Time, place, people, things, and love

Just a couple of generations ago, a man here in the States romanced and later married the girl next door, and he stayed married. He got a job in the same field most of the other men in his family were in, and he raised his children in his home-town, where they grew up surrounded by cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. He went to church, paid his tithes, went out once a week with the guys. He worked hard, provided for his children, avoided excess, and saved for retirement. And his life was set up such that he felt it was necessary to be a better man than his father was, and provide a better life for his children than he had.

Today, most men can't remember the name of the girl next door, probably because there were so many of them...ours is such a mobile society. Instead of romance and courtships, he substitutes a quickie with a woman he met in a bar, or on a plane, or at one of his kids' Little League games. Children grow up isolated from their extended family. Radio, television, and political personalities are the high priests of our society, and Truth is the sacrifical lamb they offer upon the altar of Reality TV. The suffering of others has become our entertainment, covetousness and excess are customary, and financial planning typically involves buying a lotto ticket. And today, men wish they were half the men their fathers were, feeling diminished because they and their wives have to work like dogs in order to provide that mythical 'better life' for their children.


And where once we loved people and used things,
Today, we love things and use people.

The last weekend in April

Yesterday morning was glorious. The sun was golden and liquid with warmth. I weeded the flowerbeds, enjoying the pull in my hamstrings and my low back. Afterwards, I followed the trail down to the river, followed the Clackamas to where it meets the Willamette, found families picnicing and children playing. I walked farther down along the river, to the community gardens. People were working in it, some industriously, some languidly, planting tomatoes and bell peppers and summer squash, while others cut spring flowers: tulips and daffodils, mainly.

I stopped to watch a soccer match for a bit. And then the wind changed, it picked up, and the sky started to darken. I had left the house without so much as a windbreaker, and the storm was blowing in fierce. It was raining before I got indoors. I showered to warm up, then chatted for a bit online. The storm blew for quite a while, downing several trees, one of which took out the power for a couple of hours. Me being such a carnal wench, it does not take much imagination to predict what I did with my time ;)

When I got up this morning, I went out for a walk, and I found the tree responsible for the outtage, I think. There were several mallard ducks camped out nearby. Its branches are now shelter and its leaves food.

The golf course was dreamy in the mist, a carpet of vivid greens. I wanted to slip off my Keens and walk barefoot on it. Such a wonderful borrowed landscape... all that expance of perfect lawn punctuated with lovely trees, none of which I have to tend myself. Sweet! Yesterday morning the golfers were out quite early, but today, they are still in bed, I think. Most of them don't wear golfing sandals (like I do) and I expect they will wait until the sun burns off most of the dew so they don't get their feet too wet.

By 6:15am there were quite a few fishermen out with their boats parked where the Willamette and Clackamas meet. It is the Spring salmon run. A few late-comers disturbed the peace of the morning, their trolling motors almost obsenely loud. The mist clung close to the river, which was as silvery and reflective as mercury. The air itself had a silvery-white cast, like platinum, and it was moist, and thick with the scents of Spring.

I watched the ducks for a while, and listened to the birds. The birdsong is amazing this morning, and as I followed the trail back up to my place and entered that hall of trees, their chirping became an orchestra that filled me wih exuberance. As always, I am awed by the beauty around me. I love living here. I love being so alive!

Pussy

It is perhaps 5:30 in the morning, on Satuday. The sky is brightening outside my window.

I awakened to the feel of the cat I am cat-sitting drapped across my chest, her tail tickling my clavicle and her paws kneading my mound. I stroked her fur, so soft, and she began kneading in earnest, which was fine, except that her claws started to dig in to the blanket atop my mound. I was worried her little sharp nails might prick something I didn't want her to, so I gently, very gently moved her off to the side.

There are parts of me I won't risk damage to.

penjing

The Chinese aristocracy was the first to create 'artistic' potted plants, called penjing. The Japanese then perfected the penjing concept, creating the bonsai artform. There is debate among some as to which is truly the art, penjing, or bonsai. Penjing has no rules. Supposedly, the person training the plant trains it to resonate with something within themselves. The Japanese approach is very disciplined, following specific rules. Most people do not notice the difference between penjing and bonsai, but I do. Bonsai are very sculpural, very contained, very balanced in their symmetry/asymmetry. Penjing are almost exhuberant in comparison. They are 'imperfect'--they look more, well, natural. There are times I am more drawn to bonsai, others times, to penjing. Below is one of the penjing from my visit to the Chinese Garden this weekend. The background is an outdoor 'room' with wooden panels inscribed with chinese characters.

I am fortunate

In the midst of one of the most agonizing conversations of my life, I had a moment of clarity, a moment of enlightenment. This moment may or may not have lasting effects, but it has filled me with a sense of wonder that has persisted for 24 hours. I should be devestated. I should be overwhelmed with feelings of loss and fear of the responsibility I have accepted. And while I do feel those things, the sense of wonder is far more encompassing.

Today, I went again to the Chinese Garden. I had tea outside, in the sun. I watched leaf-shadows dancing in the breeze, and raised my face to the sun, feeling its kiss upon my eyelids. The light was amazing, the colours of my world were perfectly balanced. In the midst of people, I strolled the garden, contemplative, meditative, at peace.

I came upon a side path strewn with petals and leaves, the vegetation lining it contrasting so invitingly against the stark white walls. I did not know where that path leads. I still do not know what is beyond that corner. But I have stepped fearlessly onto the flagstone, with wonder in my heart.

Lean me.. (a fleeting fantasy)

Lean me over this desk. Watch the bamboo sway in the breeze and my hips compress to the time of your thrusts. Watch my breath fog in the mirror-like surface, my fingers curl around the desk's edge. Hear my moans echo in this stone-walled room, soft at first and then more urgent as my breath is expelled by the force of your body driving into mine. Smell the rain outside, and the faint scent of my sex, yes, my sex and yours, comingled. Feel the satin skin of my ass under your hands, soft, soft, and pebbled by the cold air. Feel it give under the punishing pressure of your fingers as you approach your pinnacle. Listen, lover. Listen to our cries complete the curve of the day, in harmony with nature, yin and yang.

Writing about fucking

A fellow writer at Literotica asked me to read and give feedback on his stories. And so I did. One was excellent, one was very good, one was better than average. When he wrote me back, thanking me for my comments, he said something that sparked a response in me. He said:

I am not interested in writing about fucking. The role that sex plays in who we are, who we think we are, who we want to be - these are the issues that intrigue me. A natural and instictive act that some take as a mere matter of pleasure is so much more critical and powerful in terms of our self image. Hell, our very survival.

To which I responded, in a rather lengthy email as follows:

Sex. It is central to our lives because it is as fundamental a compulsion as the need to eat, or piss, or think. We are programmed to need it, because it is how we perpetuate our species. But we are also addicted to it because it feels so damned good. Its the pleasure principle.

I am polyamorous by nature and nurture--I grew up on a hippie commune of sorts and had no idea that for most people 'marriage' meant monogamy--in childhood it was not uncommon for me to see my parents in bed with someone else, or with multiple partners. Thus the possessive exclusivity of monogamous marriage is something that I neither understand, nor tolerate. I have never married, and doubt I ever will.

Men like the idea of me, or women like me, but the reality makes them doubt their manhood. I am neither insatiable nor promiscuous, but I am sensually aware of nearly every moment--and since most people do not understand the difference between sensual and sexual--eventually my partners awaken to an ego-involved realization that they are not 'enough' for me, and not only that, but something deep inside them wanted to be the one who could be. And so it goes.

Thus, my perception of sexuality is not only skewed for a member of my society, but also skewed for a woman. I like sex. I am unashamedly carnal. I like spending hours in bed with my lover, exploring each other, driving each other, attentive to the moment and his or her needs as they arise. I like going on walks, leaning over a park bench, and asking my lover to fuck me hard and fast, before someone comes along. I love being bound, I love the feel of a cock in my mouth and the scent of ball musk. I love sucking pussy, the feel of a woman's thighs pressed against my cheeks, the sound of moans erupting from her. I love the feel of a cock sliding in and out of my ass while I'm riding the magic wand on my clit. I love speeding down the highway with my lover in the driver's seat and me with my feet up on the dash, playing with myself, perfuming the air with my scent and my cries... and then switching, me driving while he uses my vibrator on his cock, talking to him, egging him on toward orgasm, and all the while, people in their SUV's and trucks looking on, eyes wide, silly grins on their faces, passing us with a thumbs up in their rear-view mirrors.

I am not twisted up about sex like most people, obviously. And so I can write about it with child-like enthusiasm and delight--with the same delight most people wish they could experience. And that is the need I feed with my stories... the need for pure sensuality and joy in one's sensual self. Do I write just about fucking? I think so. I create the setting, and then I write, as evocatively as possible, about the actions, the sensations, the thoughts and emotions that occur between the lovers in that scene. That occur the way the should occur--and would--if our thoughts and fears and egos and socialization did not get in the way.

I wonder if he will understand what I mean?

Simone de Beauvoir and me

A friend compared me to Simone de Beauvoir.

Who is Simone de Beauvoir? I knew of her vaguely as a feminist and philosopher, but not with any direct experience of her work. So when he called me his Simone de Beauvoir, my curiosity was piqued. I did some research, and as a consequence of that research, asked myself the following questions, and determined the similarities and differences between us.

I wonder, does he call me Simone because of my sexuality? My fondness for triads, my bi-sexuality, my conviction that monofidelity is unnatural? On the surface, it would seem she and I are similar in these ways, but upon a deeper examination of her life and writings, I can only conclude that our approaches to sexuality were very different.

What I know of her indicates that her licentiousness was driven by her circumstances: she was in love with a little troll of a man (Sartre) who was questionably her intellectual and philosophical equal (I think she was his superior in these areas), a man whose interest in sex was so centered on conquest that he had no interest whatsoever in his partner's pleasure. Simone de Beauvoir never had an orgasm with Jean Paul Sartre. Her first orgasm with a man occured while visiting the States, when she was nearly 40. Her love-life was driven by her complex relationship with Sartre, who was a strerotypical Frenchman--the quintessential seducer. She seduced teenaged girls, her students, young women who were disadvantaged or orphaned. They often shared these women, or took as lovers the siblings of each other's paramours, and spoke cattily to each other of these others, even while speaking words of love to their faces. Theirs was an epic half-century love affair, but it was not a positive one, and it is not one I would care to emulate.

I wonder, does he call me Simone because of my focus on the sensual immediacy of living? She wrote entirely from what is called 'lived experience'. She seemed to live in the moment, but I do not find in her work a true appreciation of the sensual, rather, she seems to focus on the indisputable reality of her experience as a vehicle for advancing her personal philosophies regarding freedom and power.

And what of those philosophies? Is my own philosophical stance similar to hers? Is that why he calls me Simone? I never took a course in phenomenology or existentialism, never read nor received mentoring or instruction with regards Sartre, Husserl or Heidegger--each of whom were highly influential to her. In fact, until my friend called me his Simone de Beauvoir, I'd never read anything by her, either. A shameful thing, I suppose, seeing as some of her works are considered feminist classics and I attended a women's college. But there it is. I've had no formal education or introduction to her views or those of her contemporaries, so I cannot speak with authority on them.

I can only state my own: that, with regards to religion, I think that all true belief-systems lead to the same place and thus each are equally valid. With regards to love, I think we should be free to love whomever we wish. With regards to sex, I believe that the creation of monogamy and its regulation, first by religious bodies and later by society, has devalued the sensual and perverted the erotic. With regards to gender, I believe that men fear women, have always feared women, first because we embodied the once-mysterious generative process required for procreation, and later because we were capable of controlling them via the pleasures of sexual intercourse. I have long understood that if one controls a person's pleasure or pain, one also controls him or her. This premise (or law) is the coinage in sexual power-exchanges, and is clearly acknowledged by those who are active in BDSM . Indulging or withholding sex, one way or another, a woman controls a man -- and men feared that power over them so strongly that they considered it magical or demonic and set about disempowering and then exploiting women.

Simone was a woman who flaunted the moral rules and social roles assigned to women as a result of thousands of years of domination and violence. In fact, she refused to be complicit in her own subjugation, and perhaps, in this, we are alike. She insisted that as a woman she should be free: free to vote, free to earn a living, free of dependence upon men, free of the passive role society created for women, free to experience and explore the world. But for all her personal philosophies and insistence that she was free, she was still influenced by her own social conditioning with regards to love. She could not have the man she wanted all to herself, so she had him in her life the only way she could keep him there, and she mimicked his sexual aggressiveness as a way to either prove her sexual and emotional independence, or as a way to get back at him for his disinterest in both monogamy and pleasing her sexually.

I am a woman who is very conscious of convention, who pays lip-service to it in my public life, but privately leads a very different life, and in this, she and I are very different. Some might think it is a lack of courage that prevents me from putting myself out there, flaunting my sexuality and my compelling hedonistic beliefs, from carrying forward the feminist agenda to undermine the societal strictures that continue to keep women passive and objectified. But the truth is, it is consideration. To get in society's face and demand recognition of my freedom in all areas-- intellectual, economic, religious, reproductive, and sexual-- without compassionate regard for the humanity (and sensibilities) of others is, well, unethical and objectionable.

Not all revolutions are of necessity violent ones. Mine is a silken one. I hope to live my life with integrity, to embody my values and beliefs, and in doing so, create my own sphere of change and progress. Unlike Simone de Beauvoir, I do not feel that I need to prove anything to the world, to my society, or to the love of my life; nor am I driven to say or do things that are hurtful to others--I do not need to prove my equality with men by taking advantage of young women and men ignorant of my agenda.

No matter what others think, the only one whose opinion of and evaluation of my life that truly matters--is mine. No matter who I take as a lover, I am acutely aware that when I close my eyes to sleep at night, I am the one who has to sleep with me. And at the end of my life, people will not read things about thesmelves in posthumously published works that generate feelings of dismay and usury. Unlike Simone de Beauvoir.

No. I am no Simone de Beauvior. I am me.

But after eliminating all this, the question still remains... Why does he call me Simone?

Recumbent

This deserves a caption, but I cannot find the words. In this case, the image speaks for itself.

A bath worthy of a Sybarite

My dream bath.

When I build my house, I will have a separate bath house. It will be a a place apart from the rest of reality, that opens up to nature, and yet is private. There is something about the japanese bathing ritual that is very relaxing. Shower to rinse off. Enter the tub and soak for a few minutes. Return to the shower area and sit upon the little stool. Soap up and scrub down. Scoop warm water from the tub with the bucket and pour it over your head, rising off. Re-enter the pool and soak for as long as desired, until you are limp as an udon noodle, if you wish. Leave the pool, towel off, put on a yukata, and take tea in the garden, your body radiating heat.

This ritual is simple and beautiful. It is elegant and calming to the soul. It is ultimately a most sensual experience.

Sunday is sensually satisfying day.

I spent Sunday afternoon at the Chinese garden. I took so many photos. It is such a lovely place, an island of scented serenity in the midst of skyscrapers. It was overcast, but I did not mind, it gave the garden a dreamy quality, especially when it started to rain softly. Afterwards, we went for dim sum, then I drove to the Pix Patisserie for a chocolate orgasm. Yum. All in all a very sybaritic and sensually satisfying day.

Exquisite morning

I was stunned when I went to make coffee this morning.

I looked out one of the windows overlooking the golf course and fell in-love: the sky is silver, and there is a fine drizzle-rain falling. Diamond-like droplets of water tremble on the leaves of the black bamboo and the grass is glowing the most incredible green, as if the light illuminating it was coming from below.

There is something about the rain here, it drenches my soul and makes me feel renewed.

I couldn't stay inside. I slipped on a robe and went out onto the patio, sipped my coffee and listened to the memory of last night's blues band while breathing in that wonderful air scented with springtime.

Ou-Yang Hsiu

A shudder of love for him
and no way to show it.
She worries and worries,
and finds her heart unchanged:
over and over when she sleeps
the butterfly's imprisoned in her dreams

Doing the right thing versus doing what makes you happy

So this friend of mine since college, this brilliant programmer who writes books for the dot.NET platform, etc, he's feeling guilty. He found a dream job, and took it, and now he is moving his family across country and he's having trouble reconsiling the joy he feels at finally getting to do what he wants to do, and the guilt of pursuing doing what makes him happy. Poor man.

I responded to him as follows:
Sybarite: Do what makes you happy, and it will be good.
Dotnet: I've lived a life where satisfying myself had negative connotations, made me feel dirty and guilty, and was something to be avoided. Its hard doing something so big that I want SO much.
Sybarite: I hear you on that.
Dotnet: But I'm enjoying the new "make me happy' thing.
Sybarite: I'm so happy for you!
Dotnet: I'm happy for me too, but its hard. Every time I buy something for myself, or do something purely for the sake of making me happy - a childhood of catholic "thou must be poor and love it" guilt comes flowing over me
Suybarite: Guilt is self-flagellation. And my opnion is that that Church has it all wrong. Self-denial in this life in the hopes that you will be rewarded in the next life is bunk. Its a remnant of the feudal era, in which reconsiling the poor to their lot was essential for maintaining control of the masses.
Sybarite: We are given this life, these abilities, these senses, and in my belief, it is an insult to God not live life fully, not to become everything you can, and not to enjoy the world through the body and senses we have been given. Pleasure and Happiness are the ultimate good. They are the fruit and goal of living, and striving for happinees and enjoying life is the only worship you can direct toward 'God' that truly means anything... Because you are appreciating what God made by using what God gave you.
Sybarite: So there!
Dotnet: I couldn't agree with you more.
Sybarite: Breathe. It will work out.
Dotnet: I know it will
Sybarite: Then stop getting in your own way. Just step aside and let it flow...
Dotnet: I just don't like giving control of my happiness to outside factors
Dotnet: You'll have to show me some of your erotic relaxation techniques to show me how ;)
Sybarite: I recommend frequent masturbation. Veeeery relaxing.

Best SMS messages this week

Earlier this week I had a tiff with my friend MR and the next day he sent me the following SMS messages on my cell phone:

Ever wonder why 'submission' has two very different definitions?

So if I ask you for your erotic submission can I get it in writing?

I read it at work and laughed so loudly someone stopped by my desk wondering what was so funny.

Meditating

copyright retained by the photographer (KR)
For most people the word meditation conjures up visions of emaciated monks in scarlet and saffron robes sitting lotus on cushions, chanting amidst clouds of temple incense. To all appearances it is some obscure spiritual and otherworldly practice with no practical application in the Real World(tm). But this appearance is deceptive. While meditation is an integral part of many spiritual practices, it is also part of the daily routines of millions of regular (non-clerical) people. Meditation is a way to consistantly achieve a mental state that many of us experience in other ways. When I meditate, I recognize the state of 'just being' as the same I used to notice every once in a while when I'd be at the beach watching the waves, or sitting at the fireplace watching the flames, or when I was doing something rhythmic and physical, like cycling, mopping the floor, or scrubbing a pot. Meditation helps to tame the restless animal of the mind, not by being ruthless, but by gently prodding it back on track, guiding it back to the center, to stillness. It is a wonderful way to experience Calm.

There are of course, different types or schools of meditation. There is mantra and breath meditation, where you focus on breathing or on a word or phrase and clear the mind of everything else, seeking a state of calmness and no-thought. This was the type of meditation I learned when I was 19, at massage school. A friend of mine recommended vipassana meditation, he said it had been very useful to him in recovering from what we euphamistically call a 'nervous breakdown', and he still practices it today. So, I've been learning this 'mindfulness' or 'insight' meditation, which, hmm, rather than focussing on 'no-thought', focusses on bringing a non-judgemental, accepting attentiveness to our awareness of each moment, each thought, each sensory input. I find it a very useful practice when I am in therapy... it allows me to turn a more compassionate, less attached attention to my emotional responses, allows me to acknowledge them and let them go, rather than trying to bury or deny or struggle to find an appropriate way to express them as I had previously. Mindful meditation allows me to acknowlege my experience of both my internal and external realities and try to bring those experiences more in-line with each other, diffusing conflict and stress, relaxing me, helping me to maintain balance.

Eventually, I'd like to learn the 'walking meditation' aspect of vipassana, and from there, delve more deeply into metta (lovingkindnes) meditation. But I have enough on my plate. I have to remind myself, (gently, gently) that my inner dilettante has done a wonderful job of entertaining and distracting me all these years from the painful inner work I did not want to do, and guide myself back onto the path I have chosen for myself, the Path of Healing.

Quarry (poem)

Predator, you scent prey,
doe-eyed quarry strolling meditatively,
musing upon the cud of her thoughts
Prowling behind, your covetous eyes follow
the languid shift of muscles under skin
the color of milky quartz, lucent
within the praying hunter's reach
Your fingers curl, longing to reap a harvest
of agonized cries and pleasured moans
To draw nourishment from the flesh
of the doe-eyed one whose heart
resembles uncut stone,
If you can

Sculptor, you surely pray,
you could make of your cock a chisel,
of your body a hammer, pounding,
Splitting stone from the doe-eyed quarry
walls pitted with scars from picks and rails
Acts of violence necessary to elevate
the heart of stone, inviolate
to the rim, within the preying artist's reach
Your fingers curl 'round rasp and burr
eager to harvest dust and chips
To carve your dream from the living flesh
of the uncut stone,
If you can

Lover, preying, praying
your fingers explore the quarry's mossy ledge
seeking the shaded twilight depths
of the woman-shaped canyon
flooded with nectar for which you thirst
Soul saturated with esurience,
tongue craving the taste of sunbeams enfleshed
Will you assault it with your tools, attempt
to conquer and shape the stone like so much clay
Or will you drive, sleek and fine,
into the quarry pond, hoping to surface,
spent, upon the shore of your desire,
If you can
(-K.R)

Idiot parents and the sexualization of children

Rant Part One - click to play

JL sent me an IMDB link to read about the movie My Life as a Dog, which I have not seen, but which he, being Swedish and a thus countryman of the filmmaker, likes rather a lot. I read the reviews and then read the discussion board ( http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089606/board/nest/7553096) on it.

The discussion there was lively and interesting, the respondents being a cross-section of the world: european, american, asian.

This is my response to the child-nudity / child-sexualization issues voiced on that board:

We should recognize that children are very sensual creatures. They have such delight in all of their senses: touching things, tasting things, pressing their faces to things that smell good, transfixed by sights and sounds. They also touch themselves, without shame, enjoying the way it makes them feel. It is not until someone slaps their hands and tells them it is dirty or wrong that the seeds of repression and obsession are sown, proceeding hand-in-hand through their adult lives.

We also need to be aware that it is only very recently (since Freud) that the Western World recognized 'childhood', or that their status as children conferred any need to respect their sexual innocence. Prior to that, they were treated as little adults, often dressed just like them, and given as much adult responsibility as they could handle.

That we have evolved as a world community to try to allow children to mature psychologically as well as physically before they become sexually active does not deny the biological imperative that exists in our species: if she is big enough, she must be old enough.

In both Eastern and Western cultures, females were transferred to an interested male as soon as she was nubile. The social reasons varied, but basically, as soon as she was sexually curious and breedable, she was put out of the reach of the males of her family -- it has long been understood that interbreeding creates deformed offspring. Not a hundred years ago in the US it was common for a girl to be married at 13. She had a many pregnancies, was old and grey by 18, and often died in childbirth well before she was 21. Presently in Africa, mothers are hiding daughters over age 9, often trying to pass them off as boys, to save them from marauding males infected with HIV, who think the cure for AIDS is to claim a virgin.

Rant Part Two - click to play

What I am getting at is this: It is very natural, very human, very much a part of our biology and evolution, for males of any age to look at very young women, even pre-teen girls, and desire them.

Thus, parents who permit the premature sexualization of their daughters along the lines of the fashion and pop cultures, allowing them to wear skimpy, sexual clothes and behave like adults, while at the same time covering their children's eyes and exclaiming in horror over child nudity and the risk of exploitation are the worst sort of hypocrites. They endanger their daughters because they believe an appeal to reason and morality should save their children from biological drives, both their own and those of the people around them. It hasn't, it doesn't and it won't. I could say to these people "Believe me -- I'm speaking from experience" but I doubt they would listen.

Flowering tree out my window

View from my living room window this misty morning

Buddha shadows

copyright retained by photographer (KR)

I went on a naked cleaning spree today, probably out of sexual frustation. Aunt Flow is visiting. Cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed, and was in the foyer sweeping the floor when I saw the Buddha shadow on the wall. I dropped the broom (on my toe) and ran to get my camera. I snapped several photos. I like this one best.