61 degrees in MS. yes I will survive.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4p27m5Y5b4
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Plans
I am, unlike up to 10% of us, still gainfully and well-employed. I am able to pay bills and give to charity. I have the option of helping my family get by. I have, however, had to curtail much of the life I've written of here. I loved my years with "Him." But I don't know if we can go forward from here. I feel that together we created chaos, though it was quite inventive, but it seemd to be carreening out of control, perhaps only mine. I miss him and will walk on, but question whether I was goood for him or not, in the end. I feel richer for having met him, but am not sure the years with me have been good for him as a person.
Still it is good to be able to plan. Whether we make it (or if there is even a 'we') to Froliccon is open. I have made a good head way in my debts and have different ideas about work and what I want from it. I have come to understand some of what made us click as a couple of not very renegades. I only hope I can help him, and that I can be a better partner, at the same time helping him to see how we might go forward, better, together.
Still it is good to be able to plan. Whether we make it (or if there is even a 'we') to Froliccon is open. I have made a good head way in my debts and have different ideas about work and what I want from it. I have come to understand some of what made us click as a couple of not very renegades. I only hope I can help him, and that I can be a better partner, at the same time helping him to see how we might go forward, better, together.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Back in Black
Or, at least, back in MS. The last year has been busy, but I am settling into a new life and hoping to spend more time in my LIFE, as opposed to my work. College looms and I love my expanded vegetable garden.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Post from b.com
Louisvile, KY, after an 18 hour drive in my 'vette (Che'vette) for a residency interview. He turned around in his seat as I scuttled in, a couple of minutes late due to downtown traffic and shitty directions. He rally was tall and dark and slim. I was busty and blonde. Yes, we locked eyes, but I thought it was only me. 10 hours later, after the interview process wound it's way down, he never made it back to his hotel room. He was Lebanese-French-American, and I can't remember his name, but the sex had me clutching at the headboard for support and he left me with a poem on the pillow when he departed before dawn. Omar Sharif, I call him, and the best one-night stand.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
What is 'Real?'
Walking along with the puppies (now almost dogs), picking blackberries on another dusty graveled road. It seems much of the summers of my childhood were spent this way, the locusts see-sawing in the heat, the humidity about a hundred, the temperature just shy of that and me popping delectable berries into my mouth only a little worried about the small bug I might have eaten with it and whether something taller than my dog might have peed on it. But, I figured, I’m immune anyway with all the stuff I’ve consumed over the years. Then I thought about people who needed the wild food to survive and it struck me that when people talk about a thing being ‘real,’ they mean when there is no alternative.
Stated another way. Cowboys didn’t necessarily choose to be rough, dirty, and broken down. The men (and women) adapted themselves to the reality they faced. That is what we mean when talk about being real. When the choices are limited by circumstances you can’t control – a miserable childhood in the East End of London during the Great Depression, a starving woman in Bangladesh, Paris during the Revolution, the multiple small tragedies of wars. Many first and second world people feel we aren’t real. We don’t risk our lives, we don’t feel genuine. But real is what happens when you run out of options.
We have, put it another way, options that a poor man in Indonesia with a wife and kids, doesn’t have. We are tourists in their life because, no matter what, we can run back home to the safety of the American border. We can hide behind our trust funds or our retirement funds or our insurance. We are padded and coddled. And we feel we aren’t adults, we aren’t real. This invalidity is because of too many choices. When you get up to ride a wild horse at a dude ranch to play cowboy, you have the choice of getting off the horse and walking away. You didn’t spend a day catching the cussed thing to add to your meager stable. Now you have a horse you have to feed through the winter and, with luck, tame before spring roundup. You, as the tourist might get hurt, but you have the choice of walking away. You don’t have a need for the horse.
Gardening is fun, when your very life doesn’t depend on it. You can always hand off the overabundant squash to a friend, but if that were all you had through the winter, you’d find ways to cook it and scrounge like hell for other food. Hunting now is mostly play, but it was a matter of feeding the family not much more than three generations ago.
When we talk about BDSM people being real, many of us who use it to spice our lives have chosen to have it in our lives, but it is not absolutely necessary that we have it daily. For some it is the center and the be all. They have given up many things – family ties, marriages, jobs, bank accounts, to follow their dream of being someone’s slave, or to be full-on leather all the time with apologies toward none. They have rolled the dice and all they have is placed on that one bet. So those people sneer at the amateurs. They have no choices (by their own choice or psychological makeup) they have systematically followed their dream down the rabbit hole and the options are limited. You have to respect a person who bets it all on one roll. You respect them, but I am too much of a hedger.
I am a hedger; maybe life teaches you that, teaches you to play a little less wildly because you have more to lose or because you have lost so much that you are afraid to go forward, afraid to lose what took so long to gain. I have been in that mode for most of the last 5-7 years. I used to be more open and more generous. But I am hoping that this spring and summer, which have felt like such a relief after the dark years preceding them, will continue into the fall and that I will spend my fall flying, a priority. That I will look for opportunities to expand my life, that I will be willing to bet a little more.
Stated another way. Cowboys didn’t necessarily choose to be rough, dirty, and broken down. The men (and women) adapted themselves to the reality they faced. That is what we mean when talk about being real. When the choices are limited by circumstances you can’t control – a miserable childhood in the East End of London during the Great Depression, a starving woman in Bangladesh, Paris during the Revolution, the multiple small tragedies of wars. Many first and second world people feel we aren’t real. We don’t risk our lives, we don’t feel genuine. But real is what happens when you run out of options.
We have, put it another way, options that a poor man in Indonesia with a wife and kids, doesn’t have. We are tourists in their life because, no matter what, we can run back home to the safety of the American border. We can hide behind our trust funds or our retirement funds or our insurance. We are padded and coddled. And we feel we aren’t adults, we aren’t real. This invalidity is because of too many choices. When you get up to ride a wild horse at a dude ranch to play cowboy, you have the choice of getting off the horse and walking away. You didn’t spend a day catching the cussed thing to add to your meager stable. Now you have a horse you have to feed through the winter and, with luck, tame before spring roundup. You, as the tourist might get hurt, but you have the choice of walking away. You don’t have a need for the horse.
Gardening is fun, when your very life doesn’t depend on it. You can always hand off the overabundant squash to a friend, but if that were all you had through the winter, you’d find ways to cook it and scrounge like hell for other food. Hunting now is mostly play, but it was a matter of feeding the family not much more than three generations ago.
When we talk about BDSM people being real, many of us who use it to spice our lives have chosen to have it in our lives, but it is not absolutely necessary that we have it daily. For some it is the center and the be all. They have given up many things – family ties, marriages, jobs, bank accounts, to follow their dream of being someone’s slave, or to be full-on leather all the time with apologies toward none. They have rolled the dice and all they have is placed on that one bet. So those people sneer at the amateurs. They have no choices (by their own choice or psychological makeup) they have systematically followed their dream down the rabbit hole and the options are limited. You have to respect a person who bets it all on one roll. You respect them, but I am too much of a hedger.
I am a hedger; maybe life teaches you that, teaches you to play a little less wildly because you have more to lose or because you have lost so much that you are afraid to go forward, afraid to lose what took so long to gain. I have been in that mode for most of the last 5-7 years. I used to be more open and more generous. But I am hoping that this spring and summer, which have felt like such a relief after the dark years preceding them, will continue into the fall and that I will spend my fall flying, a priority. That I will look for opportunities to expand my life, that I will be willing to bet a little more.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Skin Two's Rubber Ball Atlanta
Te Rubber Ball Atlanta is due this weekend (the 29th and 30th of June) and I am getting excited about it. We haven't seen any of our buddies since the weekend of the hard freeze (Easter to normal people) during Frolicon in April. I am looking forward to wearing the latex fetish gear and stomping around in boots. I am Sabotage! At least so he dubbed me after the last time I got geared up, and, in truth, it does make me look vaguely like some comic book superhero. But, hey, hasn't every man wanted to bed one of those?
Manged to embarass a man I thought was unembarassable. My (female) neighbor and I were standing about oohing and aahing over his vintage (he's had it since it came out)1967 Mustang, the original engine has been tinkered with, but the body, paint, interior, is all original. We teased him about the wear marks onthe paint just where a guy might stand while he waxed it on the streets, letting the girls see him, and offering to take 'em for a ride. We dubbed Bob SMD Smith (fictitious). "SMD? What's that stand for?"
"Why isn't that the whole reason for buying the mustang in the first place?"
"What?"
"Suck My Dick." This 57 year old veteran blushed.
Manged to embarass a man I thought was unembarassable. My (female) neighbor and I were standing about oohing and aahing over his vintage (he's had it since it came out)1967 Mustang, the original engine has been tinkered with, but the body, paint, interior, is all original. We teased him about the wear marks onthe paint just where a guy might stand while he waxed it on the streets, letting the girls see him, and offering to take 'em for a ride. We dubbed Bob SMD Smith (fictitious). "SMD? What's that stand for?"
"Why isn't that the whole reason for buying the mustang in the first place?"
"What?"
"Suck My Dick." This 57 year old veteran blushed.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
South Georgia Fires
The south GA fire is affecting our weather. It is overcast, almost like a Renaissance painting where the distance is indicated by the level of smog. So it is here, as bad, if not worse than August, when you can’t see Sand Mountain for the particles in the air. We are 15 inches behind in rain, the mature trees are drooping, and though not as hot, it feels smothery, even a hint of smoke fills the air. Both Mom and I reported sleeping poorly, as if the older, animal parts, of our brain were worried even while the cerebral parts tried to calm them. They kept murmuring “fire!” in our sleep.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
What do you really value
It was one of those October days that you wish wold never die. I did my yoga, while, I still can, out on the deck of my studio (trying to remember to call it that) and, once again, reminded myself why I love that discipline so much – it makes me feel with all my senses – I can smell the aging leaves and whiff of Cam’s cigarette. I hear the train, birds peeping, the wind lifting the leaves, the train in the valley, the long approach of traffic. I see a red-tailed hawk, and the yet green trees, the deeper blue of the sky that occurs in fall. I feel my feet on the soft rug, the air touch my chest, the bruises form the weekend on my buttocks, the twinge in my left shoulder that comes on with too many nights of poor sleep, and the luxurious stretch in the muscles – like a cat. I taste a metallic twang from the slight sinus infection.
Sitting with my mother in the Chinese restaurant in Trenton it seemed to me that the essence of being human (we were discussing “The Good Earth” by Pearl S. Buck) is balance, striking the happy medium. “Moderation in all things.”
I can’t recall who said that, but much of our life is figuring out what is the happy medium when others have gone on before us to try to lead the way. Trouble is that the happy medium seems to be all in your perspective. Did Mother Teresa consider herself extreme? And is it extreme to listen to your muse and miss the housekeeping. What if your culture values the beautifully kept and appointed house or the nineteen courses, three day prep time, meal, or the clothes that cost thousands of dollars, drachmas, francs, and untold hours to assemble? That leads us back, inextricably, to what we value in our lives. What do I value? Clean house, yes, but farther down the list, still I want a clean house, so I pay someone to keep it relatively clean for me. Fame, seems to be a requirement of our culture, money, yes and no, children, yes and no. What is it I want?
To be published, to have written. Yes, and time for creativity and play and good food and sex and hanggliding and travel. I don’t think I value money for prestige, more for what it can do – security of a sort, travel, the little day-to-day thingies that we suddenly perceive we can’t exist another moment without. I value literacy and language and fairness. I am the child of a child raised on the egalitarian spirit that ran across the nation during the Great Depression, that leveled so many of us. Made us all poor, all equal, all having to understand the day-to-day tribulations of our neighbors because we were all (at least the plurality of us working and farming people) in ‘it’ together. When I was growing up in the military, we were all poor together, except we weren’t really poor only by today’s standards, or some more elite’s. See, the thing is, when everyone around you is poor, and you aren’t starving or naked, you don’t ever know you’re poor.
We were all young families starting out, with multiple children, and hand-me-downs were de rigeur. Mothers learned to get by on what the man brought home. Made do with soups and stews and what we got off the local markets. Or you went hunting or fishing or bought things in bulk and put them up or raised them and did the same, or bought a side of beef with your brother-in-law and split it. Shoes got passed down and coats, none of it was really worn out, mended or shortened. We grew too fast. And, since all of us shared clothes and ‘made do’ it wasn’t any kind of hardship. I liked that time and miss it. Too much TV, too much consumer culture exposed to ur children, to ourselves. So, back to balance.
One person’s balance might involve religion and how much time ot devote to it and their own life, their families' lives. Another might want all the outward accoutrmenets of wealth, but get in over their head in debt. One of us might spend all her time pursuing sports,never reading.
And my writing. Why is my nattering of any more import than another persons? We so value our own individuality, our own ‘voice.’ Trouble is that, from space, we probably all sound like the see-sawing of the locusts. Each singing his or her own song that sounds very like the rest. The few about us worth listening to get drowned out. The few with a real original thought disappear in the crowds. And why is my nattering any more of importance than that of some poor girl in a the slums of Rio de Janeiro? Maybe it is the whole of our voices going on for ages that actually is of import. Maybe it is our own individual song weaving in with the others of our era that matter, the blogs, and diaries, the columns and newspaper articles, the very focus of our individual attentions that matters. Perhaps the topics that we write of, as a group, make up what is human in the first part of the third millennium.
Individuals are now all-important and we expect our governments, not just to protect our borders, our families, but our individual selves, even if those selves are so widely disparate as to defy easy listing. I am a human, female by genitalia, androgynous by thought (and testing) and preference, a thinker with a more or less intact brain, by luck and genetics and upbringing and parentage. I am a desultory writer, genealogist, bisexual (with a strong heterosexual leaning), a feminist, a liberal (by American standards), a pro-democracy advocate, a believer in the infinity of our rights so long as ‘my fist doesn’t hit your nose.’ An Emergency medicine-trained doctor, somewhat computer literate, deliverer of babies, lover of literature, a pilot of hanggliders, a practitioner of yoga, a walker, and international traveler, curious, but also very selfish. A talker and listener. I am, thank god and my teachers, literate! Employed, not homeless, in debt, not a parent (not my choice), divorced once, currently involved deeply with one man. Friend to a handful of people, devoted to animals both furry and otherwise, daughter, ex-wife, lover, niece, teacher, ACLS instructor, semi-German speaker, educated in some Latin, lover of history, sci-fi writer, futurist, ecologist (well, attempting), journalist, gardener, chef, driver, swimmer, ex-surgery resident, occasional darts-player, German beer advocate and swiller, skier, hiker, surfer, sailor, snowboarder, bike-rider, enemy to a few, poet, wine-collector (and alleged connoisseur.)
Sitting with my mother in the Chinese restaurant in Trenton it seemed to me that the essence of being human (we were discussing “The Good Earth” by Pearl S. Buck) is balance, striking the happy medium. “Moderation in all things.”
I can’t recall who said that, but much of our life is figuring out what is the happy medium when others have gone on before us to try to lead the way. Trouble is that the happy medium seems to be all in your perspective. Did Mother Teresa consider herself extreme? And is it extreme to listen to your muse and miss the housekeeping. What if your culture values the beautifully kept and appointed house or the nineteen courses, three day prep time, meal, or the clothes that cost thousands of dollars, drachmas, francs, and untold hours to assemble? That leads us back, inextricably, to what we value in our lives. What do I value? Clean house, yes, but farther down the list, still I want a clean house, so I pay someone to keep it relatively clean for me. Fame, seems to be a requirement of our culture, money, yes and no, children, yes and no. What is it I want?
To be published, to have written. Yes, and time for creativity and play and good food and sex and hanggliding and travel. I don’t think I value money for prestige, more for what it can do – security of a sort, travel, the little day-to-day thingies that we suddenly perceive we can’t exist another moment without. I value literacy and language and fairness. I am the child of a child raised on the egalitarian spirit that ran across the nation during the Great Depression, that leveled so many of us. Made us all poor, all equal, all having to understand the day-to-day tribulations of our neighbors because we were all (at least the plurality of us working and farming people) in ‘it’ together. When I was growing up in the military, we were all poor together, except we weren’t really poor only by today’s standards, or some more elite’s. See, the thing is, when everyone around you is poor, and you aren’t starving or naked, you don’t ever know you’re poor.
We were all young families starting out, with multiple children, and hand-me-downs were de rigeur. Mothers learned to get by on what the man brought home. Made do with soups and stews and what we got off the local markets. Or you went hunting or fishing or bought things in bulk and put them up or raised them and did the same, or bought a side of beef with your brother-in-law and split it. Shoes got passed down and coats, none of it was really worn out, mended or shortened. We grew too fast. And, since all of us shared clothes and ‘made do’ it wasn’t any kind of hardship. I liked that time and miss it. Too much TV, too much consumer culture exposed to ur children, to ourselves. So, back to balance.
One person’s balance might involve religion and how much time ot devote to it and their own life, their families' lives. Another might want all the outward accoutrmenets of wealth, but get in over their head in debt. One of us might spend all her time pursuing sports,never reading.
And my writing. Why is my nattering of any more import than another persons? We so value our own individuality, our own ‘voice.’ Trouble is that, from space, we probably all sound like the see-sawing of the locusts. Each singing his or her own song that sounds very like the rest. The few about us worth listening to get drowned out. The few with a real original thought disappear in the crowds. And why is my nattering any more of importance than that of some poor girl in a the slums of Rio de Janeiro? Maybe it is the whole of our voices going on for ages that actually is of import. Maybe it is our own individual song weaving in with the others of our era that matter, the blogs, and diaries, the columns and newspaper articles, the very focus of our individual attentions that matters. Perhaps the topics that we write of, as a group, make up what is human in the first part of the third millennium.
Individuals are now all-important and we expect our governments, not just to protect our borders, our families, but our individual selves, even if those selves are so widely disparate as to defy easy listing. I am a human, female by genitalia, androgynous by thought (and testing) and preference, a thinker with a more or less intact brain, by luck and genetics and upbringing and parentage. I am a desultory writer, genealogist, bisexual (with a strong heterosexual leaning), a feminist, a liberal (by American standards), a pro-democracy advocate, a believer in the infinity of our rights so long as ‘my fist doesn’t hit your nose.’ An Emergency medicine-trained doctor, somewhat computer literate, deliverer of babies, lover of literature, a pilot of hanggliders, a practitioner of yoga, a walker, and international traveler, curious, but also very selfish. A talker and listener. I am, thank god and my teachers, literate! Employed, not homeless, in debt, not a parent (not my choice), divorced once, currently involved deeply with one man. Friend to a handful of people, devoted to animals both furry and otherwise, daughter, ex-wife, lover, niece, teacher, ACLS instructor, semi-German speaker, educated in some Latin, lover of history, sci-fi writer, futurist, ecologist (well, attempting), journalist, gardener, chef, driver, swimmer, ex-surgery resident, occasional darts-player, German beer advocate and swiller, skier, hiker, surfer, sailor, snowboarder, bike-rider, enemy to a few, poet, wine-collector (and alleged connoisseur.)
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