Zen and the Art of Submissive Maintenance

Since the gas prices started climbing, I've been practicing more efficient driving. This includes making fewer trips (which certainly dovetails into my hermit nature quite nicely) and driving more smartly. No A/C if I don't absolutely need it, no driving over the speed limit (actually, I CAN drive 55, Mr. Hagar), coasting to stops, gradual acceleration. I've gotten accustomed to the right lane. And surprisingly, no one seems to care. A year ago, a slow driver on the U.S. interstate system would have been abused by others, but not these days.

And it's amazing what you notice when suddenly the focus isn't to beat your best time, or pass that car, or block that guy from changing lanes...I get to see dolphins, if I'm lucky. I get to watch the ospreys catching fish with those horrible claws.

But it's not just about what you get to see when you slow down, it's the slight zen transcendence you achieve when you do it. My drives to work (to anywhere) are relaxing, meditative.

There is a correlation here that I can't quite put my finger on. My submissiveness, too, has turned all zen-like. Neither fast nor slow, though...more like a lever has been flipped. Someone pressed my easy button.

"when are we going to get going?" Chris says.
"what's your hurry?" I ask.
"I just want to get going."
"There's nothing up ahead that's any better than it is right here."

-Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Winter of Kukkutasana

For the past few days, the normal oppressive humidity of Florida has lifted. It seems if you pay attention, you can find fall here. But instead of making you think of football and sweatshirts and morning frost, there is the same hope and blush of spring that I remember from other climates. Winter, when it comes, is no worse than a pair of gloves and a lightweight coat. There is something curiously liberating about knowing the worst of the year is behind you instead of in front of you.

It suits my state of change.

A bothersome task before is an exciting challenge now. That is such a simple statement, but the effect produced in every action and thought is immense, and impossible to articulate well. It is pleasing me to please.

Like a yoga pose that is difficult. I've sweated and cursed and nearly given up, only to find that one day I contort into place naturally, with little effort. It's shocking and you want to show anyone with the patience to watch.

Note: Kukkutasana is a tough one for girls with big asses, and its translation is Cock Pose. And yes, it makes me giggle.

Secrets

Even here, we dance around the truth. A fetish checklist veiled by what is socially appropriate within a narrowly defined slice of a subsociety. (Ha. Subsociety.)

Should I tell all my secrets?

The truth is, I'm pliable enough to bend to the easy or hard of whomever chooses me/I choose.

Those things that I hold tight in my dirty taboo-driven fantasies, if they never see the light of day, does it matter?

If I'm never forcibly held into someone's cunt and made to pleasure her, I'll live. If I'm never made to watch you fuck her and not look away, everything will be fine. If you don't ever feel the need to brand your name onto my hip, it doesn't make me any less yours. If you don't want to give my pussy or ass or mouth to your friends as a lesson in subjugation, well, I guess I will learn it another way. If the thought of making me dependent on your approval for any pleasure doesn't make you happy, I suppose I can keep buying AA batteries.

And yes, that's the truth. The pretty truth. But the ugly truth is that I want all of that, and much much more. Only it's not about what I want, is it?

Heroes and Nightgowns

You were in my dream. There was a farm, and the stable was overcrowded and filthy. I was walking down a narrow aisle between the rows of stalls, and there you were. In tight jeans and a tucked in shirt, leading a horse to safety. Your lopsided grin when you saw me was full of something wonderful. The rest of the dream...the squalid conditions, the awful smell, the sadness for the animals I felt, it went up in a puff when I saw that smile.

In last night's dream, I was in class. In a nightgown. Not a sexy nightgown, by the way, but this long country cotton shift with ruffles and little delicate buttons. 

I understand the first dream. My subconscious still considers you my hero, and I'd been watching animal cops houston before going to bed. 

But I really have no idea on the second one.

Tactile

Long ago I retrained myself to write gracefully. Not the words, but the act of putting pen to paper. I practiced for weeks. A A A A a a a a. B B B B b b b b. It worked. I have excellent penmanship.

But I rarely use it. My longhand notes at work are purely for my own use, not for the enjoyment of others. But I do keep a little journal, sometimes pre-blogging there, or jotting stream-of-consciousness phrases that long to be made into poems. 

Yesterday I found some lovely note cards. Beautiful paper, very textured, with gilt envelopes. Now I am leafing through my address book, wondering where to send them...

I don't want to be here now, the product of an experience I can't quite remove from my head. This silence is a step back, a deep breath. 

Namaste.