The Newness of a Page

Today I got a new journal.  It’s fresh. It has that new journal smell and I lift it to my face and inhale it deeply. It smells of pulp, possibilities and fear.

I put the journal down and look at it suspiciously.  I don’t do journal’s lightly. I fill them to capacity and often beyond. I will paste pages on pages and add pull outs and flaps. They become part of my being on a molecular level.  I feel enormous responsibility for them, and they for me.

This new journal and I aren’t talking yet. That will take time. We need to get to know each other before I can add things that will sink into its skin  and help me understand why I am writing them there. It’s not an easy process.  It’s like tattooing a person. It’s there forever.

I keep all my journals. I have the old ones in a trunk. The first one must have used a multi pack of glue sticks and I am the reason glitter is a protected species. Some of the pages are stiff and hard to turn. Others have stuck together, forming a bond merging into foreverness.  I envy those ones. I don’t disturb them as I turn.

When I read the one I just retired – unable to stick anything else into it, there is no corner to scribble a word in – I read angst and helplessness and pretence. I was writing everything that should have been spoken aloud.  This journal is an emotional wreck.  It’s the emo of the journal collection.  The other journals shy away from it so I put it on its own shelf.  It’s introverted and anti-social and they talk about it in low whispers. It knows they are talking about it.

The new journal looks around and gives me a terrified look. Don’t do that to me. I’m new and fresh and I was bound with hope.  Trees were not massacred so I could end up on the Eeyore shelf.

I can’t guarantee it’s going to be an easy journey for the new journal. It will be hard work.  There will be times that sad emotions seep into its pages. I offer a rare stick of glitter glue as a peace offering but we aren’t there yet and it refuses to open.   There is a plan, I tell the journal and I like plans. I can stick to plans as long as they don’t change and twist and throw me off course.

Here is the deal new journal.  It’s you and me for the next six months.  I’ll be honest but I’ll do better than poor emo journal who is currently lying flat, legs out over the edge of the shelf, exhausted.  I google journal therapy and make an appointment for my journal to speak to an encyclopedia.

 

 

Sleep, you elusive vixon

I’ve had a few hours sleep.

You know that feeling when you want more, but you know you’re not going to get more so you lay in bed resentful?  I’m that person tonight.

A few hours is better than nothing and I was running on nothing.

Why is it so hard for some people to sleep as adults?

For all the times I refused a nap as a kid, I take it back.  Come get me nap time. I’m yours.

What do you do when you can’t sleep? I read. Write. I use to roll over and give a blowjob or climb on top of him. Now I just read. Or write.

 

It’s Serenwrap

When a door closes a window opens. Or the window slabs and blows the door open. Either way the house is draughty, it’s eight in the morning and I’m in my PJs with a knock at the door. Little blue cloud PJ’s no less

There stands my best friend of 18 years who I haven’t seen in too long after we parted with angry words. We grew up side by side. He was everything to me for those years and then we weren’t any more and seeing him there reminded me how much I needed him at moments like this.

I haven’t slept in days. I haven’t eaten. My eyes are stinging red and I cried again. There he was right when I needed him, on my door step.

We went to breakfast, talking over each other

Me: I’m sorry

Him: no I’m sorry

We were brutally honest about our friendship crumbling down like a straw house blown on by a pissed off wolf.

Him: I couldn’t continue to watch you make mistake after mistake and ignore the people who have loved you and known you all your life. It hurt me to watch you fall apart. Your happy drained away. I had to leave you and hope we could come back together some time.

Me: Now is the time. You’re right. I didn’t listen. I was miserable.

Him: I’m not going to support you in continuing to make poor decisions but I want to get you healthy again. Your mom called me, she’s worried, my moms worried, a lot of mom’s are worried. You’re skin and bone, your sick and I’ve never seen your hair go in so many directions. This is bad. You need vegetables and a blow out girlfriend.

Me: This is acceptable to me

That was the last thing I wanted. To worry people but of cause clueless me had done exactly that. Worried lots of people who love me because I’m too stubborn to say I need help. I’m out of my depth. I can’t swim any more. Help me. I’m doing stupid things and pretending I know what I’m doing and hurting myself and others. I’m climbing over the roadkill of my arrogance and bitchiness.

Health wise, I’m in dire straits. I’ve never been so run down. I’ve had a cough for months and every bone aches. I’m 25 and feel like those numbers have switched. I need help.

Dear dear Damien who drove from Portland to tell me he doesn’t like what I’m doing but feeds me bacon anyway. I love bacon. And coffee. Small town coffee but what’s a girl to do.

April

The April winds are magical,

And thrill our tuneful frames:

The garden-walks are passional

To bacheors and dames,

The hedge is gemmed with diamonds,

The air with Cupids full,

The elews of fairy Rosamonds

Guild lovers to the pool.

Each dimple in the water,

Each leaf that shades the Rock,

Can eozen, pique and fatter,

Can parley and provoke.

Goodfellow, Puck and goblins

Knew more than any book;

Down with your doleful problems,

And court the sunny brook.

The south-winds are quick-witted,

The schools are sad and slow,

The masters quiet omitted,

The lore we care to know.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’m the Anti-sister

In reference to National sibling day, I’d like to talk about a different type of sister.  I don’t have a sibling, only child here with all the only child issues they write about in psychology books.  I’m looking for National Only Child Day.  National Singleton Day, perhaps?  No? Thought not.  This is discrmination

Anyway, lets get to the post.

I hate the term sister. I will remind you  that I am an only child, and have never had a real sister. We won’t talk about that one I Bart Simpsoned in the attic. You didn’t hear that from me. I have a slave sister which is like a sister wife if you watch that show, only kinkier without the freaky looking husband who needs a haircut.

When someone calls Emily my sister I throw up a little in my mouth along with a moaning vomit sound deep in my stomach. Sorry if you were eating. You probably think I am being mean to Emily but she knows this. We’ve laughed about it. I have sniggered and given her sid- eye when we were called “sisters.” Excuse me while I shudder. She giggles. Emily is a giggler. I’m not a giggler. You could tell that, couldn’t you.

She loves being a sister. She uses the word a lot. I think mostly because it annoys me but also because she is the poster child for slave sisterhood. She is all in with poly. She’s rolling around in her poly house, her hands flying in the air in bewitching joy. Unicorn slippers on her feet, flayling around on a cloud of poly. She has glitter stuck to the side of her face from the posters she made for “poly is family too” march. I was the one hiding behind the telegraph pole sipping town coffee and reading the Female Eunich.

There are woman in the lifestyle who throw around the word sister and love the sound of it and I say “you go, girl,” but please don’t use it with me. Friend. Confident. Misadventure co conspirator, but not sister. Even poor- much maligned in this blog- Emily is not sister. Maybe one day she can be, she aspires to be, she tells me, though god knows why, I’m a total bitch. Maybe one day, but today is not that day.

How did this sister thing take off?

If you are poly, is she your sister? Or Brother? This is an equal opportunity blog.

And that’s why I’m looking for coffee

I live in small town Maine. Real small Maine doesn’t do great coffee. It doesn’t even do good coffee, so I set off this morning to find better coffee. If you are from Maine you are laughing at my delusional quest. Not know for our coffee. “I’m setting off to Maine to have great coffee” was said by no one ever. The nearest big town is a few hours drive away and that’s going to have better coffee.

I’m always reaching. I’m not a settler by nature. I will always try to make things better, find a better fit, drive for better coffee. I think it would be easier to be a settler. This coffee is good and leave it at that. Imagine that? What contentment that would bring. I have coffee, I should be happy with that.

The problem is, I’ve tasted better. I know there is better coffee out there and I will always seek that coffee which was good.

The coffee in Bangor is better. Much better than home two hours from here. Was it worth the two hour drive? Yes, it was. My taste buds needed the better coffee this morning and my head needed the drive.

But this isn’t a story about coffee.

It’s one of those damn analogies.

I have tasted really good M/s. It was sublime. It wasn’t perfect, he’s not perfect and I’m not perfect but we did it really well. We had this in-sync (Bye Bye Bye – you’re welcome) thing going, we knew each other even when we didn’t know each other. He walked in the room and my atoms recognized his atoms and they tingled because two bits of the same star come back together and we were inseparable from that moment. We argued and misstepped and tripped over each other but it was still sublime and who gets to have that? People look forever for that and I had that. Now I don’t have that. Now I am back in Maine, licking my wounds because it’s fallen apart but I am still looking for ways to make it better. To get back to that sublime thing we had. Like the coffee. I taste small town coffee and my longing goes to big town coffee. I look at what this relationship consists of now and I long for what was. I can’t have what was, I’m suck with small town coffee for the moment, but I’m not a settler. I either find a way to make the coffee better or I find different coffee.

And that’s why I’m looking for coffee

What the hell is D/s?

Great question.

I’m not the one to teach you.

There is so much information available to you online, maybe too much information and if you found this blog, then you were probably looking for D/s – you maybe know more than I do.

What I can do is share my experience living it and be honest about what it.

First of all, it’s not about sex.  While that can be great, and kinky (I’m assuming you’re kinky but it’s ok if your not,) it’s a really small part of it.  I think sex can be great because the people involved are happy and living the life they want to live.  Conversely, sex can be bad if the people involved are unhappy and not where they want to be.  Interestingly our sex life was always great, even when we are at our worst but we’re just freaky like that. If you are in it for the sex, find a top or a bottom and leave your emotions at the door.  Pick them up on the way out and maybe take someone elses if they look better than yours.   What? You’ve never thought of doing that.  Come on, I’m not the only one.

It’s hard because people are involved.  You know how people say without the customers their job would be so good?  They wouldn’t have a job without the customers and I wouldn’t have a relationship without the dominant.  Sometimes I think about labelling myself a submissive and having no dominant and then basking in the glory that is my uninterrupted submission to absolutely no one.  Then I wake up. He’s pretty vital to this whole thing but more about him later.   Other people don’t always do what we want them to do.  Annoyingly they have their own way of doing things.  Even more annoyingly they have their own thoughts and they may not be on the same brain wave as you.  Take the people out and D/s is a beautiful thing. It’s a give and a take, everyone getting what they want.  Add the people and it’s a big ole mess of chowder floating around in a pot.

D/s and M/s (I’m going to use them interchangeably because they are not very different, it’s just about what you want to call it,) are power transfers.  They are based on the submissive ( that’s me) giving power to the dominant ( that’s him.)  That can be a tiny bit of power or it can be a lot.  That takes negotiation skills.  I’m a terrible negotiator as you will see if you read on.  No one is calling me up for diplomatic service. It’s one of those necessary tools in the D/s toolbox but very few people seem to be able to use it.  The instructions are IKEA figures with speech bubbles in Simlish.  I filed them away which is code for lost them when I opened the packet labelled D/s survivor guide.  Survivor should have warned me this was going to be harder than it looked.

It is hard right now, but that’s my personal situation.  It doesn’t have to be hard. It is possible and doable and I believe in this way of life. I believe in its possibilities and its structure and I believe in its love.  If you are in blogs searching for D/s and you stumbled onto this one, you probably believe in it too.

What are your experiences with it?  The good, bad and the ugly.