A More Glorious And Private Mystery

 

     This video is important.

      In the first weeks when I first got to know You in 2007, I had imagined us as engaged in the dynamic of Kip and Hanna from The English Patient.  You know this.  What you may not know is the depth and extent of this dynamic and the effect upon my perception of the events that followed.  Master of me, the harness never felt strange to me -- I had already seen it at work for the great joy and benefit of its passenger; and the ropes and pulleys never felt constricting to me -- I had already watched Kip's manipulation of these tools in the service of a more glorious and private mystery than the familiar, quotidian war-scape each endures in her own life.

     Do You remember the scene  -- I have shown it here, in this video -- where Kip lights the candle-path for Hanna to discover; where he takes her in the dark to a place he had already scouted and determined to be safe (for, the world they inhabited was filled with land-mines and sabotage, and it was his job to sweep them all away for the safety of others); where he had already rigged the rope-and-pulley system that would lift her high into the air -- candle in hand -- so as to view from a perspective none other but the artist had enjoyed, all the centuries-old art contained therein.  The human likeness whose eyes she gazes into while suspended in the air might as well be a mirror image of her own countenance.  The placid, peaceful eyes and genuine smile of her face looking into the face from a whole other time and place, and yet the recognition of each, signals a timeless understanding. Joy is an act of defiance in a world filled with landmines. To fly is a defiance of gravity's resolute, oppressive, natural law.  

     Do You remember, too, conversations we had about the ethics and morality of bondage; ethics and morality of dominating another who surrenders her power in the service of a more glorious and private mystery than the familiar, quotidian war-scape each endures in her own life.  The question of whether it were any good; of whether there were a Good to be served in the practice of this power exchange.  The question of whether it revealed a damaged motive by a damaged practitioner; or whether this kink were possibly beyond reproach, were impeachable, were innocent and worthy of exploration.  Do You remember in all the years we have danced around the Source of it, sometimes hand in hand, and sometimes from a great distance, discovering in those moments different nuggets of perfect language -- language that thrilled, that captured, that preserved a moment of real connection and true intimacy, a vulnerability and a command not ordinarily experienced. Beyond the orbit of the ordinary.  Existing in a circular orbit all its own, including the normal and extending beyond it; a richer, more full experience, seen from a greater height, a candle moved closer to the source of the artwork.

     When Hana's candle ignites, there is the flash; everything from that instant exists either before it or after it.  The moment of experience illuminating the dark innocence. Your command is that flash of light: to document, to create a more perfect record, impeccable and eternal, of the new discipline.  "You and I are reading a book," You said to me, "about a woman who asks three things of her husband." And You asked if I had a third wish in my heart, beyond Your mastery and Your partnership.  "Can I fetch you the moon?" You asked me. And my reply:  "To stretch me into something more.  To make me more than I am."  The flash of a candle light changes everything:  there is the before times, and there is the now, the future of us.  You made sense of me and of my ineffable needs; and You directed this chaotic energy into a focused light piercing one long direction through time.  You and I talk sometimes in the language of the divine; invoking a pantheon, different iterations of emotion and accomplishment and need and urge and power and limitation.  One of many languages of love, part of our toolkit in explicating meaningful moments of our experience -- as though each moment were adamantine, a statue carved with precision out of otherwise-impenetrable rock.  And today I see us as the avatars of the gods whose destination is unknowable -- a beautiful, magical mystery -- but the journey (and I hope it is a long one)  will be filled with punctuating moments and observations, the gods who wait to delight in us smiling upon us with permission and encouragement.

     Hana's candle ignites and the flash puts me squarely into the future: we have art to discover and create through the medium of power exchange.

Power, and Abuse of Power

Power is on my mind.  Again.  As always.  I have spent the last year learning of the careful dynamic of power between adults who give each other power safely, with sanity, and willingly.  The rules are so careful.  The rewards are so stimulating (and I mean emotionally, nevermind sex for a while... sex sex sex everywhere I look, the feeding famishes the craving!)  The rewards are so stimulating: as I remember speaking candidly, openly, honestly, being my true self, revealing my fears and revealing my pride, revealing the bits that need guiding and finding solace in humility, from time to time.  Finding solace behind the strong barriers and boundaries that I am capable of erecting and maintaining.  Finding solace among the like-minded.  Finding solace.  Power is on my mind, and I wish there were a way to elevate the level of discourse around the globe to address this idea of power.

Abuse of power ubiquitously fuels the day's news:  the rich cannibalize the poor in any modern society, including third world nations.  The female is in conflict with the male in India.  The law is in conflict with the prisoners in Sri Lanka.  The black is in conflict with the white in the USA.  The English are in conflict with the French in Canada.  The people are in conflict with the ruler of Spain.  The spiritual are in conflict with the corrupt in Tibet.  Aboriginal culture is in conflict with Modern Japan.  Palestinians forever in conflict with Israelis.  Artisans in conflict with The Machine in every nation: truth wants expression, and the silencing hand wants silence.  The power, thus, struggles.

People will say what they will about the Fifty Shades literary phenomenon: I defended it when it first arrived, and I'll defend it again, because the way the trilogy handles power is perfect.  Submission does not (in these books, or in my experience) equal "powerless."  Submission does not (in these books, or in my experience) equal "brainless."  Submission does not (in these books, or in my experience) equal "defenceless."  The trilogy illustrates this over, and over, and over, and over again.  Our beautiful heroine is young and strong: she was never introduced to the world of BDSM before the story begins (and hey, everybody needs introducing at some point!  We are not born experts...) and so her noobish questions and mistakes are familiar to anybody being honest with herself. Our beautiful heroine can hold her own against a physical assailant.  Our beautiful heroine can drive really well.  Our beautiful heroine is not afraid of food, adventure, or chasing a good story.  And, our beautiful heroine is not afraid to stand up to someone she loves and to whom she will submit in the bedroom -- if nowhere else.  Our beautiful heroine has a solid idea by the end of the trilogy exactly what kind of submission appeals to her (even if it is not everybody's idea of submission).  Without apology, she enjoys her version of bedroom submission.  Without apology, she takes back her power when someone threatens to abuse it, or whenever she requires it.  All of it.  

Abuse of power is everywhere in the world.  "Exchange" of power -- the BDSM power exchange --  means the Dom controls certain things and the sub controls certain things, and the division is neat and tidy -- a division I can understand and a rule that is clearly posted for any to see.  Signposts.  No surprises.  (Well, ideally, anyway.  Beware the whimsical dominant who never really learned about power.)  There is logic and care in a Dom/sub relationship that the vanilla world could learn from.  A collar may not protect me from all the potential abuses of power in the world, but it reminds me of exactly how powerful I am, and that reminds me of how strong I am, and that reminds me of my inner peace.

The Dictionary, Page Thirteen

Surrender, it says.  And so I do.

"Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly," so the song goes.  One must be who one was born to be, and there is no point trying to be anyone else.

There is a lesson I have been learning for the past few months and it has everything to do with "selving" and personal identity.  About carving a separate self from my creators and about feeling free to be a separate self from my creators.  This is a difficult process if one comes from creators so heavily invested in their creation that a separate self has never been possible.  It is a painful process, separating oneself and becoming oneself.

But, nothing ever changes unless there's some pain.

I surrender my path to the evolution of my self, the natural creature who crawls and claws from the wreckage of birth into the realm of chaos.  "I want to be subject to chaos," Tasdron once said to me, years ago, as he lured me from the comfortable confines of one universe into the unpredictable paradise of another.

The metamorphosis feels real, now.  It is not a change: it is a changing into.  I am more than wings: I am ripples.  The sine and cosine of waves, up and down, to and fro.  The rippled image distorts and then clarifies after the drop of pebble into pond: though the image waves, it does not fragment.  And, eventually, the image becomes again itself.

I see things visually.  I see a pebble thrown into a pond, and my reflection eventually returns.

When I lamented the feelings of vanilla chastity, wondering where my "subbie" self had gone, I did not realize until today that it was simply a pebble thrown into water that had distorted the image of myself.  Life rocks my boat, sometimes.  Life is unpleasant, sometimes.  But, my real self I look upon, and my real self remains real; and after the water stills again, the image will be clear.  It only appears as though my image is not me, for a time.  And for a time, it will strive to get back to reality.  And for a time, until the next pebble is thrown, I will be and see the real me, at once.

I surrender to this, the changing of time.  I need not surrender my submissive self; I need only shield her and protect her and keep her warm for the time when she will be, again, called upon to serve.

The Dictionary, Page Twelve

Capture, now what was I thinking?  Capture, of all things.  The dictionary of my submission -- the words meaningful to me as I relate to my Tasdron:  capture is word twelve.

Not roleplay, no -- this is not a game.  Not slavery, no --  a slave to my passions, I am not, and I govern my passions with the desire of a saint.  Surely to cupcakes I had something in mind when I blurted the word "capture" for page twelve of the dictionary.

Oh indeed, oh yes.  Oh for the very certainty.  Yes, and I remember precisely why, too.  I remember a day -- early, early in my understanding of this lifestyle -- when brave old Sir Will set me down in a new and unfamiliar sim, greenery everywhere, with some delicate iron chairs and a table for two.  I was honored to hold his attention for the twenty minutes we had for talking and enjoying green nature.  (I am always honored when someone of sublime humanity invites me for a small time to enjoy an idea or two, and I have been very lucky with how many of those people -- people of sublime humanity -- I have been able to meet.)  What we talked about was preserving -- holding time in a bottle, as it were.  How afraid I had become, at that time in the year, of time slipping away and vanishing, and taking everything I love with it.  It was an anxiety easily quelled, in fact, and brave old Sir Will's picture in my photo album proves it.  "Why do you take pictures?" he asked.  "I need to capture and then hold on to moments," I replied.

When I frame it, snap it, save it, and treat it, it is mine for however long I say so.

Memory is unreliable, and dreams are easily influenced.  The taste of the tea at the time of a special moment is a taste I could try with all my might to recapture, tomorrow.  And of course, that taste, that perfect chemistry just so, just right, just there in that moment now gone, that taste is precious and flown.

So I take tea every day, for every moment.  I won't take any chances of missing out.

* * *

What happens, though, when the moments are perfectly collected, and the visuals perfectly captured, and the words and associations catalogued carefully and with pristine attention to every detail worth remembering -- and then the feeling fades... What happens when the chemistry that coordinated all of my feelings of submission suddenly changes, changed as a vial of blood poured into the clear, pure glass of aqua vita changes the look and meaning and value of the intoxicant?

The chemistry that made me crave the pain; the chemistry that made me crave the care; the chemistry that made me crave the naked vulnerability and steadfast rules and limits.  The chemistry that made me open myself to surrendering to another.  How do I recapture that chemistry?  I have gone all vanilla and happy.  There is great love, there.  There is placid, easy conversation.  There is intelligence and connection.  There is beauty and truth.  There is all such goodness but -- what of the chemistry that made me crave the sting of a riding crop?

My submission changes with every new day.  I am no less submissive simply for not craving pain.  I am no less submissive simply for not craving a passionate violence in fantasy.  I am no less submissive. I am simply... chaste in thought, now, as well as in deed.

There is no capturing chemistry as one captures its look.  Chemistry boils and bubbles, forever changing.  The species named "Submissive" does not change with the flowing, floating fury of volatile chemicals always at play.  I'm still me.  I'll be fine.

* * *

And I have valentines chairs to sit in for when you get home, by the way.

How good it is to know YOU

A week's absence has not been a week idle.  As I sort through the change in my real life, I also watch as my Second Life's learnings fall into place more clearly.  And because of You, Master, I know how connected the two are; and because of You, Master, I know how connected we all are.  Because of You, Master, I know the source of joy, and also I know the source of anger (and how easily you found them, how soon into knowing You).  I also happen to know, and this is my own learning, that joy is stronger.  Joy is power.  And because of You, Master, I know that power flickers, sometimes, even with the best of intentions: power is precious, power is renewable (if we take the time to renew it), and power shouldn't be taken for granted.  Sometimes even the most reliable  'on'  button is going to need a little help.  And that is what we are here for; that relating, that strengthening, that harnessing of power to feel that joy.  Master, submissive, top and bottom, or equal friends, there is joy to have in the world, however you find it.  Master, it is so good to know You.  And I'm pretty excited about the hidden 'me' I am getting to know because of You.

Jealousy, The Assignment, isn't going away.  In fact, it's gaining momentum.  This (above) is one of the pictures I took for my submission on jealousy, and I'm going to do something here that I should have done more clearly before: I'm going to explain in my own words why this is a picture (one of many pictures) of jealousy.  To me.  As an artist, I can see the actual art. I have to.  It's how I come up with the story.  But as a viewer, I do not spend much time analyzing the view.  And so I am going to do that here.

"Is this what I have to do to make you look at me more than you look at her?"  This is a woman who knows her partner's gaze wanders to another woman.  She feels jealous of her partner, therefore, and she begins to exhibit jealous behaviour.  The jealous behaviour:  trying to be someone else, trying to be someone she is not, trying to be like that other woman.  She part-reveals her body in a semi-sexual way.  The tentative behaviour is, therefore, revealed with this part-this and half-that.  Her eyes are shaded darkly; we cannot see the real eyes of her.  She herself probably does not want to see, either, clearly; she is ashamed of the behaviour she has reduced herself to.  There is nowhere to hide in this picture, so her hands are awkwardly placed.  A little bit shy for the face; a little bit shy for her arousal; and altogether attention-seeking, though it  might be negative attention.  Ultimately, it is a picture that frustrates a GENUINE sense of self.  And that is what I believe -- or, ONE of the points that I believe -- defines jealousy.  Jealousy frustrates a genuine sense of self.  Jealousy forbids a genuine sense of self - and the reverse is true: those without a clear sense of self are subject to jealous feelings and jealous behaviour.  Jealousy focuses too much on the 'other' rather than reassuring the 'self' that the self is still whole.  Jealousy focuses too much on 'him' or too much on the 'her' that he is looking at.  Jealousy removes the focus from the very precious power (power that I have recently felt, power that is golden, power in the belly of the woman who loves) -- this very precious power that we must never take for granted.  It is golden, this power.  There is joy, there.

And More Punishment

In my previous post, I advance the argument that punishment (inflicted by the Dom upon the submissive) is not warranted except for under extreme circumstances:  circumstances that, for one reason or another, prevent the forgiveness process naturally.  My argument is that I can understand and expect the daily occurrence of correction; and I can anticipate and understand the Dom's requirement (and even enjoyment of) regular discipline of my mind and body.  But I do not expect there would be much call for punishment given a) I do not typically do things worthy of punishment, and b) whatever mistakes I have made can be rectified via the correction and discipline methods.  Punishment need never enter into it unless there is an extreme circumstance -- a circumstance under which I cannot forgive myself or, worse, my Dom cannot otherwise forgive me without meting out punishment as a cleansing process, a purgative process.  And in order for that to succeed, my Dom would have to know precisely (because I know precisely, and I have told him) what it is that would feel like punishment for me.

Now, what happens if, under some extreme circumstance that nobody could anticipate, it is not the submissive who screwed up so badly that she cannot be forgiven, but it is the Dom who screws up so badly that he cannot be forgiven?  Cannot be forgiven with the usual methods, like caring and adult conversation from heart to heart, trying to sort it out.  Because caring and adult conversation from heart to heart usually fixes things, right?  Usually.  And sometimes, it does not.  Sometimes, one party remains wounded from whatever it was that went wrong.  And if it is the submissive who remains wounded from the Dom's big-bad mistake, and if the healing process cannot proceed without a punishment-equivalent (in the same way that punishment would have cleansed the way if meted out by the Dom to the sub), then the only way forward that I can see would be for the submissive to remove her consent.  In other words, for the submissive to remove herself.  Remove her person.  Remove her consent from the "safe, sane, consensual" dynamic.  To hit the road and get some distance.

I got this idea from Sir RB whose punishment of choice (when punishment is required) is to remove himself from attending to his submissive.  Removing himself -- withholding attention -- is that which would pain his sub the most.  In similar fashion, I would argue that it is the submissive's duty to remove herself from a situation so severe that nothing short of that would begin the healing process.  Instead of "punishment," mind you, it would likely fall under the category of "preservation."   I read recently words that make perfect sense here:  a submissive (or a slave) is a human being "with the obligation of right action toward themselves and toward others.  ALWAYS."  Thank you Sir Al.  The obligation of right action towards themselves means, when the time for forgiveness is at hand but it cannot happen in the usual fashion (i.e. the heart to heart adult conversation that must, must, must happen because you respect each other and were friends first, before the shit hit the fan), then it is incumbent upon the submissive to effect a safe, sane removal of her consent.  In my opinion.

The image above, incidentally, is from another art installation which is available for experiencing on LEA6, art by Fae Varriale.  I call it an image of power, but whatever other people call it is equally valid.  I realize that in my very narrowly-focused viewpoint about punishment and relationships, the vast spectrum of power dynamics at play in every single human relationship out there in the world is beyond the scope of the point I'm trying to make.  I realize, too, that I look at D/s relationships (certainly my future one with You, Sir, whenever You propose it is time) as a form of justice, when that is not a necessary condition of human relations.  Right action speaks volumes to me.  Right reason.  Right and wrong.  To me, not necessarily to others.  And, sometimes, it's not about right and wrong... sometimes it is the very definition of "arousing" for a Master to use his power simply because he can.  Sometimes.  Maybe it's not about right and wrong.  Maybe it's just about power.  And power is exchanged somehow:  it is never destroyed.

Fascism, Submission, and Art

My favorite part of Second Life is the art.  There is an art display right now called A Rusted Development which is a new exhibit built by Haveit Neox, which featuring work by Rose Borchovski, Claudia222 Jewell, Bryn Oh, and many other fine SL artists.  Claudia Jewell is my friend and I love her work, so I go see whatever she does.   EDIT:  you can see a catalogue of the display and biographies of all the artists, curator, and conjurer here (great idea, such wonderful creators!)  I was new to Rose's work, though, and I feature one of the displays here in the picture.  This segment  also features an audio component that I cannot demonstrate here in this post.  But as well as the stepping stones that tell the unfortunate soul what she cannot do, there is also the disembodied voice that tells the unfortunate soul the same thing.  "You are not allowed to read," is a block that nearly broke my heart.  "You are not allowed to think."  "You are not allowed to fish."  "You are not allowed in this market."  "You are not allowed to go to the cinema."  At first I thought it was an exercise, an exhibit, in censorship (the great enemy of art).  Then I realized it was an exhibit of fascism*, an exhibit showing what it was like to be racially marked with a yellow ribbon and segregated.  Rose's display is very powerful -- the audio as well as the visual.  The whole artistic melange is gorgeous.  It changes my state to walk among the displays.

But, taken out of context.  This path of "you are not allowed" stones reminds me of all the reasons I am afraid of submitting to someone.  When it's the wrong person, these "you are not alloweds" weigh heavily.  They are a life-sentence.  When it's the wrong person, every step along the path seems like it is branded with a "thou shalt not" of some kind.  When it's the wrong person, everything feels wrong -- and a body can feel not just helpless but also hopeless.  Put back into context, undesired submission is a fascist state of misery.  The art speaks to me.

And, when it is the right person, there's nothing bad written on the steps.  The "you are not alloweds" become "guess what you get to do for the one you serve!"  When it is the right person, the whole world looks different: the whole world looks clean.  Smells fresh.  Tastes savoury.  Perfection, dreamy, erotic, moving, wanted. Wanted.  Wanted.

*"Fascism" used here: a tendency toward or actual exercise of strong autocratic or dictatorial control, or the effects of such a government of a body population.

Little Submissions

I have stumbled upon a blog that has quickly become my favorite read in all BDSM-dom.  It is called Little Submissions and it is simply genius.  It's a collection of little "shorts" (and some shorter than others); little stories that depict the life and times of a Domme and her submissive.  Normally my interest wanes after but a moment when confronted with stories about submissive men and their Dommes.  But these little vignettes do more than entertain.  These little vignettes burst with ripe juice; they educate; they illuminate; they show the way.  The impact of the learning  makes me shudder with intellectual gratification.  (The writer should be lauded and celebrated.  Regularly.)  They are written so well.  They're great stories.

What has affected me so, about Little Submissions?  The wordplay, first of all.  Getting the words right.  That there is an owner in the world who will do that; who will reinforce the importance of words, whether at play or in all seriousness.  That there is even the idea of getting the words right.   I was thinking about this today because I attended two discussions (in one day!) and both times the frustration of le mot juste compromised some very key feelings.  (Not mine; other people's.)  It struck me, soundly, that there are people in the world who cannot articulate their realities.  There are people in the world who cannot say what they want to say -- or, rather, who want to articulate something but they do not know the word for it.  They don't know that there is a word for what they want, and when they eventually get that right word, their complex feelings that they feel so awkward trying to express will actually become legitimized.  Because they suffer, they do, trying to legitimize feelings that they don't believe they're even entitled to.  When one increases one's vocabulary, one increases one's ability to process one's world.  To legitimize one's feelings.  To stand firmly upon one's principles.  Hell, to articulate one's principles.  Anyway, getting the words right is huge.  I love the word-play in Little Submissions.

What else affected me?  Cause and effect.  The structure; the anticipation; the expectation; the playfulness.  That there is the talk, the banter, the play.  That there is laughter.  That there is learning.  That there is ongoing amazement and joy.  It feels like joy.  I read the back and forth, and I think to myself, "That is how I wish it could be.  That is how I would love for it to be.  But, between me and a man who loves me as much as that woman loves her sub."

What else affected me?  I begin to understand a little more what a dominant personality "gets out of it."  I find it difficult to empathize, and I have been trying to empathize: I have been trying very hard to figure out what it is about domination that tops feel so attracted to and yearn for.  I now see, a little bit more anyway, the subtle celebrations of her personality every time she dominates.  At every intersection of her domination and his pleasured submission.  And there are wonderful, sundry little points of intersection.  Domination is not just one mindset; one job; one state; one long pathway of never-ending sameness.  Domination, when I observe the woman in Little Submissions, entails an enormous garden of endless variety.  It is never boring to tend one single garden for a long, long time.  Every day the garden yields more.  I do not dream of domination; I dream wholly and eagerly of submission.  But I'm beginning to see, now, why You (when someday You come) might want me.  Someday.

Today was a day of eurekas.  And good pictures.  I have entered one or two photography contests.  Someday, maybe You might be proud of my artistic accomplishments, just one of the many petals that bloom for You.

Discipline - The Self

I was asked, recently, "Are you sure what you're looking for is a D/s relationship," given that, apparently, I long for something that sounds unusual, a contrast to the "normal" way of doing things.

"Yes," I assert gently and truly, "of course a D/s relationship is what I'm looking for.  I already know this.  I'm already there, in my mind.  That is fundamental.  That is basic."   I imagine a gardener with a bonsai.  I imagine a man older, wiser, full of humour.  I imagine he shapes, painstakingly (but not every day... only when it is time), as the natural shape of me emerges from his pruning.  When he is not tending the garden, he is enjoying the garden: he lets me give back, whether in silence or in active pleasure.  When he is at liberty.  When it is easy.  And only then.  There is no "pretend" attention; there is attention or there is space.  You, when  You come, will be a wizard and an artist with shibari.  And the iron of Your chain-leash will be strong.  And Your collar that I wear will be thick and obvious, well-made, substantial.  Warm, rounded, well-wrought metal and leather.  Something strong and masculine around my slender neck.

My future Master, without those things, why else would I seek You?  That, to me, is You.  I need You to discipline and shape this part of me.  And because You have already mastered Yourself, You will know how to master me.  You already know how I complete You; and what I will do for You; and how Your garden will become the great prize for the bonsai that, shaped by You, defines the evidence and skill of Your mastery.

While I wait, I discipline myself.  I discipline my mind.  I (re)learn the geisha manners of love and humility, entertaining and specialties in arts.  It occurs to me that there will never be One who wishes to master me who does not enjoy a geisha's beauty (and make no mistake -- a geisha is not for everybody!  Of what use is a woman who serves by talking or playing the shamisen?  Of what use is a woman who serves by delighting the mind and the eyes with light and surprise? A geisha is not for everybody.)  I continue to shape my intellect, curve my responses, sculpt my disciplines.  I do this because it softens the sharpness of my need, so that my patience blossoms.  I do this so that I have something still more to offer You, when You do come.  I already know what You will do to me; and I already love how I will submit to You.

And, that is enough for me: it is as if You are already here.  I enclose myself within this garden, and I admit none who is not You.

Art, Artifact, Artfulness, Artistic

ART is my outlet.  Portraiture is my voice.  Art is the artifact of the human soul just as literature is the artifact of the human mind.  Artifacts are evidence.  Marks in time.  Points of intersection between observation and understanding. How experience eventually becomes knowledge.  (You see how I consider things; art, like submission, carries with it its own philosophy that I yearn to explore, shred by shred.  Words are meaningful:  I do not take them lightly and I mean what I say.)  Art is my outlet, and artistic is my adjective, and the play between light and dark is my observation.  Again, symbolic: my emotions seek the dark because they live in the light.  My portraiture plays with the transformation between light and dark: the difference between innocence and experience; that space between the unknown and the familiar. I take the time to consider these things when I study a person's face.  In my mind, I study Your face, whoever  You are, out there.  I study Your face, and I memorize Your lines, and I crave the creases at Your mouth.  Because when You are genuine with me, there is no art: there is only truth.  The artful dodger, nay:  artfulness is slain by a shining, bright light.

My portraitures are studies of light and dark.  I believe that if I spend time in such study, I come to certain truths about the human condition.  For example, I learn that there is something attractive about the dark when strategically shadowed.  There is a need for the dark in order to delineate and shape the light. The light is beautiful, but it is blinding without the relief of shadows.  The shadows cool; the shadows edge and shape like a sculptor, creating beauty.  There is beauty in the darkness, just as there is beauty in the secrets of a soul.  You, I know, You will show me some beautiful corners in the darkness.  Your honest light will not cause pain; and Your soothing darkness will make pain sweet to touch and hold.  When You come, I will show You all my sides.  There will be no choice: You will reveal myself to me anyway.  I will know You when You come, and I am glad You exist out there somewhere.  I have more patience now.  And the more I focus on my studies, the better I know myself.  And I see You pretty damned clearly, too, by the way.

Seekers, Submissives, and Sensualists, if you wish your Second Life portrait done, it costs only a modest donation to the J2D sim (which I keep talking about!) and it is my great pleasure to work with you.

The Hammock of Aftercare

Time spent at J2D is time well spent: so much is achieved before I've even poured my first cup of tea.  Before lunch, I accomplished two successful, impromptu photoshoots with some truly beautiful couples (inside and out), and secured a future as a photographer for the sim.  (I'm sure there will be more of us, in time, who love to take pictures and who will donate their gifts to the very worthy J2D.)

Sometimes it's hard for me to say in words what I can say with a picture.  Articulating what I mean to say, verbally, is good training.  If we cannot articulate with words, we're trapped.  Words are, after all, our only reality... unless we can show some other way.  During one conversation today, I wanted to answer a question that was posed to me: "What does aftercare mean to you?"  It's one of those questions that continues to pop up (like "topping from the bottom" and "switch") regardless of where I go and with whom I speak.  But I suppose the best way that I know how to answer that question about what it means to me (as opposed to what it means in general)  is, "It means neither of you will exhaust your loving selves."

I realize, now, that a very long time ago, when I was privileged to be in a relationship with an excellent roleplay-Master (no longer in the game) that I was exposed to fine, fine aftercare.  I miss it now, keenly.  I have not forgotten the grooming of my tastes.  But I digress...  What does it mean to me?  Aftercare will restore the heartbeat to normal; will gentle the senses back to normal; will still the blood and cool the flush.  It will preserve the sanity.  It will taste like a chocolate mint after a salty supper.  And the mint will linger and freshen, cleanly, watery and soft.  On this little archipelago, for example, a solitary tree, some rocks, vast ocean, and a wooden shack.  The wind moves my hair as I stand innocently at the door to that little shack, shivering from a sudden chill and the absence of birds, thunder rolling in from the north, and then footsteps crunching the sand behind me.  The force-fantasy inside the little shack ends after several hours of intense, disciplined creativity and mood-refining, and then nearby there is The Hammock of Aftercare.

I just named this hammock now, at this moment.  I hope Wendy Xeno doesn't mind (all these pictures are from her sim Humanoid, a lovely place to imagine yourself in).  Thinking symbolically, the little table is to intimacy what the hammock is to aftercare.  The hammock for two is the place where both of you are suspended in the caring arms of each other.  The Dom and the sub both get to enjoy the aftermath of satisfied exhaustion and the aftercare of re-building.  The Hammock  is not an established D/s ritual... it's just something I invented (and maybe others invented also, in other places and other times).   For a long time, I have passed by hammocks and thought them cozy; but now that I immerse myself into Our Lifestyle I understand The Hammock of Aftercare  to be a sacred place, just like Intimacy is a Small Table.

But how can I describe the hammock other than to show it?  It looks flimsy; it's easily overlooked, in fact.  But to those who know what it means, to those who know how valuable it is (how life-saving, relationship-saving, and pretty damned important all around) they can recognize The Hammock of Aftercare no matter what sim they are standing in.  It is a net, with pillows.  It is the safety net.  It is the cradle we all require when we've just finished something dangerous.  You'll see The Hammock situated in so many places you visit, in Second Life.  The fantasy is in the familiar:  The Hammock of Aftercare is as much a requirement of the fantasy as the seduction, the ropes, the sweat, and the cries of ecstasy.

Intimacy Part One

I have had several conversations today, none of them a one that could ever be duplicated.  "Intimate" words; words especially intended for and directed to one person only.  Even a "Good day, my friend" is an intimate phrase, the way that I think about it.  I would direct it especially to one person, and it was for my friend's ears only.  What I'm getting at is this:  I love intimate moments, even chaste ones.  I love moments (yes, even chaste ones!) that are one-on-one.  Good work gets done during an intimate moment (or several).

By now it should be obvious that I enjoy expressing myself artistically; that sometimes words are insubstantial compared to the pure experience of an image finely-wrought and carefully-composed.  By now, too, it should be obvious that I humble myself before a power greater than me, a powerful creative force that must someday surely own me and make me bow.  I do long for that submission... but rather than a desperate frenzy, it is simply an eventuality that I know is coming, far, far down the road.  And I look forward to it.

These three conversations that I had today (and it's not even lunchtime... what a productive day so far!) have schooled me.  The first one was intimate; stopped me in my tracks, held me captive, made me imagine, forced me to consider and reconsider.  My hair was braided and fell loosely down my back, and the conversation called attention to this intimate detail.  A detail about my body that I had given little thought to (I cannot, after all, see the back of myself, generally...) became the focus of an intimate remark, and I was immediately changed.  Intimacy has that power.  The second conversation was group-oriented, and it was hilarious, but there were moments when pointed comments were directed precisely at me in whispers.  I am always honoured when an important and busy man pauses for a moment to whisper, to make something personal, to direct especially instead of generally.  Mark Twain once said that he could live for two weeks on a compliment, and when a skilled public orator takes a moment to whisper something private to me, I feel the compliment keenly.  The third conversation, though, follows the "intimacy is a small table" description from a previous post.  Intimacy is a small table and nothing much obstructs both people.  The conversation happens in any tone, and the table still stands regardless.  There is no approval-seeking.  There is no phoney.  There is only good talk; open thoughts; easy learning.  I can be myself.  I can be curious, stupid, intelligent, funny, confused, afraid... Thank you, Sir, for talking and for letting me talk.  Shields down, heart open, ready for laughter or for care... It is easy to see clearly.