An Existentialist Concern

The other day, a girl cried out that she missed her master so much and it was terrible that she was without him.  He replied to her that he did not know how "being without him" was possible since he believed that they were both always together no matter where in the world they lived.  That's a good master, and she is a lucky girl.  He's right, too; in this tricky mess of "being," it is easy to despair in unguarded moments -- when someone is absent, the feeling of absence is overwhelming and sometimes it feels like death.

Someday we, too, will be absent from the world.

A lady I know died yesterday.  She was formidable...!  Once, we were very close.  And, as is common with people who like each other, our paths diverged and we walked in different directions.  She was the city-type, while I headed towards the wilderness. While she was still in the world, though, I remember giving to her.  I am consoled, in this case, for I never let the balance tilt too far to one side: when one takes more than one gives, there is no way to repay the debt when the time is over, and that weighs too heavily on the imagination.  That is when grief is too painful to bear.  While she was still in the world, I gave to her, and I received what she gave to me, and the water that carries her away is calm, and my mind is easy about her in this way.

But my mind never has been easy about absence, and of course the idea of photography is supposed to be the balm that soothes this anxiety (as Sir Will knows).  Naturally, there were pictures of this excellent lady at the memorial.  Tasdron asked me, "Did you take any of those pictures?"  And the arrow pierces.  No, of course not; when I knew her, I was not a photographer.  When I knew her closely, years ago, I believed photography was a mystery, something that required initiation and sacrifice in order to achieve with any kind of mastery.  I never photographed my friend.

However, I did other things.  The greatest thing I can think of was to facilitate a moment of love (of peace and quiet and undisturbed time) between her and her man.  Such moments were hard to come by, back then, and so I rejoice that I could give them both such a gift.  Time is the best gift, right?  Someone's time is better than any diamond.

And then through the memorial, Tasdron showed me pictures of our past; and reminded me of moments in our past for which there are no pictures.  Moments do not vanish, necessarily, especially when one is a Master of Moments like Tasdron is.  Moments arise, again, playful and vibrant, when they are called upon.  Memento mori (Latin for "remember that you will die") reminds us that we live, too, and that as we live we accumulate moments and those moments live with us even when we're not looking at them.  There is no need for sadness.  Rockin did not go anywhere without us, because eventually we'll all be there with her, departed from this world.  (People cry as if she left us for a place we will never go to, ourselves.  As if we were forever sentenced to live in this world here, without respite.)

I don't miss her, and the reason resembles what that master said to his girl the other day: I know my friend, and we're not in the same place usually, and I did not miss her while she lived and I do not miss her now that she is dead because I know my friend.  She contains multitudes: she is different people with different people, as I too may seem different to different crowds, but there is a moment in time when she was as much a friend to me as I to her, and that moment is with me always, even in absence.  If the dead took with them all trace of their lives, that would be too sad to contemplate.  They leave behind everything they have given to us, rather, and that is what we hold for "presence."

What does this have to do with the culture of BDSM?  There is something important, here.  Something key to my idea of good mastery -- and therefore key to my idea of someone capable of understanding and accepting my submission.  (My idea, maybe not everybody else's idea.)  When the collar goes around my neck, I am not magically immune to "real life."  And, life happens.  So does death.  When the collar goes around the neck, the world continues to turn and there are days that will be unbearable and there will be days of jubilance.  These days need words for processing.  A master cannot make the days go away.  A master cannot make the days silent, mute.  A master cannot stop them from coming, nor can he stop them from leaving.  When there are, simply, too many moments to deal with all at once, he may simply be there with his girl to help her process them, one by one.  Inappropriate laughter; tears over stupid things; questions about existence and the meaning of life while drinking tea gone cold.  Perspective.  (The elasticity of my imagination springs too violently, sometimes, and perspective is always welcome for gentle relief.)

When the collar goes around the neck, it is because the master is capable of understanding the multitudes of his submissive, and vice versa.