I spend a lot of time riding the bike.  Today it was, due to rain, an indoor affair.  I ride on a set of rollers that enable me to balance the bike as if it were on the road.  This helps to keep things interesting, and makes my time on the indoor bike better spent, a better workout.

It occurred to me, as I was listening to too-loud Coltrane blasting away in D minor and playing so powerfully that it has the ability to transform me even after hearing the same recording a hundred times, and watching some of my better porn (complete with all the good stuff: spanking, rough sex, bondage, ass fucking, whipping, sweat, cum, ahhh) that there is a special place that I go to.

That place is not reserved for one activity, such as music performance or art, or even making love or meditation.  No, that place is accessible from anywhere and at any time  and doing anything.

That place is the place where sexuality and spirituality are one and the same.  I realize this as my own body begins to show signs of the exertions and pain working its special kind of magic.  I am putting myself inside of the real body, the perfect spirit body that exists when we step outside of our thoughts and observe ourselves from afar.

Such things happen in sex as well.  That place where we wish to go, to experience this thing together and cast off Earthly bodies to become One.  It matters not whether we exist as Top and Bottom, Man and Woman, Master and Slave, Fucker and Fuckee, or even Bike and Rider.  The goal is to become One.  Not one with each other per se, but One with all things.  Sex, to me, has always carried with it this possibility, and when things are really working, it happens, just as it does in music.

Just as it does in all things.

I push harder, feeling the ache in my leg muscles, and raising my respiration and pulse past the point of comfort and realize that this too happens as passion increases.  So many parallels, so many of the same among difference.

That place where the opposites meet and attract.  It is a place where we cease to be opposites.  It is a place where we cease to be separate indeed.

We are.

Your rays infect me.

I eat and drink of your abundance and invite your warmth far beyond my capacity to tell you.

As you permeate my existence, my breath becomes full of joy.

I reorient myself so as to gain access to all of you, in every way.

Your existence is a blessing to me, erasing the doubts and fears that scratch on my door at night.

I wish to take you with me but know I must let you be free.

Yet you return.

Is this a review?  Is it an expose of my own psyche?

Perhaps it is both.

First of all, I cannot recommend reading this novel.  There.  I said it.  I don't recommend it.  I do, however, state that, if you are strong enough, you should read it.  Strength, in this case, doesn't mean the kind of strength needed to withstand the onslaught of extreme violence or sexual deviance (in fact, I am guessing that some readers would actually welcome such things.  I myself can do without the violence, but tend towards rather intense BDSM scenes in my preferred brand of fiction.)

No.  Strength in this case means emotional strength.  The kind you need when your cherished beliefs will be tested.  The kind you need when you are inwardly screaming at the characters in the book to please just fucking DO IT the way I like it.

I don't expect you will find it in Fifty Shades.  They tantalize you with it.  They hint at it.  They even say they will, but something always gets in the way.

What you will find is plenty of splendidly descriptive hot and steamy sex scenes, all told from the point of view of the woman in the story.  (The entire story is told in the first-person.)  These come so often that one wonders if an egg timer were placed on the author's work table, just to remind her of the need to fill a quota of them.  There are even a few sadomasochistic "scenes" in the book, none of which will raise the eyebrows of even a lightly-experienced real-life BDSM player, but would likely seem quite naughty from the point of view of the completely uninitiated.

What the novel does excel at is illustrating the inner conflicts that happen in people as they fumble their way through new relationships.  This is clear as a bell in the case of the woman (since we see her inner monologue in plain text) and, in the case of the man, we can infer much from the (admittedly predictable) body language and rapport he has with her.

We all must have some degree of inner conflict, but, for poor Anastasia, it has simply taken her life over.  Her complete and utter lack of confidence in the possibility that events can simply be good, and not require endless agonizing analysis is at the heart of this novel, as is her need to exert control over the simplest and silliest of things.  All of this adds up to one thing:  she is simply not suited to the role of a submissive in this sort of relationship.  She knows this.  He knows this.  She admits it.  He admits it.

They know.

And yet they continue.

Christian, for his part, is completely taken with her.  He is willing to, in addition to lavishing her with endless gifts and spend way more time with her than any international jet-setter could possibly find, compromise his most cherished needs, just to be with her.  He presents her with a detailed contract describing exactly how he desires their D/s relationship to be, and she proceeds to make changes to it, detailing what she is willing to do, and what she is not.

The contract is never signed, however, and much of the interplay between the two of them indicates a style of relationship that is just about as far from the style detailed in the (adjusted!) contract as one can get, and still be recognizable.

He spanks her.  She hates it.  The pain is simply too much for her to get over, even though it is not all that bad, physically.  Her fear is that this action will lead to something worse, where he would genuinely hurt her in a way that she cannot bear.  Even though the reader is convinced that he is so in love with her (contravening his stated principle of not doing love) that he would never consciously do anything to hurt her in this manner, her lack of faith gets the better of her.  Eventually it leads to her simply leaving him, and the novel ends abruptly in a cliffhanger, a literary nuclear strike.

"Stay tuned for some scenes from next week's episode"

I say this because, after enduring the agony of this entire novel, I did a bit of research on the author, finding, not surprisingly, that she comes from the television industry.  Even though hers is the British TV industry, I think they still adhere to the same principles as our American version:

"Do whatever you can to keep them from changing the channel."

Thinking about it in this way presents the novel in a different, and I think clearer, light.  No longer are we required to see it from the narrow perspective of BDSM participants, but from the viewpoint of, say, the producer of a soap opera.

I chose to avoid reading the sequels.  The teasers provided by the few online sites that sold the book that I read all told me the same thing.  Drama.  Drama.  Drama.  And more, more, more.

"more"

(if you have read the book, then you get the reference)

So, cliffhangers, irresponsible stretching of your emotions, and, finally, moralizing (perhaps in a way not so compatible with the idea of BDSM being a positive thing!  Jesus.  This shit again.)

This part is important.  Mr. Grey, for all of his amazing resemblance to the Handsome Prince in every other fairy tale, (yes.  it's totally a fairy tale) is a profoundly flawed human being.  Despite the fact that he says all the right things that a dominant should, plays safely and focuses almost completely on the well-being of the submissive, he is clearly presented to us as someone who was horribly abused as a child, and that he predilection for BDSM is simply a symptom of a condition to be cured.

Cured by the magic of true love's kiss.

And, perhaps, in the end, romance and love conquer all, including the evil spell of BDSM desires that had gripped the poor man.  Perhaps she can change him into someone more normal!

Of course, I am projecting here, since I haven't (and likely will not) read the second or third books.

E.L. James, to her credit, doesn't just present BDSM as a sickness, however.  She paints a very good picture of just how amazing it can be for a submissive to truly give in, and certainly gives us a very positive view of the catharsis and release that can happen after even a punishment session.  (It wasn't much of one, but it did happen.)

We feel what it's like for Anastasia to experience the sensations, and, even as a long-term player, I was feeling it!

So, perhaps, there is hope for Fifty after all....

But, I think there is something darker to discuss.  Let me take a deep breath.  Here goes.

I am fifty shades of fucked up as well.  I have known it for much of my adult life.  My childhood wasn't so awesome.  Certainly, it wasn't as bad as the story's Dark Knight, but it did leave me with some scarily similar predilections.  I don't always like to be touched.  I have a deep need for control.  I am absolutely fearful of abandonment.  I enjoy the idea of punishment.  Giving it, especially.  Receiving it?  Well, I have been there as well.

I don't need a book to tell me that this is a curse.  It isn't a curse.  It is just what it is.  Regardless of how I arrived here, I am here.  It is also quite possible that I could have arrived at my current state of kinkiness even having had a perfect childhood.

One of the most precious things I have taken from my 25ish years in (and out of ) the "Scene" is the idea of accepting who I am and that there will be someone out there who will also accept me in this way, even wish for me to be that way.  Sensationalistic tripe, designed to keep the audience from changing the channel tends to have an ill effect on this.  Think about it.  If all televised (or in this case, written) stories did was make us feel better about ourselves, then what hold would they have on us?

We'd probably be so happy that we'd just turn the TV off, close the book and go out into the world to enjoy being ourselves, kinks and all.

Something which, now that I have gotten this off my chest, I intend to do right now.

I sense it.

I sense submission in the little things.

Little things like how your walk changes when you are around me.

Little things like how you remember little things that I like.

Little things like how life becomes a dance floor and you await my lead.

Little things like how you pick up on little words that I like to use.

Little things like how you don't realize you are gazing at me.

I sense it.

My wish/tribute list of conceptual objects

JDEmpath: conceptual object #1:  a clock that measures imaginary time.  By changing the position of the hands on this clock, you do not go back or forward in time, but move at a direction perpendicular to the normal flow of time.

JDEmpath: conceptual object #2: present me a gift of silence.  I wish you to give me the kind of silence that only exists between two great bass drum notes.

JDEmpath: conceptual object #3:  give me a moment.  I wish you to present me with a complete moment in time.  I wish to keep it forever.

JDEmpath: conceptual object #4:  give me a perfect dichotomy of ownership.  give me a slave who I can own without possessiveness in any way, shape or form.

JDEmpath: conceptual object #5:  gift me with music, without sound, in an everyday activity.

JDEmpath: conceptual object #6:  give me an idea.  one that cannot be expressed in words, but one that I can fully comprehend.

When you get down to it

There is really only one great and powerful common thread among all of my loves.  They may have been different people with different dreams and different values.  They may have had different buttons that turned them on.  They may have wanted different lives.

The one thread is that all of them just wanted me as I am.  As I was at the time.  They showed it in their attention to the details that I was giving on a daily basis.  The little things that made up every part of my life. 

My music.  My self.  (those are the same thing, by the way.)  My thoughts.  All of these things were simply ...... "enough".  There was no need for me to provide something other than what I was.  Love was based on what was.  It was not based on what might become or what had been, or what one wishes could be.

Since then,  I have been approached, even had some small hints of involvement.  In each case there was a strong sense that I was just a placeholder.  A warm body upon which is thrust the hopes and dreams of fantasy, with only a secondary notion given to what I really am.  Who I really am.

If you listen to my music you will know.  I will know as well.  I either move you or I don't.  I either make you want to join me on my path or we will know that our paths will only cross in the most basic sense.

come.  join me.  and please stay.

Live your life as...

There is an oft-used expression:

"Live each day as if it were your last"

I can understand the reasoning behind this.  I really can.  I think the motivations are designed to keep people from "wasting" their finite and precious resource: time.

Of course we should all understand that time is finite, and human beings, being only on the earth in living form for such a tiny sliver of time (in cosmic terms) should endeavor to make the best use of it as possible.

But does the metaphor work?

I submit that we, as humans, should live each day as if it were our first.

Rather than hurriedly jump from one bucket-list item to the next in a doomed attempt to "get them all done" in one day, why not think, very carefully, about what it would be like to experience your first day on Earth, as a newborn, and yet have all the sensory faculties and intellectual capacity that you have right now.

You could awaken from sleep and have no concept of the meaning of bitterness or fatigue.

You could look at something as grand as a sunset or as ordinary as a speck of dirt on a fading painted wall, and both would be as new as if they had never been perceived before.

You can meet your partner, or your brother or sister, or your parent, some time and day, in some place and experience the full attention that you pay to people when you first meet them.  Imagine how careful you are not to hurt them, not to be careless.  Imagine how much you wish them to see you at your best.

Is this not a better metaphor?

Live each day as if it were your very first.

I have to admit I have been perving Dom women mostly lately.  Better pictures.  Sexier. 

Sue me if necessary.

Let that be a lesson to you all.  Present a beautiful image to the world and the world will watch.

JDEmpath: rule 1:  use your brain, *your* brain, not what someone else tells you to do.  Don't rely on "feelings" in here because it's not human contact.  It's computers transmitting words.  Use your brain first.  Think.

JDEmpath: rule 2:  Keep it fun.  This is not an exercise in how upset people should be made to feel.  It's supposed to be rewarding.

JDEmpath: rule 3:  listen at least as much as you talk.  more is better.
[12:43pm] JDEmpath: that's it.

the A/V recorder is garbage.  it was better two years ago when I split.

if you want to hear some disjointed and broken audio then by all means, click on my new entries.

so I am stuck with nothing but text.  fuck.