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 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.

To forgive, to absolve, to let go 2

Forgiveness is a part of people's consciousness and people do talk about it.  I was looking at another blog here that offers a post on the matter from a man's perspective in his own family.

He says, "I decided that what was really missing here was my forgiveness, not my apology - so I forgave her in the car."

Was that some kind of gestalt exercise where one looks at the empty passenger seat, pretending there is a person there, and saying out loud, "You're forgiven, by me, for whatever you have done, you silly silly person."  It's not clear what he means by forgiving her in the car but, for cryin' out loud, that's what I'm trying to find -- that elusive magic instruction that tells me "this is how you do it."  What, do I have to get in the car?  Do I?  Is that all it takes?

Is that what Clint Eastwood tried to do with Obama-In-Absentia, the empty chair at the RNC last week -- forgive the president for making us take care of each other by talking to an empty chair pretending he was there?

Actually... there is a beautiful movie called Scorchers.  The main character, Splendid, has just married the man she loves, Dolan.  But she is afraid to have sex with him.  She just can't do it.  So, Splendid's father gets to the root of the problem.  And the root of the problem is complicated.  Splendid's mom died during childbirth, died when Splendid was being born.  She feels guilty, our Splendid does, for even being alive, nevermind for being freshly married and so pretty and lucky enough to look like her mom.  And now it is time to complete the circle and to have a husband of her own and to make a new family for the next generation -- and Splendid just can't do it.  So, her dad makes her talk to an empty chair.

Put your mama in that chair and talk to her, he says to our Splendid.  Tell her everything.  Tell her how it is.

It is powerful and beautiful, how the movie unfolds thereafter.  There is forgiveness there; and it is not possible to put into words how it happens.  That elusive magic instruction that says "this is how you do it" is really not possible to articulate because, oh well, it's going to be different for everybody.  The only common thing they share, I suppose, is that it involves speaking that deep dark truth that was hiding in the shadows for a long time.

Proud of Submission

What submission means to me.  I feel proud that I submit my power, sometimes, to a man I love.  When it is good to do so.  When it is time to do so.  Sometimes, because I am submissive, I notice that he is not in the mood to take control.  I watch and I pay attention.  And in those times, I take control, not because I want to, but because it is part of my submission.  I make decisions I would feel more comfortable that he makes.  But he wants them made for him, sometimes.

What submission means to me.  I feel proud that I am observant and watchful.  I feel proud that I pay attention to details.  I feel proud that I observe and keep my eyes wide open (not dulled with drink, not dulled with smoke, not dulled with medications that I do not require, not dulled with over-sated appetites).  I feel proud that, because my eyes are wide open, I can anticipate.  I can predict.  I can have patience sometimes when I might not have had patience, otherwise.

What submission means to me.  It feels as though I wear it openly like a system of restraints, obvious to anybody.  It feels like clothing to me.  It feels like a zipper I cannot reach behind me that someone else zips and unzips for me.  It feels like a thick, chunky, heavy-metal collar with no seam and no clasp: as though it was born there, on me, reminding me constantly who I am.

What submission means to me.  I am part of a club that teaches me, like I teach them, how great it is to feel like our true selves.  Our true selves.  My true self.  I look at other submissives through my camera lens, studying their beauty and self-declaration.  I study their presentation, their decisions about how the world will see them.  I look at them, and I rejoice.  I look at myself, and I rejoice.  We are, truly, our own selves.  (Thanks, E, for letting me take so many pictures of you.  I know your time is precious.)

What submission means to me.  I am not a sexual object.  I am not a tool.  I am not a doormat.  I am not stupid.  I am not gullible (because of my submission).  I am not a slave.  I do not surrender all my power at all times to all people.  I do not accept violence.  I do not accept abuse.  I do not accept other people's anger about not submitting myself to them.  I have never been obligated to.

What submission means to me.  I give a part of myself to one man that I do not give to anybody else -- not a boss, not a police officer, not a judge, not another man, not any woman, not in pretend or in fantasy.  I give a part of myself to one man with which he could do anything he wants, and I give it to him as a surrendered offering, because I would not be me if I did not give this to him.  When I deal with police and judges and bosses, I do not submit to them, and they do not dominate me.  I do what I do because I want to do it.  There is only one king of the castle for me!

Topping from the Bottom

"TFB" or Topping from the Bottom is a phenomenon that is as misunderstood as any other part of a dominance and submission relationship, if one is new to the scene and learning from under-informed people.  I read something today, though, that has explained the idea to me brilliantly.  My excellent mentor has given a notecard to me something to read called "A Dominant's Promise" and it is all about D/s communication.  And after reading this notecard, I see very clearly how mature, shameless communication forms the architecture of the ideal dominant and submissive union.  The perfect union is possible; but not without sharing your dreams and needs openly and honestly.

In the mildest form, topping from the bottom (or, when a submissive tries to control a dominant) is a result of improper manners and improper communication.  And, manners are easily corrected.  If the submissive respects the dominant, and if the dominant respects the submissive, the correction will hold. If there is no respect, though, there's a bigger problem to deal with.

In worse forms, topping from the bottom is a deliberate and calculated manipulation of the dominant.   "I will not do that for you, and if you ask me to do it again, I will leave you."  This is something the immature personality declares.  It is the submissive equivalent of the dominant's, "If you don't obey me, you are a terrible submissive."  Topping from the bottom at its worst is just plain old bullying.  The brat who bullies to get her way does not need further indulgence: she is a bad nut and should be thrown in the trash like Veruca Salt.

The best part about this particular notecard, though, is its incredible maturity of thought.  It takes sophistication to understand this concept, and we must never take for granted that everybody CAN understand it, because not everybody has achieved the same level of maturity.  Here is the concept:

Sometimes, for some people, it is a fun fantasy to behave like a brat and to be punished for being a brat.  In fantasy.  Just like, sometimes, for some people, it is a fun fantasy to pretend to be in the Story of O and to be forced into doing things that we wouldn't normally.  In fantasy.  And so in order to accommodate those fantasies, a D/s couple talks about them.  Asks for them honestly, openly, without shame.  Figures out a way to do it so that it can be done, and so that both parties understand the difference between fantasy and reality.  Mature communication can achieve this.  Selfish demands and petulant pouting cannot.  "You should have known," doesn't solve anything.  Nobody is a mind-reader.  Maturity asks for what it wants, clearly and specifically, and then enjoys getting it.  Immaturity rants and froths and foams and, ultimately, fails.

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 One

I've spent so much time working on this assignment, and it's nowhere near finished.  Instalment one will be turned in, though, on Tuesday morning.  It's a lot of information.  I have so many people to thank for helping me accumulate all this good information; but I have Klaudia and Sir Tony to thank for helping me process all this information.  The process has been gorgeous.  The process is as enlightening as the subject matter.  I feel the caring; and as I get to the source, I feel it even more.  So, besides jealousy arising from an anxiety over the possibility of losing someone, regardless of whether it is a feeling, a motivation, or a behaviour all of its own, I have separated nine traits so far that help characterize jealousy when it is in action.  Sometimes the behaviour of jealousy cannot be distinguished from other feelings and other scenarios; sometimes the mask is very clever indeed.  But as I study it, the separation of traits becomes a fascinating study.  And it is a study that I wish to capture in photograph, and so I have been doing so.  The first trait I captured was silence.  Jealousy is a dangerous form of silence.  The picture of a woman with her back turned to the camera, with her body language and not her words declaring, "I will not tell you why I am angry."  This is the biggest dilemma because, ultimately, communication will be the antidote to feelings of jealousy: and so, to withhold communication is to pour fuel into the already-blazing flames of jealousy.  She turns her back and will not say what made her angry; but it was only a tiny little detail.  A very small thing, possibly: the kind of detail that topples geographical boundaries.  But she is in pain and surrounded by shadows; and the wounded retreat to solitude, in nature.

Another trait: loneliness.  It comes from the solitude of retreat, sometimes, but also it is important to realize that jealousy contradicts feelings of belonging.  This contributes to loneliness.  Those who feel as though they belong do not feel the pangs of jealousy.  (Those who feel like they belong in a group, or belong to a special lover, or belong to their one and only... etc.)  And it is tragic to imagine how those who feel the jealousy in the first place are those who are already self-alienated.  The jealous one is already lonely, in other words, regardless of whether she is invited to belong.  The jealous one already does not belong in her own mind, regardless of whether her lovers or her friends claim or disown her.  Persuading her that she belongs is not the antidote to jealous feelings: such persuasion is easily denied and easily proven to be false.  It takes a lot of understanding and a lot of care to figure out that the argument flows deeper -- has a source more profound -- than what is immediately visible.  The antidote to loneliness is not company, and the antidote to jealousy is not persuasion.  The source is darker, more mysterious, and was dug long before the lover looked askance the first time.  The antidote will, eventually, be long, difficult communication, increasing comfort zones and defining clear boundaries concerning acceptable behaviours and tolerable limits.  But it will work for the long term only if ........

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.

Self-Esteem from Self-Control

Why spend so much time exploring self-esteem?  I wish the answer to that question were not so obvious in my own experiences with people.  Anyway, the more I read about "The Master's Viewpoint" by Dennis Najee, the more I realize how much really depends upon self-esteem.  A healthy relationship depends upon it.  A healthy self-image depends upon it.  A healthy outlook on life depends upon it.  Personal expectations of how people treat us in the world depend upon it.  And, of course, relevant to the D/s community, a healthy experience at play or in communication depends upon it.  "No man is in a position of dominance if he cannot control himself," says Mr. Najee, and with that I wholly agree.  And, by controlling himself, it means what he eats; how much he eats; what he does for exercise; how much he exercises; whether he is in control over his emotions during periods of stress; whether he is in touch with his emotions during periods of affection; whether he abuses narcotics; whether he over-indulges in intoxicants; and whether he thinks that it is safe to interact with other people when he is drunk with control-sapping stimulants.  "Lack of control on the part of the dominant is a sign of weakness."   I have trusted people, inching as I did towards more and more control surrendered to them, only to have them lose control entirely one way or another.  They stopped listening to me, to the word "no".  They stopped speaking sanely.  They stopped being trustworthy.  When someone I trust loses personal control, I no longer trust.  Is a submissive supposed to negotiate in good faith with that person?  A submissive who, in good faith, does take care of her mind and body; who does make sure she adheres to codes of respect for her own body as well as the bodies of others; whose mindset is about bringing beauty, not fear.  Christian Grey, in Fifty Shades of Grey, has it right:  he has dominated his life so that things are under control.  His finances are healthy; his food is healthy; his exercise is healthy; he drinks wine from time to time; he even strives for healthier energy sources globally, that's how healthy he wants things to be.  He strives.  (Love the book or hate the book, Christian's outward character is formidable, and it is one viable basis upon which to grow a relationship.)

When one masters self-control, one feels pretty good about oneself.  Self-mastery  turns us into worthy partners in play; worthy partners in fantasy; worthy partners in exploration and mutual gratification.  It means I can trust the man You say You are.  It means I can feel good about surrendering control.  (And otherwise it ain't happening.)  It means Joe Dominant's domination is effective, not hypocritical and weak.  It means Cutie Submissive's submission is real, not a nymphomaniacal collar-hop perpetually seeking the honey-moon.  Words I will adhere to as I have done throughout this whole learning process:  "The BDSM lifestyle," writes Mr. Najee,  "is one where you are free to choose what you desire.  All avenues are open to you.  The key is to make the proper choices for what fits your needs.  Implant the image of what you want in your head and work towards bringing it into reality.  There is no reason why you cannot do this.  However, before focusing outward, take a look at yourself."

"Submission" and "Stupidity"

Submissive doesn't mean stupid.  Unfortunately, it often means "eager to please".  And sometimes "eager to please" means doing things a person wouldn't do otherwise, such as second-guessing oneself.  Or putting oneself in harm's way.  Or surrendering something one wouldn't otherwise.  So, even though the word "submissive" doesn't equate linguistically with "stupid", there is still the possibility that the two may co-exist in the behaviour of a submissive when dealing with a compelling dominant.  And, wow, some dominants are compelling as hell.  They can make you spend money.  They can make you compromise your limits.  They can make you laugh as easily as they can make you cry.  They can make you stretch and fold and bend and snap back into position, depending on how eager you are to please.  Depending on  your level of approval-seeking.  Depending on how much you want to show how submissive you really are.  Because, sometimes it's just so easy to forget how intelligent you are when the strong voice of a compelling dom says, "wear my collar and I'll show you things" when... wait... when did the submission actually take place?  Where was the negotiation of power exchange?  When were limits discussed?  Now you are collared.  It was pretty simple for the dom to achieve.  The rest is cake.

I enjoy a "protected" status (as I've mentioned a few times) as a submissive at Journey to Domination and submission.  Well, the whole truth: protected AND precious.  I bet my sweet ass.  I have not forgotten, Sir Tony!  This status means that I recognize my eager-to-please-ness; that I recognize my not-quite-ready-to-decide-without-some-help-ness; that I recognize I am too vulnerable on my own without a mentor to help guide me in big decisions.  And by "vulnerable" I mean not the good kind.  The good kind is whole, transparent exposure to the eyes of the right dominant.  Whole, transparent exposure to the ears, heart, hands, penis, legs, liver, toys... anything the right dominant uses to enjoy his submissive.  That's good vulnerability.  Bad vulnerability is the feeling of exposure and deception in the presence of the wrong dominant.  The dominant who uses your approval-seeking against you in order to accomplish false or temporary or incomplete mastery.  The dominant who tries to sneak the collar around your neck without negotiating the strings attached, the responsibilities associated, the promises and the pledges.  The dominant who will use you, in other words, instead of helping you grow, and who will not make you a priority in his life that he can talk about openly.

I have been so used, along my journey, and a key learning for me is that I had the power (whether I remembered or not) to get myself out of it, or question it, or interrogate it, or examine it out loud, before it got too bad.  And, I did do these things, actually.  I wish I had done so sooner, but at least I did eventually.  Another key learning in general when in Second Life is that there are folks who will completely disregard what is written in one's profile (even if it's a hard limit)  and they will deliberately flout those boundaries (in the name of healthy pushing which subs must also be mindful of... especially when it comes to core values being broken).  A submissive will have to say, out loud, in no uncertain terms, "No, thank you, I do not wish it."   Unfortunately, a submissive tends to think that, having written it down in her profile, it spares her from having to say the words out loud (because speaking them can be difficult).  When talking to a compelling dom, "no" is not always easy to verbalize.  And unscrupulous doms rely upon its difficulty, for how else would they get what they want?  But it is a very important sentence for a submissive to believe she is entitled to say.  "No, thank you, I do not wish it."  It is incumbent upon the submissive to know she can say it.  A submissive is entitled to say these words, but most of all a submissive is EXPECTED to say these words:  how else can "safe, sane, consensual" be enforced?  MOST ESPECIALLY with a dominant who is not her master, owner, well-known confidant of many years.

Fine Lines

This has been quite a week of conversations.  I have learned this week more about myself than in recent history combined, and so much has come from being tested with misconceptions.  I'll give the benefit of the doubt and not say the word "prejudice" or even "bigotry" but rather call it "misconception" that drives the conversations of recent memory from which I have stepped higher still in my journey to submission.  I, too, am guilty of misconception (and my recent post on protected precious sweet asses is evidence of that).  Perhaps nobody is immune; we all must learn and no one is born perfect.  But, this week especially, I have been challenged on many fronts.  It felt surreal, this week, sort of like I was exploring "D/s through the looking glass" instead of just plain old D/s.   I think the most important learning I can catalogue this week is HOW perspective changes, and THAT perspective changes, and WHY perspective changes, and the vast difference between the perspective of the new versus the perspective of the very experienced.  The difference is in the fine lines.

[Digression:  one of my pet peeves in language is the way people abuse the phrase, "There is a fine line between...(insert comparatives here)."  There is often not a fine line between the things they suggest, when I stop and think about it, and then I scuff my toe in frustration having wasted all that time.  And that is not what I mean to suggest here, either, when I talk about fine lines.  There is no fine line demarcating the initiate and the Master.  Instead, there is a crude chalk-drawing by a student, a three-stroke stick-figure trying to tell a story it isn't complex enough to convey.  Next to it, a finely-wrought image drawn by the Master, an image comprised of a thousand fine lines, conveying a rounder, deeper story that takes hours to appreciate and weeks to analyze.  What the new person scratches-out cannot compare to the Masterful image of high complexity.  That is what I mean.  The fine lines reveal everything.]

The new person:  1) expects things to be obvious, 2) gravitates towards the obvious, 3) leaves heavy footprints through the journey.


The initiate:  1) understands that things are not always as they seem, 2) gravitates more towards what she desires instead of what is obvious and presented by default, 3) tries to walk more softly through the world.


The initiated:  1) begins to develop subtleties that characterize her unique self, 2) begins to assert her desires and hardly pays any attention to the obvious and the default anymore, 3) strives to walk not just softly but without penetrating the rice paper.

The Master:  1) recognizes subtlety in others and celebrates it, while recognizing that the new need guidance also, 2) can anticipate desire and meet it but is never above being surprised by joy, 3) can carry himself and his disciple (if required) with minimal impact to the land beneath.

A simple example: it is confusing (to the new Doms and  to the new subs at the beginning, if nobody knows any better) whether a submissive lady should be kneeling by default when a man speaks to her.  There are so many competing opinions and values and practices in Second Life, as many different answers to that question as there are practitioners of alternative lifestyles and roleplay.  There are so many reasons why a Dom may believe it is appropriate for a girl to kneel when speaking to him.  There are so many reasons why a submissive may believe such behaviour to be archaic, misguided, inappropriate to her life's purpose, or totally and perfectly reasonable.

What does submission look like?  It looks like whatever you want it to look like.  Submissive women wear lingerie and snowsuits and sneakers and pumps (granted, not all at once...).  Sometimes a sub wears a collar.  Sometimes she doesn't.  There are at least a dozen variables (and possibly ten dozen more) affecting whether you see her sporting a collar at any given moment.  She may or may not kneel.  She may or may not be owned.  She may or may not be attached at all, in any relationship.  She may be getting over a relationship; she may be entertaining the possibility of a new relationship; she may be withdrawing from any immediate relationships; she may be seeking platonic friendships or protective arms with no other expectations.  She may be wearing leather or lace.  There is a lot in common, really, with the vanilla lifestyle.  But, honestly, there are so many ways to LOOK submissive if one wants to be obvious and catch the attention of the obvious-seeking.  There are also so many ways to assert one's subtleties if one is looking to attract the attention of the more discerning (and less obvious) tastes.  I have endeavoured to wander the road paved by the discerning.  My protected precious sweet ass enjoys the tranquility.

Discipline - The Mind

Discipline of the self is something I regard as the combination of mind, body, spirit, and aspirations of the person into a personal completeness called "integrity".    I alluded to the discipline of my "self" in the last post whereby my geisha training comes out of hibernation and I begin to apply it to my learning about D/s relationships.  My already-enjoyable journey into the dark becomes even more enjoyable as a result.  My core self I introduce to my fantasy self, and my personal feelings of "being real" strengthen.

In my mind, I harbor indelible thoughts.  Philosophy that I hold to.  Learnings that I adhere to.  Information that I seek.  Memories that, over time, re-create and re-adjust.  Some memories, though, that fade in colour.  And some that could never change due to the thrust of the original intensity.  This is the makeup of my mind.  The makeup of my mind contributes to my personal integrity; the extent to which I consider myself a person with integrity is the extent to which my discipline of mind maintains an equally-strong link as-and-to the rest of my parts.

That which may compromise me: impatience.  If there is something worth disciplining in my mind, it is impatience.  At a group discussion earlier this week on "Patience" I learned (or, rather, re-discovered) that  "anxiety" feeds on "impatience," and vice versa.  My chronically-anxious disposition may be disciplined by practicing the virtue of patience, in other words.  The body begins the exercise and the mind acclimatises thereafter.  The physical behavior of patience calms the mind to patience.  And patience is a beautiful visual: water flowing over stones, nothing obstructed, nothing blocked.  The physical behaviour of patience is stillness, calm.  Observation.  Meditation.  Reading.  Walking without purpose.  (Being bound... being restrained... feeling cage bars surround me...)   The physical behaviour of patience will bring the mental stillness of patience.

With patience, one can trust more easily.  When You come, I will trust You in ways I will not trust others.

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 Balloon Chair of Hope

The Hammock of Aftercare has a close relative: the Balloon Chair of Hope!  Some of the balloon chairs, you should know, are actually Balloon Chairs of Faith... It's good to distinguish between one's hopes and one's faith.  I raise this because, yesterday, I had to miss out on a discussion about aftercare, though the facilitator was good enough to show me a link to consult in my own time.  The link refers back to Mistress 160's Abode which I had not yet consulted, and therein a chapter on "emergency" aftercare.  The title alone gives me new insight into the importance of aftercare which I had never before taken into consideration.  Aftercare is not merely nice, courteous, and proper:  it is an urgency.  And the risk of "sub-drop" (or even Dom-drop or Domme-drop) increases when other urgencies combine, such as being physically alone after play, whether because play was online or over the phone, or whether because the O/other has somehow and inexplicably vanished (a common occurrence in the online Lifestyle communities).

Sometimes I wish it was a Master who taught me all of this good information.  It is, after all, part of what I envision in a relationship with one to whom I submit.  I envision asking questions; learning; absorbing; hearing His voice explain to me the chaos of the world and how to make sense of it.  Why my body reacts as it does after His touch, rough or soft.  But that is a daydream, and I do digress.

I know that I have felt sub-drop in the past.  Not commonly, but it has happened.  I thought it was simply me, "over-reacting."  I thought it was simply my own personality failing me.  I did not realize there were physical symptoms and reactions that one needs to take into consideration after intense play, and these reactions are common among many personalities who are feeling the absence of aftercare.  To me it felt as though I had been hypnotized and then left on the edge of a cliff, only to wake up utterly alone and full of vertigo.  I felt abandoned.  It ruined the day entirely, a great sadness permeating all things.  It is a common feeling, apparently, and Mistress 160's Abode gives good advice on how to fix oneself under those circumstances.  Faith in oneself.  Hope for the future.  Taking care of oneself; being strong for oneself; and knowing oneself well enough to know what one needs to recover and feel joy again.

Sitting upon the Balloon Chair of Faith, knowing that, despite every unlikelihood and physical impossibility, the chair will support and lift you.  Your closed eyes will open.  Your blanched cheeks will flush again.  Your dry lips will moisten once more.

Aftercare is not just for submissives.  We may all exhaust, sometime.  And we all require that lift from someone else, sometimes, when our own lift needs help.  I'm quite sure this is not the last I've to say on the topic; it is gaining popularity (thank heavens) and maybe gaining some ritual as well with the online practitioners.

Needs, Part Four

I need my mentor.  I don't mean "I'm in crisis; I need someone immediately."  What I mean is, in my journey towards self-enlightenment and as I grow more and more to know myself, I discover that what I've been missing for all this time is a good mentor.  A good one.  She is kind and loving, but she's not crazy-clingy-invested in me as if her life will fall apart if I say something wrong.  She is smart and knowledgable, but she's not crazy-know-it-all force-feeding me stuff that I can't digest.  I don't know what heavenly gang of deities decided to fashion this lovely lady, but the end result is, "Anna grows."  I look up to her.  Her name is Genny Clary, and she runs the Journey to Domination and Submission (J2D) sim that I just love to be a part of.  She also runs this blog that I love to read.  I won't always "need" Genny; but right now I need her.  And I didn't know how much I needed her until I met her.

She asks the right questions.  She makes me think about myself, for myself, but in the context of other people as well.  She did something that I haven't felt in a long time: she set me "free", so to speak.  When I started to think about, meditate upon, and then articulate my needs, I felt like a huge weight lifted from me.  I have needs.  Yes, I've always known that I have wants.  I have always known that I hunger or thirst for certain cravings that come and go.  I have always flirted with the many wants that flavour my palate.  But beyond those, I actually have needs.  And now I articulate my needs.  And now I am not ashamed of having needs.  And now, even though I'm still wandering around blindly in the dark cave of my soul, still trying to figure out how to work my lantern, at least I know that I'm in the right cave.  At least I know that, whatever is in this cave, I want it to be there.   I'm in my playroom now.  A nice white room aching for decoration the way I want it to be.  Embellished, ornamental, fabric or stone... I decide.  I have needs.

When I walk, I swing my hands freely now.  When I stand, my arms move weightless, gentle wrist-circles and air-drawings like butterflies.  I do not stand still.  I wander and explore and talk to strangers.  I immerse myself in art and photography, literature and cinema.  And I do so with joy, not pain or longing.  I do so with a strong, full heart; no fear.  My voice is a little clearer. My footfall a little more gentle.  I have nothing but commendations for the J2D sim and the people who make it work.  I feel better than I have in half a year, for sure, and it is the direct result of intense, and very kind, introspection guided by a skilled mentor.  And it needs saying... I have met some fine people in Second Life who make having a second life worthwhile.  I took these pictures in the "Spirit" art display by Claudia222 Jewell (a truly gifted artist) on the Art Screamer sim.  I felt a kinship to this beautiful lady when she explained to me the circumstances (grief) under which she created this glorious work of art.  I go back often, amazed each time that the art still stands.  I kiss your cheeks, Claudia.  And yours, Sir Tony, for making me decide to have a first-class mentor.  And yours, Sir RB, for introducing me to Genny's group in the first place, at that very first discussion.  Obviously I was born, this time, under lucky stars and beautiful dreams.

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.