Mental Masochism, or I Know Why I Have Carpal Tunnel

During this past semester's course, I had a number of writing assignments. Obviously, I like writing...it's my major, it's what I do for work (to some degree), and it's what I do for pleasure.

But research papers are tedious. All those sources to be cited.

So I procrastinate. I know this is one of my worst faults. But without someone (literally) keeping a fire beneath my arse, I just rarely work ahead of schedule.

Part of this might be a bit of arrogance. It's just writing, right? I could do it in my sleep. Who needs a month, or a week, I can crank it out in a day.

But this is where my tendency to procrastinate crashes head-on with my need to please.

This very quandary led me to argue that a paper did NOT deserve the grade my professor so kindly bestowed, and to his response that he would lower the grade and allow me the chance to revise it.

Groan. What an idiot I am.

But all is well that ends well, considering the message I received..."All of your work has been received. The [last paper] was a particularly thorough and interesting analysis of the Internet's effect on literacy. Despite your own misgivings you excelled in the course and your submissions, including the final exam, were among the best of the semester."

I think my favorite part is that he referred to my SUBMISSIONS.

I'm going to do some Professor/slutty student roleplaying now.

Fuck Jazz, Moving on to the Blues

Of one thing about myself, I am sure. If there is mental chemistry, there is bound to be physical chemisty. And without mental chemistry, there cannot be more than a fleeting physical chemistry.

Oh, I've met smart men. Witty men. Men with humor dryer than an Egyptian tomb. Men who self-deprecate their fetishes until my ribs ache from laughing.

But not many of them put me in my place. I don't mean to connote discipline, but headspace. There is a miniscule portion of the male population that has the right combination of all of those virtues (vices?) who actually instill in me a DESIRE to submit. Not just the simple urge that we submissives get, in general terms. But to...YOU. I will submit, can submit, in fact, cannot avoid submitting to you.

But what if this is not what they want? What if their plates are so full that they can not accept you?

Does the need for humiliation at the hands of another extend this far - to self-inflict rejection by submission with no hope of domination?

Is that the definition of devotion, or an exercise in futility?

These are not rhetorical questions, folks...I would appreciate some advice.

Walls

I dreamed that I was in a small room with no doors. Just ceiling, floor, and four concrete walls.

And there was no one to save me. No. One.

This dream requires no deep introspective analysis.

I need a fucking jackhammer.

More on that

I always pretended to be an Indian. Native American. Displaced natives. Whatever the correct term is nowadays. The where and how of my growing up included lots of time near or in forests. I tried to school myself to walk through the wilderness with no sound. No broken twigs, no crackled leaves. Cooper's Hawkeye, only with tube socks and pink plastic eyeglass frames.

I have a photo, myself squinty-eyed with laughter, jumping on the bed with said tube socks and wild hair. Thin as a rail. Fast as a snake, racing all the boys. I remember. A boy named Marshall who tried to catch and kiss me - not quite fast enough. Eating honeysuckle blooms to make those unkissed lips sweet.

Sometimes I still see that girl in the mirror. I'm not fast enough to catch her, either. I've given up trying. Now it seems I came from the womb in sensible shoes and a permanent scowl, the very picture of that german hausfrau. On my better days, I think of the line in the movie version of that Forster-esque story The Enchanted April - "a woman with the face of a disappointed Madonna." Aside - I still like to say the name Arbuthnot, it rolls off the tongue so unusually.

The rubbing of elbows with the some precocious, some annoying youths in class will surely stave off the advancing middle-agedness. I hope.

The Bride Abridged

Why am I always a bundle of nerves on the first day of class? Am I frightened of youngsters?

I'm convinced I have a german hausfrau air.

Gray and cold. It's beautiful.

Frankenstein's Bride

Dazzled and bedraggled. A few of the things milling around...

I ordered a toy camera. If you have a recollection, it's one of the diana-ish plastic-lensed cameras from the 50s on. The novelty is that the body and lens, being cheaply made, allow tiny bits of light in, which gives an unique and unpredictable quality to the end result. It'll be a nice departure from digital perfection and convenience. I'm even thinking of getting a film changing bag and processing my own black & white.

I am absolutely disinterested in sex. I haven't touched myself in months, much less been touched by another. I don't say this to elicit pity (or offers). It's just a statement...the last thing on my mind is sexual physicality. Mental chastity. I just really considered this while reading a post about the test of submission yesterday. The winning test was this:

Comply with this command:
From this moment forth, live a chaste life. Never let another person touch your body. Never touch another's body. Never touch yourself for pleasure. Avoid pornography, erotica, titillation. Dress modestly and conservatively. Have your hair styled in an unflattering way. Eschew cosmetics, jewelry and pampering. Avoid thinking, talking, reading about sex. Eliminate all contemplation of dominance and submission, and all other psychological and physical forms of sexual expression. Become asexual in all ways you can think of. Do this, to honour my domination.

I will gladly attribute this asexuality to a rather selfless dedication to submission.

I have the distinct and unsettling feeling that I've forgotten something very important. I keep finding myself walking into a room and standing there for a moment, lost in trying to remember that thing that is just at the edge. My dreams are this way, too.

Why don't dogs have visible navels? You can feel them, but you can't see them. Both humans and dogs are attached to the uterus by umbilical cords, so why do ours turn into bellybuttons while dog versions are only a weird little bit of scar tissue just under the skin?

Today we have naming of the parts

At times, during my normal everyday existence, a snippet of past poetry or lyric, or line a from a novel or play will stick in my head. I've been on a cleaning tear, something that I often do to restore balance and structure to any part of my world that is controllable. And while cleaning, the words to a poem have been circling around my skull...

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easily
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.
-Henry Reed

I like the dichotomy, the oiled brutish mechanical instruction against the pastel grace of the gardens. Perhaps this is my cleansing cleaning, the ordinariness of household chores against the fluttery abstractness of everything else. Easing the Spring, indeed.

Peace in the stillness

take me away to a different place
to the ocean or to outer space
and all of these complications disappear
and all that is left
oh all that is left is the peace that i hold here

so please, would you please let me close
oh let me close my eyes
'cause all I need at this moment, hey, is a lullaby
ooh is a lullaby
ooh is a lullaby

and the ocean is where i need to be
and i hope that this song can carry me
and if you like, well, you could come with me
and i will show, i will show you everything that you need to see

-lullaby lyrics, trevor hall

It's been a long couple of months, full of alternating moments of great sadness and irrepressible joy. I hit the off switch on my libido, and the freedom I feel is indescribable. And necessary.