The Dictionary, Page Eleven

Rendering is the word that begins the new year.  A joyous 2013 requires a joyous space for contemplation and so I have renovated the contemplation space.  It gets me in the mind-set required for "rendering."  What does that word mean?  It has several meanings, depending on the artistic or engineering or food-manufacturing contexts.

To render is to shade and texture something until it becomes the most "itself" it can possibly be.  It could mean the preserving of slight, tiny details that may otherwise be lost in production, thereby making "itself" the most "itself" it can possibly be.  It could also mean separating the "itself" from the layers of indigestible fat, red herring, white noise, grey smoke, invisible demons, and black thoughts that detract "itself" from its real self.

The relevance, then, to my ongoing journey:  it's a sidewinder, so I will try to clarify this for myself and any others who may someday find it interesting.  In a discussion about "pushing someone's limits" I thought very carefully about all the time during my D/s journey that I have spent trying to defend my personal limits against people who insist on pushing them instead of respecting them as I wish them to be.  As I mentioned to my friend in this discussion, it just feels to me like whenever I state a limit, someone is there to try to bust through it -- as though stating a personal limit were the equivalent of painting a bull's eye target on myself.  "But, pushing limits is how people grow," is the argument against.  And, I disagree.  It is not the only way people grow.  It is not the only way people try new things.  And it is not the concrete, definite, be-all-end-all rule that every Dominant or Master must push a submissive to do things that are uncomfortable.  It's written nowhere that this is "the only way" a D/s relationship may successfully exist and thrive in the world.

"But, you will stagnate and grow bored," is the argument against.  And, again, I disagree.  As I meditate on the idea of rendering, I think about the ways in which pain is removed from me -- not inflicted upon me.  As I meditate upon the idea of the getting-to-know, the sharing of imagination, the conversation and processing of the world together, the ways in which Tasdron gets to know me and offers perspectives that I had not thought of, the ways in which I may speak candidly and freely with him and unburden the sealed vaults of festering secrets or unleash the anxious chirping doves that are eager to fly, all the different ways that he takes care to preserve my essence while carving away the excess noise and sludge...  this process of rendering that takes place time after time, day after day, weeks and months on end... this process of rendering (that he would have me believe is mutual, in fact) is a process that does not involve substituting one pain for another but, rather, involves letting the real person come out.

The real person emerges.  And frankly, that's enough of a challenge for me, because it's been a long time since that's been a reality, and I didn't even realize it before.  This process of rendering requires trust and time and closeness and intimacy and care so that mistakes do not happen, of course, just like pushing limits requires.  But instead of pushing limits of endurance, it's a process of removing unnecessary endurance to free the soul and let experience be that much more gratifying.  And, thank you.  The peace is delightful from where I recline.

The Dictionary, Page Nine

Creation, is it.  When all I want to do is to write about forgiveness, and it is Creation that claims page nine of the dictionary.  Ah well.  So be it.

I have been looking forward to this post for a long time.  I thought it would never come.  I thought it would always elude me.  I thought it was for other people, not for me.  "Forgiveness is not something I can describe," they told me.  "It is letting go," others said.  "It is not letting them win," still others told me.  I could say the same about orgasm.  I could say the same about singing in tune.  I could say the same about finally mastering the trumpet.  

But now I can describe forgiveness.  I can describe it, because I feel it.  And I feel it because it is time.

a) It knows when it is time.  You won't control it.  If you control it, it is something else.  Forgiveness comes when it is time, and it's alright if you keep watching out the window.  It's alright if you watch this kettle boil.  In fact, the more you watch for it, the better.

b) It is about letting go -- but letting go of something very specific.  It is about letting go of a false sense of responsibility.  Yours, or theirs, or someone's -- you know which.  It knows which.  And it is an abandoning of a weight that has anchored you to a false sense of who you are.  This is why it's alright to keep watching for it.  Studying other people.  Whether or not they have a good sense of who they are, or whether they are still controlled by the anchor of "other."  If you tell people it is about letting go, make sure they realize: it is about letting go of something about yourself.  Something useless, now.

c) "But how can you forgive and never forget?"  Well, this will be meaningful someday, but for now you can have an intellectual answer to that question.  Intellectually, the forgiveness comes first.  Then, the choice of whether to forget or not.  But you're getting ahead of yourself.  Make sure you keep things in the right order.  Don't stop asking; but don't put your cart before your horse.

d) Forgiveness comes when you're in a safe room all by yourself.  And you're talking.  (Yes, talking.)  And you find yourself saying something kind and generous to that person you're trying to forgive.  You say, "Wow, I was nice to you there, did you see that?"  And in your head they say back, "I deserved nothing less!"  And out loud, you say to them, "Well, you crazy loon, I will be the judge of that, seeing as this is my room and all."  And then, the forgiveness happens:  you burst out laughing.

e) Yes.  Forgiveness is laughing.  Laughter is the truth.  Laughter is the fluttering of wings that takes it all away; the fluttering of wings that take flight and vanishes.  

SO...  I laughed.  I watched the thing dissolve.  I said to myself, I feel lighter.  It's alright, now.  I don't care what they think.   I don't care how they make decisions.   I don't care whether they condemn me.   I don't care whether they know I have forgiven them.   

Will I forget what they have done?  It doesn't matter!  I do not care!  Maybe I will.  All I need to remember, really, is to stay away from them.  Keep myself out of harm's way.  That is the part that lingers.  Forgive, yes, but say out of harm's way forever after.  There is no need to do it all again.  They don't get to break you twice.

All of this has been building up to that.   Now, I know my limits.  Now, I know my personal power.  Now, I know for sure.

Tasdron has been offering me opportunities to re-create myself.  We have re-created our world together.  We have re-created the safe place.  The experimental, negotiated place.  The before-care.  The after-care.  The ritual cleansing.  The ritual invocation.  The ritual exclamation.  

Now that I know what I needed to know, I can begin a new exploration and learn something new.  Learn how to live in a world forgiven.  With Tasdron's help, I will begin the act of creation -- he and I will create something new.

The Dictionary, Page Five

Worship comprises the fifth page of the dictionary of my submission, what words mean to me in the context of Tasdron Dryke.  Worship means, to me, a great big bowl of hyperbole -- exaggeration, excess, wanton slathering of meaning over something so ordinary as love.  And it's all I have, sometimes.  Sometimes, that great big bowl of excess and "too much" is all I have, so far away.  It makes it easier to bear, to use such words.  Too much, more than, ever in this whole world.

It makes it easier to conceive of "no ordinary love" when I imagine how I worship you (like a king) and how I adore you (like a Christ) and how I prostrate myself before you (like a Messiah).

Really it means that I obey you (like a king) and I listen to you (like a Christ) and I submit myself before you (like a Messiah).  You are not a king; you are of the same class as I am.  You are not a Christ; you are just clever, thoughtful, and ready to give love.  And you are not a messiah; you are American, brave, and free.  I know the reality of you; and yet, whenever we speak or whenever I feel close to you even if there is no speaking, despite the reality that I know (and I too am real, and I too know the vast gap between the statue on the plinth and the woman who keeps it pretty) I am compelled, time and again, to fall to my knees and look up to you and sing your praises as though I were a choir of hundreds of voices.  More hyperbole!  But it is as if, and therefore it is.  I think, therefore I worship.

It makes me feel good to know you are in the world.  And it makes me feel good to know that you can hear me.  It makes me feel good that you let me in, on days when you aren't filling my world with you, so that I can fill your world with me.  I lean on you.  You lean on me.  And I am blessed for it.  (And now I know why I chose this picture, and before that, why you chose this pose.)

"Worship" is just a word I use, sometimes, to indicate the way in which my imagination elevates you beyond the ordinary.  It is a word I use sometimes to indicate that, despite the reality of our worlds, my fantasy is to occupy a world where I may lift you so high with how much I love, and where you may bring me with you with how much you love.  You lean on me, and I lean on you, and this is how it works.  It reinforces the electrical current of the power we exchange; it doesn't sap it.

Decadence, Metaphor, Metamorphosis

Decadence is a word usually associated with over-indulgence, over-satisfying, over-eating, over-feeling.  Too much of a good thing.  The erosion of morality.  The erosion of a sense of what is natural and, therefore, what is right.  The idea of decadence challenges the preconceived ideas of nature and "what God intended."  As if we could know what God intended.  As if we could declare "right" and "wrong" based on earthly nature -- the most varied and sparkling array of colour and celebration on Earth.

I wear Tasdron's collar and it is a big, thick, black, studded, manly awesome phenomenon: it is an over-collar, there is no question.  Obvious and evident, over-satisfying and decadent.  I know a collar doesn't mean much to some people in Second Life, and it is to be expected -- a collar means as much as a person wants it to mean.  It feels incredible when what it means to one is the same as what it means to other.

The collar, to me, is a metaphor -- and more than a metaphor now that I have no power over locking or unlocking it.  A metaphor in literature has two parts: the tenor (the original subject) and the vehicle (that thing you compare the subject to, when you use a metaphor).  "Rose-red lips," is a metaphor, and the tenor is the lip while the vehicle is the red colour of a rose.  It is as if the person does not kiss a pair of lips but, rather, kisses a rose instead.  The vehicle is what we remember in the metaphor, in other words; the vehicle is what lingers.  The metamorphosis is immediate, in language, as immediate as you can command.

My collar means everything to me.  I had put in a request for a particular kind of collar -- I wanted it to be big and bulky, obvious on my slender neck.  Black!  Not something one sees everyday.  And Tasdron got me something beyond my wildest hopes.  We speak the same language, in the heart as well as in the head, and we have the same sense of the too-much, the over-good.  The decadent and how we both move towards it.  In our world, though, decadent means something more.  (Of course it does.)  Decadent brings with it a sense of nature, changes what is natural (read: what is approved by the mainstream) into something super-natural, over-natural, perfectly-for-us natural.  Decadence brings with it art, display, revelation, exploration, curiosity, and the vastness of the never-ending.  Decadence brings with it human potential, different ways of looking at ourselves, different ways to hold a mirror to our expressions of love.  Self-gratification and other-gratification, and new ways of gratification (the way the man can tie a knot is its own religious experience).  Nature changes; the righteous or sinful nature of people being what it is, my collar represents a whole new nature, a whole new righteousness.  I have learned so much of what I wanted to learn, and now I want to put it into practice.  I feel good.

Eyes to mine, butterfly

We discussed past pains, past lives, past futures and past things abandoned.  And, then, ceremony number two unfolded, unwrapping something that I was not expecting.  I should have expected it: there was a little sound of something delicate, the tinker bell flutter of metallic music hidden inside red velvet.  I heard it in my mind's ear but I did not process the implication until -- there -- I see the dainty pouch and the emptied contents.

My hands were bound behind me, a precaution that forbids me common expressions of worship.  I must be more inventive with my gratitude.

This is the balance: even though there is evidence everywhere of my submission, there have been days recently with nothing overtly to do with submission and dominance.  This is the balance: after so many days, formality and ceremony.  Balance, after such a stretch.  Counterbalance and harmony in two/two time.  A renewal.  A progression further.  A proof of love and a proof of devotion.

Balance.  Counterbalance.  Harmony.  And a little velvet pouch with delicate utensils, and the thinnest, sweetest chain barely there, and more powerful than a magic wand.

I watch as you clean the needle: you use fire to burn away the impurities, and you use alcohol to purify the steel.  Your swordsman-quick piercing of the skin, and it is done and I have no hands to cover my breasts, because my wrists are bound behind my head, my shift dangling from me like a black and gold flag, and it's too late and all finished anyway, like magic.  It is done and I gasped long after you finish.  I beg to be able to look and see for myself, because my eyes were locked on yours and unmoving.  "You will not close your eyes," you said to me, and I did not.  I looked at you the whole time.  "Eyes to mine, butterfly." And then I felt the needle pierce.  And then a second time.

You say:  "When you are naked, I will see this sunlight and it will remind me of your fire. When you are displayed, men will see this diamond and know my hands are upon your body already. And when you are not naked, you will feel me, ever with you, beneath your clothes."  

I'm allowed to do this, to feel this, to have this.  I'm allowed to experience this and balance this and cling to this.  I'm allowed to revel in this feeling and I am so grateful.  Two diamond suns pendant and gleaming, clasped with a fairy-light chain that makes the daintiest noise -- so dainty, almost invisible...  But I know it is locked there, and I feel it minute by minute.  I must be more inventive with my gratitude.

To forgive, to absolve, to let go

I'm working on forgiveness.  Like "Jealousy" and like "Shame" it is a very large, very baggy and convoluted idea.  And of course, it involves many people's differing opinions and advice.  When I talk about forgiveness with people, we all seem to have different ideas about what the word really means.  Often people imagine "absolution" or "forgetting" or "letting go" or "re-inventing" or "erasing" when they imagine the process of how they forgive.  But what is it, actually "to forgive"?

The best way for me to look at it is through a Christian lens.  To forgive is to hear a confession of absolute responsibility; to understand without a doubt that the person feels responsible and feels remorse; and then to feel satisfied that the person's sense of responsibility and remorse will prevent any future and similar behaviour.  Forgiveness in that sense takes two people.  The one must confess in a real and meaningful way; and the other must understand that the confession is real.  Which is great if it happens like that.

What if one is required to forgive someone who does not believe he has done anything wrong?  I believe there is no forgiveness in that sense since forgiveness requires two people, but there is the solitary version of it: absolution.  Another Christian term, but applied without any religious fervour.  A person may choose to absolve another human being of any harm he has inflicted, if a person wishes to. That is what Christ does when he offers the other cheek for slapping.  When someone slaps your cheek, offer the other cheek too, he says; don't slap in revenge.  (I'm not really a Christian, thank heavens, so I can slap whoever I want.)

In either case, whether to forgive or to absolve is the tension, the end result is a "letting go," by all accounts.  It is peace.  It is a new level of serenity.  Or, at least, that is my mental picture.  Really, what it means is, if I forgive this person once, I have to keep forgiving this person every day of my life.  Doing it once means I'll definitely have to do it twice, and thrice, ad infinitum.  At least, that is my great fear.

On the other hand, I suppose that it is possible -- it is possible -- that the person in question already self-punishes and self-loathes as a result of past and recent behaviours.  It is possible.  I will never know for sure.  Therefore, it is possible that I do not necessarily need to "keep score" and keep the wound fresh and alive for the rest of my days as an act of "being true to me."  Absolution, private and without fanfare, may be the only solution.  Honestly, the whole situation is simply exhausting... Not like my pretty picture of a dock at sunset and calm water.  My happy, peaceful, forgiving place.  Sometimes I am amazed at how realistic Second Life photography can be.   My second life needs no absolution!  It is such a pretty place!

Shame, Part Four

There would be no shame without curiosity.  It is not real shame (is it?) if we did not ask for a little bit of it.  Or, more than a little bit.  Curiosity is the beginning of shame.  In the story of Eve with Adam in Paradise, it is curiosity (not defiance) that claims Eve's innocence.  It is not that she wanted to upset God.  It is not that she tried to get Adam in trouble.  It is a very simple motive that changes poor Eve forever after: curiosity.

With curiosity comes temptation.  With temptation comes indulgence.  And, from indulgence derives gratification which, alas, feels so good... or feels terrible.  It depends.  But, in the end, the terrible feeling is shame.

It is the terrible feeling anorexics feel for eating food.  It is the terrible feeling alcoholics feel for drinking whiskey.  It is the terrible feeling pedophiles feel when looking at a child in short pants.  It is the terrible feeling victims of bullies feel when they read the text message that says "Everybody thinks you smell foul."  The shame comes after the eating; after the drinking; after the looking; after the clicking and opening and reading.  The shame comes after the curiosity.

Shame comes from secrets.  The secret is the closet where shame resides, hangs up its hat and coat, settles in.  The secret is the darkness and safety of that closet.  We know where that closet is, what hides inside.  We know, because we shut the door and keep it safe.  We know because we volunteer, in this act of shame-keeping, to give the secret a good home.  Sometimes it is for good, that we keep this secret.  It protects people.  Sometimes it is for worse, that we keep this secret: it hurts people and we are too weak to change it.  Shame relies on this secret, though, however we look at it.  Shame relies on this secret, and relies on our ability to hold that closet door closed.

If we do not keep that door closed, then shame will no longer be private:  shame will become public embarrassment.  Shame will become the object of public scorn, and then guilt blossoms from the garden of soiled embarrassment.  The danger with shame is the imbalance of power, again: shame has the potential to destroy every carefully-balanced arrangement.

Shame, Guilt, and Embarrassment co-exist in this way:  shame is private; embarrassment is public; and guilt is the responsibility of the individual to action, somehow -- rightly or wrongly.

Shame, Part Three

Shame as kink involves a phenomenon that I still find difficult to put into words.  I have a great empathy for the practice, but I do not wish to practice it.  I do, however, understand the incredibly powerful connection that arises when two people engage: shame actually fails without that incredibly powerful connection.  To put it another way, shame is evidence that the connection between two people exists.  (Of course, there are other ways to test and prove the connection.  But, shame is as good a proof as any.)

Even if the players have only just met.  Even if the players do not even know each other's names. Or even if the players have played for fifty years one way and one way only.  "Shame" as a kink is a peculiar kind of connection between two people.  Take, for example, the idea of "insult."

On one hand, if someone I have no connection to, someone I feel completely indifferent to, tells me "You, Anna, are a dog, a low-lying guttersnipe," then I feel more puzzled than anything else.  "I have no idea why you would say such a thing, but I'm not curious to find out.  Goodbye," would be my answer.  In other words, I reject the insult as irrelevant to me.  It does not strike the target.  It does not hit home.  My core is perfectly preserved.

On the other hand, if someone for whom I have great respect, or great longing, or great lust, or great need, or great dependency upon, tells me, "You, Anna, are a dog, a low-lying guttersnipe," then for a moment I actually believe those words.  I admit those words into my core.  Not permanently... but, for a time.  Just to examine them and to see if they are real.

Personally, I do not feel "turned on" by being insulted. I feel emotionally struck when I am insulted by someone I love.  Those words "hit home" with a bulls-eye target if those words come from someone I trust.  Logical or not, I admit those words.  And so it is with shame.  If shame were my kink, I could see how powerful it would feel -- how strong the connection would become in my mind, in my body, in my imagination, in my whole reality -- if the man I worshipped were to look into my eyes and say the words that would make me feel shame.  Or if he were to position my body in the way that would shame me in front of others.  Or if he were to do anything, for that matter.

The connection is the idea.  "Kink" reinforces connection.  Whether it be shame, or cuffs, or dog-collar, or equipment, or words...  Kink reinforces connection.  Shame, like any other part of D/s relationships, requires both parties to participate, both parties to consent.  In fact, consent is half the shame, indeed.

Faith and Certainty

I would not know what to do with myself if there were nothing more to learn.  It occurred to me today that I might be forever a student of interesting things.  It occurred to someone else today that I ought to be happily paired with a Dom Priest.  (Do we know any ordained priests in the world?  I am no Christian, but I am Christ-Curious.)  And then, I began to think of everything that I knew of Christianity, because someone that I care about was hurting.  Surely, there would be comfort from her faith.  Surely there would be some magic word that would unlock the rush of soothing balm.  The problem with faith is that there is no certainty; and the problem of certainty is that it removes the blessing of faith.  This is the problem of Eve:  choosing certainty over faith.  And this is the healing restoration of Mary: believing instead of knowing; choosing Gabriel's word over the condemnation of just about everybody else in her life.  Mary's faith erases the original sin of Eve's certainty.  Jesus does for the world what Adam failed to do.  Christianity, therefore, abides; and Adamism died a quiet death shrouded in obscurity.

Personally, I live a life that I believe separates me from appetitive beasts in the world.  I strive to make decisions based on logic ("Live and let live") or self-sacrifice ("More for thee than me") as opposed to making decisions based on fear, hunger, or anxiety-avoidance.  I do not always succeed, of course; but I do strive.  What is my motivation? To separate myself from the appetites of the beast.  In other words, boobs and cocks are funny and adorable, but let's talk about important things like God and the nature of love.  While I'm bound in rope and hanging in a stone dungeon, listening to the Olympics.

I have felt hunger.  I have felt need.  I have felt as though the world were blessed and I had been cursed.  I have felt alone under a dark sky, and my face pelted with debris hurled by a screaming wind. And, I have turned around to look at where the wind was going.  It must be going somewhere extraordinary, because it carries everything there with it.  My thoughts, the red sky, even clouds are curious.  I know so much, and I seek to know so much more, and I remember the person who first shaped me and how well he controlled his appetite.  Even at his hungriest, he shared with me.  Even at his lowest, he spoke kindly to me.  Even feeling the most fear he had felt, he touched my hand tenderly.  When reduced to his most basic, primal self, even he did not growl and grunt like an angry ape: he closed his eyes gently and composed himself before uttering a word.  And so my model abides.  He made me, and he shapes me still, just as wind and water and fire made rock and shape it still.  Everything is in flux.  Everything, if you let it, grows.

I know how good it feels when wind blows me so strongly that I just go with it, not fighting it but letting myself be pushed along.  It is almost like flying.  I know how good it feels when the sun shines during a sun-shower of raindrops and hail.  I know how good it feels when I tiptoe over stone and grass and dirt, and then stand in the water and close my eyes.  It is another way to feel like I am in the right place.  I do not know God at all, and I do not know the amazing architect of the natural world.  I submit myself to the whimsy of wind and the life-force of water; to the passion of fire and to the steadiness of grounded earth.  I kneel before a clever man, and I myself have no certainty.  I have no need or hunger.  I know only that I wish to learn, and to keep learning, until I am no longer here.

(Many thanks go to Sir Will for taking me to this extraordinary Scottish place for some extraordinary picture-taking.  Loch Haven is just another reason why I love Second Life so much, and Sir Will is one more excellent human being that I am lucky to know.  I am truly blessed by my family and my friends.)

Truth

 Mistress Steel's collection of learnings  was my first "how to" manual of BDSM and the D/s lifestyle.  I have read and re-read the articles herein.  Each time, I am refreshed.  What strikes me this time is truth.  In the "24/7" article, she writes:  "It becomes crucial to say clearly exactly what you mean and to listen carefully to hear exactly what your partner says to you.  We have often been taught to try to say what we believe other people wish to hear instead of the truth.  Truth alone can be blunt and unkind, but it is the edge of the blade that does far less damage than a blade that is blunted by false veneers.  Honesty is essential.  Hiding or masking anything will quickly lead into a morass of problems and, most often, the severing of the relationship's potential."

Lately, I have been tasked with writing down my thoughts during scheduled moments of meditation so that we can discuss them later.  I remember the first time I thought I had bad news to deliver: I had meditated on limits and I was about to impose them.  I was not sure how that would be received, and I could feel the anxiety rise.  How do you deliver unpopular news to someone you respect?  How do you tell someone whom you value that you are about to place limitations on the relationship?

Personally, I believe in the Mistress Steel philosophy:  the cutting blow of truth hurts, but it doesn't hurt as much as repeated blows from a blunt object that didn't do the job right the first time, or the second, or the third.  A clean break is a mercy.  A person can work with a clean, clearly-stated truth; people are strong (regardless of how they might protest to the contrary).  Speaking for myself, I would rather hear a clean, clearly-stated truth (i.e. "It's not working out, but we gave it a good try.  Let's end this thing.") than to be left in the dark, second-guessing myself, wondering when and if and how and whether... Speak, say it, define it, bind it, and let go.  Truth is a necessary condition of maturity.  I suppose that I take it for granted that a dominant personality will speak truth to me -- will, at the very least, be able to deliver unpopular news to me with a clean blow so that I can deal with it.  If a dominant personality cannot deliver unpopular news with the same conviction as good news, then it warrants examination.  Even doms have limits and the right to assert them.  As a submissive personality, I look to them -- to one especially -- to give it to me straight and clean.

I relate the ability to tell the truth to the ability to define limits and boundaries.  The ability to say 'Stop!' when it is time.  The ability to assert, "This far, and no further."  The ability to say, "I think I have made a mistake, can you help me?"  The ability to say, "I have needs, and you cannot meet them if you continue this way."  The ability to say, "I thought I was going to like this, and now I realize I do not."  The ability to say, "Damn, that was harder than I thought it was going to be."  Speaking truth to power is not easy, sometimes, but how else are we going to enjoy our lives if we cannot speak truth to power?  How else are we going to live in a world of conflicting needs and competing desires without the ability to say, "Enough; now it is time for my needs."  Of course, a person needs a nice safe place to be able to speak the truth and have it heard as truth, and have it analyzed and discussed as human beings.  A person needs a safe place, lots of patience, great understanding, and a curious spirit engaged in getting to the source of things... yes yes.  These things I also take for granted.  A person must want to live with truth, for starters.  And that is another reason why I am so blessed with the people I know and love.

Jealousy, Part Five

Once, during a discussion about jealousy (one of many hundreds I have had since being given the assignment to explore it and figure it out) Klaudia said to me that she felt a good kind of jealousy, a sweet tingle in her tummy, when she thought about her Master.  I was new to this idea, so naturally I kept my distance: "what do you mean there is a good side to jealousy?" I asked myself, loudly.  I thought the whole point of this exercise was to exorcise.  That jealousy is a demonic invasion plague infestation infection thing.  Akin to the zombiepocalypse.  It goes right for the brains and then leaves you for dead, or that is how I thought about it.  "It is like a predator," I came to understand.  "It is like a bully," was also a familiar refrain.  "It compromises safety and sanity, and therefore consent and submission," is my own conclusion.  "It makes my tummy tingle," says Klaudia, and that just turned everything upside down.

I tried very hard to think of a way to make jealousy come from a place of love.  Jealousy gets a bad rap, naturally, and it's difficult to reverse that trend.  But I realized, as I examined an older picture of my mentor that was still in its raw state, and as I imagined all the things that I would do to digitally manipulate and enhance and "make different" and "make new" this picture of my Genny, that I had said to myself, "My Genny."  And I thought, after that, "My Genny, who looks like only I can make her look, when I take her picture."  And then I realized, "Only I see this Genny, my Genny."   When I take the picture and when I show it on display, sure, other people can observe "My Genny" but... only I saw her.  Only I captured her, treated her, polished her, and made her shine like only My Genny can.  And when I look through that lens to shoot My Genny, I do so out of love.  It's a jealousy that comes from Love.  My mentor inspires this.  And Klaudia's tummy-tingles confirm this: it is possible to feel a GOOD kind of jealousy.  The kind that says, "Nobody else can do this for you like I can, you wonderful person whom I love and will never harm."    (And incidentally, I'm not showing the My Genny picture here, because she's mine.  Sorry.)  

Jealousy, Part Two

The fundamental premise of my study of jealousy was that feelings of jealousy contradict feelings of belonging (from a submissive's point of view) and feelings of being the significant voice in the life of a loved one (from a dominant's point of view).  By that I mean to say, the extent to which a person feels like she belongs, or feels like she is the primary influence, is the extent to which a person is not feeling jealous at that moment in time.  Jealousy is defined as an anxiety over the possibility of losing someone (or, from a dominant's perspective, losing someone that we feel a type of ownership over).  The feeling that we will be replaced by someone else, in other words.  The feeling that, even though it hasn't happened (and may never happen), the possibility is undeniably and damnably distracting.

Feelings of jealousy contradict feelings of belonging.  Feelings of jealousy contradict feelings of significance.  Where this leads to is the "imaginary" part of jealousy.  It is an anxiety: if it were a wholesale loss of someone, then the feeling would be properly termed as "grief."  If it were the wholesale deception and adultery proven, then the feeling would be properly termed as "rage."  But it is neither; jealousy exists in the nebulous realm of the imagination, especially if nobody is talking about it.

If jealousy exists in the nebulous realm of the imagination, then it suggests to me a very interesting thing: jealousy also contradicts the three tenets that hold up the D/s lifestyle, those being safety, sanity, and consensual relations.  If the dom or the sub (or the Master or the slave) are in the wrecked throes of a jealous rage, all inside their imagination, it calls "sanity" into question and the mental preparation required to properly command or obey.  It calls "safety" into question and the trust one requires to come face to face with a man with a whip (so to speak).  It calls "consent" into question because, well,  is the person really here and present when she agrees to the scene if she is mentally occupied with sorting out her jealous reactions and stifling her jealous behaviours?  Is her consent valid if she is preoccupied with trying to figure out how to confront you - appropriately -  about her fears and anxieties?  Jealousy begins in the mind, but it ends in behaviour: everyday actions that look like everyday actions (baking, shutting a door) but are, in fact, the body's reaction to what the mind cannot ignore.  The body cries out when the mind is in pain, after all, and the jealous wife who bakes a little more furiously and the jealous husband who slams the door a little too loudly are just begging for some good, heart-to-heart and face-to-face communication of the "please listen" and "please focus on me" variety.

Safe, Sane, Consensual

Safe.  A white room, well - lit.  A soft floor.  The security of my bindings, and the freedom to move around, testing the environment.  How does it feel to walk like this.  How does it feel to breathe this new air.  How does it feel with my body vulnerable to You.  How does it feel to trust You.  Will you listen to my limits?  Will you say, out loud, that You protect my limits?  Will you say, out loud, that You will do nothing to tease me about having limits?  You will do nothing to push my limits, because my limits are there to prevent pushing?  There is a whole, big, beautiful room to explore; there is no need to see what is behind the door.  The door is shut for a reason: and that reason is mine.  I feel safe in this room.  I feel safe with my limits, and with how well You respect my limits, and love my limits, because they are part of me.

Sane.  Nice, straight lines.  Regimented, regular schedule.  Proper proportion, moderation, and balance.  The horizon is a straight line, and everything flows from the line that extends into forever.  Private time to meditate and contemplate: to process what I have learned, and to turn back towards You and smile, understanding.  You have shown me.  My future You, my present me loves You for the nice, straight lines, regimented and regular schedule, and Your moderation and balance.  We do nothing that we have not talked about.  We do nothing that You cannot control.  Everything that we do is a measure of Your control.  Everything that we do is evidence of Your mastery of self, and mastery of me.

Consensual Consent.  I bear my burden willingly.  The chains about my neck are light.  The bindings at my feet are anchors, not weights.  You take from me what I would willingly give: You take from me all that I have, and curiously it simply fills me with more.  The Private Garden where You tend is full of me.  The vessel of secrets is capped until You open it and find me, a pool of wanting, rippling therein.  I am so easy to decipher, for You.  I am, for others, hieroglyphs without the guiding stone; monuments without meaning.  The brambles and the thorns, the teeth and the rats' nests, the Medusa head and the stone statues of men that line the garden path... I wander past souls of the troubled, and I try to keep my heart intact.  When there is only You.  Only ever was.  Only ever will be.  When I finally find You, it will be a moment of awakening, and then I will cry out YES  once more, and these dreams will be forgotten.

To know and to love

This is a picture of my journey.  I wish the sim were still open, where I had taken this photograph.  Interesting to note that there was nothing to change about it.  I added a frame, my name, and called it pretty. (Sometimes the photographs that I take in Second Life are just perfect on their own.  Sometimes I feel like a good photographer, not just a good digital artist.)   I have been waiting to see what to do with this image: and now I realize, this is a picture of my submission.  I walk an unfamiliar landscape: unfamiliar, even alien-looking to what I am used to on Earth.  Some of the planks are rickety and old (values that are worn-out and under-examined for their relevance today); and some of the planks are strong and sturdy (lessons, fresh thinking, and small victories along the way that prop up the process).  In the top right quadrant, I wander.  I am in no hurry.  I look at what is around me and I learn.  Bottom right quadrant: the butterflies, the metamorphosis.  The change.  The beauty that awaits.  The bottom left quadrant: green foliage, green space, organic growth that represents life and living and the symbiosis of relationships.  Upper left quadrant:  the elegant, elaborate, carefully-constructed screen that follows me -- blocks my view of certain things, shields me from certain things, protects me from foul winds, or reveals things to me slowly at the right pace.  That shield is valuable.  It is not a hindrance.  That shield is human-constructed and elegant.

This is also a picture of my journey.   It is a picture of contemplation, experimentation, and tests.  (The toes in the water test like no other test...)  The crossed arms love like no other love.  The reflection in the water shows myself to me.  And I have learned in the last 48 hours to love, love, love the good person looking back.

Most of my journey is intellectual.  A little bit -- more and more -- is emotional.  When I began the journey, I had no idea what scope, what vast acreage of landscape, there would be to learn and explore in the D/s lifestyle.  I had no idea it was more than kneeling, devotion, and prayer that I would "be enough."  I had no idea the fulfillment would be so intense; nor the emptinesses that become more pronounced.  I had no idea that, when I finally asked, I would finally receive.  I've been told -- and it's been proven -- that I'm allowed to ask, and I'm allowed to receive, and that it's more than okay:  it's gratifying.

Vulnerable Days, Strong Days

Today is father's day, and it is the first father's day that I experience without a father.  (I can see where this week's anxieties have come from, now that I think about it.)  My father was kind, quiet, strong,  self-centred (in the way that is zen and healthy), well-read, and always occupied (and yet forever available if I needed him).  My father did not raise me to be dependent upon him.  My father did not raise me to fall apart when he is gone.  My father raised me to live my own life; and if I faltered, he would fix it so that I could continue along the path I had chosen.  My father was unexpectedly hilarious in rare moments.  My father rarely spoke using contracted words, usually preferring to speak the word in its entirety as if to savour the full meaning of it.  My father was contemplative. My father took incredibly good pictures, usually of things nobody else was looking at.  My father's handwriting was immaculate.  My father's patience was selective.  My father's curiosity was healthy.  My father's storytelling was legendary.  My father could write so that anybody would want to read him.  There is nobody, obviously, who will replace my father.

It is not a replacement I seek, in any event.  However, it is fair to suggest that my taste in a dominant -- my comfort zone in obedience and learning -- has been groomed by someone extraordinary.  It would be within my comfort zone to interact with a man who does not expect me to fall to pieces waiting for him to return.  I do not.  It is not in my makeup.  It would be within my comfort zone to interact with a man who gives me consistency and regularity in terms of time and attention -- and who otherwise allowed me to live my life, with faint reminders scattered here and there, and enjoy things to look forward to.  It is why I do not enter this lifestyle broken: it is not reparation I need.  It is not an antidote I seek.  My first dominant, the man who first guided me and fashioned me and set me loose upon the world to live as shaped by him, he did so with care.  I am accustomed to that; and I am satisfied with the course of my own journey now.  The course is taking me further towards You, the great and powerful You who has hypnotized my thoughts and who compels me forward and forward on.

I felt weak yesterday; today I feel strong.  Today I feel like I master the very darkness that I seek -- and I know that is not possible... but sometimes little victories feel like big ones.  My little victories:  I have further defined my submission; I have made a situation that was not working for me (and bringing me pain) work for me, and bring me security.  I do know some very good people in the world.  And I will know You, the cooling dark that surrounds my burning light, strips me bare so that there is nothing hidden or wanting.

Backwards, Frontwards, Side to Side

It's been quite a day.  And there's nothing like talking to a real friend on a real kind of ... strange day.  I wanted to know about the role of love in submission, especially in the virtual world.  "Can you give yourself and still be independent?" my mentor asked me, challenging me to enjoy the feeling of a man without giving myself away.  And I enjoyed the feeling of a man.  And it feels like so long ago, but it is only just over a week, now.  "One more thing," she says to me, "do not fall in love with him."  That must mean that love is a part of submission.  Love can be a part of submission, rather.  It must mean that love risks being a part of submission, and that a person risks falling in love when perhaps love is not the bargain domination negotiates.
I started this journey, as I was reminded today by Sir RB, with the directive of "no love, please."  And I remember vividly saying to many people, "It's not  your love I'm looking for."  And I don't think that's changed, to be honest.  I do not think it is love that I am missing: but I do know that I am not cut out for a casual arrangement.  I do expect to be somebody's priority, because when I submit I make that man my priority.  I clarified today (thank you Sir RB, the conversation was precisely what I needed) that I spend a great deal of time erecting defenses against the possibility of being hurt (which would be a regular occurence if I did not erect these defenses; there are cruel people in the world), instead of privileging the aftermath of experience.  To privilege the guard-against means that I shall never really experience.  To privilege the aftermath means that I shall, in time, equip myself with the tools required to heal and to mend and to repair and to enjoy.  I have been doing things backwards, in other words.  I'm still not convinced that by doing the opposite I will actually be going forwards; I feel like I'm staggering to the side a little.  I know, however, that I am still on the right path towards You, mighty You, the You I know knows me.  Forgive me, I beg, if I take a little longer to get there.

It's not necessarily love that I need.  In fact, I'm sure it is not love that I need. It is love that I feel, though; and I'm now beginning to clarify things in my mind.  It's not love that I need; it's time and privilege.  It is love that I have to give, when I submit.  And what I need is consistency: time and privilege, dedicated time and dedicated priority.  I do need to be somebody's priority.  I do need that.  I have needs, and that is one of them.  Priority when he is here.  Priority when we have established a routine of inviolable time to share.  Not a monopoly but a scheduled priority.  My submission and my love are not very far different from each other; and I do not expect a virtual dom to understand it or reciprocate it -- but I do expect it to be valued, consistently, as part of who I am.  I think it is what makes me a desirable submissive.  And to that end, a consistent one.  Which means, it's time I communicate  a little bit now.  And so I shall.
*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *
In other news, in my frenzy to try to understand the mind of a dom, before I was lucky enough to score Sir RB's attention, I started reading notecards from a library in Second Life.  I was instantly disheartened, but then I realized "Hah, it's not really surprising."  Check out the first line in one of the notecards, and I quote:  "Dominance is a primitive part of the human psyche.  To plug into this primitive role, you have to appear strong.  So be as strong as you can.  Then fake the rest."   And then it goes on to say, "Strong people have wants, but not needs."   There is another notecard from the same library, "How to be a good top."  I turn my attention to that.  It poses the question, what do you do with a submissive you have tied up?  "You can be stern and commanding, sympathetic but nasty, jolly yet sadistic... anything you please."   My initial reaction to reading this?  "Not with me, you can't."  Whoever wrote these wrote them with absolutely no forethought about what it means to engage meaningfully in a long-term negotiated D/s relationship.  And now the highly questionable experiences I have endured in this world make a lot more sense, given what is out there instructing people.

In still other news, the landscapes in this post are of the Journey to Domination and submission sim that Genny (my mentor) owns and operates.  I have given her a bunch of fresh landscape shots because it has been a while since I have photographed some beautiful land.  I was chatting today about how the principles of photography (perspective, light, focal point and level of interest) are also the principles of any human relationship, not just relationship between subject and beholder.  I process a great many things when I am engaged in an intensity of focus on a picture.

Self-Esteem from Clarity

I enjoy meditating upon the idea of clarity.  I clarify things that I say almost to the point of redundancy.  I know it annoys some; and others find it charming.  But I have been trained to say what I mean as part of my personal make-up and professional discipline.  It occurs to me lately that self-esteem is directly linked to one's ability to articulate one's universe.  If I can say precisely how I feel at any particular time, I can experience my own sense of worth.  Many factors influence "whether I can say precisely how I feel".   Who I'm speaking with; what I have to say; how important someone else believes it to be; how important I believe it to be; how difficult it is to say what I feel; how hurt someone else might be to hear it; how happy someone else might be to hear it.  So many variables.  "Courage of conviction," and "speaking truth to power," as well as "le mot juste" all travel with this idea.  The most important variable, I think, might be the ability to "know thyself."
Sometimes I hear people say, "I feel weird," when asked how they feel about something.  Weird isn't a feeling, really, so that is an inadequate statement to make about something so personal.  One's feelings are sacred: it increases self-esteem to be able to articulate them properly.  "I feel afraid," is a big, big deal to be able to say.  "I feel happy," equally important.  The most difficult of all, of course, is "I feel angry and it is because of this very specific reason."

It all rests, naturally, upon one's ability to be able to feel entitled to these feelings.  I think it's fair to say that feelings are fairly genuine: they come unbidden, they are irrational, they don't listen to reason when they first surface, they are the opposite and equal reaction to that which happens in the world.  Like it or not, feelings are an important barometer.   Sure, they are controllable, deniable, push-away-able if one tries very hard.  But the fact that they arise in the first place is a good indication of something to examine.  Even later, if it's easier with time.  I remember the first time I realized that I felt like I wasn't playing enough, playful enough, enjoying enough.  I felt incomplete, and I felt aroused in a way that could not be satisfied.  It made me feel anxious.  It made me feel even a little angry, which I could not justify at the time.  I had vague, unspecified yearnings, a very tiny inkling of what it would be that might soothe my imagination and buff the rough edges from my appetite.  Eventually the picture in my mind came into sharp focus after I was introduced to Shibari in Second Life.  It was a gorgeous fantasy.  It coloured every vague corner of my imagination and brought new life to my fantasy world.  It brought clarity to my thinking and to my feeling.  (I am perfectly convinced that it was the Master at the time, as much as the ropes, who is responsible for that extremely good reaction in me.  I have never tried it since, terrified of the results that might arise from someone less than him.)  Bondage done right gives me a fine-point perspective and perfect clarity.  Because of that fine point clarity, because of those emotions named and controlled by their naming, I feel free.........