The Dictionary, Page Fourteen

Claiming, for the fourteenth word in my dictionary of submission, is one of those words that necessarily involves two people.  Words like "discipline" or "chastity" or "service" do not necessarily require someone other than me to be in the room.  I may perform these words in solitude as part of my lifestyle.  But, the act of claiming -- this is an act that requires two people:  the one who declares and the one who is now possessed.

To celebrate, I sport Lola's Tangos in their two-fold enormity, nearly breaking my back from how pendulous and full they feel.  (They are as large as my head, and they could be larger still if I choose!  Unreal.)  The large-breasted phenomenon that sweeps through Second Life right now is hilarious to me.  But I digress.

I remember the anticlimactic declaration of an RP official who said that, after long and arduous negotiation so many years ago, Tasdron could indeed claim me and I could now officially consider myself his.  I remember the ceremony of the brand that almost could not be, all because of more RP shenanigans.  I remember the "going home" with him and the special rituals, the idea of ritual that would come to characterize the flavour of our interaction henceforth.  I remember, outside of RP, a companionship ceremony that we conducted for ourselves in the privacy of his own land, under a flowering tree at the mouth of a cave.  And another, in the dark, as we stood upon stones in a sparring arena, equals in each other's gaze.   I remember a long, long absence ended by a sudden return, and Tasdron reclaimed me in a house I kept just in case of such an incident.  And then a long, long absence after which the bell tower came into sight.

Once, I wrote that it mattered not whether "he knew" I submitted to him.  The very fact of my submission was in my mind, after all, and even if he had no idea, I could submit to my own heart's content and behave in such a way that demonstrated my submission -- whether or not he accepted it.  In this way, it is similar to O in the Chateau:  the men try and try to enslave her, but she repeatedly declares her submission to their will.  It doesn't matter what others think, in other words: my own demonstration and my own behaviour define me.  Just as O is submissive and not a slave by her very declaration of submission, so am I, even in my own mind, even during the vast emptiness between "claimings."

But, when the time comes for him to make his claim, then something even more meaningful happens.  I am not just me alone in my own imagination: I am now me, alive and real, in his also.  And his mastery is not my imagination: it becomes more and more real just as my submission becomes more and more dynamic.  That declaration -- like a wedding vow or a sworn vendetta -- is one of the few remaining utterances with the power to change a person's state.  So few words remain in language that will physically and permanently alter a person's state:  "I submit," and conversely, "I claim you" are words that hold such power -- almost as magic transformation.

I now return to my svelte and lean silhouette, putting the tangos away.  (The sexually-charged world astonishes me, honestly.  Sex sex sex.  Tango tango tango.)

Safe, Sane, Consensual

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

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

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

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.

Symbols and Sensuality

I've been musing upon the element of symbolism in sensuality.  I see things symbolically: it is the greater challenge for me to see things for what they really are, not for what they represent.  (But seeing things for what they represent is infinitely more rewarding to me!)

Take, for example, this picture.  It's a great house in Second Life built by Pre'Fabulous (it's the Modern house built by Pre'Fabulous!) and the art is beautiful.  The cubist rendering of the woman playing a musical instrument (a modern monument of achievement in art, actually) is so rich with symbolism for me that I want to squeal.  First, the woman is framed; she is on display.  The woman is represented by a man's perspective and a man's touch with brushstrokes.  She is not a free-flowing subject of natural chaos but, instead, a deconstructed and reconstructed system of shapes and lines (with a pleasantly rounded breast, the great untouchable femininity) re-created by an artist to show that there are characteristics there to examine.  There is a hidden side to a woman's face.  There is the ability to capture her and intrude upon her private moments.  The audience examines the painting as a master examines a woman.  The audience examines every line, every crease, every shadow until we know them intimately.  She is there to be examined intimately.  There is colour in a black-and-white rendering.  And the round, sinewy, cuffed and collared woman on the sofa is in a similar state of display and repose.  Life mirroring art, in many ways.  But let there be art, always.

I have devoured the "Fifty Shades" trilogy and long for the fantasy to continue transporting me.  The covers of each book are fetishized, little symbols.  The artwork is so charming... there is a silver tie; there is a silver mask; there is a pair of silver handcuffs.  None of these words -- a tie, a mask, a handcuff set -- can evoke a longing in me simply on their own.  The words are empty.  But I invest meaning in these words, greater than their original birthright even.  The symbolism is born, and suddenly the silver tie is more than fabric around the throat: it is the beginning of love.  The mask is more than an ornament: it is the beginning of a true marriage of souls.  The handcuffs are more than police-issue utilitarian metal: they are the demonstration of trust, the fulfillment of longing.  These symbols are everything to the imagination; and the imagination is the beginning of art; and art is why we love.  How you create makes you different from everybody else.  How you imagine makes you more or less compatible with someone else.  How you inspire with your words makes you compelling to greater or lesser degrees.  I had no idea when I embarked upon this journey to submission that there would be so much room for artistic expression.