Ok.... so I am posting this response to an email I received because I think it is super important....

I get this bullshit a lot... dommes who don't know how to take control of a person so they foist that upon others by making their submissives email every fucking one in a desperate attempt to find someone who CAN take control....

this is my response

I am so sorry that you and your dominant didn't have enough respect... for you or me, to read my profile and see who it was you were messaging before sending out blanket emails.
 
I would very much appreciate you sending this email to your 'owner' as, she is actually the one who bears the responsibility for your actions, having given someone who has devoted themself to another a task which is, argueably, offensive to a swathe of people she thinks she doesn't need to consider in her path of attempting to control, and pleasure.

To the 'owner': the fact that you need to impose yourself upon others, not in a consensual circle of understanding of your relationship and your 'training' methods, to implement your 'dominance' is a big fucking red flag.

The scope of your heart, the veracity of your being and the capability of being able to manifest who you are as a dominant should never impact a person who is an unwilling participant to your machination

The very fact that you have to resort to parlor tricks and obvious ploys to try to get a person, who is genuinely looking to find someone strong enough and capable enough to take control of them, for whatever reason..., shows me that at the very LEAST, you are not up to the task, but more likely.... you are taking advantage.

You do not deserve the mantle of responsibility of another person's devotion.

Stop. Stop now...people will give you the means to hurt them, and that is not a game. Have a conscience, and have some responsibility... it is the burden of a dominant

Jen

So.... yay for me... I ran my first 5K today (see pic)!  My time wasn’t great but for a first effort, I cannot be too disappointed with myself...especially as it was to raise monies for the cancer I was dealing with.

I had a tussle with cancer earlier this year...and it was all around not nice...the pain was expected, but the fear and battle with hope and guilt and a crazy stew of other emotions was truly difficult to deal with.  I made a promise to myself that WHEN I got through it, I was going to continually kick this demons ass as many times as possible... for me, for all the people in my family who were sacrificed to it and to those I know who are still struggling through it.

I am not wealthy, I am not a scientist, there is very little I felt I could do besides put my own, much less than perfect body up for the task...so... I started doing super fast walks  to try to get to a point where I would be comfortable entering walk/runs... and with a couple of extra kicks (to my already well battered ego) I started running... in the dark, hahaha!

I am no runner and probably will never amount to anything awesome in these runs I am doing but...fuck it...that means you, cancer, and all you silly folks who thought less than enough of me for the dumbest of reasons... I am doing it.  I will never be built like a gazelle and breeze through a 5K like skipping down the block, I will never have that adrenaline/endorphin rush that some get that makes them crave hitting the pavement, nope... but I am still doing it.  Because every time I run past that finish line, I am kicking down that beast that hopped on my back, took down so many of the people I have loved and continues to eat away at so many people every day.

So... one down  and another in two weeks in NYC!!  I will be back in one of my most beloved cities to do the run across the Brooklyn Bridge for the St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital.  I know how much that dark specter looming over me hurt me physically and mentally... and cannot even imagine how a child deals with growing up with that monster as a constant in their life.  It’s a cause that is feeling especially tender for me, having lost the ability to have children of my own with all the surgery I had for my cancer.

I know many of you have been kind to me and have followed my journals for a long time now.  Your support has always been appreciated and if you have an extra dollar or five or whatever you can spare and want to help sponsor my for this race, I would greatly appreciate that too.  I don’t know of a single person who has not cared for someone affected by this awful disease, and I am more than willing to haul my substantialish behind around a track, up hills, in the rain and even over the bridge if you want to help me help others who are fighting so hard to have the same, excellent prognosis that I was lucky enough to receive.  If you are interested in sponsoring me for the St. Jude’s run, I am only half way to my fundraising goal,  and it couldn’t be easier to ante in your sheckles!  Just click on the link below to my  sponsor page on the St. Jude’s site and thanks for all who give what they can...

http://fundraising.stjude.org/site/TR/Walk/Walk?px=3609603&pg=personal&fr_id=40396

(I am going to preface this by stating that I am writing to a nothing, to my journal and I suppose, on some level to myself.  I am not in a place to deal with even the kindest of responses to this post.  I just know that journaling has always helped me, so I am doing this for me.  I am fine and thank you for the kindnesses I do not want you to post in response.  This is for me, via

My journal.

I have not been here in a while and hope you bring me the comfort you usually do.  Lancing the boil.

There are things I have not wanted to say out loud.

Cancer.

I think I have said it fewer times than the fingers on one hand.

There are reasons for that.  For as flamboyant as I look, I do not like to be looked at, really looked at.

And I didn’t want to panic everyone.  And I didn’t want to have to deal with everyone’s panic, as well as my own.

There has been this genetic time bomb ticking ticking... and I feel like to say it would be like holding up the detonator and waving it around without any kind of real logic behind the panic.  My poor family has enough to worry about without ME losing it too.  Watching mom die, and all her sisters, and my cousins and.... you just have to keep it together so everyone can keep it together.

But it HAS been scary, and really, I AM all alone.

And even after all the surgery and other people’s blood an all the other business....

I still don’t know what to do with it, or how to act or what to think of myself.

Look, I am pretty good at keeping people smiling and ok during a crisis.  Hell even my panic stricken doctor and surgeon were better as I kept them laughing... booster everyone, that’s what I say.

So I bust out some pretty smart jokes, some just crude enough jokes, considering the local of my personal demon, and kept everyone lighter about a dark issue.

And you know, my prognosis is good.

But I am gutted.  Haha, I am literally gutted.

The feminine in me has been removed.

It’s all just gone and what’s left is slithering innards trying to find a new home in the vacuous space left behind.... nothing feminine, nothing that will ever give life, the absence of hormones that keep you of a certain sex....

I am swimming in emotions and loss and I feel terrible because I have survived.

Relatively unscathed.

But I feel, so bad.  Not the pain, not the flashes and inability to sleep... but the loss.

I feel like, if people see me, they might not see a woman anymore.

I feel like if a man looks at me, I have an obligation to explain that on some level, I am sexless.  I have no womb..no ANYTHING, no womanliness inside of me anymore.  That I need to apologize for not being a whole woman.

I have no legacy.  I have no partner who knew me before and can tell me I am not so changed.  I can only be this fortress.  I have fortified my aloneness with this crisis.

Oh journal... I just feel so bad.  I don’t know what I am anymore.

Post it and sort it. Out it and own it.

Firstly I would like to again thank stroppysub for writing such a perfect essay and for allowing me to post it to my journal here!

The Paradox of the Alpha Submissive

She's a force to be reckoned with in her vanilla universe, a high achiever, assertive, articulate, persuasive, magnetic. People look to her for leadership. So surely she's dominant in her intimate life too, right?

Wrong.

People seem to think the notion of an alpha submissive is just a complete oxymoron.

Here are some of the most common reactions I get:

"You aren't really a submissive like you think you are."
"You must be a really bad submissive because you are so sassy, so you will need to be taken in hand, forced to submit."
"Oh, so you are basically dominant but you like to switch sometimes."

Actually, this is an easy way to spot the men who are so clearly NOT my destiny!

... but then, finally, one who truly 'gets' me actually comes out of the woodwork. He is bored out of his mind dominating women who are nowhere near as smart and strong as he is. He craves the opportunity to engage with a true intellectual equal, conquer her mind, get under her skin. And he knows instantly that he just struck alpha sub gold.

It's rather like how B-grade managers hire C-grade staff who won't make them look (or feel) incompetent. But an A-grade manager will only hire A and A+ staff because they love to be surrounded by brilliance, aren't threatened by it in the slightest, and know how to challenge and grow people and unleash their potential to be even more amazing than they already were.

The contrast is just night and day. Someone who actually speaks my language for once, isn't fazed when I test the hell out of his Alpha mind (loves it, in fact), wants to see what I am capable of, not just suppress it.

Basically, my default mode is headstrong defiance and sassiness. It takes a really serious Alpha man with a razor-sharp mind to make me do a double take. And then it's hmmmm OK ... This could be interesting ... Test his Alpha ... Does he cope? Run with it? Does he push back, play, engage? Is he interested in how my mind works, whether I am a worthy sparring partner?

Contrast this with the Dom who is (perhaps subconsciously) threatened by who I am. He'll try to prove his power early on, gain control rapidly, perhaps by scoring points on some trivial matter - like getting me to address him in a particular way or use uppercase/lowercase to refer to him and myself, or trying to set me tasks or dictate in detail what I wear to meet him for the first time. Personally, I find this "point scoring" behaviour presumptuous and oppressive at such an early stage. It just pushes my "Like HELL!" buttons.

Here's the paradox of the true Alpha Dom. He doesn't actually come across as forceful. He knows that would be a fatal mistake at this point. But more importantly, he doesn't need these small wins early on.

He's fascinated by who I naturally am, wants to let my mind wander free - at least for now - so he can learn exactly how it works. He won't try to constrain it at all because that would shut off a source of valuable and intriguing information. Although we might agree on a general dress code for the first meeting (e.g. casual/jeans, or something that would pass for business attire), he is far more interested to see what I turn up wearing because it will tell him a little more about me.

The more he knows about me, the more likely he'll be successful in plotting my eventual surrender. He knows instinctively that this is not just the most fun way into my mind and under my skin; it's the only way in.

In any case, he enjoys the unravelling process immensely, so why rush it? Victory is even sweeter when you savour it slowly and control the pace.

People often mistake my Alpha-testing behaviour for dominance, but I honestly have no inclination in that direction. It doesn't excite me at all.

I like to inspire and lead in my professional and vanilla world but not in the context of intimacy. There I absolutely crave to be seduced and overwhelmed by someone who blows my mind and every other fuse in me.

It's a rare and special being who can do that ... :)

I am getting that tetchy feeling... like I should write again... but those battles inside always win towards why.

So…

My sister is gay.  Though we are certainly not alike, and she can be a bit prickly, she is probably one of the people I most look up to in my immediate circle.  She has done a lot with her life, mostly all by herself, has raised an amazing daughter, and is just someone, in my opinion, that anyone can look to and find something very admirable.

I am on a couple of dating sites, and there are questions you can fill out and all that BS… and I was really  shocked to see how many people really are discriminatory in this part of the country.  I thought Rochester a bit more liberal than that…. So I put a pretty strong disclaimer about my hard line on bigotry.  I simply do not even want to receive messages from people who think that people I love have less rights to love, less rights… period.

I don’t really think that is a shocking or controversial thing to do.. I think it should be pretty straight forward, pretty mainstream… I think for the most part, the people I know and consider friends, would think it pretty obvious and…just a given…. regardless of my sister.

I have been alone a lot lately, and sort of… ‘dining with the darker side’ of myself, which I really do not let out to the general public… probably the closest one would get to seeing that side of me is my journal. 

I have been mulling over self worth, value, natural entitlements and have really come to realize that I have allowed people to dwhich is not as big a deal if you are a man, but that is fodder for another journal entry).

I have always been fat, but for a very short window of time where I got completely, unhealthily obsessive about my weight and, though no one would look at me and think I had gotten thin, I was not nearly as heavy as I have been most of my life… and boy… I have never been as unhealthy and unhappy as I was in that stretch (strangely enough), mentally and physically.

For the most part, I am pretty blithe about my weight.  I understand and respect that most men are not attracted to large women, and really have no problem with that.  I have come to intellectually understand that I will probably end up being one of those people who just, spend their lifetime alone, not by choice but by circumstance.  And that is fine, if not optimal.

What  I am wrestling with in my own head is my own concept of ‘acceptable for me’.  Everyone has preferences and that is fine… what is not fine is when personal preference goes a step further and creeps into bigotry.

It is pretty hard for me to take the idea seriously that I have experienced as much, and given the climate today, perhaps more bigotry in my life than perhaps even my sister has…  You don’t go to a job interview, walk down the street, go to a restaurant, buy groceries and necessarily, immediately register as gay, and therefore trigger prejudice and/or malice (I don’t think people of color or of a certain sexual persuasion get looked at when they order a meal or buy food….ask someone you care about who is heavy if they have ever been made to feel uncomfortable for simply buying a meal out, be it by looks, or tsks, or comments....I would be surprised if they said they had never experienced it.)

There’s no hiding fat (trust me I spent a good portion of years trying very hard, it cannot be done).

 And sadly, it’s become almost fashionable to belittle people who are… I mean… I think Bill Maher, for instance, is pretty good as far as intelligent comedians… but I don’t think he would ever feel entitled to belittle a person because of their race or sexuality… he constantly belittles fat people… and always gets the laugh for it as well.

But I digress… well a little.. this thought process has been running around in the background as I mulled over some more personal things. So…. in terms of relationships…. How much prejudice is acceptable?  Preference… fine… prejudice….?  When does accepting mean demeaning yourself?

I am going to paraphrase a conversation I had with someone and change my being fat with…. Hmmm… lets say a religion. So a while ago I had a conversation with someone I thought I could trust, and was, on my team, my friend… I don’t usually get terribly personal with people… and I was expressing my disappointment at my inability to find the right partner for myself. Now, if I were to change my being fat with say… being a Muslim, the conversation would have gone something like this:

…I am a bit disappointed, I tried to put something really genuine down in my profile that was, you know, a lot more expositional than what I am used to giving out and it doesn’t seem to have made any difference.

***Well, I have seen your profile of course and maybe it is not honest enough…

...Huh?  I am as honest as I can be!

*** Well what about your religion.  None of your pictures really show enough that you are Muslim.  Maybe you should have a picture with a burqa or something so that people are not disappointed when they meet you… so that they really know what they are getting into.

…But…my pics are all current, they are me, now, in clothes I wear every day, taken on the webcam of my computer that I type out the messages to these  very same people … I should make myself look ‘more Muslim’ so that I am not such a disappointment…getting into??  You think I don’t tell these people up front about that?  That I am being deceptive... that I should dress up terribly and try to take pictures as unflattering as possible?  Who does that?

*** Well I mean you could change that if you wanted to; being Muslim is a choice you are making and if you just changed that you would be much more successful.. I mean not many people like Muslims these days, I mean as friends, yeah… fine, but … I am just being honest, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings….

Etc etc.

Not terribly acceptable if we are talking about a faith or sexual preference or skin color.

But somehow, if you are fat, you are just out of luck, because all bets are off.  What I was really being told, was that I have no right to think that love applies to people like me.  That being fat means I cannot expect to be taken seriously, to be truly loved or that my love, as is, has any value, and that I have to lower the price, lower myself, and lower what I think I can get out of life, given the way that I am.

So.. ok, that hurt, given I thought that was a friend of mine… but I removed that person from my life, and the people who knew about what happened were pretty cool and bolsterd me up when I was down… even going so far as to say… yeah well… that person really has issues with heavy people… so..  blah blah.

No problem with that so much anymore….but… hmmm

The point of my typing this out (to myself, mostly) was not to rant on my not being able to find someone and blaming it on being fat or someone telling me it’s because I am fat.  Everyone has preferences and that’s cool, as I have said.  I just am having a hard time realizing that more people are prejudiced about fat than just that person who said it to me.

Back to the beginning of my journal entry…

I cannot say that I am for gay rights, that I am not a racist, that I am not prejudiced, if I have no hard lines about those principles with the people I choose to be my close friends and intimates.

If I choose to partner or be close with a person who thinks my sister has no right to find a life partner, who thinks that she is an unfit mother for being a gay, single parent, that she is somehow a lesser person, who should expect less for themselves…  then I am a bigot too…in an almost worse way.  Because I get to hide behind my veneer of being  an open, non prejudiced person while I give my attentions and part of myself to a person who actively works against that very principle. It makes me a front man, the accomplice…the  insidious bigot.

I mean, we all have to get along in the work place and our community and we have to respect everyone’s right to make their own choices, even if we do not agree with them… But that’s not quite the same as lying down with them.  Knowing what they do, what they say, what they may have done or what they try to legislate, and giving our affection and intimacy to them…  Is there a more personal approval? The Westboro Baptist Church people have every right to their own hateful thoughts; but I cannot say I am horrified by those thoughts if I am hanging out with or sleeping with one of them.

Could I expect my sister to want me to be a part of her life, if I chose friends, lovers, partners, who not only think less of her, but who actually try to lessen her because of their own prejudice?  I don’t think I can expect it of her.  In fact, one of the things that I so love about her is that I know she would NOT tolerate that…and I would like to think that I would never be able to do that to her. 

So why is it ok if people do that to me? 

I would never tolerate it for my sister, but I tolerate it for myself.

I have to change that.

Really haven't put much here.  Chasing rainbows and shit.

That never turns out well, and I know it.

So I am going to write this down to myself and maybe ... maybe that will make the difference.

I am tired of being the person who helps someone kill time until they find someone better than me.

It's better to stop chasing, to be alone, than to hurt myself that way...

Well girl, it's time to get out there and make everyone else feel just a smidge better... to  do Jen.

Annnnnnd wonderful!

5th metatarsal....broken!

To all you Dommes (and I must say it is predominantly the female dominant and not the male) who keep sending out requests to help you ‘train’ your submissives… wtf??? And, please fucking stop.

It has been happening a lot lately. I get these emails from the Dommes themselves and from their poor clueless ‘subs’ asking if I would like to ‘take part’ or ‘help’ in their training by humiliating them or blackmailing them or some other stupid ass bullshit.

Firstly... I am submissive, not YOUR submissive (thank heaven) so what the fuck do you think I am going to do or get out of taking over what should be YOUR role in a D/s relationship?

Secondly… how the hell do you manage to brainwash these stupid, unsuspecting douche bags into believing that you are actually their dominant? Do they really think that you farming out their ‘submissiveness’ constitutes anything even resembling domination? And I have a real problem with equating being willing to be treated like a half-wit trample pad as submission. What is this kind of mentality really doing to the perception of actual working, loving and HEALTHY D/s relationships? What is it doing to the core of the ‘community’ (another phrase I generally have a bit of trouble with but at this hour am unable to come up with a better alternative at this hour)?

And thirdly, and most importantly…what the hell kind of ‘Domme’ foists off the training of her submissive to a perfect stranger who has no knowledge of either of you, or what is best for your submissive, and who is not even a dominant? What on earth makes you think you are in a position to take control of another human when you are incapable of meeting the most fundamental parts of a the D in a D/s relationship?

If you cannot dominate your fucking ATM slave, why the hell would I do it for you for free?

I should probably explain that previous post by saying that green was always such an important color to me (I am mildly synesthetic)... and my green book... well ...

I used to be green.

I wrote a little green book, when I was young, green…hopeful.

I suppose I knew that I wouldn’t know that someone I would love when I was young…that I wouldn’t have anything like that until I was older.  And that different me, that greener me, didn’t want him not to have that part of my life.  All the world values youth, and I only had my green book to preserve the shadow of that for him.

I wrote  in this little green book for years.  Silly things, serious things… writing to him before I knew him, when I was eager, impatient and lonely for him.  And I was so sure that, even though the writing was not great… he would be glad to have the years he didn’t have me in even the meanest of ways.  So I didn’t edit myself.  Some of the entries are so … innocently shocking?  Or shockingly innocent.

It doesn’t seem possible that that girl was ever me.

It doesn’t seem possible that there would never be a him.

And now I am not a girl. And that stupid book sits on my shelf… ungiven… and it just seems like the cruelest joke I could have ever played on myself.

All that green outside and I don’t have the heart to throw out that taunting chronicle of how much green I used to have inside me.

Things are getting nicer outside.

I cannot help but worry that things are not getting nicer inside.

As everything turns green again, my mind keeps turning to my green book.  That long lost girl.  So many hopes, so much surety as to make sure to keep youth in a book for ‘him’ when he found me later.

I am so far beyond later now.  And that book, on my shelf, usesless, worthless, unwanted, silly….sad.  There was no he.  There were just wounds I eased, and no one keeps a bandage after they’re healed.

And that book…

 That was me… it’s not me anymore.  I cannot even stand to touch it. 

She is so far away…that poor girl.  It would have been so lovely for that book to have had meaning.

I don’t really know what to do with it now.  I should just throw it out, but it feels like a betrayal to that girl… it feels like throwing that last, diminishing part of me out.

I don’t even know me anymore.

All these scars.  All this damage.  What on earth could possibly be left of value….

It’s a green year, a green season and nothing is growing in me.

That damned book.

What they don’t tell you about Pneumonia

It’s not the pain that lies upon your chest and back like an anvil, or the coughing that leaves you choking and gasping for air, or the aches and pains and lack of sleep.

It has enfeebled me. I loaded the dishwasher and am gasping for breath, coughing and shaking like a leaf… I literally cannot drink my tea my hands are shaking so bad…

Good grief, how long is this going to last?

I am feeling nostalgic, which is never good…  I am feeling defeated and sad.. which is also not good.

The first man (well at the time we were both so young, hardly old enough to be considered adult) who ever told me I was pretty was doubting himself as a man, as a teacher and as a talent.

He was not really a nice guy.  He was not cruel to me… it was an awkward situation… I was this mega talent with no clue, ugly, fat, but blindingly talented, and.. funny.. fun to be with.

Many people hated and resented me; with great reason.

He… he was good looking, popular and talented… and nice (enough) to me. 

There was no benefit for him to be kind to me.  None.  In fact, among the beautiful people, it was kind of a bonus not to be.

So.. due to wit alone, I got invited to the cool people toga party… Talk about panic…

One of the pretty girls who was also very kind to me (probably partially because I was super singer girl and we had the same voice teacher, but partly too because she was just a very soft and kind person) took me aside and did her best with me.

No one could call me gorgeous, but I was a fair sight better than the monobrowed, hulking, nerd nerd nerd, sweater collecting, bespectacled, fat, ugly girl I normally walked around as.

Blah blah… everyone was drinking, and there was always a great sadness inside him… never acknowledged.  I know he knew I knew it was there… they may well have been what prompted it.

But we were talking… I cannot remember what about, at this point.. and he looked right at me and I think he was pretty startled… and said… you know G… you look really pretty.

It was not a pass.  It was not a play.  It was just a kindness.  More than he knew.  In my whole life, no one had ever said that to me.  Oh… I got, you are such a good singer, you are soooo smart, you are funny, you are clever, you are fun, you are such a good girl….

But never that.

Somewhere, I think every girl, even the smartest, ugliest girl wants to be pretty.

I was ashamed to want that.  Especially given it was never really going to be true.

But he accessed a part of himself that allowed him to see something inside me that managed to radiate out and read as pretty… even when I wasn’t.

Without going into all that history.  I did what I do.  I took his soreness and rubbed it and spoke to him and made it better.

Seems like an even trade.  I never had a moment to thank him for his kindness before.

Why I Hate Valentine’s Day

I hate Valentine’s Day, because I love Valentine’s Day …and I cannot be a part of it.

I also hate all the haters.  As if being without someone to love and who loves me isn’t bad enough, there are those who just hate on love in general, and use Valentine’s Day to spring up and badmouth everything to do with it.

I mean, what could be a better reason to celebrate than being in love….surely that, more than anything else deserves a holiday.

Mock the Valentines, mock the commerciality, mock the love itself…..and why are you on this site exactly?  I mean, really….why are you on a website that is here to hopefully help you find your partner?

There is, or can be, commerciality in any holiday.  It has nothing to do with the day or sentiment itself; it’s just the culture we live in.  I have been in a relationship a few times during Valentine’s Day, and it was usually pretty bad.  The men, for whatever reason felt that they were obligated to spend money on me, or buy stuff that made them uncomfortable…flowers, jewelry, frilly do dads, what have you…which is not what I ever would have wanted.  They felt trapped by Hallmark or whatever the fuck they wanted to blame it on, when in reality, I suspect they just didn’t feel like celebrating our relationship.

It’s a day to reflect for some amount of time, on your love, and the person who loves you.   The best gift I could have ever dreamed of?  A Valentine…an honest to god, handwritten, genuine love letter.

It wouldn’t have to be fancy, or longwinded, or frilly, or cost a dime, because the thing that would have made it so precious would be the written word….Just a not to tell me I am loved, why I am loved and that this is being acknowledged, made sacred in a little note… a Valentine.

I’ve never gotten one of those, and honestly at this point in my life it is highly unlikely to ever happen…I guess that’s another reason I hate Valentine’s Day… because I am grieving over that truth.

I have however given a few Valentines…surprisingly few given my age, I suppose.  I tried very hard to make them as simple and clear and ‘from me’ as possible… no mass of images on luridly colored cards… lot of room to write and lots of time to sit by myself and think about and feel how much I loved the man for whom it was being written...  It’s kind of terrifying, opening your heart up that much, and just handing it all over to someone, even someone you love…your heart on a page…offered, vulnerable.  And honestly, it was the only real thing of worth I have ever had to offer.  This year, I think, was worse than the others, having had to throw out my prematurely penned Valentine a few weeks ago…it is surprisingly hurtful to throw your own heart in the garbage.

I guess that’s another reason why I hate Valentine’s Day… having given something I thought was precious to another on a day for love and, ultimately having been judged not worthy.

But I don’t hate Valentine’s Day because it’s so cool and wry to mock out a day for love.

I don’t hate Valentine’s Day because it provides an opportunity for me to press my spirit more firmly into a lonely, callous, condescension.

I don’t hate Valentine’s Day because I can spout off a bunch of intelligent sounding ire at another commercialization of sentimentality.

I hate it, because I cannot be a part of it, and I think it is beautiful.

Taking Backy My Journal

Tossed back into the abyss...

I need my space to sort out my head.  Somehow, talking it out here to myself ... it has always worked and I hope it will again.

I must say again, however.  This is for me.  I am not looking for comments from people who read it.  I am not looking for pity or well intentioned boosts.

I just want to write this out and have it there, so that I do not edit myself in my own mind. 

I edit myself for everyone.  I read what someone needs and give it to them and take the price out of my own self.

Here, I try not to even put a mask on for me.

Not alway successful.

But now, this space is mine again.

Why the Poor are Fat(ter)

Though I have never been thin, my recent plunge into poverty has granted me a new understanding of poverty related obesity.

1. The money is not wasted on fine chocolates and fois gras- just went grocery shopping. I could not afford leafy green vegetables, lean meats or whole grain starches. I could afford crappy meat byproducts (bologna, sandwich spread, cheap hot dogs and hamburger with the highest fat content) starchy root vegetables and iceberg lettuce (which has negligible nutrition and a very short shelf life), sugary cereals (no name brand) and milk with the highest fat content..I also could afford to by an assortment of processed, fat laden, salt laden, hormonally influenced canned and frozen foods...that would probably leave me starving again about two hours later.

2. Given the hours I am forced to work for a pay grade way below that of a crack whore on craigslist, it is cheaper and far less labor intensive to get my food from arbies or off the dollar menue at the fast food chains.

3. Gas... yep gas... there are about 3 fast food (and super cheap ones) much closer to walking distance than my closest grocery store. I am actually budgeting

how much I can afford to spend on any use of my car outside going to work. The grocery store is outside of my parameters.

4. Multi vitamins. Not covered by my shitty health plan

, even though I am aenemic. Especially important now that I cannot eat whole foods anymore.

5. Something to drink... I cannot afford juice... or a new Brita

filter let alone bottled water (I live right in the middle of several Kodak processing plants... er.. groundwater, not a great idea) but I CAN afford cans of soda (I am trying to be less of a fat-ass so I go for diet).

6. Time. I don't even have kids to worry about, but I am tired. My pay grade makes me realize that I have no say in what my time is worth... they need me to work overtime, take a shorter lunch, not complain (and time and a half at just over minimum wage is not really saying much, not to mention that you don't get sick days, personal days or any time off until you have put up with this bullshit for a year)... I am imminently replaceable and my mortgage is going nowhere. Suck it up and be sad about it on your time.. oh.. what time you have... guess you can pout in the car on the way home.

Maybe we are just trying to make the undesirables more easily expendable...it feels that way.

(just as a warning, this is my journal... all you Rush Limbaugh, Glen Beck troglodytes who start flaming in my space will just get blocked, so save your breath for those who allow you to take up their space)

For a number of years I have worked for a woman who.... reminded me of my mother... who was one of the few people who ever made me question my own godlessness, and think that surely...if someone can be this good, beyond any kind of scope of my own goodness... there must me some 'other' thing....deity... force... what have you, that propels a person towards the ideal of what we recognize as a sort of 'sainthood'.

For what ever reason... I have been the handmaiden to goodness. This beautiful woman who has given to everyone. Who has made everyone who came into her own gravity... better.

I am lucky for that much.

I just feel so bad that I could not give that back to her.

I am very well aware of the fact that I have never asked anyone to like a damned thing... to send out thoughts to any given purpose.. to thumbs up any cause.

I really have no beliefs... but I do know that others do... Others who have formed or just been forced into me, have better and stronger beliefs.

If you can, send out a thought of goodness to this woman who has been so good, for me. I really don't know if it will do any good, but if it does, no one deserves it more, that I know of.

Thank you.

The Invisible War

So I am unwell and have been wrapped up on the couch watching stuff from my Netflix queue

and this documentary, The Invisible War was up next..

I am not one to shove people towards a movie but, holy hell this was just shocking. It is a documentary on rape in the military and the numbers are shocking... not jut the number of rapes, but the shockingly low number of any sort of prosecution for the documented rapes that happen.

If you have Netflix, I highly recommend you watch this film.. I had no idea the problem was so gross. I also did not realize that the courts had ruled rape within the military as 'job

hazard' which does not allow the victim any recompense (be it monitary or medical).

Any way... there is a website that goes along with the movie... it wouldn't take much for you to look that over...


http://www.notinvisible.org/

You are warm.

It's snowing here.  I am so glad.  I feel like I have been waiting for this for a long time and didn't even realize it.. and I don't know why.

I have said many times, that my journal is something I write for me, and that those of you who read it, for whatever your own reasons might be, are missing much of what my entries are about and all of what I do not put in here.

Those big spaces between are where I am doing things, if not right, at least better.  Where I am if not blissfully happy, I might acutally be happy and contentish as I wobble along the path of my own ruins.

Right now, for a while now, things have been so much better.  There is some new understanding and I feel less idiotic for loving and in the manner of my love.

I am not a graceful person.  I can fake just about any situation that comes my way and for whatever reason, everyone seems to think I know exactly what I am doing, and that I am doing it well.  Well, actually, I do know why that is.  That has been the glamour that has saved me since I was a child, akward and alone in a wealth of very treacherous surroundings as my mother lay wasting away.  I think she was the only one who ever saw that cloak wrapped around me and still could see the person around which it was wrapped... and liked her, loved her, even.

It's my own device. 

Even with the journaling, though it is the exhaust valve for sure, there is a modicum of cirucumspection and discretion in the release.

I am dealing with things which hurt me, and which, I try to show some sort of grace and aptitude when dealing with the people who love and need me in the world beyond this blinking cursor.

I am alone in this too, and doing a lot of it badly,because of the very thing that I try to do well.

Love.

I have learned some things about love in two years, about the way I love.

But I never seem to loose that amazement when I feel it shine back on me.  It makes me so angry when people are so lucky to be in a love together, and it gets taken for granted, by one or both.

It's such a cosmic joke, that...

Maybe that is what I was supposed to learn this recycling.

I had thought I was to learn what it means to be alone... the inevitibilty of isolation.

Maybe they go hand in hand.

But then, there he is...

And it's like someone has unfastened the ties of that cloak and though it's snowing all around me, that opening has not left me cold, no matter how much he parts it, or what of me he sees. 

There is warmth that allows me to love the snow around me.

Not feeling widly Bohdisattvaish tonight, motherfucker.

Here is what the B must have been thinking.

You greedy, self-absorved bastards.  I mean, really?  Even a goldfish knows to blow bubbles at the hand that throws down goodies.

Yes, it is a given that my nature wants everyone to feel good, even at my own detriment... but.. there has to be some replenishment, or esle your Bohdibullshit turns into Bohdhfuckyou.

I am at about that point.

blah blah

too much Zen

So... really, here is what it is

Hey.. thanks for the soup! Only you could know that I am kinda worrying about how much it costs to buy a meal out every time. That is so great of you! And to send me home cooked meals to combat that... so nice!! Because, that offsets the price of me taking my hot piece out when she comes up on the weekends!

Oh... I mean they taste great and all, and.. well.. Ok, let's not delve into the niceties that might also prove... I mean... Ate one jar... have half of another in my fridge which the bitch who is skinnier and waaaay hotter than you might well delve into for a protein boost whilst I am showering... but all in all

Still so nice of you!!

So great that you are so nice, btw... she loves cherry.. can you send me a cherry cheese cake in a mason jar so I can slather it all over bits and she can lovingly eat of off... just saying...

Jen... you really are an asshole.

P.S. Don't be mad at me that I canceled the only minimal way you are allowed contact with me... I mean the one that at the time did NOT interfere with my wet pussy date, until she changed her mind and you became... the nothing you are. Yeah, try not to internalize that, when I am telling you how much you mean to me.

Dear B...

You have an unerring way of making me feel like shit, more than anyone else I know...probably because I actually let you in, and...shocker... that gave you the power to hurt that was way more seductive than the power to please.

I mean, why please when the shitbag will still keep sending you delicious items even if you fuck her over, repeatedly and unabashedly.

Yes, that would make me the douchebag.

Jen

Had a big bump last night.  Bringing myself in and will probably need to journal in a bit.

OMG  haha!  Halloween!

So this teenage boy shows up on my doorstep just now, dressed, I thought, as Mozart?

NOPE!  He informs me he is Jaques Cassanova and suggests that he should come inside and join me for a glass of wine!  hahah

I told him, doll, contrary to popular belief, I am NOT dressed as Stiffler's mom, and handed him some laffy taffy.

Gotta love the cheek!

So, I was out with this totally adorable, kind, intelligent female friend of mine for dinner tonight.

She is really sweet.

We were talking, talking about men trouble, Rochester and OKC... blah blah...

And I was telling her some of my issues ( she is really lovely, delicate, thin, feminine, etc etc)

We are both on the same site and she was , I think, genuinely disturbed to learn what I thought was a universal fact;

That me will always rely on the fatty. If the night goes awry, if you have worked a particularly thorny hot chick to no avail, if you are just generally feeling shitty... hit up a fat girl and you will score... just don't look down.

No really, I think it might actually be a maxim. Fat chicks are not only easy, they will be grateful.

Why that was appalling to her I have no idea.

It's the truth.. in terms of it being an age old dude way of scoring.

It does, however, pose problems if the fat chick in question has the gall to be offended.

More than once on this site I have had to respond to a message:

“ Um... I am sorry... could you possibly point out the moment in my profile where I went from legitimately looking for a partner to share my life with to a cheap, needy whore only possessed of the desperate wish to fulfill any fantasy for a man which he cannot just as brazenly ask a thin woman to meet without either payment or withholding her passport?

Yeah, because that is pretty much every day, throwing yourself into the sexual mix as a fatty.

Anyone want to go to the Philharmonic with me tonight?  I won two tickets to the season opener... just send me a message if you are interested.  It would be a shame to waste a ticket.

Really, the only preamble I have for this is... WTF? This was why I just turned off all the sites for a bit, too much douchebaggery. 

Douchebag: "I would have not guessed that my last message to you would have been the end all,but I have experienced this proof moment before. I don't know if it was a game to begin with that never had a chance,or just timid behavior on your part,but you missed out on a beautiful life changing relationship. No hard feelings...Bye"

Annoyed Jen: "Woah...you need to chill out.

I spent the entire day, yes, the ENTIRE day, from 7:30 am at the farmers market in the rain until 5am, yes, 5AM!!, canning tomatoes for my family yesterday, with a broken arm, and a torn rotator cuff, and two vertebrae out of alignment in my spinal column, and though my back feels broken, and my neck and shoulder are so painful I have to keep my arm in a sling and type this message to you with one one finger on my left hand ( and I cannot actually feel three of the fingers on my right hand) I am still only half done and have to figure out how on earth I am going to finish today, and be able to get out of bed for work tomorrow, because I haven't been able to do so yet today.

And you have the temerity to type out that insecure, insulting, passive aggressive tantrum of a message to me because I didn't manage to get back to you in twenty four hours of your last correspondence?

I am NOT going to apologize to a stranger with whom I have exchanged a scant handful of innocuous messages because my entire, painful weekend was spent doing things for my elderly father and family, as, with my brother in Germany (Oh, wait?...you don't know enough of me to know that I even HAVE a brother), I am the only one to do it, and because THEY ARE MY FAMILY and I love and care about them for fucks sake!

Your immature, self involved over reaction to not getting a message back on your time table, without even having any information about me and my time table,tells me an awful lot about YOU and that beautiful, life changing relationship about and with which you attempted to chastise me. Jesus..."the end of it all"...it wasn't eve the beginning....I don't even know your name!

But it's sure the end of it all now, buddy. You need to get a grip on yourself, and if you ever hope to 'master' another person, you need to remember that you need to start with yourself before you can move on down the proverbial food chain."

Changed my mind.  A friend of mine, thinking, I suppose, to be helpful, told me that I am a bit dishonest in showing pictures of myself which really do not show just how hideously fat (in his opinion) I am, and then I have this nice profile, which makes me want to like me, and so its a big trap...

I changed my mind and cut this out of my profile and stuck in my journal because... fuck you.

It has come to my attention... no actually, it has been brought to my attention that I need to amend my profile.

I actually had spent a lot of time on my profile, and though I felt a bit uncomfortable revealing so much of the tenderness of my 'heart', I thought it important and right to do so in such a circumstance. I actually prefer my previous profile before this preamble, but one must do what one must do and, my own preferences for a sort of elegance of form be damned.

I am fat. I need to tell you that right off the bat. You probably should not continue reading my profile if you are already offended by that one statement.

I am fat, it's not going to change, and I do not feel bad about it. That would make me an unrepentant fatty (which, I am sure, is the worst kind of fatty).

I had thought that by explaining that I am not beautiful, I had covered things pretty well, but apparanty, that is not quite humiliating enough for such as me (unrepentant fatty).

There is no covering it up, though I really do not try to do so. There is no point in you going through all my pictures and trying to figure out just how fat I am, and if I might be just not fat enough to be worthy of a loving relationship.

My pictures are deceiving and I am fatter than I look in a face shot, as most of my fat is on my thighs, belly and hips..oh and my arms too. I do have deceptively thin ankles however so, turn away from them, they will only give you false hope.

You might note a bit of self deprecating humor in the tone of my newly inserted preamble. Self deprecating humor is the obligation of a fat person. It is our duty to make not fat people feel better about the fact that they are engaging in some way with a fat person and how uncomfortable it is for them to not acknowledge how horrifyingly fat they are, (time for more said humor) how terribly off putting it is for them not to acknowledge the elephant in the living room... which would of course be me, literally and figuratively... god that entire sentence is ripe with delicious puns (sorry if my use of ripe and delicious make you even more uncomfortable, coming from a fat person, and all).

So, having spent a horrifyingly large amount of time letting you know that I am fat, I feel I have fulfilled my duty to make sure you do not find anything appealing about me without first understanding that most important fact.

Also, having fulfilled my duty, I would please ask that you do not send me messages telling me how fat I am, trust me I know better than anyone, or how fat I do not seem due to my pictures. Believe me, I am fat, and everyone I know will gladly verify that for you.

After this point, my profile is what I actually thought was important to know about me, read at your own discretion.

It's really starting to annoy me that I have to go back and edit out my own fucking journal.  Never did that before.

What I am really doing, is editing myself.

But then, of course I am, becase just plain old me, is just not good enough.

Another WTF moment....

WTF in my profile makes you think I am a cheap, easy whore?

It certainly cannot be found in the body of my profile, or the many many journal entries or even in the many many forum posts I have made.

It is not in an extended list of kinks and sexual desires posted next to my name... that is blank but for a very adamant statement that I want nothing to do with polyamory....

Oh... could it be that ...well... because I am submissive?

Do you really think that a woman who identifies as submissive must automatically be promiscuous, not worthy of respect and effort on your part?

Being submissive means you just spread your thighs (especially if they are fat thighs) and get fucked by any who deem you worthy?  Really... is that what you think.... is that why you would approach a person who is obviously possessed of self respect and intelligence and just figure... yeah, you will fuck me?

Your idiotic propositions reveal much more about you than my vociferous set down says about me.

Why do I bother dying my hair anymore?  I am 40 and fat...like covering up a few grays is going to make me that much more wildly appealing?

Trying something new, and not afraid of failing.  I fail so often that it's not terribly daunting anymore... and I do not think that's necessarily a good thing.  What does worry me is that people will get attached to me and others will hope for me, and in that sense, failure will effect them. 

I am not doing anything right at this point, but I do think it can force a calmness and in that calmness a clarity of thought... which doesn't necessarily bring thoughts I like.

I suppose I can disgrace myself now, it's just me and the cats, after all.

The bread was good and I did not disgrace myself.  I am finding the latter shocking and the former a bonus. 

I guess it was fine.

Nice people.

Well regardless of 4 hours sleep, at least I am up in time.  Maybe if I drink enough tea I can float myself into a better frame of mind for this thing. 

I just do not want to make an ass of myself in front of a bunch of calm, quiet people.

And I need to stop writing this crap to my journal.  It doesn't make me any less alone in all of this.

Idiot.

Midnight..

I am not in the right frame of mind for a zen meditation workshop.  I wish I had never signed up for it.  I really do not want to go anymore.

It makes me feel stupid.

I am going to be exhausted in the morning.

I wish I hadn't paid for this stupid thing.

It was Dori's birthday today.  I bought her presents that I knew she would like, put the names of people who don't know any better (let alone what she would like, or what would make her laugh or feel pretty... or even that it's important to feel pretty, even when you are 86 and no longer important) and didn't reimburse me for them upon the card... I put mine on the card too, even though she never remembers what my name is (we never talk about it, it embarrasses her) and baked a cake for her party with her family tonight.  I hope her family creates a lovely memory for her.

At least the cake took up some of last night.  I have nothing to save me tonight.

Yes, I am burying, so whatever.

There are not enough shittily salacious documentaries about cults on youtube to keep my head numb.

I am swearing in my journal on an adult site... get over it.  At least I don't send unsolicited pics of my not terribly pleasing bits out in  emails to strangers.  See how dignified I am?

I don't want to go to this stupid thing tomorrow. If I hadn't paid $60 I wouldn't be going at all. I feel so dumb for having thought it a good idea. I just feel dumb period.

Now I am going to have to bury this entry in a barrage of nonsense so it doesn't get viewed. It pisses me off that my journal isn't mine anymore.... that I cannot say what I mean and want anymore, that was made pretty fucking clear.

Dear Jen,

You feel stupid, because you are stupid.  Willfully stupid.  You see what you are.... nothing.  You are working so hard, trying so hard for nothing.  She is the girlfriend, the lover, the one who is loved and given reality (one of many , to be sure), and you are just the imaginary friend, convienenly there when noone else wants to be, or when its too embarrassing or hard for it to be anyone else.  Yo are only worth what can be doled out over the internet or phone. 

You are stupid because you choose to think that you matter.

You are stupid because you actively choose to believe what is not true, when even your grandly-rationalizing mind cannot escape the fact that you are the absolutely lowest priority and give the greatest priority.

You are stupid because you hope.

Don't forget what you once said in this very journal, before you were so fucking dumb...

Hope is the cruelest mistress of all.

Enjoy the pain,

Jen

Possession

Hmm... so I woke up from having a strange dream . I think it was more strange that I dreamed about M, rather than the content itself, as I have not really had any poignant thoughts or feelings for M in so very very long, and I have no idea what stirred this up out of the mud.

It was all a bit murky and underwater, but I was remembering when he would chain me to the bed each night and at one point I asked him if I had done something he didn't like that made him feel he had to chain me in... and he said that it was when he stopped chaining me in at night that I should be worrying. I thought it oddly romantic at the time... but I did indeed take him to heart, and spent such a very long, tormented time worrying when he no longer chained me at night... and of course... the eventual end.

So many ( my therapist included, I am sure) would find the idea of being chained into bed each night ...hmm at least overkill, if not out right upsetting. It never felt like that to me.

It felt like possession.

I think a lot of people would find that word unhealthy in a relationship, but I really don't find it so. (I think that anything, taken wayyyyy overboard and out of control can be turned into a bad thing.) I think it is in every relationship. I think its beautiful and delicious and comforting and essential and primitive and beautiful.

Even just the act of sex it self is possession. One is actually going inside another, possessing the space of their sex, claiming their pleasure inside that other person, leaving a victorious pool of their conquering inside of you...

But even less physically, possession is a good thing. The feeling of possession (or the need/desire to possess) is what keeps things vibrant and alive...and healthy. That need might well be what keeps some people continually striving to keep their partner with them, as well as keeping the active 'courtship' alive. I am sure courtship is a dirty word these days but...whatever.

Just because a woman has a submissive nature does not mean that she doesn't want what every other person wants. That feeling of being desired, and actively pursued, even when you are had. I read a tshirt somewhere that it the job of the dominant to continually seduce consent from the submissive ( I sincerely hope it doesn't feel like a job).

Possession... continual....

It has been so long since I have felt that.

It's just resonating... how important that is... I am not making sense of this, or spreading my thoughts out well enough to be able to sort them and make sense of them... maybe because its too early, maybe because of how intense the thoughts are, the longings are, the loss of that is? hmm

Today I got an email from a guy who did not express any interest in me at all (not that that is a problem, keep reading you will understand...) but simply asked me if I thought he was ugly. That kind of hit me as strange, as one of the very first things I own up to in my own profile is that I am not beautiful.... why on earth ask me?

I replied that I had never met him, and really was not qualified to truly answer that question. He told me to read his profile and look at his pictures and … well here is what he said to me..

“...no I asked you if you thought I was ugly.... Yes at the end of my rope... Im tired of being alone .. I have tried and tried and tried but Im still alone.. I only seek to be happy I have what MOst women want.. a man with a good job his own car his own home and just overall a good man.... and im still alone. Im jst tired of fighting and tired of being alone and I wonder what the hell am i doing .. going to work comming home going to work ect and on my days off im home with no interaction at all unless i go out and talk to strangers but that only last for a hot minute. Im Just existing and that all”

(Please note, I am a crappy writer, but the spelling and grammar errors in his statements are his... I will own the ones in my own narrative, however!)

I really felt bad for him. I have felt the very same thing, for so very long, how could I not feel awful for him...Then I read his profile and here is what it states (with a considerable amount ofsnipping... I am not posting it to name and shame, just to give context :

“I want to start a new beginning...fresh start...new outlook ... I have built a new home in***** ...

... seek now s a live in...  come to me within a few weeks and become a part of my home and routine. .. be honest, clean, Drug and disease free... willing to learn and willing to take orders. If things go well I am willing to pay her bills and provide whatever she needs to be happy and enjoy life. Children are fine and so are pets. Also any race, age or size is fine also. You MUST understand what I seek is Not the physical....”

**(I did tell him that I would be posting this in my journal.  He made no objection and has since changed his profile)**

What's niggling at me is that I really meant to be nice to this man, as I can very much tell that he is sad about not being able to find a companion, but I very much fear I might have maybe made him feel much worse... even if what I said to him was not vindictive and just plain honest...

Well, here is my response at any rate...

“I can completely understand the awfulness of simply existing.

1. On a purely physical level: No I do not think you are ugly. I am sure there are many women who would be/are physically attracted to your looks.

2. Your profile, and what you state you want: I cannot imagine what kind of incredible low self esteem and/or sense of what you should want for yourself/hope for yourself it would take to lead a woman to want what you offer. Anyone can get a job as a servant, either on Craigslist or via a more legitimate agency. To look for a job (because that is what you are offering, not a relationship …) here, in the context of what you put out there... well in my head, I would label you as very dangerous. You want to have a house slave, and there may be some who are willing to sacrifice their very selves to be nothing more than an Antebellum era piece of property with no rights and a very good chance of being damaged, but I would venture a guess that that person needs therapy more than a job or amaster.

3. Your view of what women want is so skewed as to be incredibly offensive. I am trying to give you the benefit of the doubt and shall ascribe it to a lack of any real understanding of women both in general and intimately, and a lack of confidence in yourself and what you might really, really want, or perhaps(and more likely) a fear of just what that genuine wanting might be, and how vulnerable that could very well leave you.

You are not at the end of your rope. You are dangling off a very thin and superfluous thread. You are not a youngster-idiot. At this point in your life, you should realize that the physical bodies we inhabit reveal very little of the worth of who we are as people. That means you, that means me, that means everyone.

Look for something worthy, with someone worthy, but know you will never find either until you are worthy.

That is me being honest, not trying to hurt your feelings. Again... I very much do understand how loneliness and rejection wound your soul in ways that might very well haunt you until the day you cease to exist. The only thing I can do for myself, is try to be a good me. and when I can muster the gumption, a better me... that won't make me a less sad or less lonely me, but at least I will not be doing something that makes my soul ugly. We do not get choose, for the most part, how we look. That is something we are born into. We do get to choose how beautiful our spirits get to be.

Try being more truly beautiful. It makes you infinitely more vulnerable to being hurt, sadness and in general feeling everything... but it makes you honest and hopefully more compassionate. Think how beautiful kindness would feel to you right now.

Sorry, that is all I can offer you. I wish you were not feeling so sad. Sometimes, I feel like I am the only one who suffers that sadness, and that is something I need to improve within my own self. There is always room to be more kind, to recognize that wafting out our own personal hurts and darkness never leads to good for ourselves or anyone else.

Good luck.”

I am not totally sure why this interaction is rumbling around in my head. I suppose, partially, it is the dichotomy of wanting to slap this guy and give him a hug. Probably some if it is my worry that I did more slapping than hugging in my response, and that the slapping didn't serve any purpose towards propelling him into a better place... just hurting his feelings more.

Maybe it's because I struggle with this very problem myself (minus the wanting a house slave issue). Knowing that there is no such thing as 'deserve' in love doesn't make it any easier to not have real love in your life. It's always a struggle. It always eats away at how you look at yourself and what you think you have to offer.

Sometimes, I just feel so stupid. I guess a lot of people do (I guess I want to believe a lot of people do too).

It really, really bothered me.

What an odd journal entry...I should go back to Rilke.

May what I do flow from me like a river,

no forcing and no holding back,

the way it is with children.

?

Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,

these deepening tides moving out, returning,

I will sing you as no one ever has,

streaming through the widening channels,

into the open sea.

?

R M Rilke, The book of Hours I, 12

?

I am not sleeping, and when that happens, I read a lot more... I usually go back to those who have comforted me, and Rilke has always been one of those writers, even if I do not always agree with his point of view.

?

I am trying so hard to love well, and give well, and in fact be this river..but more and more I have to hold back.? I cannot be as a child, unfettered with the cares of what happens by my emotions and words and ways...just fully giving out myself, my whole self.?It seems each day?I hold back more and more of myself, I do not even know if I am just holding back things to protect you, but to protect me, and you do not even notice.?? I notice.

?

I am trying to sing you well into the open sea.?

?

Bu the widening channels do not feel freer, they feel more lonely.?The sea seems surely just your passage to happiness with some other love.??

?

Its sad really... I used to think this such a beautiful beautiful poem... a sure way to beautiful love, and being a beautiful soul.

?

I suppose my banks are more rock and mud than sand...my waters too still and murky to break them down into a finer, more beautiful sediment upon which to stop and rest, and sink into with happy feet.

Therapy... who the hell thought this was a good idea?  Make you feel shitty then leave you there to swim up to the top all alone all over again.  That's it really, I have to get it through my fat head that I am all alone.

It's absurd really.

It might be the one thing I am really and truly good at.

I run and run and run away to catch my breath

So  that when I have to stop

And turn around

I will have the composure

To pretend I am smiling

And holding that still mask

Almost everyone feels better.

I have such ugly things tearing at my head.

How can I be anything but ugly.

How long can I pretend I have worth?

There is no logic.

Thank you to those of you who have sent nice messages.  I generally do not like to use my journal as some sort two way radio but, I thought I should say that.

Back to talking to myself here...

I suppose I should continue adding to this mess here.    There is no catharsis, it just pulls some of the crap out of my head and puts it away somewhere.

Well, at least I wrote something.  Maybe now I can sleep...

Epic failure.

I did two out of six days and all it did was prove what an idiot I am.  Well I an not an idiot enough to tear myself into little pieces 4 more times for no reason.

I must say that the gentlemen who shared with me were both very nice, and the failure was no reflection on them.

It was all me.

What a surprise.

It feels like I am being taught what it was like back in conservatory... for those other students who tried so hard and just were not as talented as I was.  They of course did not know that I was busting my ass and trying so very hard not to let anyone see how much I needed to learn, how much I could never let anyone see all that which I didn't know.  I understand they thought I was just lucky, and I was, my talent had nothing to do with me.

Well the shoe is on the other foot now.  I have no talent here.  And there really is no way to learn something like that if you are not good enough to make it happen.. if it's just not in you... when you are not enough you are not enough...and with a zero percent success record...well, even I can do that math.

I don't know what to do with that.  That's for sure.

I have said I will chronicle it and I shall... for ... well for me, actually.

I have decided upon my six days.

It's not going to be brown rice and yoga.

I am doing six days of debauchery.

Because I never have, because I never do.

I am so tired of trying to be good for no reason. It's pointless and my life is flying by.

So I am going to try something different. I have no expectations that this is going to change me, for better or worse.

I just want to stretch myself... and I never have in this manner.

Its not going to be six consecutive days... I do have a liver to maintain.. but it will be a cluster of six days.

Thursday... R.

At least you're too polite to laugh.

How does it make me feel?

Stupid

Ugly

Old

Fat

Paranoid

Unappealing

Undesireable

Unfuckable

Unwanted

It makes me feel like a nursemaid not a lover

It makes me feel unloveable

It makes me feel un-loved

It makes me feel like I will always be not enough

It makes me feel that no matter how hard I try, how much I love, it is insignificant

It makes me feel I am insignificant

It makes me hate myself

It makes me wonder why

I try

I love

I wish

I hope

I continue

I am

It makes me sad

Six Days

I have been sleeping too much. I mean, I have felt that somewhere inside,I needed it as I have not been feeling great, tired, etc etc...

I certainly am flawed. I have no problem with that (which might well be a problem), but I also think that it is important to flare up at times and push yourself to grow and ripen as a person and (for lack of a better word, as a non-religious person) as a soul.

Generally, I think I do more good than bad, though I do an awful lot of nothing at all. Sometimes I think I submissively dwell in my own resignation, and that I have become so accustomed to that within myself that it might well appear to be grace to those with a kinder or perhaps less than keen eye.

I am not religious. There was a time, back when I was younger, that I was a member of the convent of the Sisters of Mercy... for all the wrong reasons (apparently they were not too keen on my not believing that Jesus was the son of God... or that there really is no God). The dogma held no appeal to me. The actions of this remarkable, humble, and completely inconsequential group of women however did. They managed a life of resignation, which also produced great help for others, and an inner growth and enlightenment which was one of the most beautiful things I have ever experienced.

Maybe as we get older, we cannot help but look back. In doing so, I long for and appreciate some of the things that absolutely did draw me to the orders... the discipline, the commitment to betterment, the self excavation, the fasting and meditation to a better self...and I feel like I need to appoint a task of betterment to myself..to actually complete it and grow somehow.. somewhere.

And it is not the 12^th century. Maybe surrendering to a course of designated enlightenment does not need to be entrusted to a group of unknown clerical elders... why not throw it out to the unknown cyber-universe at large...and see what there is to be had.?

I am picking six days. Six is green and is my favorite number.

I don't know where to take it, however, and greatly suspect that if left to my own devices, I will only come up with courses that are familiar and less likely to actually stretch my own inner and outer boundaries.

Should I read something? Should I try to do something? Should I spend a designated time each day thinking about or through something, force myself to write through and confront something?

What I will do, is journal it out, every day... maybe this will help me to not slack off... maybe it will show me, somewhere down the road, something I was unable to find in the experience at the time...maybe some other random strangers will want to try it as well.. it might be an interesting experiment.

Any ideas on what this should entail, what way it should meander ...to awaken on the 7^th day to some sort of cell sized thimble full of betterment?

Six days of ______ ?

I am back in this terrible place of struggle in my head.  Maybe I should do some posting on the boards.. somehow thinking about other things, or other peoples things sometimes makes my own self clearer to me.  Or maybe it just distracts me from the things I so very much detest.

In an effort to be more positive... I have been told I have nice collar bones...

In an effort to be honest, they are the only bones that are pronounced on this chub-a-lub... and really if you are looking for any sort of prettiness it is only to be found from thus stated collar bones and up.

And just a note about my journal........

This is my space.  I use it like a tonic, and more often than not, it helps me, in the same sort of way that would lancing a boil.  Something about formulating the plaguing thoughts, beating them out via my keyboard and hitting the cathartic save button actually does something toward helping me.  I do not need you to like it, I do not need you to approve of it and I do not need you to understand it, because I do.

More often than not the only negativity to be found here is directed at myself.  I rarely try to hurt people.  And I do try so very hard to be good, and often that means having the only frank conversation with my own mind... and it builds and builds and I almost never  lash out.  But I do need something, and this is my something.  If it hurts you to read it, please do not.

And that is my disclaimer.

Pink slime.

I wrote that at work, as the thought went tripping through my head, driving me mad and could not exorcise it until now.  I am pink slime.

Ok just for clarification and because I am tired of arguing, fatties cannot be beautiful, one negates the other, thus, I am not beautiful.  No need to further belabor this point. 

Those insidious thoughts are worming their way back into my head, and no amount of gaming, entertaining or binging can effectively keep them out...and I am not sure what to do about it. It is not the time for them and I have not the strength of will conviction for their planting in, at this point...but it's as if they are a thing, lurking behind me, their sinuous fingers slithering through my hair to grasp at my temples and pull my very skull open to them like a cracked melon into two, exposed, weeping halves.

And now to my gardening.

Comfort and excitement... opposites...and comfort is such a harder sell.

I don't know why this stuff runs through my head... when it does.

Maybe it's triggered by someone having asked me what I would like, sexually, that I have never had before... and the honest answer, the only answer is... I don't know.

I think I am struggling with my sexuality these days. I don't even want it... not sex it self but my very sexuality.

I am 40, and have never been in a relationship where my partner really wanted me, sexually. I think perhaps they loved parts of me, or more probably, they loved the way I loved them... and sadly I think that made them feel that had to try to find a way to have sex with me, even if they would have preferred someone else to have sex with... hell, some of them even found others to have sex with instead...

I think perhaps they looked at me and thought perhaps they could find me attractive enough in some way to be sexually exciting, or perhaps that they could change me into something more sexally pleasing... but I am fat, I am not terribly good looking.  Maybe that is all that there really is to desire, and if so, I really do not have anything much to offer, I really don't know.  I know thats not what fuels my desire... and I know that I never want another person to touch me who has to close their eyes and pray for God and country to get off with me.

I am not in a dark place... I am not terribly sad or suffering from any sort of desperation... much of the time I am quite happy and there are people whom I love, greatly.

Maybe, the reason they could never want me sexually, is because I am just not sexually viable.

I really don't know.

(btw, if you read my journal, please do not send me an email about this journal entry... sometimes, most of the time actually, I journal to try to find the right pathway in the labyrinth of my own mind... not for pats on the back or kicks in the ass... but thanks anyway...)

Why don't people believe you when you tell them the truth?  Then they see that you weren't lying and, in fact, end up longing not for who and what you really are (as you stated from the get-go) but rather that which they wished you were when they told you your truth was not accurate.

You know... it's funny...

I have gotten a lot of random feedback from the Eliza Doolittle comment.

There is no Henry Higgens.

In a big funk.  Not sure if I should write.  It always used to help, but there is always a cost.

I am Eliza Doolittle... and I shall have to flesh that out later... oh dear!

The word of the day is Fuck... FUCK.

It started out as an ok day... it always starts out that way.

I am sick and fucking tiared of giving myself out to people and having no value. Or at least only having enough worth to be found valuable as long as I never have a need, complaint or just generally stick up for myself when I am being fucked.

And this is my fucking blog and if I need it to vent in the only place I won't get blow back for how I feel, so be it, because sometimes I do not feel nice and sometimes I do not feel kind and sometimes even I get tired of editing myself so no one thinks too poorly of me.  So if this sounds fucking petulant and self indulgent to you, well fuck off and read someone else's bullshit.  I am being petulant and I am being self indulgent and fucking mark it on your calendar because I do not allow myself this kind of a fucking treat too often.

And that fucking Bonnie Raitt song... 3 times in one day, as if even the radio thinks me pitiful for my past relationships? Yeah yeah I know I can't make you, no matter what I do, I get it.

And one more day, one more kick in the proverbial balls for just never being enough no matter how much of myself I give, how loving I try to be, how much it costs me to constantly pour out positive so others feel better. 

Fuck it.

And fuck you, old man.

The scent of you yet lingers in my bed

And is the only place

Right now

That I want to be

Now that you've gone...

Wrapped in my sheets

Like the confines of your embrace

Like linen bonds

Binding

Inhaling you

Or that which you have left behind

Cocooning that rightness about me

If not in me

When you are not here.

Being aloof, detatched... is so much easier when you are unappealing.  I st rived so hard for that for so long, that maybe regret is just silly.  Now it's who I am.

it is Friday, and I am home with a glass of Pinot Grigio (and I am not a white drinker) and several cats, chit chatting on the interwebs....

I am not actually sure which bothers me more... the looming 40 and related chatter, or that I am bothered by the looming 40 and related chatter.

Driving to work one morning, I have a call in radio show on and I forget exactly what prompted the conversation but somehow, someone mentioned a woman, aged 40-something who had never been married, and the male host said... red flag right there, if she is 40 and has never been married, you know you have a loser on your hands...

Thus prompting a vigorous debate about why a 40 year old woman who has never had a man ask her to marry him is a crazy, unlovable nutjob to stay away from  at all costs.

I must say, it was only women who defended the idea that a woman who no man had ever asked to marry by age 40 was not the definition of some sort of soul driven purgative. 

Every single man agreed that ..at that point... its difinitive.

Perhaps it is. It's never wise to discount the opposing position without reason.  Something within their sex has that set as a given.

Arrgh, this?  This gets me after all the other failures?

I need to look into crochet classes at the JCC.

I am the balm of Gilead.

When the whole world is at your fingertips 

I am still just Jen.

I am less exciting that one thought

Less wonderful than one measured

Less me than you counted on 

Just less...

In every end. 

But still burgeoning in hope  

To full

To fulfill... 

I know my void.

And though you might not

Know my value

I do.

Even alone.

Such a tricky thing.

That Edwardian coin...that Dickensonian  geegaw.

In the end...

It's about who wants to pay....

To whom there is value.

Even just by

Shitty amalgum of input resulting in a conflagration of ego.

There are still things I need to confront.  Terrible but not necessarily untrue things.

I dreamt in Italian last night.

The whole thing.  I could only understand parts of it, my Italian is so bad now, and yet I know the Italian in the dream was correct.. strange.

I was going around a city, I am fairly certain was Genoa (which is strange in and of itself, as I lived in Florence and have never been to Genoa) with my lover, and a guide and chatting away with him (the guide).

He asked me about my lover and I explained that he was the most wonderful soul, the best man a woman could love, and my lover had no idea what I was saying....and I was glad, relieved.

So, I was in a dream, with my absent lover, half understanding what I was saying and understanding even less of what was being said to me, in a city in which I have never been, afraid of letting the one I cared for the most to know what I was feeling and what I was saying.

That's something.

Counting Time

Brass, percussion, the occasional obscure woodwind.

They all count time...

I count time...

I put my time in piles.

Mechanically necessary

Waiting

Realized

You are my time realized

You see, there is time spent with you

And time spent without you.

The time without you is lost.

Spent in some dark, nebulous way

No growth

No love

No you

Anti-time

Taking away

Making things less

(Me)Making me less?

Not everyone gets you-time

No one should ever doubt

That time with you is green

Is growth

Is love

Is good.

You

And yet, I've not written anything for you... who means so much, who is so much.

It shall all be stream of consciousness, unedited, and I know your red pen is poised, beside you.  We cannot help who we are; we should embrace who we are.

I have so often wondered.... perhaps I should run barefoot more often.  Despite my clumsiness, despite my propensity for calamity.

Perhaps all there is to be had is gotten by open arms and a fine net.  The glory of the breeze we create,  running with grass staining our feet, and knees  bruised from so many stumbles.

I am the spirit to celebrate that spirit, alas.  Not the spirit to be it.

With my regulations and singular logic.

I had thought about counting time...about the tuba player or timpanist who must wait and wait, counting throughout all that glorious, beautiful cacophony... and only to be allowed to be a part of it at measure 124 for 4 steady pulses....reveling in a way that those playing, working continuously, cannot feel... and not feeling in a way that the one counting, waiting for their time, must always ...understand?

The understanding tuba player...I suppose that is me.

But the glory at 124, the glory you brought....

You gave me a sound to make that no one else gets.

That is my lucky.

This space... this little box, is supposed to be mine, right? I used to use it and it brought some strange comfort, eventually.

So tempting.

We Bring it on Ourselves. 

At what point did it become a fairly common idea amongst those of this community (and it is VERY common, in my experience) that if a woman is submissive she must therefore be:

a. a slut, easy …. or at least, easier...

b. so desperate, by very nature, to please anyone that she has no control over herself or her desires and has gleefully surrendered any sort of personal moral compass

c. open to and longing for men /women (even those she does not know)to treat her with less respect and common decency than a person who does not identify as submissive

d. knowing of this about themselves, so as to not only expect and understand that they will be a less worthy, less important and less deserving person (based solely upon that one aspect of self alone), they willingly submit to it (and perhaps even secretly desire it)

Time and time and time again, I (and I am sure, many others) have been subjected to a full spectrum of this thinking and attitude, from full on unbelievable rudeness and ideas of entitlement to just mild, sinuously oily innuendo or reproof, both here and in offline interactions.

How many times have I heard, even from people whom I believe genuinely like and know me, that perhaps, as I am not as sexually promiscuous or forthcoming as is common, that perhaps I do not belong in this community, on , or Collarme,or even at a D/s function....

How many times have I been approached without even the tiniest modicum of respect that you would afford to any stranger, and been given an insidious look, have had the very first words of greeting to be uncomfortably knowing,assuming and oppressively inappropriate?

How many times have I confronted this behavior and been told... "What do you expect... you say you are submissive," "Look where you are," "Look at yourself"....."What do you expect?"  How many times have I politely asked in return of a frightfully presumptuous greeting.... “If you had just met me in line at the grocery store, or at a bar, would you have said _just that_ to introduce yourself to me?”, and been told in rebuttal, simply... “I though you said you were submissive....”

How MANY times have I heard that outright “You said you were submissive...” and the implied “You were asking for it...”

Really?

Am I to believe that , Collarme and any and all D/s related arenas and functions I may attend, espouse the idea that their only reason for being is because the people who are dominant or submissive believe that  D/s is _singularly_ a SEXUAL facet of themselves,the places they choose to frequent, and their congress with like-minded individuals, and thus, anyone who presents themselves in such forums is really just ones way of stepping out with some sort of neon “You Can Grope And Fuck Me, I'm Submissive” or “I Will Whip And Fuck You, I Am Dominant” billboard of intention?

That is all D/s is about anymore? Getting a leg over?... The way you choose to fuck and accoutrements you bring to the arena before doing so???

Certainly there is (or rather there can be but does not have to be) a component of sexuality in D/s relations,a very strong one, even.... but when I say that I am submissive, I am saying, that that is an organic part of who I am as a human being. It has always been within me and It has grown and developed as I have as a woman. It is more than any one thing, and is an integral part of who I am.....

It is ONE part of who I am...

It is not all that I am.

And it does not entitle others to anything at all.

I do understand that there are a few bad apples in every crowd... but this has become a more pervasive attitude than I believe is acknowledged. It does not always arrive in the glaringly obvious, smarmy come-ons. It is not always delivered by random strangers just trying to cash in on the numbers game by blasting out at every chick who seems available...

And it is not always the dominants who make this behavior not only happen, but casually, inch by inch, to become more tolerable... more acceptable... less egregious.

I am submissive. I am passionate. And I do not want to be treated like some sort of communal whoring chattel...not mildly and certainly not overtly.

That is not what being submissive means to me.

It is an intensely personal, poignant and dangerously soul-baring part of who I am, and how I love. It is not something I can, should, or want to give out to everyone in every way. 

It is not something I HAVE to give to everyone or anyone, in anyway, even if casually, there are parts of my submissive nature that do tend manifest innocuously, in my relations with just about everyone...

My desire to be treated as a sentient being does not diminish that part of who I am that is submissive.

My absolute and resolute decision to not allow people to treat me with disrespect, inappropriate behaviors, or an assumed set of allowable impositions, does not make me less submissive.

My refusal to be overtly sexual with people with whom I am not in relationship, does not make me less submissive.

My refusal to hold the highest of standards for myself, my refusal to lower myself, my dignity and my principals as a human being, even (or perhaps even especially!!) in a D/s environment, does not make me less of a submissive.

“We” pride ourselves on being an open, tolerant community. We pride ourselves on being sexually aware and socially accepting.

Would we accept some of the behaviors and assumptive interactions that are so commonplace as to almost go unnoticed, if they were dosed out to those who did not identify as a dominant or submissive... would it be OK for a dominant to go up to a 'vanilla' friend and touch her breast or pat her ass or say some of the things that are so often thought of as glib and knowing by those who are in the lifestyle?

I just impress upon all of us to really think about the little things we do and expect (or just expect to get away with) because... we are in a D/s setting.

Notice your comments, notice your touching, notice the different way you treat submissives versus non-lifestylers.

And stop trying to foist your own brand of what it means to be dominant or submissive off on others. They might well be different, but thinking them less or less committed is a dangerous path to walk down... in your own psyche.

40

I am haunted by a blue number...

Four is blue, five is red, six is green....

Yes, I am synesthetic.

I also know and love age.
So why is this looming number pummeling me?
Hitting me in ways I don't even get!

I am not afraid of saggy tits and wrinkles!
Better things have been sagging for years.

I know that in the end
I will be alone and will be fine with me,
If nothing else.

Knowing sucks.

At forty, my mom gave birth
To the first 'successful' child of her womb,

Me.

And then new chemicals raging in her body,
Changed her.
And gave her cancer,
And she died.

Happy, to have a family.

At forty, everyone else I know
Has friends who host stupid
And beautiful parties
With black balloons
And thoughtful guest lists....

No one in the world knows me well enough
To throw a party
Where they even know whom to invite.

Because there is no-one to invite.

Forty is coming....and I have nothing to say.

The black balloons of mourning are kind of
So appropriate, they are inappropriate.

The lack of any kind o f love, that has asks a cost,
The lack of a knowing that leaves you vulnerable,
The lack of any kind of fear of death...

Is not a blessing in disguise....

The lack of me, is telling...

At forty.

Burden

The many ways of joy

I want to give

Are a burden to you.

And I love you.

So how can I not relieve you

Of such a weight of me

Or, the way I love.

How can I be so selfish.

As to keep with the futility of hope...

Such as this.

Rant!!!!!!

Ok. so in the past two days, I have gotten three requests from subs or Dommes of subs asking me to change who I am to serve their needs. I am sorry if any of you are ill, if you are struggling to find what you need, and/or are worried about ever finding someone who can punish you, piss on you, diaper you, or Domme you.

It is unbecoming to try to 'dom' a sub into domming you. It is insidious to try to use your illness, or that of your current Domme, to try to make your case any more righteous. I do not want to read your profile and hear your sob story. I do not want to entertain the idea of pretending to be something that I am not just so you can wank over it in your diaper at night. I do not want to know about your fetishes, fantasies and how much you think I look like a Domme, and therefor must be a Domme.. namely yours, for the duration of the kink play you are so horned out for.

Being submissive does not make me obligated to serve your needs or those of your ailing Domme.

If you are the Domme trolling for your sub....sick or not, piss off, take some responsibility and man up enough to at least find a freaking dominant to step in for you, not a sub whose profile is pretty specific in stating that I am not into your shtick.

I do, however have many doubts as to whether or not a Domme is even in the picture here.

Embrace your needs and desires, and have the damned balls to find them in a person who actually shares them and wants you to approach them.... and for gods sakes stop whining!

What are we all coming to... sheesh.

Rant over.

No more Elgar, even to conjur her.

What is up with all these chicks perving my profile??!!?

Shoo!  Go away!  There is nothing to see here!

Ok...

So, really... I mean... look at this hair...

Obviously I am an Italian who needs to pay particular attention to grooming.  Do I look like a the chick who is going to go on some rock climbing, granola trail walking, waterfall gawking expedition?  No, obviously not.  And really, I do not think that means I am not er... naturalistic on some level...

You hike, sweat, commune, what ever the hell it is that happens in the midst of trees and mosquitos and snakes.  And when you get back... the kind of girl that I am... will have something mind bendingly gorgeous with which to break your fast, and an eagerness to make sure you do not get surly or any sort of musculature cramping, and a poetic sensibility which really and genuinely loves the idea of you relaxing back and telling me what moved you in the realms of the forrest... I think that works out rather nicely for my lack of trail guiding abilities?

hrmph!

How Successful Were You, Emily?

What’s wrong with me

That I still miss him…

“Heart, we will forget him

You and I

Tonight…..”

Will we, really

Ever

I carry ghosts with me

Like garlands

Like friends

Like lovers

Who do not love me.

Text Speak

Yes.... I am a contrary spinster but really... if you want to chat with me..... English, German or Italian.... If I want to view the Rosetta Stone, I will go back to the British Museum... jesus... text speak does my head in!

Accounting

This accident is getting to me.

Not the hurting or the weight of the expense or anything I would expect. 

A stranger escorted me to the police car, as my windows were shattered and it was so cold, not that I noticed….

I sat there with another girl who was calling everyone who would worry for her and comfort her.

And the only call I had to make sure to make was to the people I work for so they wouldn’t be upset at my being so late.

A silent drive in a tow truck to some car grave yard and a borrowed phone for my second call… a cab to get me to work so I would not lose my job.

That is a pretty sad accounting for a day.

A pretty sad accounting for a person, really.

But a true one, and an accurate accounting of who I am… and it’s really just me that can be accountable for that.

Car Crash....:(

I just have this fabulous way of making people run away in horror...

The First 39

Sometimes I can feel the absurdities of being a woman too damned keenly.

It won’t be long now before I have my first 39^th birthday (I say that because I think its some sort of unwritten girlie rule that after this, they are all 39^th birthdays….)

I am terribly gloomy about it.  And that really annoys the hell out of me.  I expect more from myself than that  (surprise surprise)!

Why can I not by blithe and bonnie and all that.

Instead I feel all my layers hanging upon me like shriveling skins and wonder if I really know what is hiding, lost under their orbit, at my core.

It’s like I have made myself a comedy of a Grecian tragedy.

If this 39 business is going to leave me with all this self absorbed, introspective nonsense I am really going to have a crappy weekend.

Taco Bell Delerium

 
So…

Irish Fest..

No breakfast lunch or dinner…

Many beverages…

And then the whole gang crawling to our local pub where they all like me well enough to over look my weirdnesses… corsets, etc…

So.. driving home… I am dying I am so hungry… all day and all.. pull into the only  fast food place in my drinking triangle.

Taco Bell.

I mean really, it’s taco bell… do we need a pile up in the drive through?

This douche bag in a souped up Mazda of some sort is having trouble ordering… like.. a long time ordering…

Naturally, I can’t help myself and roll down my window to yell out down the line of waiting cars… "Hey! Pokey, I am getting gout over here waiting for you! Its fucking taco bell! You don't need the sommelier to come over with a fucking recommendation! Its a god-damned taco...try a Pepsi and some fire sauce, you jackass! Now, be a good boy and hurry it up, for the love of Christs sake.. it's taken me less time to diddle myself lube-less with my hands tied behind my back, for fucks sake!"

Hehe

So he turns back to me through his window cursing up a blue streak whilst I laugh at myself and him  and the absurdity of it all (I mean, I NEVER eat fast food, and I mean... it's a freaking Taco Bell not the GRE) and really, I think this skinny just post pubescent dork-lord is ready to bust out of his vehicle to try to deal me a beat down  hehehehe

Instead he just shouts… “Shut the fuck up!” 

Of course I cannot leave well enough alone…

“For fucks sake, just tell the dude I will want one taco if he is not crippled with arthritis and Alzheimer's by the time you figure your order out!”

All across a taco bell drive through mind you.. my mother is rolling in her grave as I laugh hysterically.

Finally he figures out what chalupa he wants and tears out of the parking lot.

I pull up, all ready to apologize to the taco bell take out dudes and heheheh…

The entire staff had assembled at the window to clap for me and gave me my single taco for free! 

Apparently they have to deal with a bunch of souped up losers too (Ain't it grand to know you are not alone in the universe of loserdom, kinsters?) and were happy I got mouthy!

Happy Saturday!

Your mother is a hamster and your father smells of elderberries!

I am sweaty, achy and decidedly without anything resembling an English Ka-nigghit.  Though, I have produced 10 rather stellar jars of elderberry jam.

So I was driving about on Saturday and bump into a little house with fresh fruit at a stand and saw, what I thought from a distance, were black currants... but to my total delight, turned out to be elderberries!!

This elderly gentleman made his way slowly out to the stand and asked me if I knew what those were...to which I had to reply with total glee that they were lovely black elderberries and I must buy some to make jam.  

He then informed me that I should make elderberry wine instead and bring him a jug. I was then given a lovely respite from a yawning day by being told the long and winding story of his life, going through WWII and having been injured so badly he never took a wife as it would not be 'fair'... I didn't ask what that meant, but I could feel that even at his age it still caused him great sadness...as easy to see as a dark cloud passing through a blue sky.
 

We chatted a bit.. I told him about living in England (the fact of which, we both chuckled over, was what allowed me to correctly identify and come to appreciate a berry not much eaten in this country anymore).

He refused to allow me to pay for the berries and so I promised him a big jar of jam (to which he then gave me, what I am to assume, was his most lascivious wink and told me it really is a shame I wasn't coming over with a jug of elderberry wine instead... but he would greatly appreciate the jam in it's stead!

I have been in more that a bit of a funk ever since, though it was nice to give someone something so easy and simple as a forty five minute slice of time chit-chatting and a bit of a smile.  I do not delude myself that it had anything to do with any sort of over abundance of charm on my part… it sometimes is just so very nice to talk to someone when you have been drenched in solitude for a long while.

I wonder what it would have been like for him, to have a wife to age with... to make him jam and wine and share things great and small and take him up on his lascivious wink and to love.

Sometimes I am so terribly fine being all alone.   But sometimes I feel just like that shadow in his rheumy blue eyes when he told me he never took a wife, because it wouldn't be fair.

Regardless... the jam is made and I shall be sure to 'gussy' myself up before bringing it over to him, maybe I will make him a cd of some big band favorites...oldies... though he did say he wanted me to sing to him… maybe I will bust out some old show tunes instead, after all, who doesn't love Cole Porter... perhaps a bit of Bewitched Bothered and Bewildered with its hint of vintage  lyrical naughtiness will put a twinkle in his eyes….

What on earth am I going to do with the 9 other jars of elderberry jam...I have no idea…maybe I shall pack some up and send it to coy.  The problem with being a spinster is that so little of your old maid productivity yields things which your companions (cats of course) can actually utilize...

If only I could crochet cat toys....

Old People


Old people love me... and I love them.

I mean.... I really really love them.

I tell them stories... they tell me stories... and they let me remind them why they should not be ashamed to to be old.

That makes me sad.

I love what they tell me.


I love that they have lived an entirety.  I love that they have weathered an entirety.
 
I love that they are old.

Things you cannot buy with even the best surgeon.

Why do we not love our elderly anymore?

Why do we not value them as themself...why do we not value what they want to pass to us?

It makes me so very, very sad.

A Ramshackle Eden

There is a peace, of sorts, to be found

In my Ramshackle Eden.

It has lulled others besides me.

A strange dichotomy.

Manicured and unsightly.

Wild and Tamed.

Half mown with lush bounties

Riots of clashing colors

And burgeoning bounty

Promising that which is not there now

But may be…

All contained messily in neat pots.

Love and hate.

Struggle and peace.

Primitive and cultured

Feast and famine

Me.

Boards by entry and exit

Trying to cast off their paint

Like gaudy polish

Peeling off the uneven nails

Of women who work under the toil

Of honest and dishonest labor…

Gasping for air

Under their airs.

Plants tumble

Like children not here

Rough-housing

Bearing flowers

And happiness

And other precious burdens

Weighting them

Against my half masted attempts

To help it

Flourish.

Watered Wine

Als die alter mutter…

Things my mother taught me.. a song I could never sing

My mother never grew old.

Water your wine at dinner.

It’s old

And genteel

And my mother.

How long I watered my wine

With my own acidic tears

Adding acerbic saline to a drink upon which

My blood had sustained itself

For hundreds of years

Heathen

Poor me

Poor me

But slow enough

Gentle enough

To keep me from running

The sky wept into my purple cup

Demurely

Covertly

There was not enough

To ease the Earth into unclenching

Her parched fists

As if grasping can ever hold anything you need.

But there was enough

To unsettle my  jewel colored cup

To mar the surface

Like soft fingers

Soothing my brow

And so there is water in my cup again.

Watered Wine

Als die alter mutter…

Things my mother taught me.. a song I could never sing

My mother never grew old.

Water your wine at dinner.

It’s old

And genteel

And my mother.

How long I watered my wine

With my own acidic tears

Adding acerbic saline to a drink upon which

My blood had sustained itself

For hundreds of years

Heathen

Poor me

Poor me

But slow enough

Gentle enough

To keep me from running

The sky wept into my purple cup

Demurely

Covertly

There was not enough

To ease the Earth into unclenching

Her parched fists

As if grasping can ever hold anything you need.

But there was enough

To unsettle my  jewel colored cup

To mar the surface

Like soft fingers

Soothing my brow

And so there is water in my cup again.

Skål

I’m toasting you goodbye

From glasses bought by loved ones

For the love of ones

They held in hope

Tiny bubbles biting at my lips

In a more sensual kiss than which

They hav beenclaimed

In so very, very long

And I wish you so very well

And thank you so very much

And add the plush pull of your care

Into my hopeless chest

But still smile

Hoping for you

So much more than me.

Exposition...


I have not given up this part of myself to an awful lot of people... for many reasons.

I am working on myself, and exposition is just one facet.

http://www.akmusicvideo.com/user_audios/p…

(Here ya go, coy.)

Daughter of the Amazons!

Revisiting a peculiar childhood is always a two sided journey.  There is the remembrance of all that was awkward, all that was torturously different and yet it is still gilded by that kind patina that time away magically infuses… blurring the hard lines into soft, glowing, comfortable history.

So to say I was peculiar is to explore that patina rather than saying… I was a weird ugly kid who ruined herself with books when too young to really understand them  (knowledge is not something that is always good if not parceled out properly).  My mom had taught me to read at an ungodly early age, probably to get me to shut up and leave her alone, and probably figured  that the Greek myths might well suit my wild nature and desire for understanding…whilst being gruesome and shocking enough to keep me preoccupied (at least, that is what I would bet).

It worked too, I have always been fascinated with them and the ways men have needed and used them to instill some sort of calm, even if it meant conjuring up improbable and terrifying beasts to get an answer; even if it was an obvious exercise in suspension of disbelief.

I was also convinced that I was a descendant of Hippolyta and that my mom, though she refused to admit it was Amazon royalty.  You see… she had this solid gold belt (I think it may have been purchased as part of some awful 70’s jumpsuit ensemble, but it seemd to me to be made of pure gold!) that was a series of large gold disks with Greek women’s heads in profile upon it all linked together with a solid gold chain!!  Clearly it was Hippolyta’s girdle and some day, when she thought me old enough to assume the heave mantle of responsibility of Amazonian royal lineage, she would tell me about my ancestry and the duties of my bloodline, etc etc….

So naturally, when the Wonder Woman TV show came on the air… well… it was like seeing my kinswoman in all her glory.  I was mesmerized.  Couple that with the Superfriends every Saturday morning, and surely, I was lost to any idea of reality.

I got a pair of Wonder Woman underoos when I was probably about 6-ish.   I wore them all the time, and not under my clothes either!  I was constantly playing this game where I was Wonder Woman’s sister and we would fight evil together, which usually meant torturing my poor brother (hey, I needed a villain) in some manner….he did beg, over and over to play with me, regardless of whether I buried his legs up to his knees in the back yard or made him climb up to the roof of our shed and then took the ladder away whilst I castigated him for his evil ways and made him chant some manifesto about how he would never underestimate girls again, nor be naughty, nor decapitate my Barbis, etc etc…. man that kid was a glutton for punishment!

So in the course of a normal day of  Wonder Woman play, I had tied my brother to a large Maple in the front yard with my magic lasso, and having got nothing at all interesting out of him in the form of truths, I left is dull self tied to the tree to go find a snack.

The neighbors, mind you, were probably inured to this sort of thing, as I was regularly running around in my Wonder Woman underwear, Dixie cups wrapped in tinfoil strapped around my wrists and my boots painted a shiny red with white masking tape up the front and of course… my moms solid gold Amazon royalty belt wrapped around hips (a couple of times).

Unfortunately, mid Oreo binge, my father came home from work.  My father, though I have come to understand and love him far more now, was never possessed of the same sort of… intellectual and artistic leniency as my mother.  He also never seemed to find the humor in my flights of fancy, especially when my brother was made an object of torture in the front garden for the neighbors to see….

He came barreling in the house (mind you, he left my brother tied to the tree to do so… I find that so ironic!) and was furious, promising to wring my neck etc etc… so naturally, being fleet of foot and agile as only a pudgy Amazon kid can be, I grabbed my last Oreo and heedless of the chocolaty, unsightly mess around my face and hands, dashed out of the house with my poor, enraged father in hot pursuit.

He literally chased me around the giant spruce tree smack in the middle of our front yard (for … heavens! A long time we were both wheezing before he got hold of me)  screaming like a mad man about what he was going to do to me when he got his hands on me… I of course, was running my pudgy little buns off screaming in turn that he had no rights over me, I was the daughter of the Amazons,  and regardless this was chiiiiiiiiiild abuussssse, with the Wonder Woman theme song playing back in my over active imagination!

I do remember my mom calmly coming out of the house, seeing our display and untying my brother to bring him into the house for some of the Oreos I had not scarfed.  I also remember our neighbors kids across the street sitting in their driveway watching as if it were some sort of crazy tv show.

Poor dad, its got to be hard having a daughter who is a child of the Amazons….

So many think that when I say..."I would rather be alone than be XYZ", that that means I am happy to be alone.

I am not, just reexamine XYZ. 

I am not unhappy, but neither am I whole.

A brief tripping through chapters 6, 7 and 8 ….

I actually went back through  5, and it was …windy.  Dealing largely with the  arguments of the struggles of church and state in regards to legal authority, it was interestingish, though I must confess having resolved many of those questions for myself a long time ago…they are not as juicy a tidbit to chew over anymore.  Though one quote did stick out and I found it sticking in my head for a bit longer than I would have thought:

“…understand, the church is not to be transformed into the State.  That is Rome and its dream.  That is the third temptation of the desert.”

And so it was, and how ironic that the foundation of so many branches of a single faith have forgotten that very point.

Ok.. now for 6, 7 and 8… the quotes I highlighted and some of the bits mulling around in my head:

“…That question you have not answered, and it is your great grief for it clamors for an answer.”

Of course the Zossima is speaking of Ivan’s spiritual quandary, but having none left of my own I find myself trying to apply these words in other contexts….and those words are just sticking to me like glue right now….

“….if they both let themselves go, they’ll both come to grief.”

“While I have been playing the fool, I have been listening and having a look on the sly.”

“No, saintly monk, you try being virtuous in the world, do good to society, without shutting yourself up in a monastery at other peoples expense, and without expecting a reward up aloft for it – you’ll find that a bit harder.”

“As he uttered the last word of his tirade, Miüsov completely recovered his self-complacency, and all traces of his former irritation disappeared.  He fully and sincerely loved humanity again.”

I found myself wondering (and writing.. my poor books are all so full of scribbles), why? Why and how can that have set him back to ‘ok’?  I said earlier that my impressions of Miüsov had changed greatly in the span of this particular book of chapters… and I have found, the more Fyodor reveals his lower character traits, so too does Miüsov.  I cannot say they are polar opposites, but they are sort of .. pivots in bad temper.  I thought at first that Miüsov was more noble in mien than Fyodor, perhaps initially blinded by the fact that he took over the ‘care’ of Mitya… but he didn’t really… he just doled out more money for someone else to take ‘care’ of him than Fyodor was willing to… and that was only because of, I am sure, a sense of duty instilled in all of his class.  I wonder if little Mitya would not have gotten more affection staying in the care of a servant who completely doted upon him than being shipped off to school after school without any real familial contact…. thus turning into a bit of a dissident rakehell. 

Anyway… all in all, I am not pleased with Miüsov, he is a name dropping popinjay, and just a counterpoint to the buffoon that is Fyodor.

This is not nearly where I had thought to bring this entry to… but I have left it too long and the ideas simmered into blandness. I shall not do so again.  However the title of the next book of chapters does seem very promising, The Sensualists… so surely only deliciousness lies ahead.

Book Two…An Unfortunate Gathering

A deceptively promising title for this group of chapters, I would say.  I think it is more of a necessary bunch of Writer's Business being taken care of… the enrichment of characters and setting and on the whole I have not found it as enjoyable or as lush as the last.

There was one thing that struck me at the beginning of the book, spoken by Miusov (which did not hit me the same way when I first read it as it has, looking back and regurgitating it here after a few more chapters.).

He walked in, somewhat irritated. 

“Now, I know myself, I am annoyed, I shall lose my temper and begin to quarrel- and lower myself and my ideas,” he reflected.

When I read this at the ending of chapter one:  They Arrive at the Monastery, I thought it rather funny and could well identify with what he was saying, even if it was a bit lofty of him… he is a wealthy Russian landowner of some import, after all…

But I shall get back to that in a bit, so as to allow some sort of logical progression through these series of chapters.

Chapter Two is really about exposing Fyodor Karamazov and is aptly titled The Old Buffoon.   He certainly is that and more, and yet… I can see why Ivan, the great intellectual of the family, is not as bothered by him or embarrassed by him as the others, especially Miusov, his 'seemingly' polar opposite (I will get to that later).  He is a buffoon.  He does make an ass of himself and as such, embarrasses others around him caught in his maelstrom, but he is not at all disingenuous.  He is sentimental and wicked, as was stated earlier, and this chapter does really explain what that means, and showed even sentimental old me how sentimentality can be an excess just as bad as wickedness, in some ways, but he is genuinely, like most buffoons, a sad character rather than a menacing one.  And he knows his faults and knows himself well enough to know he will never really change… so he embraces them, and that ethos… I cannot wholly agree with his ideology, but his honesty with himself as refreshing as his behavior is cringeful (yes, I just made up that word to suit my needs).

Then we have two, to my mind, extremely dull but texturally important chapters about the Elder and his serene wisdom and kindness in ministering to the faithful (and not so faithful) who come for his blessing.. and of course more exposition of his character:  kind, patient, beneficent, wise and Christly. Lots of exclamation points are used in the exhortations of those he ministers to…. I started to count but gave up and decided to chalk it up to old Russian idiosyncrasies.

I have now finished chapter five:  So Be It! So Be It!  (note the exclamation points) and am still mulling some things over about what it contained and will relieve myself of said musings in a separate entry later today, no doubt.

But my opinion of Miusov has changed... or perhaps has been more precisely honed.

At three A.M, I was awakened by some sort of hissing.

I was sleep-drunk and confused.

I thought perhaps my cats were fighting….

It was not my cats; not at all the same hissing…. It was water… spraying … forcefully… somewhere.

I pulled myself from the bit of warmth I had made for myself in such a big bed and turned on some lights and realized… that  my bathroom was flooding.

Its so cold out and the hot water… and the man who owned the house before me…

Everything is slap-dash here, he thought he was clever.

The rubber hose he attached to the pipeline buried in the wall had come UNGLUED from the sink and now my bathroom was flooded  and I am so dumb I cannot really fix it.

So… I fold the hose in half, crimping it to stop the water and rip the hair-band from my hair to hold it together.

And clean up the mess.  With no hot water in my bathroom except on the floor.

And I cry and cry, and my cats look at me in worry and sympathy and pity.

I hate pity.

Everything down to the basement to drip out until I can wash it after work.

More tears.

I guess you can call it work… I make less than the guy who froths your cappuccino to try to make old people feel not so bad about what is lying ahead of them… to make things a bit easier.. to make things a bit more comfortable.   Which really.. is all I am good for.

It’s 4…. I have to ‘wake up’ in an hour for the commute which costs me almost as much as the days work.

And I cannot stop crying.

And not for any of those reasons.

I realize… I am going to have to figure out how to fix plumbing… on my own.

This is not a part of The Brothers Karamazov.

It would be wrong to say

That you have given me

Things which no other ever has

Because you give to me things

No other ever possibly could

Things I have longed for

With such profundity

As to never have never allowed

Spoken

Aloud

For or by myself.

The colors of the world are in your eyes

Colors which, alone,

Are humble

Simple

And homely

But together they make

The magic of a world,

The myriad of which

Is a miracle of the most beautiful

The cosmos of home

And you gave me a star in your constellations

You smiled

As with truest mastery

You let my name mark it

You gave it to me.

Just a speck

Of the meanest of colors

As brown as Jen

Found in the heavens

Of your eyes.

My Muse is a Drunken Slut

My Muse is a drunken slut

And today,

I do not fear her.

I know she is a Siren

And I knows she is easy

To mistake for me.

But I do not fear her today.

For Bacchus is my father too

And there can be found

Beauty

In the pristine clink

Of ice against crystal

The same gentility

As bangle against bangle

On a slender wrist

With lips mouthing laureates.

I do not fear you Muse

Because you do not own me,

Nor I you,

And neither of us needs to.

For it is in nature that we find each other.

And good or bad,

Or worst of all mediocre,

I see you

And know you

And we shall embrace each other

For what ever ends...

So kiss my cheek

And mark me with the stain of your red lips

And the scent of your drink

And know that I smile as I know

That that is what my strength is for.

once written for me by Him



I am an intense and serious girl with the sort of hopes and dreams that most people have forgotten to have. I live so passionately that sometimes it is as if I burn.  

My intellectual, artistic and emotional accomplishments are many; I am proud even as I seek to be humble. Through humility, I pursue devotion. At the cost of suffering I aspire to sublime peace. Though the challenges are many, I approach them with the ferocity of hope consumed with desire.


Wishing everyone as much luck on this system as I have had,

Jen

It's 8:00, snow has fallen, the day is gone and I have nothing.

Today is your birthday, and I am thinking of you. 

Happy Birthday.

Sleep's Ritual


Is it time yet?
Please, can I go to sleep now?
And somehow find you.

White

You strapped upon me
Giant white angel’s wings
Such loveliness, divinity,
When my own was lacking.
And in my clumsy eagerness,
I tried to embrace you
Envelop you, in their purity
But strangled myself instead.

A year ago today

The softness of dark eyes surrendered
To the great predator bird
The gaze of Hunter-Hawk-Amber
Devouring
Shame and caution
In a pyre of living flames
Licking me
Tempering me
Stripping me
Bare
Of the sadness of a waiting
Even time could not keep.

It was a year ago today

The dormant heart
Swelling
Awoke
Engorging with blood
Pulled from frosty fingers
They seeking warmth
Elsewhere
Shared heat
From the softest skin
In shadow hidden
between raven curl
And listening ear.

A year ago today

When I knelt at your feet
Cheeks wet for the first time
In many years
And many hurts
And tilted back my head
Offering to you
In blissful shamelessness
The view
Of how Happiness
The Vanquisher
Pushed Sadness out
In great warm salty droplets
In the storming
Of Longing’s Temple.

It was a year ago

Today
On that first day
That I did not meet you

No, love,

I recognized you.

In Commemoration