An Existentialist Concern

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



 

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.

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.)

The Unseen Gardener

As I was landscaping my home in Second Life, I realized when it was finished that it really did need a gardener to pare-back and prune the out-of-control wilderness that seems to be without fail my instinctive landscape setting.  There's green everywhere: on land, in the water, in the house.  Life occupies all available space, by rule and nature, and I make it so.

It made me chuckle to realize that a person can gleen volumes of information simply by observing the way a girl handles simple decisions.  How to set a table; where someone gets honoured; what comforts are provided; what fantasies are struggling; what comes easily; what comes with great effort.  And especially, where does she enjoy putting her effort, tirelessly, endlessly, and for what reason?

There is a table setting with breakfast prepared, outside in the morning sun.  There is a rock-garden beside the table-setting, lilies and water flowing around the solid stones.  The daisies grow wildly but are stopped suddenly with the house's foundation.  From that boundary inward, civilization dominates.  The only green that grows, thereafter, is inside, carefully potted, resting comfortably in its stationary posture and tended to daily by loving hands.

And there is a quiet space inside the house, room for a lone figure suspended from a strong pendant.  Comfortable seating and the feet never touch the ground.  Time for contemplation and even meditation if the mind is of a mood.  Because it is a space where a mind can bend towards the light of understanding.  On my journey of key learnings, I have come to understand more and more about myself, and especially as a result of this blog here for which I find myself grateful.  Journey to Dominance and Submission has been a good read.

It is a journey.  It is a journey filled with frustration and with joy, too.  It is a journey filled with deceit, but it is also filled with opportunities for discovering honesty.  The garden is not just blossom and leaf: the garden comprises muck and fertilizer, worm and slug as much as it comprises air, water, sunlight, and sweet dark corners.  The green stems grow amid immovable rock; water-waves crash over immovable rock; pretty pink lilies open all around immovable rock; the burning sun and driving rain blast down upon immovable rock. Life happens all around immovable rock.  I will know the right rock when it welcomes me.