming my way.
Namaste)
Sinking from such a state of ideal bliss, into the world of shadows which again closed around and infolded me, my first dread was, not unnaturally, that my own shadow had found me again, and that my torture had commenced anew. It was a sad revulsion of feeling. This, indeed, seemed to correspond to what we think death is, before we die. Yet I felt within me a power of calm endurance to which I had hitherto been a stranger. For, in truth, that I should be able if only to think such things as I had been thinking, was an unspeakable delight. An hour of such peace made the turmoil of a lifetime worth striving through.
I found myself lying in the open air, in the early morning, before sunrise. Over me rose the summer heaven, expectant of the sun. The clouds already saw him, coming from afar; and soon every dewdrop would rejoice in his individual presence within it. I lay motionless for a few minutes; and then slowly rose and looked about me. I was on the summit of a little hill; a valley lay beneath, and a range of mountains closed up the view upon that side. But, to my horror, across the valley, and up the height of the opposing mountains, stretched, from my very feet, a hugely expanding shade. There it lay, long and large, dark and mighty. I turned away with a sick despair; when lo! I beheld the sun just lifting his head above the eastern hill, and the shadow that fell from me, lay only where his beams fell not. I danced for joy. It was only the natural shadow, that goes with every man who walks in the sun. As he arose, higher and higher, the shadow-head sank down the side of the opposite hill, and crept in across the valley towards my feet.
Now that I was so joyously delivered from this fear, I saw and recognised the country around me. In the valley below, lay my own castle, and the haunts of my childhood were all about me hastened home. My sisters received me with unspeakable joy; but I suppose they observed some change in me, for a kind of respect, with a slight touch of awe in it, mingled with their joy, and made me ashamed. They had been in great distress about me. On the morning of my disappearance, they had found the floor of my room flooded; and, all that day, a wondrous and nearly impervious mist had hung about the castle and grounds. I had been gone, they told me, twenty-one days. To me it seemed twenty-one years. Nor could I yet feel quite secure in my new experiences. When, at night, I lay down once more in my own bed, I did not feel at all sure that when I awoke, I should not find myself in some mysterious region of Fairy Land. My dreams were incessant and perturbed; but when I did awake, I saw clearly that I was in my own house
My mind soon grew calm; and I began the duties of my new position, somewhat instructed, I hoped, by the adventures that had befallen me in Fairy Land. Could I translate the experience of my travels there, into common life? This was the question. Or must I live it all over again, and learn it all over again, in the other forms that belong to the world of men, whose experience yet runs parallel to that of Fairy Land? These questions I cannot answer yet. But I fear.
Even yet, I find myself looking round sometimes with anxiety, to see whether my shadow falls right away from the sun or no. I have never yet discovered any inclination to either side. And if I am not unfrequently sad, I yet cast no more of a shade on the earth, than most men who have lived in it as long as I. I have a strange feeling sometimes, that I am a ghost, sent into the world to minister to my fellow men, or, rather, to repair the wrongs I have already done. May the world be brighter for me, at least in those portions of it, where my darkness falls not.
Thus I, who set out to find my Ideal, came back rejoicing that I had lost my Shadow.
When the thought of the blessedness I experienced, after my death in Fairy Land, is too high for me to lay hold upon it and hope in it, I often think of the wise woman in the cottage, and of her solemn assurance that she knew something too good to be told. When I am oppressed by any sorrow or real perplexity, I often feel as if I had only left her cottage for a time, and would soon return out of the vision, into it again. Sometimes, on such occasions, I find myself, unconsciously almost, looking about for the mystic mark of red, with the vague hope of entering her door, and being comforted by her wise tenderness. I then console myself by saying: "I have come through the door of Dismay; and the way back from the world into which that has led me, is through my tomb. Upon that the red sign lies, and I shall find it one day, and be glad."
I will end my story with the relation of an incident which befell me a few days ago. I had been with my reapers, and, when they ceased their work at noon, I had lain down under the shadow of a great, ancient beech-tree, that stood on the edge of the field. As I lay, with my eyes closed, I began to listen to the sound of the leaves overhead. At first, they made sweet inarticulate music alone; but, by-and-by, the sound seemed to begin to take shape, and to be gradually moulding itself into words; till, at last, I seemed able to distinguish these, half-dissolved in a little ocean of circumfluent tones: "A great good is coming -- is coming -- is coming to thee, Anodos"; and so over and over again. I fancied that the sound reminded me of the voice of the ancient woman, in the cottage that was four-square. I opened my eyes, and, for a moment, almost believed that I saw her face, with its many wrinkles and its young eyes, looking at me from between two hoary branches of the beech overhead. But when I looked more keenly, I saw only twigs and leaves, and the infinite sky, in tiny spots, gazing through between. Yet I know that good is coming to me -- that good is always coming; though few have at all times the simplicity and the courage to believe it. What we call evil, is the only and best shape, which, for the person and his condition at the time, could be assumed by the best good.
And so, Farewell.
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Stuff
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Mar 14, 2007 2:36 am
1829 Views
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Not only did my eBay account get hacked, but also my emails, so I can't receive email, nor can I get in and change my eBay details or close my account.
This would be infuriating if I didn't have a geek husband who started his computer career as a hacker.
Someone is about to have some regrets...
In other news, I'm coming here less and less. Because my email is hosed, if you've been trying to contact me - well that's why I haven't replied! It's going to take a few days to fix, so bear with me.
Today I'm off to the allotment, as I have been every day. This weekend I think I get a mum's day break, which means more digging in dirt. We have found a potential Stealth House (we had one in mind actually that was Goth as FUQ, being a detached, Gothic style home right next to a graveyard - unfortunately it was also in Chav central). Lots doing, and I'm doing it.
So off I run again
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Finally done with this
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Feb 27, 2007 8:05 am
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This is the piece I sent in for competition today - was the choker I wore to the ball, finally finished and antiqued and so forth. It is MINE, you plagarising, art-stealing buggers etc etc etc. Well it's for sale too, so unless you can actually produce the piece of art yourself with my thumbprint on the back of the medallion, it's STILL mine.
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Get the Groove Back
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Feb 25, 2007 1:48 am
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I woke up at a ridiculous hour this morning, my brain buzzing, like it does now and again. It's been like this for a few days now. It feels like spring stirring and making me want to be up long before the sun rises, doing things. Full moon coming up and giving me the urge to get started on new projects and take care of old ones. There's been so much, I haven't known where to start. So I got up at stupid o'clock, got my trusty notebook, and started making lists of all the things, projects, hopes, dreams, drudgery stuff I know I HAVE to do, things I actually want to do, and then went down to try and figure out how to work it all out without killing myself doing so.
It's a long damn list, so I need to get started...
I've given up my membership here to Alt. I feel I've got enough on my plate right now and I don't need much more, and that includes people who want me to do FOR them or TO them, not WITH. Those of you who can feel me, I'm trying to put out my home email address so y'all can keep in touch and I'll get back on that. But know I'm shite at correspondence usually.
Keep it real, y0.
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Shaking the Spear for a Sistah
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Feb 23, 2007 12:11 am
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I have never understood the mentality of people who wish ill on another's career or lifestyle, usually because they failed or sold out themselves. I've seen it time and time again; directed at artist friends of mine, students, sidewalk shamans, mums at home, or anyone with a dream no matter how wierd and crazy it may seem. There seem to be so many people out there who sincerely want other people to fail...perhaps that way they're not so miserable and alone with their own failures, working jobs they hate to live in places they don't like, buying things they don't really care about.
Screw that.
Recently I saw something that made me want to protect all the idealistic dreams and aspirations of all the people who have escaped the Ticky Tacky, all over again.
So I wrote about it.
Yesterday on the train to my interview, I was sitting across from a student. She was very solemn and serious in a way I rarely see these uni kids, doing her revisions and organising her notes. As you do, I took a peek at the book; "Storing water, fluids and intake correction." Biology II, student, possibly medical.
Actually, the more I sat on the other side of the table, the more convinced I was that she was a med student (though that may have just been writer's imagination going; I can't be the only writer who invents stories about the people they see in the world). But surely only a med student would have two different coloured pens and a ruler to make notes organised and uniform? Well, a law student would as well, but in my experience they're devotees of highlighter pens and red pens in particular.
She was alternating between blue and green pens, a ruler, and her IPOD with intense concentration, shuffing through tracks, then grabbing a pen, putting the pen down, reading for a bit, grabbing the ruler, drawing a line, shuffling another track. Unlike most people, she played her IPOD at a sensible volume and I couldn't hear a thing. She also didn't seem to show a whole lot of enjoyment in the music; no lips moving to lyrics, no tapping of her feet. It was just background noise. Once, her cellphone rang, and with a frown of faint irritation, she shut it off and shoved it back into her bag, to get back to her dance of shuffle/write/rule/read uninterrupted.
I think we older folks (and yes, I have to call myself an older more "mature" person now though I feel anything but), we seem to forget there are students out there who aren't just drinking or shagging their way through their courses. There are a few who are really trying hard for that degree, really working their asses off to get through. Maybe because they were told they'd never do it. If she really was a med student, then she's a woman playing a man's game. Her clothing wasn't top notch and she was working with cheap pens as well, so she certainly wasn't from a well to do family. Maybe working class with good enough grades to get her to a top notch school, her and her family saving every scrap they had so she could attend one of the private Unis.
Tissue fluid retention; mitochondric membrane, isn't it? The study of nutrient absorbtion through cell membranes was a long time ago; uni wasn't a great time for me, not because I faffed it off, but because I wanted to learn everything, yet had no idea how to study or retain the information in my brain. I took the hardest courses at a university I couldn't afford, and of course the inevitable breakdown/dropout happened. Following that, five years of homelessness, pregnant in there somewhere, and living a life so far out of society I honestly haven't found a way to entirely get back into it even ten years later. If I have a regret, it's not really trying to find a way to study properly, not hanging up every time my mum called to give me something extra to stress out about, and not being more gentle with my desire to learn at first, and pacing myself.
I saw so much of myself in that student, although she seemed even more together than I had been. I'd wanted to be a writer, a singer, a model, a marine biologist, be bilingual in English and Japanese. I'd wanted so much, and at that age it doesn't seem so impossible, though there were always adults who would give me a somewhat bitter smile whenever I'd talk about my dreams, like somehow they were all useless. "Oh you just wait," they'd say, with that bitter sneer on their faces. I have to admit Jareth isn't the only autistic person in this house; I never understood the motivations behind the words.
Some people just really, really want you to fail, if for no other reason but it means they won't be alone in their failure.
So I watched this student, her seriousness, her extreme focus. I suppose a bitter thirty-something would have just given her a bittersweet smile and thought, or even said out loud, "Fat lot of good that will do you; you'll get pregnant and then he'll leave you. You won't be able to get a practice as a single mum. Hell you won't even be able to finish school; doctoring is a man's world, my dear and there's no room in it for single mums. Things change, and dreams are just that. Enjoy it while it lasts because you'll wake up someday and be just like the rest of us - going through life with our souls asleep, our dreams broken, and one day a boring blur into the next."
But I couldn't do it. I've never understood cursing the happiness of those who escaped mundania, solely because one's miserable themselves. I've never understood the glee of watching someone who managed to go through all of life's bullshit stumble, then fall. Why not follow behind through the way they cleared and be grateful?
I watched this student do her revisions, and she was a stranger. She hadn't looked up at me once, but suddenly I felt fiercely protective of her. I felt protective of her dreams, protective of her future. I'd have given someone a serious tongue lashing if they'd even so much as laughed at her for wanting to reach for her dreams in the heavens. I'd personally try to hold the ladder so she could reach higher. I was heading to an interview - not for marine biology, or for a book contract. It wasn't worth a quarter mil a year, but the job would allow me to wear whatever clothes I wanted, do my hair as I pleased, talk about subjects I love around people who won't have an issue with it. That's something I've sorely missed, and something I'm willing to pursue. My own reaching-dream, even if it isn't a monumental one.
So I thought for this girl, and I sent up my own Spear-prayer. I just smiled, and formed it in my head, as I do. "I hope you get that degree, sister. I hope you don't ever burn out, get discouraged, or give up. I hope you rise above all the politics and stay true to why you decided to be a healer, and I hope each day you're able to go home knowing you did your best, and the rest lies in Fate's hands. I hope your spouse is supportive. I hope your children will be happy. I hope your dreams come true for you, becaus someone working as hard as you are deserves it. Don't forget to smile, don't forget to eat strawberries, don't forget to laugh, don't be afraid to grieve and mourn the patients you couldn't save. You are human - don't forget that. Kick ass, rock the world, and keep reaching. And if anyone laughs at you, tell them to go to hell...you're not responsible for their giving up. Pave the way for your children, and theirs, and remember to smile."
My stop was coming up, so I got up and gathered my things. I was charging the spell and sent it off when we rolled in. It was the only time she actually looked up at me; this 20 year old girl-woman with spotty skin and glassy, exhausted but determined eyes. I smiled at her - not the "strangers making eye contact" but a definite smile.
"Good luck." I said. She still had her headphones on, but as I said the music was quiet, she could still hear. She stared at me for a moment, probably wondering if I was just some weirdo, but the smile seemed to assure her otherwise. I got a real, genuine, bright smile in return.
"Thanks," she replied, and then she got back to work.
I got off the train at my stop for the interview. But the train kept going, and she kept riding on.
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Money Irreverence, the Neo Nouveau Riche
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Feb 20, 2007 3:39 am
2142 Views
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The insert is a map of Graceland, the most Shining (dubiously shining?) example of Nouveau Riche in the US. A shameless waste of money by Elvis Presley, it's still considered a Mecca by fans, a study in tactless decorating by most architects, and by a few who can glimpse underneath it, the playfulness of someone who not only had money, but also the right to enjoy it. I'm not an Elvis fan by any stretch, and I'm certainly not a professional interior designer, but something about Graceland makes me smile, and that I think was the whole point of the place.
This week the Hubby asked me to do some research into areas to live and work in the UK once his contract is up in Amsterdam. I'm pretty sure he knew the figures already, but he wanted me to see them for myself.
Holy gods...let's just put it this way. I've been a poor girl most of my life (not all of it mind you, but the past ten years have been very hard ones). I can't even contemplate that kind of money, to be honest. It boggles the imagination. What does anyone do with that amount of cash? I'm already got a list in my head of friends who helped me out in the past - I can finally do something nice for them though I don't want to overdo it and hurt their own pride...and still, it doesn't even scratch the surface of what's left over.
So...what do people actually do with all this money?
I know the answer to that. Ticky Tacky. Fancy cars and homes and show-off tans and rings and stupidly expensive clothing and kids in boarding school no one ever sees and things that make you dead inside as you work your way to your first heart attack.
That's money Worship, Nouveau Riche style.
The hubby and I are more money Irreverent. We have just the type of mentality to buy a madly expensive car just so we could tie die paint the thing, or put Emily Strange on the hood, solely to watch the looks of horror and disgust on the face of old money and stodgy pretender upper class types. Yes, it's tacky, the thing is we KNOW it's tacky. We know just how tacky it is. We're laughing. That's the point, isn't it? money isn't serious. It's stupid. It shouldn't be so important. So we use it to take the piss out of it and give ourselves something amusing out of it. We don't use it to embarass our friends and make them uncomfortable around us, we don't embarass them with overly expensive gifts, and we do what we like with it because we want to enjoy it - though we're not daft enough to think it will last forever.
So, it seems we have to move closer to London for the Hubby's work, but the idea of Ticky Tacky houses and being surrounded by SUV driving mutton-dressed-as-lamb and red convertible driving men with girls in the passenger side who aren't their daughters makes our skin crawl.
We have thus come up with a solution: The Stealth House.
Would you like a tour? Very well then, enter the Stealth House of the money Irreverent.
It doesn't look like much on the outside, does it? All very nice, respectable and Kent-like on the outside, but I assure you, the interior will be the sort of thing to make Hubby's fellow yuppies wince and give plastic smiles beneath eyes smarting with horror. Our son's friends will probably think we're the coolest parents on the planet, however. Frank Lloyd Wright will get more than a nod, and rub elbows with David Rockwell, all tied together with feng shui and eco-living.
Granted, the fact the family car is actually an antique hearse should be a pretty good tip off that Things Are Not As They Appear. That, and my hair...
We want a spiral staircase - which will spiral round a tree trunk, as if ascending a tree house...and a pole to slide down if we choose to, or maybe a slide. Our conservatory won't be a refined place imitating nature with upholstered seating; the ground will be grass, with hills and planted trees to sit beneath, and flowers growing out of the turf, and a hammock. Sprog's room will have a glowing constellation on the ceiling, and sensory stuff built into his walls. Our bathroom will be as big as our bedroom, crammed with a sauna, steam room, massive yuppie sized bath...and of course loads of Lush products and tub toys for sprog, maybe even some bath crayons. Hubby wants to fill the house with just about every geeky gadget imaginable - AI hoovers, remote control sensors, a scale electrics system which will baffle the imagination, house studio sound, some rather James Bond-like security system stuff. I find it easier to just sigh and agree, as long as I can operate things in the house with a push of a button (not TEN pushes of this button, eight on this, and then pick up another remote and pushing THAT button, say thankya).
Velvet, silk, antique chairs, goth stuff, and Froud prints, faerie dolls, puppets, dragons, pillows and a waterfall - we're not sure where that's going yet but we'll figure it out. A cellar for our homebrew (and Hubby will set up a proper mash tun for that), the back garden turned into my allotment so I never have to go far for herbs or veg, and a giant climbing frame thing for sproggo - big enough for adults to have a go.
The family car? A hearse, naturally; one of the older models, running on "green" fuel.
Behind all the fun is stealth-responsibility as well - the "living wall" in the conservatory is watered by collected and filtered rainwater. We've got a grey water recycling system, and alternative heating throughout. Solar panels isn't good enough, so we're looking into algae and other forms. The veg plot out back is organic, natch. There's air purifiers all over the house. The paint is as natural as we could get it without actually colouring on the walls with chalk (though it probably crossed our minds). We've done eco-this and sustainable-that, and we've researched it all down to the minute details before we put it in our house. We temper our money irreverence with our holistic conscience. A Feng Shui designer has been in and alternatively laughed or gasped at what we wanted to do with the place...but they left smiling.
Anonymously, a very large cheque is paid to a particular cancer charity, and a homeless charity. We pay our dues, and we both owe a debt we are very happy to repay, and always swore we would do when we had enough to do so.
Believe it or not, there's actually money being saved in there for retirement by 50, and trips to the Continent during December-January when Hubby starts to run low (he may love England but it isn't kind to him during the winter). It won't be all tacky and strange, but most of it will be. Not that we mind much.
Unlike most of the rich and undeserving, we don't want to enter our house and grin and say "This is ours and we display this because it is expensive." We want to enter our house and grin and say "This is ours because it reminds us to be happy and think like children, though daily life tries to wring that out of us. This is our space. We can do what we like here."
Of course, you're all invited. Dinner is at six - remember to wash your hands because we rarely use silverware. Have a go in the steam shower, I suggest putting the chromotherapy lights on purple. Sprog will show you his bubble tube in his sensory room and you can all have a play.
Enjoy. Have Fun. Take off your shoes and curl your toes in carpet and grass and kick back and just grin at the utter madness of living outdoors whilst inside. Why not?
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Beer comes in Lager, Bitter, Stout and Kinky
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Feb 18, 2007 10:40 pm
2142 Views
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I note my last post wasn't too popular with the crowd (Oh, noes! As if I cared much...like it or lump it, 'cos I ain't changing it) So back to something everyone can relate to.
The weekend was a rush. Now that the reinstated Hubby sleeps in our bed again, he realised how crap the mattress was (and why I have been waking up in agony for months now). He got up Saturday morning and said "Right, this mattress is going." Loads of rushing around began with a trip to the nearest mattress/bed store, In Whiche he spent a ridiculous amount of cash on the best mattress he could get (and thank the deities for 50% off sales). He also splashed out on buying a new bed for sprog, which sprog loved and will probably result in many gray hairs for me as it's one of those new-fangled things which is half bunk bed - you have to climb up a wee ladder to get to the top. Yes, there's railings, yes there's a tent that goes over the top so he won't fall out when he's asleep, but I bet you he jumps out of the thing at least once and hurts himself.
Running around again yesterday to visit friends, we took the whole lot to a farm in Brighton and ran about (entirely too much, sprog still can't sit still for long). Hubby spent a considerable amount of time in the cider and perry room (for those who don't know, "perry" is pear wine). He came out with a ridiculous amount of cider and beer, and also a bit of an amused smirk.
We got sprog bundled into bed after a very long and tiring day (he smelled like straw and farm animals - I'm a firm believer all young boys should smell like they've been leaping into strawpiles all day long, but I grew up in farm country). I went to go have a look at the brews.
Fallen Angel Brewery, the place is called, you can probably look it up. They make quite a few brews, mostly with extremely risque and kink-hinting labels, such as the one below. The Hubby snickered at the look on my face, which was both intrigued and prim at the same time - he is amused often at the streak of prude which runs right through the large swath of kink within.
"This probably tastes like Budweiser," I told him. "But the labels sell it, so who cares?"
He sniggered and agreed, but we will put them to the taste test even so.
And another day of weebling about today so need to dash.
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Ever have one of those days
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Feb 16, 2007 2:21 am
2199 Views
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When you have too much to say, and no idea how to cram it all in?
How about I do the short version:
- Some blogs are faked. Get over it - they're writing some dream world kinky stuff and folks read it because it gets them off. It's not real. Just deal with it. Read it for the wank it is and quit deluding yourself into thinking it's anything but a fantasy. At least you got your rocks off.
- Crying for a real dominant/submissive/car/toaster when there's loads of them around you but they're the wrong colour/size/sex/age/model/make the toast exactly the wrong shade of brown is bullshit. Most wouldn't know a good situation if it came up and bit them. There's only so much moaning I can listen to after a while. Please get over it.
- Transgender doesn't piss me off. Furries don't piss me off. What pisses me off is people who feel I am obligated to lie and say "Of course you look exactly like a woman now and therefore must be one" when one really just looks like a bloke in a very bad wig. There's being accepting and then there's asking me to stow away everything I learned about biology and also stab out my own eyes in the process, and probably lock away my common sense and intellect at the same time. You're not really a fox with three tails and purple fur with a dick the size of a bargepole, and if you've never bled, had cramps, PMT, or any of the other fun joys of womanhood, no amount of makeup or hormones is going to give that to you - I have very male traits, excessively male traits. In my dreams, I'm usually a bloke, and it's pretty damn realistic. But I have no idea what it's like to be kneed in the balls in real life, and I've never felt or done many of the typical male bloke things. I will never be a bloke. Transgender will never be female. And furries will never be three tailed oversexed purple animals. Just. Get. Over. It. This doesn't make me an unaccepting bitch, this makes me a person who isn't just putting my fingers into my ears, shutting my eyes and singing "lalalalala I will believe whatever you tell me and deny what's right in front of my face because it will make you feel better."
- I am phasing out my time on Alt. I'm tired of the fake and the bullshit. I'm bone weary of winks and unwanted emails from people who can't read a profile, of trying to talk myself into meeting people I'm not actually remotely interested in, and always falling short of some dreamy ideal in a submissive's head. I'm hanging out more with mates of mine in real life who don't do labels, and they just do what they do because they enjoy it. They don't feel the need to make it sound like some sort of spiritual consciousness opening thing; they just DO it. It's tribe, and I'm all about that. Most of all, it's real. And real is what I'm about.
- There's a lot I want to do this year. Dance and jewelry and fire and weird hair and art and creativity and fun and laugh and eat and sleep and shag and giggle and enjoy myself. If you don't want to do that with me - now is the time for you to say your goodbyes. Miserable people are off my list. For my health, sanity, and own sake, I'm kickin' it with people who want to reach, not wallow. That's just the way it's got to be. Reach with me, or go back to wallow. That's the way of't.
So yeah...all that. And more, but I've been up since 4 am and a sistah is tired.
Sleep good.
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The irony isn't lost on me
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Feb 13, 2007 11:42 pm
2262 Views
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Since me and the hubby are patching things up, the irony isn't lost on me; it's Valentine's Day and he's now in Amsterdam on a two year contract, and not here. Actually, for me it works out pretty well as I've rediscovered my love of personal space and the distance gives me the breathing room I need when he's gone. He has a few playmates in Amsterdam and I'm fine with that - as much as I may desire doing certain BDSM activities, energy is still reserved for sproggo. I refuse to use the term "vanilla". It's derogatory and it's bullshit - I'm just as kinky whether I'm using proper terminology or not, say thankya.
My husband has always been a fellow to do things just because. Flowers on my desk at work, or bringing home treats and takeaway, fine wines, or footrubs. Partly because he was my 24/7 submissive, but mostly as serving me gives him joy, and of course I won't bitch to receive. I seriously had a hard time dating when we were split up because that seemed so rare. I mean, REALLY rare. Even buying me dinner on a date out seemed to be asking too much. Excuse me? What's all that about? I never quite understood the jealous looks from other women at work and their sniffy "My husband NEVER buys me flowers" until I re entered the dating market and realised men really just do NOT do that shit once they feel they're in there. What rubbish.
I trained my submissive properly, y0. But I guess it helps he's actually submissive and not just wearing a role to get his rocks off.
We had our Valentine's celebration/anniversary last weekend, In Whiche he spent a copious amount of cash of fancy chocolates, wines, new bedsheets for our bed as we slept together for the first time in a year (mmmmm, Egyptian cotton, mmmmm, silk, mmmmMMmmmm, hard shags and backrubs and paracetamol afterwards with snuggly bits). Flowers were purchased and takeaway ordered and consumed. The pricetag was much more than we've spent in a long time, but it wasn't once-a-year specific. He always did that sort of thing back in the day. And I never took it for granted as I know just how rare it is to be shown that kind of devotion, as sad as that is.
So today, I won't be grousing against the commercialism/capitalism etc and so on. You shop at a supermarket, don't you? Then you support The Man daily, say sorry - hiding your own miserable nature behind anti-capitalist views is bullshit (and believe me I ain't digging the Ticky Tacky, but let's call it like it is). And since my husband isn't here in body, but is in spirit, I'm going downtown. I'm withdrawing the extra money he just transferred to my account (under HIS insistence, not mine), and I'm buying myself some flowers. I'm getting my son a Valentine's Day biscuit from the local bakery - the BIG ones loaded with frosting - and I may even stop at one of the tea rooms, where they use real china and have all sorts of delightful treats served on silver services, and treat myself to a cream tea.
"Do everything smiling," he said. "Because today I'm smiling too.
"Oh, and the divorce paperwork is in the room I was using. Please just leave it there. When I get home this weekend, we're going to burn it. Together. Okay?"
Okay.
So, I'm gonna do that.
And if any of y'all are alone today, then I give you my permission to go and treat yourself rather than wallow. Take the day as a reminder to love yourself. And sometimes, people need that.
Just try and make it more than one goddamn day, yeah?
I'll attempt the same.
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Old School Stealth-Perv
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Feb 12, 2007 11:01 am
2325 Views
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I've been chewed over the weekend. Considerably chewed in rather obvious places. Amusing certainly, but not something I need to be walking about with in public.
Now, I took some lessons in smutty from a few friends over the years, and these sistahs knew their way around a hickey and all sorts of other ways of concealing obvious marks of debauch.
So I broke out the old toothpaste and a hot pack and got to work. You can laugh...but it works. I have no idea why, probably peppermint oil in toothpaste, or menthol or some damn thing. Once of these days I'll break it down. But slather some toothpaste over a hickey or bruise, soak a cloth in water as hot as you can stand, and place on top of the toothpaste and give it about ten minutes. Bruising significantly diminshed. No, I'm not just telling you this to see if you're dumb enough to try it. It actually works.
I wonder if any of the toothpaste companies know of their product's ability to hide considerable amounts of bruising through play or enjoyment. Honestly, I imagine it would probably become quite the sales angle.
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