The Dictionary, Page Thirteen

Surrender, it says.  And so I do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dictionary, Page Twelve

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

The Dictionary, Page Six

Chastity is the next word in the dictionary.  The words of the dictionary I'm working on, incidentally, are found in the "page one" post, but here they are again:  intimacy, connection, submission, worship, chastity, adoration, service, creation, representation, rendering, capture, surrender, claiming, ritual, frame, solid, eternal, earthly, heavenly, sinfully, humility, revelation, giving, taking, ornamental, mastering, skillful, privacy, shield, ourselves, perfection. 

Chastity, for me, is easy.  It's not like it's any hardship and I'm making some huge sacrifice.  The only difficult part is actually saying the word "no," especially if I know it's going to hurt his feelings.  I have no trouble meaning it; and I have no trouble enforcing it.  But that first declaration of "Oh, my submission doesn't involve sex," is a doozy.  Men have, in the past, reacted negatively to my "no."  Sometimes they might try to convince me that I'll never get anywhere in this lifestyle if I don't offer my body.  Sometimes they might try to convince me that I'm topping from the bottom by refusing my body. (Note well:  both of those excuses are false!  Tricks!  Pay no attention!)

My great learning about chastity in this lifestyle:  you're allowed to have the kind of relationship that you want, no matter what anybody else says.  You're allowed!  The proudly-sexual women are happy with themselves and feel good about their choices.  The proudly-chaste women can feel just as good!  And the world keeps turning.  And the lifestyle keeps growing.

This is not new wisdom:  if he can't handle you saying "no" to him, then he's not worth saying "yes" to.  (Nevermind "yes, Sir.") This part of the dictionary is not for Tasdron: this part is for me, the part of the dictionary that represents my power and my thinking, my self-care and my self-love.  This is my personal applause for the power that I have held onto and for the faith I've kept during the time I've been on my own in this world.  I have done well, and I can be proud of my behaviour around men and women (and around the men of other women).

When I sit at my computer and begin my private time of submission for the day, and I begin reviewing what I have learned so far and where it is that I want to go, I think about all that I have to offer in this virtual communication and living. I give a beautiful kind of intimacy.  I give an intensity of care and concern, and I rush to turn wrong things into right things.  I rush to consider feelings. I hurry from my place of waiting to the place of action, of problem-solving.  Sometimes I dive in a little too far, and in my eagerness I might appear abrupt.  But my zeal and eagerness are undaunted until what is wrong is right again.  In short, I am a hell of a companion.  And my house is your house.  And if you have not eaten I will make you eggs and toast and tea.  And if you have not slept I will tell you a story and watch you doze off while I clean up after our meal together.  And while you sleep I will make sure the house is silent (and tidy) for you.  And while you dream in silence I will make sure there is something good to wake up to.  My work is chaste work, and it is hard work, and it is out of love and devotion that I do it.  I submit to this effort and to this kind of pleasing and to this kind of purity of intimacy.

When I think of submission as a picture, I don't think of a man binding my hands behind my back and forcing his cock into my mouth.  That is not submission: that's just kinky sex.

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!

Control, Part One

I have no doubt that "control"  will be one of the many topics that I introduce in my learning journal which will ultimately yield changing or deepening conviction as I progress.  Before I go there, however, I'd like to address a question I get asked almost every day.  "Where," they ask me, "do you shop?"  And I guess it is a consequence of being a very experienced Second Life resident (though my current avatar is relatively new) that I know some pretty great places to shop, because I make it a point to shop only at reputable, high-quality, fair-priced brands.  I don't buy things for 5L on the marketplace: they're probably scandalous in origin.  I earn the money I spend here, and I spend it on integrity-priced high-quality goods.  My look is Curio skin, preferably, and I wouldn't be me without it.  So, I'm posting fashion-blogger images today to deliberately call attention to the good art that makes me "me" and the good artists behind the scenes.  Without good art on the grid, we'd be a bunch of uggle-fuggles wandering chalk-drawing streets, duckwalky and herky-jerky gesturing.  And I don't put up with that in the real world, let alone in my ever-evolving fantasy world.  The fantasy would be just ruined!

Sometimes I wear Belleza skin, if the photography demands bolder eyes and blush.  The Asian features on both skins are so delicately and expertly handled.  Both brands showcase great artists.  I spend a lot of money in Second Life, and I like to know that I am spending money on not just great artists but also principled artists.  These artists (and other greats on the grid) are important to me:  Gala Phoenix, Tricky Boucher, Elika Tiramisu, and Cocoro Lemon, because their art is original and fun and sexy and good, good fantasy.   Here, then, is one of a dozen answers to the question of where I shop.  I would very much like to continue shopping at Gala Phoenix's Curio store, as would thousands of Second Life residents.  Gala's reputation in the world as an artist is formidable, a person of unique and special talent.

So, now, back to the idea of control.  I have been reading this excellent blog written by, clearly, a Master (and by "Master" I mean someone who has mastered the art of communication, someone experienced who can convey complicated ideas by breaking them down into digestible bits so that all the parts build upon each other and make perfect sense to people who are newly initiated, like me -- a Master whom I could look up to and learn from for a long time).  This blog treats ideas such as "control" and "self-esteem" and "the difference between submission and slavery" and "trust" and "goals" and "the bullcrap" (ha ha).  In other words, the man has taken great pains to a) empower the submissives and Doms who take the time to read; b) clear up a whole mess of misconceptions; c) make it perfectly clear that even though there are traditions in the lifestyle, ultimately how I live (and how You live, and how They live) will be a personal expression and fulfillment, not something prescribed and prefabricated.   And the idea of control weighs heavily upon me right now.  I know that when I submit, there will be limitations to the power that I surrender.  It won't be a total power exchange 24/7 -- it will not be slavery, in other words, consensual or otherwise.  There will be limits to what I am capable of offering (reluctant, but real).  And determining what, exactly, those limits are will be an excellent exercise that develops between me and my Future You.

What You will not control, I can say right now, is what I look like.  And I have the right to say so; and that simply means that, as we customize our fit together, You will be with me because You don't need to control my look and because I do not need someone to take control over my look.  I'm pretty good at dressing and grooming myself (in any world) and there is every reason to be confident in my ability to "show well" when we go about the grid having adventures.  Controlling HOW I submit is the idea, here.  The detail about how I dress and groom myself is incidental: the point is that there will be limitations on my submission, but they will be limitations that I place.  When I surrender control, it will not be appearance-based control that I beg from You.  I have that under control perfectly well and dandy.  When I surrender control, it will be emotion-control, sensation-control (things I'll delve into later, at long long length).  Bondage and restraint.  It is important to realize, especially for a new submissive, that HOW she submits and WHAT she submits, and to WHOM, and for HOW LONG, are conditions that she still controls as part of that safe, sane, consensual dynamic.  Submission isn't just "a thing," in other words: it is "a series of things."  When I submit, I submit often and regularly, little bits here and there, depending on the situation and timing.  I cede control over little things bit by bit and temporarily, while we get to know each other.  The Grand Whole Unifying Collared Submission happens when we have been together for a long time and we, together, have earned that blanket.  The blanket of submission!  The blanket that rests beside the throne of trust at the table of intimacy, under the balloons of faith and in the next room over from the hammock of aftercare.

One of the things that I want to call attention to as a key learning in the realm of control:   self-esteem.   I quote Dennis Nagjee:

When we discuss fear, it is crucial to remember that it can manifest itself in different ways.  ... Characteristics such as guilt, worry, anger, resentment and arrogance have their basis in fear. ...   The problem with fear is that, when experienced, it puts us instantly into a state where we are out of control. ... Those who are driven by fear do not feel like they are in control of anything. ...  They are not even handling their own emotions.  ...  A person with low self esteem is driven by fear. 

It means that I will be looking out for evidence of fear in the Dominants that I meet, as well as examining my own, and not making decisions based on fear to the extent that such is possible.  "All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing," isn't that the maxim?  I resent the control that a fearful, hateful person has placed over me, making me unable to patronize an artist whom I adore.  I look forward to when control is re-established in the proper hands and I can once again enjoy new and better work from Gala Phoenix.  I applaud those who have come out openly in support of a great artist: no fear.

Little Submissions

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

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

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

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

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

Taming Desire

"Unrealistic expectations and desires," says Miss Steele in her Fantasy vs Reality article, "are some of the most difficult challenges faced by those in the lifestyle."   Fantasy is not sustainable 24 hours a day: as she quite rightly puts it, somebody has to do the grocery shopping, clean the floors, launder the clothes for the week, etc.  I tried explaining this to somebody, once, who spent a considerable amount of time trying to convince me that once I experienced him I would never want anything else.  (Alas, and obviously, he is not "The One" for me.)  Fantasy is not sustainable 24 hours a day.  It's exhausting.  I need (and love!) my vanilla living as a solid foundation around which my alternative fantasies can open and close.  I started thinking about this as a result of a discussion I attended last night on the longevity of Second Life relationships and whether D/s relationships had any better (or worse?) chance of surviving in-world.  The discussion yielded so many different comments that could, if properly analyzed, be traced back to unrealistic expectations and unbridled desire.  (There were other kinds of comments too, some remarkable in their maturity and many that I keep with me to learn from, in stages.  It was a good talk.)

Especially resonant with me at the moment is the phrase "unrealistic expectations and desires".  Desire, by its very nature, is without reason: it is a want -- a lack -- that makes itself feel like a need.  Desire exists: desire fuels and enflames.  We know this much.  We can't blame desire for being what it is.  Rather than blame desire, I think the onus is on expectation.   Unreasonable expectations is, quite simply, where some people go wrong.  The expectation that desire will be quenched perfectly, in every way, from every angle, at any cost, by a total stranger.  The expectation that people will mind-read, soul-read, spirit-read at first or second meeting.  The expectation that, regardless of time invested or personal compatibility or personal suitability, he or she whom you desire will not only desire you equally but will fulfill you (and all your sweet, bizarre kinks that you travel with and that make you you in your bizarre and kinky way) immediately and without hesitation.  Before the week is out.  And make a sandwich after.

I met a man who said to me that if I will not be intimate with him, he'll be very upset if I am intimate with others.  (His lifelong commitment to pain is touching.  I smile with mischief as he reads this.)  I met a man who believed that, since I claim to be a student of the D/s lifestyle, my body ought to be made available to him magically and automatically.  (We did, actually, set the record straight on that one, no fear.)  I met a man who plays his own submissive (by using the magic of Second Life).  I met a man who wanted to talk with me only to show me how funny he is when he talks to other people.  I meet people who yearn for applause; who yearn for attention; who make funny faces with the alphabet and who sacrifice incredible things in order to feel a moment of gratification (and who try desperately to extend that moment, pulling at the thread, reliving and revisioning and recreating one single moment repeated, because there was only ever that one single moment).   I meet people every day led by desire -- not just feeling the desire but actually governed by desire, shoved down the merry path by desire, hoodwinked and persuaded by desire, believing so strongly in their desire and the desperation for someone else to meet that desire, the be-all-and-end-all condition to endure at all times.  And the appetite... and the need... and the wanting... and the impatience... and the inevitable meltdown... they follow as darkness follows the day.  They travel together.  And it is no wonder that there is a sizeable, jaded community of "exes" in the world.  But, like a beacon of light through a misty night,  Maj made the following comment last night during the discussion:   "You have to put time and effort into it to make the relationship work.  There is no magic to it, and it's not easy.  It just matters how much you want it."   A relationship is a journey based on managed-expectation and not on unbridled-desire.  Maj and Simona are, of course, in a long-term relationship, and it shows.

The reason I practice my disciplines -- the reason I think about things like discipline of the mind, discipline of the spirit -- is because I train my desire.  This is the way I see clearly.  This is the way I feel comfortable alone (and not lonely) until such time as You see fit to claim me.  I wander happily in the light, and I know You will take me into the darkness where I desire to feel You overpower me... when it is time.  And not before.  Waiting is not a chore.  I know that bewilders some people, but I cannot please'em all.

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.