| Every year I become less impressed with the jaded. |
[08 Dec 2009|11:44pm] |
It was gritty and intriguing when I hadn't really taken too many bites. All around me were people with hard tales and sour faces. They played hard. They cut loose to rage against the pain that was the realization that life is hard and disappointing. I had such a romantic vision of the tough exteriors that I made it a point to plunge myself into the depths of the hardest life possible. I took the biggest risks and ignored the signs of doom.
So yeah, I did it. I made myself a tough guy with a tough history, and I still relish the taste of that life. I discovered some things though. In the most desperate situations, I saw hope. In the most callous people, I found goodness and the hearts of the children from which they grew. I found fantasies and dreams in the midst of drudgery and oppression. I found happy hearts scattered amongst the lonely.
I'm not impressed with jaded souls. I don't see wisdom in pessimism. I don't see broad perspectives in those who focus on the downsides of every cycle. In fact, I see people trying to be what I was trying to be before I looked deeper than they have looked. I see clowns immersing themselves in self-invented cancers, calling out that we will see- we will see when we come to that place in the path. We will see... something. I can't quite make it out. Their voices fade the longer I walk.
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| my mother |
[09 Jan 2009|10:42pm] |
How fucking Freud is that? This isn't really about my mother. It's about habits. Some of my least favorite habits are those of which my mother is chronically guilty. Maybe it is about my mother. I'm not buying it, but there are things people see in an equation and automatically associate with a predicating state of mind. A psychological phenomenon.
Actions speak louder than words. she used to say that. I'm sure she still does. She's never been one to abandon a cliche just because she's used it millions of times over the course of decades. Actions speak louder than words. It assumes a state of mind, and I see other examples of that far too often in this world. It makes sense on the surface. You can talk about going out on the town with someone, but if you never get around to it, how much could you have really wanted it? Actions speak louder than words. Extend that reason into the realm of self pity, and not making that effort equals disdain. And hurt... if the person is hurt, that was obviously the objective. You didn't mean to hurt the person? Bullshit. Actions speak louder than words. Oh, the degrees to which I could demonstrate the folly of this nifty little bit of wisdom could bake the paint off the space shuttle.
That's just one example of a more pervasive behavior. Reading intent. Every action has a basis, and there are books that help explain this. You don't even need to ask a person why they have done or said something. There are case studies to eliminate the need for such efforts. The best part is, you can practice by applying these bits of wisdom to your own actions, and then you can apply it to the actions of others. That brings us back to actions speak louder than words. Every action has a basis... a dysfunction to fuel it. We are transparent to the most introspective among us, because they understand what prompts us to act. They can tell us more about ourselves than we can possibly see. They know our intentions, and that helps them decide how to respond. One need not respond proportionately or appropriately to an action. One shouldn't. It's the intent that deserves the stage, and it's whatever pops into your mind first that determines intent to which you react. How so efficient? It's the gift of the introspective.
What you say is not what you mean. What you do is what you mean, and what you say is a ploy to obfuscate the nature of your games. Maybe even from yourself.
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| This Winter |
[09 Jan 2009|01:36am] |
I tried something new this fall. I embraced it. All the elements were already in place. I love the colors, and nostalgia fills the places where heat resided just a few weeks before. The temprature ain't bad, and I still get the outdoor time I need. It's almost as if my waxing misery of autumns past was ill-founded. Silly, even. Year after year, the earliest part of winter is a relief. The dreary months that make winter so miserable are the ones the spring must fight for center stage. They are the months we call spring.
Still, somehow, I spend the days of fall focused on my feelings of dread of winter. I spend so much energy bracing for depression that I start to feel it before the source of my dread has even shaken out its first unpleasant wind. Why should October agitate me when December always seems so impotent?
So, this year I stopped and smelled the leaf piles, so to speak. Hey, maybe if I coast long enough, fall contentment can pass the baton to spring optimism. Even if it can't, this fall was nice. This winter, so far, has been OK too. I suppose later starts to my mornings spare me some misery, and I spend less time in the cold. Money's not as tight this year either. Maybe I just drew a good hand. I'm choosing to believe there's something else to it though. I made a conscious decision not to spend fall digging summer's grave. I think I'll wear some fall colors this weekend and go to the park. No snow angels for me, but maybe I can learn to appreciate a little gray for a bit. Green will come when it comes.
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| Criticize, but do not exclude |
[22 Nov 2008|09:23pm] |
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I believe that, if challenged, a group of intellectually leaning individuals could write persuasive essays on the value of including people who are, in their opinion, lesser minds, in the social structure of a progressive community. The benefits to be derived from listening to representatives of that larger community, and the benefits of addressing that community, could be made so persuasive, by a logical mind, that only one course of action could be seen as wise. Historical examples of the folly of exclusion of ideas from the larger, human conversation would jump off the pages at any researcher worth his or her salt. The hypocrisy of the fight for inclusion of minorities to the exclusion of the less enlightened, educated and mature would be easy to illustrate for those with a platform from which they might exclude those people. It would seem, almost, impossible to reconcile actions of preservation of isolating, cultural bubbles of elitism and dismissiveness, with the sort of mindset that would invite intellectual and mindful presence into the fold of a community. Selective tolerance seems like self-nullifying concept. In what company do the naive encounter wisdom? Is it possible for one to seek refuge from the dissimilar and be accurately described by the latter adjective?
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| My last entry |
[17 Nov 2008|03:59pm] |
I needed that. I think a more meditative venue for my thoughts has been in order for a while. There is some self-indulgence kicking at the gate, and if I put it all out on a forum, it will seem like self-indulgence. Imagine that. Combativeness too.
I read the results of a study that might not mean anything. People who tend to spend their time reading consider themselves to be happier than those who spend their time watching television. Which side is the cause? Which side is the effect? Is there another causative factor linking the two? Who knows? Still, it feels like it makes sense that reading is more fulfilling, and I have been away from it for a while. I have a few books I haven't read, and I picked up something very accessible today. Stephen King's Duma Key. I need to read about warm places as the weather chills. It may bring me back to my writing too. That last post was a pretty fast 2500 words or so.
After three and a half years, Tara and I finally have a joint checking account. I feel something akin to pleasure at the prospect and likelihood that these bad financial times will coincide with a general financial strengthening of our situation. We lost some value on a car we junked, and we have to pay for heating now. Those are the two ways in which this seems to have hit us in a negative way. Gas prices are going down, so that saves us money. My work pays for most of my fuel, clothing and pretty much anything else I need from day to day. I am bringing home more than I used to (even when my pay was higher), and I should be making three more dollars an hour by spring. I upped my 401k contribution rate, just as people are losing money in theirs. I am going to buy as much company stock as I can as well. Long term, I will look at this financial crisis as the thing that brought me good deals on investments.
I might buy some things on layaway too. No interest. I can help contribute to the economy. We get some new stuff.
The big thing I need to do is get better at my job. I get my jobs done, and I do them well, I end up working my ass off from the beginning of the day to the end to do so though. I am under the constant shadow of felling behind. I get home two hours later than I should some days, and I don't get half the downtime other techs seem to enjoy. Some of it is that I am conscientious. I don't take short cuts or blowoff jobs because they are more than is scheduled... or because there is a pile of junk blocking access to my work areas. I know other techs will do this. I fix lots of things in my process of elimination because I am not intuitive yet. My fingers aren't nimble at all, and that slows down some of the hands on work. I'm improving, but I feel like I am improving at a slower rate than some other guys. I want to have more relaxed days, and I want to be able to focus on career advancing details. I've been in the field for two and a half months. I know it takes time. I am just weary.
I get tips though. I am friendly, and customers love me. I hope to impress myself by spring. By summer, I should be ready to take Tara on trips and get us into a better living situation.
Hope springs eternal.
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| Am I a genius? |
[16 Nov 2008|03:38pm] |
Really, this question isn't about me. It's about an idea that I see as always above myself, and it's about the relationship between the premise that idea represents and a melange of variables. I start with myself, in this case, because I can examine that perspective with a leisure not afforded me by any other person or idea. So, that's a question I ca n examine. Am I a genius? Before I tackle that one, I will state (repeat) the universal constant that is my guiding belief.
There is no person, group, idea or culture that has the perspective to refuse to be an audience for any other ideas, persons, groups or cultures. There is an opportunity in every communication, and we betray ourselves whenever we forsake that opportunity. Every person arrives at their dispositions by way of a path that explains it. People may fail to integrate other and larger ideas, but that does not decrease the value of their role in the ecology of the ideas of the human race. That does not make it wrong for us to take offense, but it makes us foolish for closing the channel of communication between ourselves and whichever "them" may have offended us. The incidence of such closed channels seems to be directly proportional to the importance of the subject at hand. When there is most clearly a real problem, individuals on any side of an issue feel righteous in their dismissal of the others.
Many people agree with me to this point. Then an issue comes into play, and I am suddenly the naive fool for being willing to entertain these offensive ideas. I am misguided in my desire to encourage others to embrace that which offends. This brings me to the need to examine variables.
Am I a genius? For this idea? No way. It's not mine. It's just a composite of other ideas I have come to understand. I am not the only person to have developed and adopted this composite. I am just one person with a passion for it. I am just one person with a belief that it is one of the most important things we have to do as a race. Am I a genius? Does IQ count? I tend to reject it as a valuable measure of a person's mind, but I feel a tinge of pride and smugness in knowing mine at times. What does it mean? Mine, I mean. The fact that I have not taken steps to secure a formal education, and that I find myself philsophically opposed to so many people, couples nicely with the awareness that, by that one measure, I am in a teeny percentage of the population. It's a little comfort though. It's like a bubble blown from my dishwashing liquid coated hands. Sending a giant bubble floating across the kitchen impresses me for a second. Then I have to wash the dishes.
The Renaissance Mind. That's the genius. The inventor, slash singer, slash writer, slash statesman is a genius. The person that can take an idea or feeling and represent it in a way that rings true to a massive audience, and have that representation be the product of just one of an array of innate talents, is a genius. That's not me. I'm not humble. I can state, without self-consciousness or shame, that I see myself as pretty smart. But me? I can't even make people see the idea. They see a passion for myself. They see posturing and ego in the passion of my defenses. They see combativeness and acts of shock value as the ends; not the barometers indicating something larger is fueling the actions. Frustration is seen as stubborness and immaturity. Self-importance, arrogance, pomposity.
Arrogance. Sure, there might be some arrogance in play when I seem to feel so beyond being affected by the opinions I am supposed to categorically reject. I am too strong to be threatened by the ideas. Only, that's not really it. I feel it would be arrogant of me to act on the belief that my idea is so beyond being informed by the other idea that I would exclude it from my conversations. Am I arrogant for feeling that I, beyond what so, so many seem to grasp (or upon which so few are willing to act), am acting in a superior manner? Do I see the actions of others as inferior? Yes and no. I don't think it makes the individuals in question inferior, but I am disappointed in their responses and reactions. I am horrified that they reject the cumulative product of any person's experiences and nature as having too little value to hear.
Is there really anyone out there who believes that much of the chaos in the human condition springs from poor understanding of each other? Do people not think that communication could mitigate some of the problems that plague us? Do we only see when other people are failing to channel communications in two directions?
Racism. People feel so goddamn superior for not being racist. Opposing ideas are chalked up as hate speech and deemed to be THE problem. There is nothing a self-proclaimed racist could add to the community conversation, right? The people have no leg on which to stand. They cannot be persuaded, so there is no value in addressing them. They have no ideas of merit, so there is no reason to listen. They contaminate the community with ideas, so we can eliminate the problem by silencing them within our own circles.
Only, that's bullshit. We create cancers with those cells by forcing them to concentrate themselves in dark corners of the human landscape. We obscure our own vision of truth and reality by fostering environments of self-congratulatory righteousness. By ostracizing them, we do more to harm the progress toward mutual understanding and acceptance than they do. Not just "as much" but more.
I only pick racism because it is so easy to demonstrate. The pattern is repeated in the relationships between the representatives of more ideas than can possibly be discussed in one document, of any length. This certainly isn't the place, so I will continue to use racism as my case study. Just remember; we could be talking about science, religion, law, politics, sex, psycholgy, philosophy or anything else. Our failures in this realm know no bounds.
Why would I talk to Willard? Willard thinks black people are inferior to whites. He thinks they are dirty, and he would hurt a black person if he thought he could get away with it. He sees black people as criminal, genetically inferior, cultural cancers and dirty in many ways. He sees them as threats to the purity of white women, and he is scared of the wave of social acceptance of ideas that oppose his. He relishes the fantasies of opportunity to put down an act of aggression, by a black man, against himself or any other white person. What value could their possibly be in a conversation between this man and myself? Can their be justification for Willard's beliefs? Is Willard moveable in his convictions? What changes if I close him off from my world?
We'll start with Willard's justifications. Willard lives in a world in which white people keep nice lawns and speak nicely to each other. There is little violence in his world. Some, but not much. Exceptions often involve the presence of blacks in that world. Willard has been shot by a black man. Willard has been set on fire by a black man. Willard's mother was raped by a black man. Willard's city is falling to ruin in neighborhoods where blacks are a majority. Willard sees nations of black people acting like animals toward each other. Then, he see Denmark and Australia. He sees America. He sees hot apple pie and pretty blonde hair. He's listened to hard working people tell him that the black world is one of ignorance and violence. Then he sees his own world, and it's just, well, nice. Willard has been robbed by black men. Willard sees violence and superficiality glorified in black culture. Willard reads statistics. Willard can't force himself to apply what he knows of history to justify the madness and failure he sees in the black world. It was so long ago that incontrovertible wrongs against the black race were committed.
Sort of. I mean, Willard knows that there is low- life in the white world. It's not that close to him, but he knows it's there. Willard knows there are disadvantages for blacks trying to move above the fray, and he knows there is another kind of black person. He tends to see that black person as an anomaly, but he realizes that social factors may be at play. He knows that history has to turn one way or the other, and the black race was at a circumstantial disadvantage from the get-go. James knows that the examples of affirmative action he likes to cite are not really the big picture. He certainly knows his father would not have hired a black person for a job. He knows racism is out there, and he knows racism fucks things up. He denies it to himself, but the awareness is still there. The anger over things in his past is still there. Is Willard a horrible person? What if Willard hadn't grown up where education would have at least cast a little light on his ideas? Would he be in a room full of men in white sheets? Maybe, shaved heads and white suspenders? Will conversations with me keep him out of there? Will it take any of the foul wind out of his sails? Will a public conversation shed some light for others to utilize?
Here's the thing. I think Willard is misguided. I think he fails to give all elements of the picture equal time. I think Willard's conclusions make handicap him and toxify the community in which he lives. I also know his heart is larger than it seems, because Willard lives inside me. All those things happened to me. That's what I saw. I saw more, and I came to different conclusions, but Willard exists as a composite of my most unchallenged perceptions. The real me- the complete me, loves diversity and misses black people in my world when I find myself in a less diverse population. The complete me feels more relaxed in the down-to Earth atmosphere that some whites see as the low-life, black culture. The complete me grew up into a world in which black people wore suits and went to work. They raised kids and made a difference in their communities. They weren't angry or violent. They just lived. They enjoyed nice days and bitched about drizzly, cold ones. They supported the teams I did, and they laughed about the same sorts of fools that made me laugh.
So yeah, I will talk to a real Willard. Not only that; I think that, with any idea, if a person is honest with himself or herself, a little glimmer of a Willard can be found buried in the pile of discarded ideas in the back of the room. The must can be smelled on bad days. Maybe we're used to it and don't notice it. Maybe we open a window or throw out the itmes in the back of the room, but the memory is still there. We know what it smells like. Are we reluctant to invite a guest into the house if they spew the rhetoric we have buried? Are we just above them? Have we never been flawed? Have we never grown up or changed? Are there no examples to be made? No attempts?
I think we are far too comfortable in our patterns of thought. I think we recoil when discomfort creeps into our realms. When I shock or offend, I am not doing it because I think a chuckle is more fun than someone's sensibilities and comfort are important. When I thrash, I am not doing it because I don't want to be wrong. When I am offended, I do not mean I think you should shut up or go away. When I consort with the vile, it is not because I think their ideas should replace or retard the progress of more enlightened ideas.
I cling to the belief that there are people out there with ideas like my own. I beleive that others can be brought to share a similar perspective. I think there is enough value in this genuine open-mindedness that some people will prioritize it over paranoia, cliqueishness and defensiveness. I have seen people adopt this attitude in the midst of close, honest, relaxed communities. It's harder than I thought to bring people to share the perspective, but I still think it can be done. I have lost battles, and I have had to act in ways that contradict my beliefs. I have grown weary and come close to wanting the bliss of ignorance. Some events, however, are heartening. Some people restore my faith. I do not want to be the loon on a mission, but I think I am too lazy to have to worry about that. I think i have other ideas that divide my passion. Still, I am committed to my belief, and I will articulate it somewhere. Here, in the meditative environment of a journal, sometimes. Sometimes, it will be in the heat and chaos of a community.
For those of you who feel a personal message is hidden in this, you are probably right. For those who feel like collateral damage in my battles, I am sorry it has impacted you in that way. For those who think I look down on you, or am angry you, you are absolutely wrong. For those who feel like you are among those that lift my spirits, you are also, probably correct.
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| Violating Voices |
[08 Sep 2008|06:18pm] |
Violating Voices has been fixed. It is now located at www.violatingvoices.net instead of violatingvoices.com. There is also a pretty new default skin. Also, if we had previously posted naked pictures of your mom, we have carefully black bar censored her mouth out of the picture.
Hope to see you there.
Wyatt
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| A somewhat different erotic story... |
[29 Feb 2008|02:35am] |
Julie Pendleton
She didn't know she'd fall in love. She certainly didn't know with what. She knew her emotional nature and her sensual nature were a singular creature... and she knew that
she was a slave to that creature. Absolution. How can one be responsible for actions to which she is a slave? She knew it was
rationalization, but the alternatives all frightened her. Her deepest fear of all was losing her state of ecstasy. Not that her defense
mechanisms were even necessary. When it happened, it happened.
It was all pretty normal stuff for most of her sexually active life. She would fixate on an act. It would become her obsession. They
weren't just acts. They were pieces of acts. Compartmentalization of the strangest details. There was no harm in it. Earlier that year,
she had sucked her first dick. She was a virgin then. That was pretty normal, she supposed. What wasn't, was the ridge.
Tommy was a stupid jock. She couldn't have forced herself to want to have a conversation with him, but when they were at the same
party... well, he was hot. He was exactly the sort of guy that invaded her fantasies. Alpha-male. Strong. He knew it too. Maybe he didn't
know it before the party, but he knew it when she started to look a little too drunk. He said he was feeling a little woozy.
"Oh my God. So am I."
He said he was going to walk it off. The air was fresh, and that had always seemed to work for him in the past. He was baiting her, and
she knew it. She loved it. The feeling that excited her most was that of being exploited, baited... hunted. She walked with him, and she
responded to every prompt. He talked about his girlfriend and how she could never come out for parties like this, as her parents were so
restrictive of her movements. He talked about how she was so prudish. Pretty. He told her his girlfriend was pretty; almost as pretty as
her. Bait. She could almost feel what was going to happen. His girlfriend didn't suck his dick. She had, but only twice, and she
never seemed into it enough to do it right. He said he felt that would be the thing that would make him feel like a girl was for
real... forever. Lies. Beautiful lies.
"I think sucking your dick would be something she would want to do."
"No. She doesn't want to. In fact, just thinking about it now is really... it sort of hurts. It's like there's something wrong with me."
It was like it was all written before it was said. Somewhere. They just had to read the script. She told him there was nothing wrong with
him. He smiled, but it spoke the words "Yeah right. Whatever."
"Let me."
"Let you what?"
"Suck your dick."
That's when it all began. She'd never been obsessive before. She dropped to her knees, right on the side of the street. A car hadn't
passed during their whole walk. He backed up to lean against the street lamp near him, and she unzipped his jeans. Getting his dick out
was trickier than she had imagined. She was afraid she'd do something wrong before she ever got it into her mouth. She wanted in
her mouth! It was too hard and long to clear the opening of his pants. She tugged them down a bit until the top of his jeans pulled far
enough down to release him. His dick sprang from his pants as it was released and slapped against her nose. It actually hurt a bit, and
she could feel its heat upon contact. Some of his fluids has smeared across her lip, up to her right nostril. It was delightfully
humiliating. She wanted this so badly now. None of her friends ever expressed such a desire. Yeah, most were willing. Some were proud, but
none of the girls had said anything to prepare her for this consuming desire for something that seemed so... so vile to her only a short
time before.
She gripped his scrotum and took him into her mouth. Suddenly, she could only focus on one thing. The feeling of the ridge of the head
of his dick against the back of her lips. Mmm. It yielded in an almost rubbery manner; a stark contrast to the rigid hardness of his cock.
She could feel his pulse against her bottom lip, pulsing from the area below the head. She sucked. She did what she knew she probably
should be doing, but she only wanted to feel that ridge. He couldn't have done anything to her that would have excited her more. Every
happily ever after, princess fantasy about sex and love... it was all out the window.
The gravel on the street was pressing into her knees. It was causing pain. Suddenly, headlights broke the darkness. She could feel him
tense. He told her to stop. She felt mist in the air. It was settling on her cheek, and she remembered seeing the mist in the halo of the
street lamp. She held Tommy's balls. And flicked her tongue along the underside of his dick. She pulled her lips back against that ridge,
and she could feel it happening. She was going to cum.... just like when she did in her fantasies. They were never like this. There was no
four-poster bed with lace draping the top. The onset of orgasm didn't displace the carnal images as would happen in a fantasy.Nope, there
it was; his dick, in her mouth, pulling back for a moment. Then, she felt him twitch. He was yelling at her. The car. He didn't want to be
seen like this, but she was to have her way. He twitched as the car past. His body convulsed, and she lost it. She lost the ridge as
his dick pushed into her throat. She gagged and wanted to bite. Anger welled up inside her, and she thought to see how deeply into his
arrogant, stupid prick she could sink her teeth.
His semen filled her mouth. She didn't swallow, but she had no urge to spit either. She wanted to feel her lips settle on that ridge.
She was nagged by a sensation that something was wrong with her, and she felt a shock of pain to the side of her head. He'd slapped her!
She kept sucking. Now, his orgasm had subsided, and the touch of her lips and tongue was too much. He dropped to his knees, and she kept
sucking. He cried out and tried to pull away, but she held his balls like she was willing to rip the whole kit right off his body. He fell
all the way to the ground, and was writhing. His pelvis struck her face. She didn't care. She was oblivious to what might turn out to be
some bumps and bruises. She only knew he was suffering, and that it added to her pleasure. She only knew that the one thing about him that
she did not loathe at the moment was the delightfully rubbery ridge of the head of his dick. Even that meant nothing to her if it wasn't
where she could feel it, nursing his cock like an udder... pressing her toungue into the little slit at the end. She wondered how much
pain she'd be able to cause if she could shove her tongue into it.
She came. She came in waves of thunderous rapture and thrashed in seizures. When she was able to focus, she saw him. He was running away.
He was running out of the light of the lamp, into the darkness, trying to fix his pants. They were almost in place but still impeding his
progress, somewhat. She laughed. She laughed like she'd laugh with friends when things became so silly that something didn't even need to
be funny to incite an eruption of laughter that could last for minutes. She didn't hate him. She thought, as she already had, that he was
a bonehead, but her anger had subsided. She was only angry because he had tried to stop before she was done. She could feel the wetness
she had made in her panties. It was uncomfortable, but she felt a sort of pride that she didn't need anyone's touch to feel what she felt.
She returned to the party, and Tommy wasn't there. Everything else seemed pretty normal, except for two of his friends. They were looking
at her strangely. One of them, Rick, drove her home. She sucked his dick. He cried to, but he didn't pull away. She warned him, as she would
warn so many boys and men over the next two years.
Quirky obsessions. Sensual compulsions. Masochistic waves, yielding to sadistic impulses. One after another, she found new delights in the
strangest carnal acts. So many were benign... even tedious. More than one man found frustration in her need to brush her nipples over his
eyebrows, over and over. Some of her games were more malicious. Her joy at the sound of a man crying out, just as the sound of her hand
slapping his hanging balls separated the lustfully intense animals from the casually horny. Indeed; it was just this act, and one such
casual boy, that brought her to the moment in her history that would lead her to end the history of eleven men and five women.
Style
She spotted him spiking the punchbowl at a party, with Everclear. He called himself Style. That enraged her, but she could see something she needed in him. Style. His self appointed moniker was part of
his denial. He was determined to see a lover in the mirror, no matter how desperate was the countenance that was returning his gaze. Only
the pathetic would suffice for this act in her play. She took him to her cabin. The great thing about these little po'dunk towns in the hills, was that they had such things available to the tourists. Cabin rentals. The privacy suited her. Some boys were a bit noisier than others.
"So, Style... I want you to think a minute. Do you meditate?"
"What?"
"Try to roll with me on this, Style. I have my own way of doing things, and I want to lead the way. You want to do things to me, right?"
"Oh, you bet..."
"Then shut up and let me ask you the questions."
"Umm... I'm sorry. What was the question?"
"Never mind, Style. Look at me carefully Style. Don't be shy. Study what you want. I wear these clothes to inspire the imagination.
Are you inspired?"
"Yes." His breathing had quickened. "I'm inspired all right."
"Then close your eyes and picture me as you want me to be. Start with my clothes. Picture me, just like I'm standing, but naked. Are
you picturing me, Style?"
"I am."
"Tell me where you are staring, in your mind, Style."
"Everywhere. I mean, you're so hot... so beautiful."
"Don't go shy on me now, Style. Look at the image in your head. It's me... naked. Stare at something. Are you staring?"
"Y-yes."
"What are you staring at?"
He took a deep breath. He couldn't believe how nervous he was. "I'm staring... at your pussy."
"Yeah? How does it look... and don't say that it looks good. Tell me what you see. There is no wrong answer."
"OK. OK. It's shaved. I mean, you have a tiny strip of short blonde hair, and your... you're compact. You know... everything's sort
of- inside. Mostly. I can see a little glisten, like you're wet."
"Wow, Style. You're getting good at this game. You can open your eyes now."
The boy opened his eyes and saw her, almost exactly as he'd imagined, but so much more real. She stepped toward him, just enough to see
his chest heave in anticipation. She wanted him overwhelmed.
"Unzip your jeans, stud. I want to see your cock. It's hard now, right?"
"Yeah. It's real hard. Can I stand to do it?"
"By all means."
Style stood and did as he was told. She told him to sit back down. She felt sure of this one. He was ready to do anything he was told.
Still, she thought she'd do well to lead him a little deeper into his own arousal. She knelt in front of him and moved her face close to his
member. She manipulated it some with her index finger, examining it... judging it. She forced a quick "hmm" to lead him to think she had decided
something. Then, she slapped his dick with all the force she could muster. Style cried out and stood, quickly. His dick, lobster red on one side, pointed at the ceiling, bounced from side to side like an old fashioned barometer.
"What the hell is wrong with you!?"
She took a moment to read his face, now as red as the left side of his dick, then popped up to her feet.
"Was that bad?" she asked, coyly smiling and walking backwards, toward the bed. Style was fuming, but she could see his conviction waver. It was time for the kill, metaphorically speaking, at this point in time.
"Goddamn right, that was bad."
"Am I going to get a spanking?" She dropped onto the bed. "Put me over your knee. I don't think I'll ever learn otherwise. Do you think you can hurt me, or is all your strength in the blood in your dick now?"
"I'll fuck you with this dick now, and you'll see."
"NO!" Her eyes burned. "You are going to spank my ass. Now, sit on the bed!" He did, and she laid across his lap with her ass perked up in the air right over his right thigh. "Now!' He was quick to respond now, and his hand dropped like the storms of Zeus. The crack of his hand hurt her deeply, just as it excited him in a way he had never knew was in him. He struck her again. Five times more, in fact.
"Style! Stop." He hesitated, his hand suspended above his shoulder... almost behind his head, in fact. "What makes me bad, Style?"
"You're mean."
"Mean? C'mon. You can do better than that! What am I?"
"A bitch! A vicious little slut!'
"HIT ME AGAIN!" He swung down and struck her ass. She spread her legs a little and raised her butt. "Again!"
"Slut! Slut! Slut!" He kept swinging. Her ass was beet red, and she stopped him again.
"Check and see if I'm still a slut. Have I learned my lesson?"
"Check?"
"Jesus, you're slow. Stick a finger in my cunt. Is it wet? Stick a couple in there." She raised her ass a little more and tilted. He slid two fingers in her easily. Then three, and he began thrusting them into her. "Am I still a slut?"
"Fucking hell right you are!", and he began without instruction. She was wet. She was anticipating her next move. He swung again, and she rolled off his lap, causing him to slap his own thigh and cry out. "You little cunt!"
"Good boy, Style. You figured it out. You're bad too, right?" She was sitting up against the dresser, beads of sweat adorning her hairline.
"What?"
"That's your favorite question, isn't it. Look at your dick. Silly thing, it is. I mean, you have a respectable cock there, but look at it! It bobs around with no dignity whatsoever. No matter though. You're a bad fucking boy, Style. You're getting off on hitting a girl."
She dabbed at the tip of his dick with two fingers, and the pre-cum stretched like marshmallow fluff as she withdrew them. She licked her fingers.
"You want to fuck my pussy, kid?"
"Oh yes!" He could sense the time was coming. It had to be. The essence of the moment was sexual crescendo.
"How about my ass? You spanked the hell out of it. Are you going to jam your dick in it? I deserve that too, right? Do little sluts get fucked in their asses, Style?"
"You do." His confidence was wavering. The tone of her questions was that of deal making. She was setting up for something.
"So you still believe in the concept of punishment for the slutty and perverted?"
"You're gonna get it all, Style. You can fuck my pussy, fuck my ass and then fill my mouth with cum. You can take breaks in between, even... but first..."
He knew it. It was the "before you answer" advertising style from hell.
"Style. I get to punish you. I just want five minutes." She could see fear in his eyes. "Style... come 'ere and let me suck some of that off the end of your cock while you think about it."
He agreed. He was in it for the ride. He figured he could deal with some humiliation and pain. He just had to get at that pussy. It was there, perfect and wet, taunting him. He was surprised he hadn't already cum... but he was going to get to cum three times! No matter if the first shot was lost in the haze of desperation.
She climbed back on the bed and stretched out on her back. She had him climb over her, on all fours, dangling his meat over her face, She took a little suck, enjoying the feeling of the ridge of his head for a moment of nostalgia.
She slapped his ass. He cried out like a sissy. Not much mettle, this one. She struck again, then gently scratched behind his balls to keep him focused on the possibilities. She struck again, but with less force. She was setting up for what she had learned could send her into fits of pleasure. It felt like her pussy exploded into a new universe of pure sex inside of her when she had her way. She stroked his cock with a firm grip.
"Three more minutes, Style! How bad are you?"
"I-I-I'm a bad pervert." He was close to weeping. She slapped the back of his balls. The feeling of his scrotum catching and wrapping a little around her fingertips... Yeah, that was it. She lost focus on his cries, and she struck again. He jumped, but she grabbed his balls with her hand in a fist. She slapped them, hard, and the impact squished them against her fist. She instinctively closed her legs to prevent anything he might try to do in return, but his hand reached for her tits. He grabbed one and dug his fingers deeply into her tissue, then began to pull and twist with cruelty. His defiance filled her with rage, but she could feel that same intensity boiling in a little ball between her legs.
Her fist tightened on his scrotum, and his testes strained against the skin. She felt pain, searing through her body as even his short fingernails broke skin and sheared the flesh of her breast. He rose to his knees, and she felt his hand strike the pillow near her face. She knew the level of violence had reached a critical threshold. This was not how she had planned things. She squeezed harder as she felt his hand find its mark. The pain was tremendous, but her urges were stronger. Her rage was even greater than her urges. She squeezed even harder on his balls and could see blood vessels appear just under the surface of the skin. One here. One there. It was if they were popping into existence. Style screamed and tried to pull away from her with a thrust backwards. It was the worst mistake he had made since coming to the hotel room.
She pulled him back toward her with more force than she could have imagined possible. Her response was one of rage, but also of desperation. She wanted to slap the back of his balls. She decided to, at the very least, suck the head of his dick, but something happened. The sound was like that of separating raw chicken breast from the bird... then the sound of it hitting the floor. It was like every pressure release she had ever experienced, all in one. Knuckle cracking. Zit popping. Sneezes. Burps. His testes had burst free of his scrotum. He was freed.
Style fell off the bed and cracked his head on the dresser. Blood spilled from the gash and mixed with God knows what fluids had seeped from his scrotum. Screaming.
"You fucking bitch! You whore! My balls! My fucking balls!" He sprung to his feet, madly. His testes dangled on little cords, and he flailed to scoop them into his hands, succeeding with one and spinning the other like a poorly slapped tether-ball. He stared at them in such a state of wide-eyed horror that it looked to her like his eyes might follow the path his balls had.
"Am I bad, Style?" she giggled. Her jaw was dropped and eyes wide with fascination. She was riveted. Ha! She couldn't let him get away now. This would get her in really big trouble. Panic. Just a little, but desire was her master now. She jumped to a standing position on the bed, grabbed a phone off the nightstand, ripped it from the wall and hurled it at his face in what was almost one, fluid motion. Her aim was true. More blood. More screaming. He lunged at her, but he was in no condition to play that game. He stumbled halfway onto the bed and managed to hang himself, by the armpit, on one of the short corner posts of the bed. She was sharp and reacted with brutal instinct, dropping ass first onto his shoulder. She felt the bed post through his shoulder as it dislocated the arm.
Style collapsed, arm flopping grotesquely behind him. His cock had shriveled from blood loss and her disappointment fueled the finality of her next decision.
The television was heavy for her, even in her charged state, but she only had to raise it over her head for a moment. The miserable groans of the pathetic boy creature on the floor were drowned and silenced by the sound of smashing glass and splintering plastic. She heard his skull crunch.
It excited her. She stood, watching him, wondering if he might twitch again. He did not. Nervously, like when she showed her private parts to Jesse Schau in the coat closet of her first grade class, she kneeled in the pooling blood by his waist. She seized his limp dick in her fingertips. She almost felt she could coax some life back into it.
"C'mon STYLE! You can't fuck my ass like that, can you? She tried to rip it off, but it did not yield as easily as his testicles.
His testicles. She prodded a loose one emerging from the blood on the floor like a little island in a pond. Gingerly, she lifted it and gave it a little squeeze. Sex. She felt it in its full glory. She hoped he'd approve, but it didn't matter now, did it? She lowered her face to her hand and tested the bloody little thing with her tongue. It tasted like power and submission in one candy cup. A little kiss, and she sucked it into her mouth. Organic tissue stretched from the thing trapped behind her teeth to the flaps of shriveled skin between his legs. She had to pull it much further from his crotch to rip it free than she would have imagined. There was a tendril of connective tube hanging from her lips. She sucked it in like she had spaghetti noodles as a little girl.
Rolling the ball around her mouth, she cast her eye to the remaining gonad. She straddled him, the fire in her blazing . She was as close to cumming now as she could get without yielding to it. She took the other in her fingers and pushed it into her vagina. She masturbated with his blood for no more than a few seconds and reached a climax that collapsed her into unconsciousness for an hour.
When she awoke, the panic was real. There was nothing else to displace it but the smell of decomposition's first gestures and the sight of congealing death. She remembered the Everclear he'd used to spike the punch. The cabin was full of candles. She lit several and placed them, strategically, around the cabin. One, she placed on the floor next to a table from which she pushed the bottle of Everclear. She figured she'd have to hand light it after the spill, but all it had to be was possible. There was no need. The spilled spirit took the flame and the bed sheets were engulfed before she was fully in the mind to make her next move. she moved the television from Style's head and went to take a shower.
By the time she climbed, naked, from the bathroom window, the resort management had spotted the flames. The cabin was surrounded by resort guests. Mr. Collins, the resort manager, gave her his shirt and ran to fetch a bathrobe. He stood with her as they all watched the cabin burn to the ground. No one was hurt when the propane tank exploded, because Mr. Collins had moved them to a safe distance. Everyone was safe now. Almost.
She knew she'd need to drug and tie Mr. Collins. This thing with Style had been a little bit too close of a call.
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[26 Feb 2008|12:26am] |
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| A response I wrote to a Washington Post article... |
[02 Sep 2007|10:20am] |
I find myself walking a razor's edge in the fog. I am not a Christian, and my spiritual beliefs would be considered heathenous to those of the faith. That said, within my beliefs I find a defense of faith in the doctrines of the Christians and controversion of the points so often made to discredit it.
We have no corner on the market of understanding the nature of consciousness, we believers in the secular teachings. For all we learn about the firings of synapses and other brain functions, there is nothing to even begin to expalin the subjective experience of consciousness. By the rules of scince, that leaves us having to continue considering the possibility of a non-material self. If so, we must consider, also, the possibility that the nature of that non-material self might be burdened with responsibilities for what it does in this material existence.
Imagine, for a moment, that all consciousness is derived from one pool... one singular consciousness. Further consider that our individual natures are a by-product of our foray into the material world. Might this experience, rife with the anguish and hatred that seems to plague so many or all of us, burden us with spiritual impurities that a larger consciosness might not want to welcome back to the fold? An infection, if you will.
While I cannot pretend to subscribe to the specifics of the Christian faith, I cannot say, with any amount of confidence, that such a consciousness as we all might be a part of, could not or would not find a means to communicate its will to the part of itself from which it is, in the form of the human (at least) species, separated. Furthermore, I cannot exclude the possibility that the Christian Holy Bible might be a manifestation of the will of that consciousness. That there is collateral damage, in the form of brutality in the name of God, might not be the will, the concern, nor even the perspective of a greater consciousness. Our subjective experience of suffering might be a strengthening agent to such a consciousness; nothing more than greater experience to contribute to its own evolution. If the material world is just a transitional phase, what would the death of any individual matter? Why wouldn't the toxic will of one human, one single piece of the greater consciousness, not be more horrid (and less acceptable to welcome back to the fold) than even a thousand physical deaths and the suffering of millions more?
It could be that the "evil" will of an individual is the only cosmically bad thing we can experience and that suffering and death are just experiences. And maybe, just maybe, Jesus was sent to cleanse us of the impurities that make us unacceptable for re-entry into the fold of the greater consciousness... the God that we all are.
Then again- I doubt it.
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[24 Aug 2007|11:37am] |
I was walking down the street where I lived as a kid. The leaves were the color of fading fires. The coming of winter usually haunts me, but there are times, like this one, at which I can relish the flavor of fall. I turned up a side street. I used to walk this street to school then, later, to hang out at the park with friends. There were so many girls back then, and all the dudes were mellow. I pictured them all hanging out by the picnic table, crimson and orange leaves falling like embers from an uncapped chimney. As I walked, the leaves seemed brighter. There seemed to be more of them, and they were all in motion. Breezes were shaking those in the trees. Others were fluttering to the ground. Those on the ground were jumping and spinning their little wind dances. I was overcome by the beauty, just as I was beginning to become frightened at the impossible intensity of what I was witnessing.
I ran up one more block, and the street became canopied by rich, old trees. The cars lining the streets were like the ones I remember seeing as a child. 1975 this... 1968 that. I used to see Irish setters all the time. They aren't as popular a breed anymore, but this day... this day, pairs of them were playing in a yard or two on every block, so much like the leaves that they seemed to disappear and re-emerge as orange dolphins in a red sea.
I had almost reached the park. Two of my friends were walking down the hill, away from the park. Laurie. Bill. I would have normally been thrilled at the coincidence. Now, I was in shock. Bill looked like her was twenty years old. Laurie, nineteen. My mother drove by in an old corvette- blue, fading to purple, with raceboat fleck. It looked like the one she drove when I was five. Her hair was as red as it had been back then. My eyes were drawn- no- my vision expanded to take in the blaze of the sky, red and orange from treetop to treetop. A sunset that was nature's allusion to every armageddon in pop culture. There was no blue in the sky. There was no green in the trees. The colors swirled with the speed and mass of a fast approaching storm... only there was no sense that a storm was approaching. Everyone I have ever loved or liked began to converge on the street which was alive with barbecue grills and wheelie popping bicycles. The school nearby was playing music from the outdoor speakers. At first, it was music I loved... then there was a whisper.
It's not time yet.
The people gestured in simultaneous oopsness and began to tiptoe away. I felt a panic as it all began to fade. A glare of white light forced me to squint out of focus. When I adjusted, I was in my bathroom, older, out of touch with my friends, fearing winter in a real way.
Not yet.
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| Hobbyhorse |
[13 Jun 2007|04:39pm] |
Logic dodged it
Paisley pickled pattern clothes
Clocks words can't prance with vans and ants advance
Vehicle for never abandon automatism mechanism dream
Dream mechanism
Have am find why for white walls stalls stall given time
For I dress without lights
Forget
Forget it but it's on the tip of my soul fillet
Flaying sole
Playing Foals for
Philandering filly.
Mmm... pretty things flower buggy
Buggie snuggy snuggle meadow
Dragonfly dragon knight
Dark light what fast night
Fairy naked wind rustle
Rustle rustle grass stain
White jeans peel
Mmm... peel
Skin then feel
Apple peel jeans means seams and sex and vettes
And steamy stained on jeans seams
And skin in grass and grassy meadow.
Sex.
Logic.
Style.
Abandon.
Goat floating on flat Earth logic
Abandon and stand in a style in stylin' slick sex style inn.
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[13 Jun 2007|04:38pm] |
Such a great idea!
More frightful than my masks
More dangerous than my centipedes
The ultimate collectible
A testament to my eccentricity
The only boy on my block
With such a thing
Red and black
Lava cracked
Twisted snarled
Hissing little fanged fuck
Ten pounds of
Spinning flying backflips
Clutching the bars of the cage
Eyes burning furiously
Such a great idea!
Projectile bowel movements
Piercing shrieks
In the middle of the night
Violent stroking
Of its manhood
For any guest it sees
Crack of dawn
The lights pop on
Twisted trash of tiny steel bars
Ten pounds of
Carrion eating and blood drinikng
Ripping anything to shreds
Loose in my home
Such a great idea!
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| Flight of the Cosmic Tractor |
[28 May 2007|10:26am] |
A landscape soaked in rain
Squishy sponges of turf
Cuff soaky weeds
Shirt clingy pelty sheets
And the shapes in the clouds all have jaws
Or angry eyes
Men and their work
Take cover in barns and bars
Women caught off guard must choose
Cover them with a sheet of modesty
Fly them with the dignity and abandon
Or even pride
Hoofstock graze as ever
Ravens steal the grain
Only the two legged ones
Hide from the miracle
Life falling from the sky
Except me
I rumble and chug
Kiss the tops of the clouds
Masturbate in the sun
A good book about bad folks and songs about the weird
I steer a little left and dip
This is no John Deere
Electric metallic sky blue
Fade into plum purple
Raceboat fleck
Velvet seat with fringe trim
Flittering in the wind and tangling
Supersonic options and boom, boom, boom
My tractor is so pimp
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| Escape |
[29 Apr 2007|04:51pm] |
I couldn't form a coherent thought. Darkness. I was stiff. No. Paralyzed is a better description of it. Still not perfect, but closer. I didn't know how to move. I didn't even know how to know. I wasn't in pain, exactly. Vibration. There was a buzz that penetrated my existence. It was as if the buzz was around me and inside of me at the same time. Even this state of mind, can I recall, only in the context of its contrast with the first human feeling I sensed. A little thread of coldness spiraled into my core. With it came light... no, with it came color; a thread of color. Red, blue, becoming more vivid as the thread of cold intensified. The feelings faded simultaneously and were replaced with wonder. Where was I? What was I? Human. There was a pulse of pressure, and with it, the buzzy feeling was replaced by pain. It was just for a moment, but the pain was intense. It filled my head and torso with fire.
Oh fuck! What was happening? Anxiety. Fear. At once, I knew that those were the dominant elements of my existence. If I was to understand what was, at that moment, I had to step into the fear and anxiety. The pulse came again with more pain. Another blast of coldness, but this time I recognized it for what it was. I was breathing. Pulse. I looked again for the ribbon of color to fill my brain, but it was elusive. Just as I gave up on it, there was another image; a face. I adored her and feared her as she flickered in my mind, then she was gone. A new buzzing stirred, but this time it was carnal. I am a man. The pulse, again. This is my heart beating. I know this now. I am a man, in the dark, struggling to breathe and unable to move. I am scared, and I want to see the girl. I do, and the carnal buzz returns like an underwater explosive. I see her flesh as I feel my first tactile sensation. Warm, wet, sticky semen carries the drama- the one that was inside me- onto my skin. The pain returns. It is agony. I remember a moment of life. Fucking. I had a headache. Why should that stop me? Skin and pussy were exquisite distractions from pain. If only they lasted. With my release came the reverberations of the pressure that had wracked my body. It danced with the pain in mocking torment. I wanted to apologize to God, as the pain seemed obviously to be punishment. Not my god. No, I had disregarded my body then. Now? Now, as in the later then. I did not know, but the clammy discomfort of semen on my belly gave rise to a new effort. Move
I tried to recall my physical parameters. My mind found my penis, but I could not move that. My belly? Hands! Where were my hands? Almost without will, I moved a finger. With that motion came a flood of awareness. My arm. My arm was full of veins, and they were burning. The burning was a web of crystallized pain, distinct from the general swell of torturing pressure that swallowed the rest of me. My focus fell on a point of skin. It felt like a bite. New thoughts spun and flickered in my brain like pictures in a book through which you are thumbing too fast to find the one you seek. Spiders. Snakes. Centipedes. Frogs? Poison Dart Frogs. Yanomamo tribesmen form the Amazon with bamboo blowguns. Bats. Dorsal fins of catfish. Tina. Something plastic with a gleam appeared to me , but it was submerged in the returning tsunami of the previous thought. Tina! The face. The girl. She is Tina. She is my Tina. I felt my finger move more. Then the others, and I made a fist. The pain on that point of skin screamed for me to stop. It was the crook of my arm.
Mr. Crawford, I'm Detective Jonas Diamond with the Orlando Police Department. Were you a friend of Tina Gardner?
Was I? She was my life! Why are you asking this? Where is my Tina? Murdered. What began to sort itself in my head made no sense. Tina had been killed. NO!. The police asked me questions. There was a trial. I remember the stink of urine in the court detention cell. I remember the psychiatrist arguing that I was insane.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, not only is my client unable to observe reality the way you and I do, he doesn't even remember the crime! He doesn't even believe that Tina Gardner is dead. What happened on the night of July fifteenth of last year was a tragedy. It was a tragedy for all involved, including Beowulf Crawford. Tina was the love of his life. He had no reason to kill her. What happened was the act of a part of Be that is separate from his real self. Is he a danger to himself? Is he a danger to others? Of course he is, but kind people, he belongs in a hospital. Do not compound the tragedy by taking another life. Don't steal the child of another mother...
I wasn't there! I didn't kill her. I might be insane, but I know what I did. I know where I was. I LOVED her. She's not dead, Be. You're not dead, are you?
My chest heaved as I gasped, and I felt my first full breath. Both of my fists were clenched tightly now, and the buzzing was gone. I felt pain as if my veins were turning on me. I felt pain in my head as if it were in a vice, about to pop like a grape. Was it vinyl? A bag? I opened my fists and clawed at the surface on which I lain. On which I had been laid. I felt mesh like the inside of a bag.
The defendant, Beowulf Crawford, is hereby remanded to the custody of the Florida State Department of Corrections until the time of his execution.
I'm dead? I remembered the gurney. OH GOD! Fear. The buzz of a fluorescent light. A mattress? They presume to make me comfortable? You monsters! I don't want to die. Where is Tina!? Then peace. As the executioner (doctor) pushed the plunger in the syringe, I remembered what the trauma of losing Tina had made me forget. There is no death. I am not my body. I am not even me. Was I right? Wrong? Is this death? You are not dead.
I relaxed my body, instinctively, as I heard the sound of a door opening. Somehow, I knew I must keep still. I was in danger. I listened to them as they approached. I felt myself slide as if in a drawer. Was I in a morgue?
"Let's get 'im ready. You hear that ol' boy? Your family wants to bury you. You're paroled!" Then laughter.
"Mickey, you're a sick fuck."
"No, he's... he was a sick fuck. I wouldn't bury him. I'd take him to the fucking dump and let the buzzards have at 'im."
I felt air pouring through the sound of a zipper. They were opening my bag. They were opening my body bag. Would they finish what hadn't worked the first time? Would they know I was alive? Are they allowed to do that twice? Suddenly, I felt like I knew what rape was. Absolute humiliation. Absolute violation... the removal of all power, even the power to be. Anger. Fear. Escape?
To be continued...
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| Mammy |
[15 Apr 2007|01:15am] |
Amerikana. It was a sunny, summer day in Washington D.C.. I was always excited back then. I was excited to go to the 7-11 and buy a Coke. I was excited to go for my daily fifty-mile bike ride through the city. That day? I don't know what I was doing. I wasn't on the bike. I must have just been going to the 7-11. It was just down the alley and across 17th Street from my back gate. The building to the right, as I exited the alley was probably five stories- not a window to be seen on the alley side of the building though, so I never really took note of the exact number of floors. Dark red brick. I loved the feel of the architecture in that old neighborhood. The 7-11 backed into a landscape that is impressively shaded for a 7-11. Wrought iron fence kept loiterers off the grass. I used to throw the bike over the fence instead of locking it. I was never in there for long, and I figured a thief would take a second to decide to steal the bike. He'd take a second to reach the point along the fence where the bike was reachable, a second to reach over, a second to position the bike for mounting- before it was all over, I'd have eviscerated him, leaving his vitals in a pile, spreading across the 7-11 sidewalk. "He shoulda never fucked wit that boy's bike. E'rybody know that." Maybe that's why it was always there when I left the store. Mean Hippie Superfly wasn't a secret 'round town. That's another reason life was so exciting. A Roman citizen could walk, unmolested, from one side of the known world to the other, for so sure was the prospect of swift justice... so many of them must have known that feeling. Summer days, pimp walking across the Roman countryside. Only a Washingtonian might feel so sentimental over the blistering nature of the mid-summer capital swelter, but I am that.
That day...that day, I left the bike at home. I don't know why. I swung the tall, iron gate closed with an alarming clank. I locked it as we always did. I glided down the alleyway as only summer allows, head in a swirl of leisure. The 7-11 was in sight. The dark, red-brick building loomed over my right shoulder. The absoluteness of my tranquility was broken by a sharp crack on the sun glistening concrete near my feet. My head turned to the sky... quickly, summoning the instincts of our days in caves, when predators would perch overhead, when we were stood so solidly south of the top of the food chain. Nothing. No predator. No person. Nothing but sky and red brick. I dropped my gaze and directed my sight to the alley surface.
There she was, darker than any skin a human has ever worn. Red dress and white apron, inviting us to bend her domestic instincts to our service. A relic of a time when black pride was a secret from white folk. Was it even there? It had to be. It had to be waiting, deep in the souls of the mammies, knowing that, one day, her descendants would wear tweed business suits and scurry about the streets of the nation's capital, every bit the parts of the machine that their white counterparts would be. That wasn't what was carved into this block of wood though. No black soul was at work when she was created, arms spinning on steel pivots driven into her torso where the shoulders should be. A wooden mammy doll! No black soul was involved in the making of this. No, but my romantic soul instantly attached some sort of down-home, bayou swamp witch sort of magic to the doll that summoned images of an old, old, black lady- blind in one eye and possessing powers that might be as good as evil or as evil as good, depending on what one deserved. Depending on whether one respected or crossed her.
No one was on top of that building. There were no windows. She had fallen from the sky. I seized her. I would respect her, and she would bring me good luck. Thirteen years later, she sits on a shelf in the living room, flanked by other items of Black Americana. There is a black face, baby boy milk bottle. There is a black boy riding the back of a pig. He's wearing overalls and sits just in front of a coin slot. There are a few coins in there, just to legitimize the coin slot. Same goes for a little, cast-iron mammy bank on the other side of the shelf. There is a post card from Florida... from another age, with a picture of a small, black child and an alligator. The caption was meant to be cute, but it is horribly racist. Times, they do change, no? I am looking for a boy with a watermelon. I see them around, but I want one of a specific quality and feel. They are one of my collections- a little family, created of one spirit but collected in another. Some, today, would bitterly demand an explanation. Perhaps, that is part of the reason she spawned a family of collectibles. Perhaps, that is why I relate this story. Does the story shock? No? Perhaps, that is why, despite my abhorrence of racism, I have dubbed them "nigurines". It is my challenge. It is my walk across the Roman countryside in the summer. These are the conversation pieces that dot the landscape of my soul. Cultural landmines. Walk with me. See the trinkets? That one... right there... she fell from the sky. She was a gift from a god that lives in my heart. This is how I worship.
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| The most moral and enlightened world that has ever been |
[11 Dec 2006|12:20pm] |
Mankind used to kill of species of animals without pause. We dumped our refuse in any river, any field or any forest with no thought that it was damaging the world. Women could not own property. Women WERE property. They could be beaten and raped by their husbands as a matter of course. It was a man's right. Even outside the home, a rape was best left unreported. A woman or girl would only inflict more damage upon herself by revealing that she had been a part of such an act, unwilling a participant as she was. Children could be beaten by their parents. There was no law to protect them. Hell, teachers could beat children not so long ago.
Crime? Nations used to invade nations over love affairs. Villages were burnt to the ground. Women were raped and stolen. Slavery used to be an accepted trade. Murder was a part of life in certain times. Seedy cityscapes and rural isolation left people at the mercy of the laws of the wild.
Racism wasn't even a concept. Recognizing savages as such was just a matter of reality. Much later, but not long ago, blacks were lynched and segregated. Xenophobia was the tone of national conversation, in the US and abroad.
Corporations poisoned and cheated at will. Pollution was a part of what had to be. Smokestacks billowed into the sky.
Animal rights? Animals had no rights. None. Bear baiting, dogfighting and cockfighting were means of entertainment for the cultured and uncultured, alike. A fur coat, made of baby seal, was never condemned by anyone.
So much has changed for the better, and the rest is a part of the world conversation. This, alone, shows a compassion that is growing. This quantifies a level of enlightenment that the world has never known. Any abuse of rights is likely to draw fire, and the tendency for that to happen is growing in quantum leaps.
Visionaries are seeking ways to turn urban sprawl into condensed efficiency. They are looking to space for our future. The world is brave and awe inspiring, yet pessimism is the rumble heard in the crowds. The very enlightenment that has moved us into a more moral world has fine tuned our ability to see evil to the point that we forget the laws of relativity. People suggest that bringing a child into this world is cruel. Some reminisce and long for a lost innocence.
It was never innocence. It was ignorance. Utopia may never be, but the closest we can hope to see will be seen by looking into the future. The path is not without diversions. It is not simple, linear and always good, but the trend is for the better.
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| The Continuing Saga of My Search for a Dobsonfly |
[29 Jul 2006|09:15am] |
Two nights ago, I was outside in the town of Bridgewater, Massachusetts at about ten o'clock at night. I was with my girlfriend, tara, and a friend of ours named Brian. We were sitting on the display window ledge of a closed pet store when I saw a large insect flying toward a tree, no more then ten yards from where we were sitting. I totally lost what was being said in the conversation, so I moved toward the low branch where I saw the creature land.
Really, I thought it was a Katydid, but wanted to be certain. She'd landed on the bottom branch of a tree right by my girlfriend's Jeep, so I opened the door to stand on the seat, hoping to provide myself with a close enough view to be able to identify my quarry.
I spotted her. I was excited to see what I knew was of the order, Megaloptera, but was still unsure of the species. She moved, and in doing so, placed herself in my clear line of sight. Dobsonfly! Fuck. She was still too far above me to capture, but, as I was considering climbing onto the roof of the Jeep, she fell. Mid-air, she took flight and moved down the block quickly. I followed her path at a jog and slowed as I realized she was rising through the air, further and further from my reach. I looked after her with disappointment and admiration.
Before I continue, I must note that the intersection where I found myself prepared to abandon the chase was filled with activity. There were cops, construction workers, bulldozers, backhoes and, most importantly, spotlights of intense power. I am a noticeable character under the most matter-of-course circumstances, let alone while chasing bugs through downtown streets.
Anyway, at an altitude of about twenty-five feet, she doubled back and started dropping. Oh sweet... she was headed right for me! She made a pass at about eight feet in the air and to my right. I summoned every bit of Michael Jordan's soul that I could muster and leapt for the sky. With a swing of my arm, I managed to tip her, sending her careening toward the ground.
Now- where was she? There were weeds, bricks of the sidewalk and even a tree to examine in my search. The passing of five minutes of intense staring had me ready to abandon hope again. I backed away from the spot, walking toward my companions but never taking my eyes from where I thought she might be. Fifteen yards, I think it was, and she took flight. Dammit! She flew high and across the intersection, and she looked as if she would light again on the far corner, across the construction area. That was, however, not to be. She turned and took a dive, circling a backhoe on a course that convinced me she had landed on the asphaly, by the backhoe, under the spotlight.
I crossed the street... then the other. I stood, staring at the ground like some hippie-freak peaking on acid. My range of search encompassed traffic barrels, light posts, much asphalt and even a spot by the feet of the cop directing traffic. He seemed puzzled by my behavior but was too occupied to make any sort of inquiry- as some people might label harrassment. It was another five minutes. She was gone. Somehow, her flight path took her where I could not spot her.
I returned to the pet store. Tara and Brian were no longer there, so I ducked into the Better Bean Coffee Bureau and found them there. They were amused by but not surprised at my behavior, as Brian suggested I always wear the t-shirt when going outside, as long as my search for a dobsonfly continued.
T-shirt?
I looked down at myself and realized I was wearing my dobsonfly t-shirt. Obsessed? When I do capture my treasure, I plan to move on to white whale hunting.
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