A New Name For Everything

I went to Chicago: Woot. This happened.

Monday, I go to DK again. Also woot. Travel=awesome. Now I just need some cash.

If all my orgasms could unite, they would start a revolution. They would march with picket signs catching in the air, their list of demands in bold, black ink. They would pass out bumper stickers to passer-bys with mottos like “To the left.” And “Mind the gap”

If my orgasms could unite they would go on strike in their frustration. No more elevator hold music guiding the hands of my generation. No more 9-5 back pain computer screen illumination. Perfected posture would undergo complete elimination. If my orgasms could unite they would take the rhyme out of poetry and the Master out of masturbation.

My mother used to flash her words in the silence of the hallway and she’d shake her finger like broken the arm of a clock beating itself up against a wall. “Focus on the vernacular” she’d say “leave men coming back for more.” And like so many things my mother’s spoken, I disagree. When I’d complain that my breasts were too small to ever be loved by anyone my mother would say “all you need is a handful.”

But you were greedy. You had both hands in the candy bucket with no costume to speak of. You wanted more than your tired arms could carry. You cut the ribbon too early that I let the straps hang so low you could read my spine from the doorway. At 11:57 I told you I loved you and at 11:58 you unzipped your jeans, forced me to my knees and said “Bitch, prove it.”

But the propaganda distributed by my orgasms tells me this is revolution, not a debate match, and the only thing I need to prove is that even when I’m breaking your heart I can still fuck like a tease.

A man once told me “you will not my gaze fine girl, for you assume I’m meeting your chest.” But I don’t need to look anyone in the eye to know where they want to place their hands. And no matter how many times you repeat the words you say, there are curves on the body that can never be felt by fingers. You eat your insults from the inside out, but your ego never starved until the day you gave up hearing.

Haven’t you heard? Even the pinkest of ears can fake the pain. Even the hardest of girls can fake her way into making you think you can work her gears. It’s engineering, not love.

But there are some things you can’t fake. No matter how much they taught you about geometry, that first condom was an arubix cube. With the dullest of scissors from those snowflake making days around a kindergarten craft table, you unwrapped and unrolled the piece of plastic. For the first time, without question, doing what you were told.

If my orgasms could unite, they wouldn’t need a megaphone, they wouldn’t need a spokesperson, or a manifesto, or a mission statement. They wouldn’t need to tell you anything. Some things are better done than said.

Now, I go back to pondering life:

The forums make me lolz with the recent emphasis on hostility in some of the posts. We’ve breeched the subjects that have been playing over in my mind the  last month or two: Submissiveness and Feminism. 

I believe that life is about choices. Life is about being able to make your own path, and though I know we all have limitations to how far and wide we can travel (finances, family obligations, etc. etc.) we in some degree still have the freedom of choice. What baffles me, honestly, is the need for people to tell other people how to live. I’m guilty of it. I’ve given advice to friends, to co-workers, to family, to aquaintances, in moments of anger to people who have pissed me off, when it hasn’t been warranted, or even wanted, let alone listened to. But I’ve never asked or expected anyone to compromise who they are in order to live life by rules that someone else has put in place.

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is it. This is what we have. As many years as you keep your body functioning, and that’s it. I don’t believe in reincarnation. I don’t believe in an after-life. I don’t believe that when you die you go anywhere but a deep, dark sleep in which you will never know the difference. Maybe that’s a sad projection of the future. Maybe that’s depressing, but I think it only encourages me more to make due with what life I DO have, because I can’t rely on the chance that something else comes next.

Do what you want. Be who you want. Contribute what you want, and hopefully, take into account that we are all living here together, and what you do effects others the same way their actions effect you. I don’t care if I sound like a girl scout with this mantra. It’s true. You really can die at any moment, and there are always going to be things on the list of should have/could have/would have, that you are never going to be able to cross off, but that doesn’t mean you can’t try.

Relationships are interesting. I’m young, I know, and that might make me naive but that at least makes me able to realize things about myself now, that I may or may not fully explore in the future, before it is so late that I give up ever caring about them for lack of time. And quite honestly. I finally know what I want, and at the same time, have no fucking idea. 

The idea of being submissive is a huge turn on for me right now. The idea of being someone’s sex toy, someone’s property, someone’s cherished possession…the idea of instilling that much trust into someone, to not having to fight over the petty things that relationships usually stumble over, to have that security blanket that you can just dive in no matter how deep the water is and you will always be able to float…the idea of that, for me, is perhaps everything it should and shouldn’t be…liberating.

Maybe it’s just a fantasy I will get bored of, if I ever do go through with it. Maybe it will consume me so much that I forget who I am. Maybe it will enthrall me so much that I can never imagine another life. Maybe I will change my mind in a week and say screw it. I’ve considered the possibilities. You have to consider the possibilities. Emotion can only take you so far. Practicality sets in, if only so that you can be prepared for the emotional states to come. 

I’m the sort of person that gives something my all. I’m also the sort of person that refuses to be walked over, that sets her foot down when something upsets me or makes me uncomfortable. I believe in compromise in relationships of any sort, if it is a means to fix what is broken, or to better the relationship in hand, but I don’t believe in compromising who you are for the sake of appeasing someone else. It’s a lie, and lying never leads to anything but hurt and pain. Even if you don’t get caught.

I’m also starting to understand the attraction and the error in monogamy. The idea of being the center of one’s man world is a prestigious position, to know you are everything that he wants. It’s also a lot of responsibility. So what about the alternative? I’m not talking about open polyamorous relationships where everyone is an equally engaged party, or discussions are held to determine where everyone fits in. I’m talking about feeling like you can invest emotion in a number of people at the same time, for different reasons. I’ve loved passionately, but sometimes, too easily, and because of that, I’m cautious. Not because I do not want to get hurt. Not that it’s ever ended in a dramatic blow up of a ruined dream, but because it’s always faded away into something else..something less appealing..something less…real. Maybe novelty plays into it. Maybe people change and with that, their emotions do as well. Maybe everything I’ve thought was ever love was really just immediate attraction to a person on so many levels that the overwhelming nature of my emotional state at the time made me believe it could be nothing less than love.

There is a man that will always claim a part of me, and if cicrumstances were different, if limitations didn’t exist, if I was more willing to give, it could be perfect. There is a man elsewhere that I could easily fall back with, that I could be better for now, that could give to me what he couldn’t give to me then. There are plenty of men that I’ve passed and have seen that look in their eye that makes me think there could be something so passionate between us, if only we would bother to stop and introduce ourselves. There is a man that is going to pick me up in an hour for beers who could be my soul mate, but I’ve already blown him off, and in my predetermined opinion, that just isn’t going to happen. There is a man that I am meeting tomorrow for coffee that seems to, on a base level, want the same things from relationships that I do. There are other men that, were the situations different, could really get to know me, and I them, and maybe it would be amazing. But this again brings us back to choices.

I keep hoping for that movie spark. I’ve had it before, but it’s always been forced. Men are easy to make fall in love with you in a single instant. You just have to be yourself, and if they don’t..it’s their loss. But instant chemistry does not a long term love affair make. Instant chemistry is novelty, and so it goes.

So I’m just rambling now, trying to sum up your entire perception of men in a random blog post is difficult. And you shouldn’t be able to. Things should be complicated. Things don’t always need to be articulated. Sometimes language fails us. And so I’ll leave it at this…if a woman has choices then she needs to be free to explore those choices to the fullest, unlimited, unbound, and with an open mind.

He sent me pictures from our talk two days ago. Bastard. No more video chat with him. I look like a porn star though in this one. I was blowing out smoke.

I just got off a skype call with one of my very best friends that has moved to the UK. He decided it would be funny to take screen shots of the video chat, and afterwards he sent me some of the ridiculous facial expressions I make when conversing. No wonder I scare off strangers!

Apparently I also threaten to shoot people!

Gah, I can only imagine my drunken rants to people. It’s sort of funny to see what you look like when you are caught up in what you are saying.

Speaking of things that could cause death, yesterday I was in one of those car accidents you see in the movies, where an SUV comes at you head on, your friend swerves to miss them which subsequently leads to said SUV slamming into the passenger side and tossing your car over the failed attempt at a guard rail, flipping you over a ledge, and the car lands belly up and you dangle from your seat belt trying to figure out what the fuck just happened, until you pry open the door and tumble into the snow. Yeah, we are alright, my friend’s leg is broken, and I was mostly just in shock with some minor whip lash. But seriously, crazy. And to top it off the car sped off, and the police called and found it abandoned, and a few days ago it had been reported stolen. Damn hummers. If it had been a geo or a smart car we would have lost a headlight, or the door would have been broken. But so it goes.

I’m coming to some conclusions. I never meant for this blog to be a totally open venue for my emotions. I usually keep those locked away unless engaging in personal conversations, not posting them for the entire internet world to stumble upon. But I’m starting to consider my time RPing in Gor….and what I’ve learned from it.

I think I have submissive tendencies in my real life being. In the person behind Cortez and Asneth. And not just submissive tendencies, but a curiosity enough to want to perhaps consider a lifestyle that at least takes these Gorean ideals into consideration. No, I’m not ready to leave my entire life for anyone and move across the country, or an ocean, to live out a fantasy world as someone’s slave. But I’m tired of having the upper-hand in relationships. I’m tired of dating ‘boys’ and not men. I want to eventually be able to pour all of my trust so far into someone else’s hands that I don’t even have to worry about it anymore. Maybe this is what I consider being owned. And maybe the dominant tinge is just a way for me to view giving up responsibility. I want to be wanted, not needed. I want to experience that level of intimacy and trust….I’m not sure……..there is just something clearly missing.

I used to have these conservative notions of anyone that would even consider living this sort of lifestyle. BDSM? Those crazy, perverted freaks! Certainly anyone engaging in that is just asking to meet a psycho and get their limbs sliced apart inch by inch. A real life slave?? No way, giving up every right you’ve ever had just so some man can rock his socks off thinking about you?

But what I’m learning…what you all have already begun to realize, is that such ideas are falsely based, and there is obviously so much MORE to all of this. I’m not entirely certain of what my expectations are, but it feels good to finally realize that there are things about yourself you’ve been suppressing for no other reason then that you had no idea it was natural to feel this way.

I talk with women like Kiana and Sahbra. I get nosey. I ask questions. And I realize that being submissive has nothing to do with losing a sense of who you are. And being submissive for one man does not mean you would for every man. These are two of the strongest women I know, with the clearest heads on their shoulders, and enough of a grasp over who they are to not let their emotions get the best of them. Maybe, I’m just trying to see a bit of myself in the things that they say. There are obviously reasons I’ve chosen Gor to RP in, all this time. And I guess there is a reason that I’ve refused to address those reasons as well. I’m coming out of my cage. Slowly maybe, but I’ve unlocked the door…

Every relationship you engage in…every situation you enter…if you so much as crack a window that releases some sort of emotional attachment, you might get hurt. Someone always does. But you know what? Fuck it. Life is about living, and when the pain does come, it’s about hurting so intensely to know that whatever you are hurting over was strong enough to make you hurt over it in the first place, and being thankful you had something that made you so happy, you can bleed so deeply over it.  And then, it’s about being strong enough to realize that even the darkest moments can be overcome. It’s about moving on. I am done planning for the future, preparing for the worst case scenario. From now on, I’m taking this day by day, and enjoying every moment of it.

The people I miss know that I miss them. Some things need no more explanations.

And here I am, now, and I am incredibly honored, and excited, and enthralled to have Cortez in the collar she is wearing. It’s really amazing to be happy, and to be at the start of a new journey.

Wherever this takes me, and my RP, I will cheers Elgin for it. So, bottoms up. And to all you out there that have already figured this all out, that have taken a stand over what you want out of life, relationships, and sex, and come to your own conclusions, I raise my beer to you. And yes, I know I’m lame. No one needs to remind me.

Or as they say in Danish- Skål! Bunden i vejret eller resten i håret! 

This is what I look like in the glory of a hangover. Whiskey can be cruel in its kindness.

Check out this:  beautifulagony.com .

I brought back Cortez, and it feels great. I’m learning a lot about myself.  Go figure.

And now, since my posts have been so photo heavy lately, let’s get back to the writing: This is true-ish.

Bob Dylan once played a sold-out concert to 500 fans in Christiana’s Grey Hall, a massive venue with a low stage on the side and a long, beer-stocked bar lining the back wall. He thrusted himself into his music for over three continuous hours, to a standing crowd of grey-haired hippies who had followed his career since he took the name “Dylan.”  He played for them, the fans born of his own generation, and the numerous clusters of fans from every generation thereafter that were scattered amongst the audience.

He performed his classics. His brow coated in sweat as he strummed the final chord of “Like A Rolling Stone.” Teenagers lifted their beers in one hand, and lighters in other as the lights dimmed and they swayed to “Blowin’ in the Wind.” “The audience passed hash joints around the large room that was once the building in which the Danish cavalry trained its horses.

They stomped the soles of the shoes against the stone floor in rhythm with “All Along the Watchtower” and watched as their puffs of smoke released and rose into the foggy air hovering in a dense cloud beneath the high ceiling. In their best American accents and Dylan-esque twang, they tried to sing along, each priding themselves in the belief they knew the lyrics better than the friends they stood beside.

As he spit into his microphone, wiping the dripping sweat from his forehead with the back of a wrinkling hand, his raspy voice resonated against the aged, concrete walls. His words bounced off the stone rafters in the center of the room that supported the roof from caving onto the ground.

He introduced his fans, most of which were residents of Christiania, which had long idolized Dylan as not only a talented musician, but also a spokesman for love and peace, to a series of songs they’d never heard. And many watched, their eyes glossed in humbling tears, in disbelief that this god had descended upon them and was only the length of an arm or two away.

They hushed as he lightly plucked away to “Ring them Bells.” They held their breaths as if even the slightest of sounds might disrupt the ballad.

And as the show finally ended, Dylan’s guitar set aside, his voice crackling a “Thank you” through the microphone, he licked his lips. Certain, was the crowd, that he was ready for a drink.

When the lights flickered on, and their eyes adjusted to the renewed brightness of the room, the crowd remained, refusing to belief they would hear no more from the man. They hoped he might return for an encore, despite the already exaggerated length of the concert. They began to mingle about the show, commenting on which song was their favorite, and why.

Some argued Dylan appeared far too old for his 62 years. Other’s smirked, firmly stating that Dylan looked the same as he did when they’d seen him in his youth. Some growled, irritated he’d not performed their favorite songs, as if he had done so out of spite. Others were shocked, for they never knew he had so many numbers they’d never heard before. Many slipped outside for a cigarette, to continue their conversations away from the swell of the echoing hall.

As the crowd continued to review the show, Dylan left the empty stage, sneaking out the hall’s back door. He quickly wandered across the yard towards the watering hole of Christiania, a small bar of painted red wood, named Woodstock. He’d managed to beat the crowd from the concert, which would soon find their way there in disappointment that Dylan had not returned to surprise them with another spurt of music.

He wove his way around the bar’s regulars—a stubby Greenlandic woman in broken glasses dancing in the center of the room to the blare of The Rolling Stones over the jukebox. Her friends, a group of more slender Greenlandic women standing awkwardly in the center of the room combing their dark tresses and blowing kisses to the woman who danced.

 A few men lifted their heads from their drunken slumps upon the picnic tables inside the bar, pointing to Dylan as if they should recognize him. Or perhaps, as if he seemed incredibly out of place, standing, so frail and alone. Dylan leaned over the bar, yelling his order to the middle-aged blonde behind it. Her hair was pulled back tightly in a ponytail, though she brushed her face as if a strand was loosely out of place and blocking her vision. She then wiped her hands on her red t-shirt, flaring her nostrils and demanding, in Danish, that he speak louder.

“I don’t understand?” He said again, his palm cupped over his mouth to project his tired voice.

“What do you want?” She said finally, in the language he understood.

“A Manhattan.” He ordered again, as his eyes skimmed the shelves behind her. There was a cooler of various Danish beer and a few half-empty bottles of rum and whiskey scattered along the wall, as well as Danish liquors he did not recognize.

“A what?” She looked confused.

“A Manhattan” He repeated his order and began to point to various things behind her as he explained how the drink was made.

But she cut him off before he could complete the recipe.

“We don’t make drinks like that here. This is Woodstock” She scoffed, exhausted from a long day’s work. She had been at the bar, on her feet, since it’s opening at 6 am, and that was 17 hours ago.

He argued that any bar should be able to make any drink. She shook her head, frustrated with this insolent American, and after the bantering had bore her, she flicked open the small door that kept the bar separate from where its patrons were seated, stepping towards him in flurry. She placed her hands upon his back and scooted him out Woodstock’s open door, and down the ramp that lead from its porch.

“You want a drink like that, you’re not going to find it here. We drink real drinks here. This is Christiania,” she said, stomping on the soil.  And this “she gestured harshly behind her with a waving finger  “is Woodstock!” She grunted and pointed him towards the street.

Perhaps she hadn’t known whom he was, a king amongst kings in a village that held no throne. Perhaps she was one of the few in Christiania who found Dylan to be overrated: a mediocre folk-singer unworthy of such praise and admiration. Perhaps she simply had been trying to make a point.

Whatever her reasoning, her actions were enough to turn Dylan away in dismay, and he returned to the Grey Hall, where the crowd had been already been ushered out. In silence, he gathered his belongings in the eerie, vacant hall with only the janitor sweeping the littered joint filters into a pile, to keep him company.

            Or at least, that’s the rumor, as told so proudly, and humorously by the many who were there to witness it. Since its occurrence, a framed 8X10 photograph of Dylan’s Christiania stage show now hangs in Woodstock, on the small bit of wall between doors of the bathroom and storage closet. As men and women enter the unisex bathroom, which houses both toilets and an open urinal, they peer at the black and white image of Dylan cowering over the microphone. Many times, his songs play over the bar’s speakers, and people pick themselves up from the wooden benches of the picnic tables to move to the music….

I’ll leave it at that, for now. It goes on, and on, and on.

The pros and cons of today.

Pros!

I SOLD A PIECE OF ARTWORKZ. WOOT

Long distance phone call from Kellie!

I was reminded by friends “Whatever, U  R a woman therefore you suck for mah gurl probz” Lolz.

Dance fests!

Also chocolate soy milk, and grad school apps FTW.

What sucks– Breaking a bottle of wine on my floor, crashing on mah funny hawt RP with Elgin, my cat deciding to scratch a whole in the screen.

Yea. I am so procrastinating. Can’t you tell?

More importantly, and as is true with any adventure you make and every mouthful of air you hold and release, There is something to be learned. 

I am no philospher, and I will leave any sense of prophetic nature to those whose utterances have influenced at the level of brilliance. That have effected some small corner of the earth, or the entire regimes and theories that civilizations have based upon. And though this can be considered as advice, I’d rather claim it as a realization that has most likely been made a million times before…. 

But life, as eventful or idle as you make it, really is too short to waste on the “could have been.”

So fuck you ‘travel whore’ gene. I’d rather be in Iceland