December 30, 2009


The music was a piece of her, not just a remnant, but a part of the whole. All great artists are mad in some small way, perhaps the kind of madness that comes only from giving away the pieces.

Maybe it was the alcohol that caused such sensations, the alcohol that so lowered inhibitions that my body felt the music as a lover’s hand. Her hair was draped across her face, that face which was so serious. The song she sang was an extension of her, a portion of her soul, flesh and blood reaching, the way she played it, out to caress the other girl. She tore a piece of herself off and gifted it to the other girl, and to all of those watching.
I wrote before about fire, about zest. I wrote about passion and intensity and burning. I said before, she burns. The way she burned last night won’t be quickly forgotten.

She dropped to her knees, guitar in hand. She played as if the song would burst from her if she did not use her mouth to give it form. The words she sang pressed lips to our lips, tangled fingers in our hair, pinned us against the wall and left us there. The song pushed at us, enveloped us, wrapped us in rapture, but left us with no relief. Each ringing tone grasped at us, embraced us, took us.

The other girl knelt in a little puddle of herself on the floor. She felt it the way I felt it, her back arched, her eyes blurred. She felt each syllable push its way into her like the fingers of an unruly lover. The voice rolled her under, like it did me. When it ended, we all lay there, shattered.

It was exquisite and intense, excruciating and euphoric. Well done.

December 23, 2009


Does music ever induce that mood in you? Must move. Must write. Must let it devour you.

I had a strange dream. In it I was doing commonplace things, but was drunk, dizzy, incapable of directing my own movements. I was not paralyzed, just tilted. Swimmy. I woke with a feeling of drowning in dizziness. I was stuck, and so tired of fighting it. Is that what death feels like?

I never understood why people are so driven to meet career goals. I realized it is truly another form of running. It was for me. Currently I'm existing in life's gratifying little pleasures. Hedonism, they call it. There is no higher goal than pleasure. Hot tea, warm robe, gorgeous perfume, stack of freshly purchased books, floaty music, fragrant lavender.

I'm swimming in serotonin, drowning in my own dopamine.
"Self-improvement is masturbation."
Everything is masturbation, really.

The very word carries negative connotations. Society caters to a different crowd. Here we are looked down upon for seeking pleasure. It is a shame, really.

December 18, 2009


She tells me, "What? You don't want to date me anyway." I watched her kiss her ex, thoroughly. It isn't the kiss that gets to me. It was the look of puppy-dog love on her face. I could have watched her kiss any other girl without complaint. I tried, standing there, not to feel anything about it. I tried to observe, to enjoy the sight of two pretty girls kissing. I tried not to get girly about it.

I do not want to date her, but I very much do. We are so opposite, and she has already remarked to others that we are not compatible. We would be a destructive match, and I am not strong enough to withstand her leaving me for the ex when the ex wants her back. I wanted to take her last night. I was angry and wanted to take her. I felt like being forceful, making her forget the ex for just a moment. I do not love her, but I do like her a good deal. I want her time and attention, but how much of this desire for her is just desire?

She toyed with me all night. She grabbed my hands, my hips, my pants. She responded to my kiss in a most appealing way. I loved it. I want more of her. I feel like I missed an opportunity last night. I'm still kicking myself for it.
I still have a difficult time reading her signals. I am terrified I'll make a move and it won't be well received. For someone so "dominant," I am rather passive.

I was a tool for her at the end of the night. I was something for her to flaunt to test the waters with her ex. I hate not being wanted for who and what I am. A number of my good friends hate that I spend time with her. This is why. We can hang out and have a great time, but in the end I am losing something of myself to her.

December 17, 2009


Her writing does something explosive to me. Her words create an awareness, a divine feeling of being larger than oneself. Her descriptions have a way of flowing within, leaving me changed in some small way.

"I suppose I’m drawn to the rules of language for the same reasons that I’m drawn to sex that has ropes, blindfolds, the sting of floggers and the sweet smell of submission. I like rules because I like to break them. I like structure because I enjoy subverting it. I like structure, and structure is narrative, and just as I pretty much abhor free-form poetry, I pretty much abhor lyrical fucking, that rose-petal-strewn-bed, Sarah McLaughlin saccharine flavor lovemaking—that kind of sex that abides by conventional Hallmark syntax and doesn't allow for nips, bites, wicked attenuations, or short declarative sentences of pneumatic fucking.

I like some DeLillo fucking. Self-referential, meta-sex expressed in tidy syntax like a parade of carefully shorn terriers. I see the beauty of Woolf foreplay, a long and languid descriptive frottage where the infinitesimal movement of one saltshaker can be laded with meaning. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good libido should be in want of Austen necking. I like discursive sex, narrative sex, argumentative sex, and expositive sex. I like my fucking to be bigger than a greeting card and a lot more memorable."

Chelsea G. Summers at FilthyGorgeousThings

December 9, 2009


I have a crush on a blogger. As with all of my crushes, this one is rather conflicted. I love her. I'm turned on by her constant ability to turn a charming, well-educated phrase. I greatly admire her work. For these reasons, I refuse to list her on my blogroll.
I follow this blogger on twitter, and gobble up every tweet. I use my blogroll to catch up on my favorite blogs. I occasionally stumble across her blog, read a blog or two, and wonder why I do not link to her from my blog.

I remember why. She's good. She's what "The Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" should have been about. Please do not misunderstand. The bloggers I have listed in my blogroll are all amazing, but she's perfection. She's so perfect that it pains me to read her material. I want her talent. I want to mimic her erudite ways. The smart blogger would read her work obsessively, garnering any information about how this lovely lady blogger writes so well. I read her work and compare my shortcomings to her complete lack of shortcomings.

"Quality reading inform great writing." What do you read lovely lady blogger?

To those out there who read to write, what do you read?

December 7, 2009

Yes, Virginia

"Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus!"

This year, Santa us bringing beauty and joy in the form of some excellent gear and toys from FetLife. Fancy a harness? How about the Njoy Eleven? Or maybe a pretty corset?

Go sit on Santa's lap, tell him whether you've been naughty or nice, and spread the love!

Contest ends Jan. 4, 2010

December 2, 2009


She said, "You know, you're kinda dark." " You aren't like anyone I've ever met." " You're mature." All of this because I expressed liking for a quote by a passionate photographer. All of this because I badly want a tattoo. It bothers me that she knows that part of the immense desire for the tattoo is the immense desire for the pain. I hate how transparent I am to her, but I also delight in it.

I am a passionate person. Everything I love incites a fire in me, a burning. I am easily swept up. I look for that quality in others.

Art will do it for me, photography and sculpture will too. Music, good writing, dance. Above all, seeing that fire burning in other people does it for me. I love the passion with which some people live. These fiery people are nearly always problematic. There is always something not quite right about them. All the fervency leaves them a little unbalanced. We all crash. This I love too.

Can anyone tell me that they do not love that ardor in others? There is nothing like seeing someone in their element. Nothing like seeing someone living for what they are doing. S was very much this way. She was a beauty, my ideal woman really. She loved to dance, she loved to play. We were very good friends. She moved to Arizona and we lost touch. This does not bother me as it would others. We are that type of people. We understand that friendships come and go. Ours would still be a friendship if she appeared unannounced on my doorstep, only to be gone in the morning. It is the passion. Those who have it are the only ones that understand it in others.

Maybe the passion is why I am so enamored with B. C does not understand it, because he is a rational being. He is a being seemingly without this passion. B has the fire. C hates it when I tell him I want to be near her because we are so alike. He does not see the likeness. B and I are very different people. Very different, but B burns, and B crashes.

He mocks me because I am so naive. He mocks me because I trust in people so easily. I feel the whole of the human race should support each other. A very naive view, apparently.

I understand flaws in others when they should not be understood. I am flawed. I know how wonderful it is for someone to tell me it is okay to be this imperfect person. It is such a cliché to say I want to help.

I will leave you with this quote, because it touches me. It always has.

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes, 'Awww!'" --Kerouac