(and gorgeous)
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Stella_Omega
No Gentleman
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2005
- Posts
- 39,700
I keep my journal about writing, mostly, but here's one that's about me...
Friday, April 1st, 2005
Birth, Death, and Birthdays
One of my pretty feral cats has been giving birth over the past few days. She had no idea how to take care of the babies, and they all died- one she played with as if it were a mouse, in fact. This is okay with me, she's waay too young to have babies, and I'm going to trap her and spay her now that I have some extra money, but it was pretty upsetting to witness.
At the same time, my stepdaughter went into induced labor a month early because of a pregnancy complication. They started her on the 29th, and she gave birth today, the 1st of April- three days plus in labor! Mom and baby are doing fine, baby is miniscule because premature.
And, today is my birthday, too. I turned 49.
Dying kittens, living humans. The wheel turns and turns.
Friday, April 1st, 2005
Birth, Death, and Birthdays
One of my pretty feral cats has been giving birth over the past few days. She had no idea how to take care of the babies, and they all died- one she played with as if it were a mouse, in fact. This is okay with me, she's waay too young to have babies, and I'm going to trap her and spay her now that I have some extra money, but it was pretty upsetting to witness.
At the same time, my stepdaughter went into induced labor a month early because of a pregnancy complication. They started her on the 29th, and she gave birth today, the 1st of April- three days plus in labor! Mom and baby are doing fine, baby is miniscule because premature.
And, today is my birthday, too. I turned 49.
Dying kittens, living humans. The wheel turns and turns.
BlackShanglan
Silver-Tongued Papist
- Joined
- Jul 7, 2004
- Posts
- 16,888
<Insert story plug here.>
It's the only journal I've given any real thought to this year.
It's the only journal I've given any real thought to this year.
MichelleLovesTo
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Oct 30, 2005
- Posts
- 291
A Good Crop
From my blog. April '05
A Good Crop.
I had a Miss Levy. Only she was a Mrs. Carmen. Other teachers – and my family – had commented on my reading skills, but she was the first one to make me believe that I could string my own words together. The very last thing she ever said to me was to keep writing. And then she gave me a hug that was so tight it was almost painful.
I hugged her back and then walked out of Greenfield Union Elementary School forever. And I vowed to keep my promise to keep writing – and then didn’t. Teachers tell you a lot of things, but they don’t tell you what to do with a blank sheet of paper. (Oh, my diary was easy - as a pre-teen I was brimming with angsty thoughts.)
Then there was my handwriting. It was bad. My mother hated it and would make me practice in a notebook and compare my sloppy letters to her “pretty” letters. She told me I had the handwriting of a “retard.” I felt shame. Everybody knew, even then, that handwriting was unique and said a lot about the person. Apparently I was deficient.
I didn’t want to write anything and could take no joy in looking at my own words. (To this day, when having to send her a card, I have a mini-panic attack when spelling my name.) Homework became tough. All my language skills were directed towards arguments and discussions. Thank God she’d never made fun of my voice or I would probably be completely mute.
As much as I complain about computers, I would not even consider writing if I had to write longhand. There was something wondrous about seeing a locked door opening; I could compose words and argue with whole new groups of people. Oh, and maybe I could write a few stories. Well, whaddaya know?
But Mrs. Carmen was the first person who made me take pride in my words: even if that pride got derailed for a while. She wasn’t as cool as Mrs. Zack, who would wear short skirts and too much perfume, and let us sing disco songs for a half-an-hour each day. She wasn’t as scary as the gym teacher who looked like Kojak. She didn’t wear bright clothes like the art teacher, or use moisturizer on her hands to excess like the music teacher. She certainly wasn’t mean like Mrs. Romanski - the math teacher from hell- with her red hair in a tight knot and her pinched mouth. What Mrs. Carmen was, what all teachers should be, is a planter of good seeds.
You can plant in a child’s mind flowers or you can plant weeds. You can give them the materials to plant a garden or leave them with only a wasteland. Teachers and parents should always plant good seeds, and spread just enough manure for something extraordinary to grow...
From my blog. April '05
A Good Crop.
I had a Miss Levy. Only she was a Mrs. Carmen. Other teachers – and my family – had commented on my reading skills, but she was the first one to make me believe that I could string my own words together. The very last thing she ever said to me was to keep writing. And then she gave me a hug that was so tight it was almost painful.
I hugged her back and then walked out of Greenfield Union Elementary School forever. And I vowed to keep my promise to keep writing – and then didn’t. Teachers tell you a lot of things, but they don’t tell you what to do with a blank sheet of paper. (Oh, my diary was easy - as a pre-teen I was brimming with angsty thoughts.)
Then there was my handwriting. It was bad. My mother hated it and would make me practice in a notebook and compare my sloppy letters to her “pretty” letters. She told me I had the handwriting of a “retard.” I felt shame. Everybody knew, even then, that handwriting was unique and said a lot about the person. Apparently I was deficient.
I didn’t want to write anything and could take no joy in looking at my own words. (To this day, when having to send her a card, I have a mini-panic attack when spelling my name.) Homework became tough. All my language skills were directed towards arguments and discussions. Thank God she’d never made fun of my voice or I would probably be completely mute.
As much as I complain about computers, I would not even consider writing if I had to write longhand. There was something wondrous about seeing a locked door opening; I could compose words and argue with whole new groups of people. Oh, and maybe I could write a few stories. Well, whaddaya know?
But Mrs. Carmen was the first person who made me take pride in my words: even if that pride got derailed for a while. She wasn’t as cool as Mrs. Zack, who would wear short skirts and too much perfume, and let us sing disco songs for a half-an-hour each day. She wasn’t as scary as the gym teacher who looked like Kojak. She didn’t wear bright clothes like the art teacher, or use moisturizer on her hands to excess like the music teacher. She certainly wasn’t mean like Mrs. Romanski - the math teacher from hell- with her red hair in a tight knot and her pinched mouth. What Mrs. Carmen was, what all teachers should be, is a planter of good seeds.
You can plant in a child’s mind flowers or you can plant weeds. You can give them the materials to plant a garden or leave them with only a wasteland. Teachers and parents should always plant good seeds, and spread just enough manure for something extraordinary to grow...
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logophile
Verbose
- Joined
- Aug 7, 2004
- Posts
- 7,368
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Learning to be lesbian
Current mood: restless
I grew up falling in love with my girlfriends, but dating the geeky boys from the school paper and the debate team. My virginity was taken from me by a man in a car on a cold winter night when I was 17. After that I gave myself up to my highschool boyfriend on a regular basis, and while it was fun to make him crazy - it was never satisfying. I met my future husband at 18 and chased him hard until he agreed to marry me 2 1/2 years later.
In the meantime, I started sleeping with women. My girlfriends, mainly. I ran in a big crowd of leather and silk clad bi girls and we were all over each other all the time. Finally, sex I could appreciate. Release, sweet and lovely release in the arms of my best friend who smiled like an imp before she kissed me hard and drove me mad. Got married at 21 and remained monogamous until I was so unfulfilled and broken and desperate and miserable. And I left.
I knew that I was done with men, I had known it for years. The marriage had remained because of the kids and the finances and the promise I had made. Promises are important.
Out on my own for the first time, I was pursued by ... men. It was so flattering and they were so easy. Bring one home, do what I wanted, kiss him good-bye and either see him again or not at my discretion. I didn't play this game very often, but every time I wanted to, I was successful. I had real feelings for one man from far away during this time, but was filled with terror at the thought of trying another "real" relationship.
Then, about a year after I left my marriage, I stopped having sex. It was empty and meaningless and not any fun any more.
I needed something more.
More more more.
Greedy bitch that I am, I refused to settle. If I couldn't have it just like I wanted, with a woman who loved me, I wasn't going to have it all. I was celebate for months before I met HER. The one who was going to blow my mind and change my life.
A hard core dyke, out lesbian for 20 years, former member of the Navy and militant that bi girls were NOT for her. Oh, I burned hot for her, but she wouldn't take me to bed. I was cute and coy and sly. I was funny and charming and smart and brought her a small gift every time I visited. I played with her dogs and snuck out to meet her for lunch. But bi girls were a trap, she thought. She offended me endlessly with comments about "hygene issues" and the inability of a woman to truly satisfy a bi girl who was always always always going to crave cock, somewhere deep inside her carnal desires.
We went round and round and round until I was dizzy and frustrated.
It's not about sex, I insisted. My bisexuality is not about sex. It's entirely person-dependent. I can fall in love with anyone and gender is as unimportant as race or religion or income or status.
Hot dogs or hamburgers, she would say to me. You have to make a choice. You can't spend your whole life insisting that you'd eat both. Hot dogs or hamburgers.
Eventually, our constant presense in each other's lives, and the fact that I had wooed her with everything that I had, led us to an evening in bed.
Holy hell, that girl broke me open and stirred my insides. Never ever have I felt so in the moment during sex. I was bold, fearing it was my only shot with her. I went slow and gentle, read her carefully and loved her as best as I could. Sweet success when she took me in her arms after and laughed delightedly, promising we could definitely do that again sometime.
After a short of period of time being "her girl," I started reviewing the major sexual milestones of my life.
Raped at 17,
unable to have an orgasm until I was with a woman at 19,
sexually taken advantage of by my then-fiance at 21,
sexually dead at 25 (engaging in sex play with my ex only when I was ready to concieve yet another baby).
The years of pain, emotional and physical, following intercourse with any man, all came back to me.
I journeyed through my best sex memories and realized that it was never about pleasure. It was about pleasing. The hottest moments of my life had nothing to do with my own orgasm, which was almost achieved by fantasizing about my college girlfriend.
One day, about a month into this newest romantic adventure, I realized I never wanted to see a man's penis again. Ever. I never wanted to lie under another heavy, hairy, smelly, groaning man again. And I never wanted to go over on my knees and offer myself up to someone who was going to (inadvertantly) cause me 2 days of pain and recovery from the most basic sex.
Lesbian.
I realized that I'm a lesbian.
I had held onto my bisexual label so hard because she had been trying to force it from me and I'm a proud and stubborn woman. But, Jesus, I had to accept that I don't want to have sex with men anymore.
So, now, here I am. A lesbian.
And I have to say - you all live in a completely different world.
Until I met the woman who helped with my metamorphasis, I had never watched a single episode of Law and Order. *gasp* Also, I've never tuned in for the LWord.
I've read scary little Virginia Wolf and while I adore the Indigo Girls (have since I was 16), Ani and Dar and the rest of them are virtual unknowns to me.
Where are the single dykes? I ask myself that all the time as I look around and it seems to me that every lesbian I see is already happily partnered.
And because your subset is so small, it's necessary to always be playing the "who have we slept with in common" game. How long was your last relationship? Still have some of her furniture? It's too soon. You've given everything back and not taken her calls for a month and you're still single? Must be damaged goods.
I am lost, floating through the very choppy waters of my new world. I'm out and I'm proud and I'm still not sure what the fuck to do when I walk into a room of lesbians.
Learning to be lesbian
Current mood: restless
I grew up falling in love with my girlfriends, but dating the geeky boys from the school paper and the debate team. My virginity was taken from me by a man in a car on a cold winter night when I was 17. After that I gave myself up to my highschool boyfriend on a regular basis, and while it was fun to make him crazy - it was never satisfying. I met my future husband at 18 and chased him hard until he agreed to marry me 2 1/2 years later.
In the meantime, I started sleeping with women. My girlfriends, mainly. I ran in a big crowd of leather and silk clad bi girls and we were all over each other all the time. Finally, sex I could appreciate. Release, sweet and lovely release in the arms of my best friend who smiled like an imp before she kissed me hard and drove me mad. Got married at 21 and remained monogamous until I was so unfulfilled and broken and desperate and miserable. And I left.
I knew that I was done with men, I had known it for years. The marriage had remained because of the kids and the finances and the promise I had made. Promises are important.
Out on my own for the first time, I was pursued by ... men. It was so flattering and they were so easy. Bring one home, do what I wanted, kiss him good-bye and either see him again or not at my discretion. I didn't play this game very often, but every time I wanted to, I was successful. I had real feelings for one man from far away during this time, but was filled with terror at the thought of trying another "real" relationship.
Then, about a year after I left my marriage, I stopped having sex. It was empty and meaningless and not any fun any more.
I needed something more.
More more more.
Greedy bitch that I am, I refused to settle. If I couldn't have it just like I wanted, with a woman who loved me, I wasn't going to have it all. I was celebate for months before I met HER. The one who was going to blow my mind and change my life.
A hard core dyke, out lesbian for 20 years, former member of the Navy and militant that bi girls were NOT for her. Oh, I burned hot for her, but she wouldn't take me to bed. I was cute and coy and sly. I was funny and charming and smart and brought her a small gift every time I visited. I played with her dogs and snuck out to meet her for lunch. But bi girls were a trap, she thought. She offended me endlessly with comments about "hygene issues" and the inability of a woman to truly satisfy a bi girl who was always always always going to crave cock, somewhere deep inside her carnal desires.
We went round and round and round until I was dizzy and frustrated.
It's not about sex, I insisted. My bisexuality is not about sex. It's entirely person-dependent. I can fall in love with anyone and gender is as unimportant as race or religion or income or status.
Hot dogs or hamburgers, she would say to me. You have to make a choice. You can't spend your whole life insisting that you'd eat both. Hot dogs or hamburgers.
Eventually, our constant presense in each other's lives, and the fact that I had wooed her with everything that I had, led us to an evening in bed.
Holy hell, that girl broke me open and stirred my insides. Never ever have I felt so in the moment during sex. I was bold, fearing it was my only shot with her. I went slow and gentle, read her carefully and loved her as best as I could. Sweet success when she took me in her arms after and laughed delightedly, promising we could definitely do that again sometime.
After a short of period of time being "her girl," I started reviewing the major sexual milestones of my life.
Raped at 17,
unable to have an orgasm until I was with a woman at 19,
sexually taken advantage of by my then-fiance at 21,
sexually dead at 25 (engaging in sex play with my ex only when I was ready to concieve yet another baby).
The years of pain, emotional and physical, following intercourse with any man, all came back to me.
I journeyed through my best sex memories and realized that it was never about pleasure. It was about pleasing. The hottest moments of my life had nothing to do with my own orgasm, which was almost achieved by fantasizing about my college girlfriend.
One day, about a month into this newest romantic adventure, I realized I never wanted to see a man's penis again. Ever. I never wanted to lie under another heavy, hairy, smelly, groaning man again. And I never wanted to go over on my knees and offer myself up to someone who was going to (inadvertantly) cause me 2 days of pain and recovery from the most basic sex.
Lesbian.
I realized that I'm a lesbian.
I had held onto my bisexual label so hard because she had been trying to force it from me and I'm a proud and stubborn woman. But, Jesus, I had to accept that I don't want to have sex with men anymore.
So, now, here I am. A lesbian.
And I have to say - you all live in a completely different world.
Until I met the woman who helped with my metamorphasis, I had never watched a single episode of Law and Order. *gasp* Also, I've never tuned in for the LWord.
I've read scary little Virginia Wolf and while I adore the Indigo Girls (have since I was 16), Ani and Dar and the rest of them are virtual unknowns to me.
Where are the single dykes? I ask myself that all the time as I look around and it seems to me that every lesbian I see is already happily partnered.
And because your subset is so small, it's necessary to always be playing the "who have we slept with in common" game. How long was your last relationship? Still have some of her furniture? It's too soon. You've given everything back and not taken her calls for a month and you're still single? Must be damaged goods.
I am lost, floating through the very choppy waters of my new world. I'm out and I'm proud and I'm still not sure what the fuck to do when I walk into a room of lesbians.
Rumple Foreskin
The AH Patriarch
- Joined
- Jan 18, 2002
- Posts
- 11,109
That me as well, Shang.BlackShanglan said:
I never was particularly interested in what I thought about life, much less what had or was happening in my own life. It follows therefore, as night doth the day, that for me to keep a journal (what ever happened to diaries, by the way) of my thoughts and deeds would be an act of supreme hubris, not to mention a boring waste of time.
Rumple Foreskin
impressive
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Sep 11, 2003
- Posts
- 27,372
I just started with LiveJournal ... but I'm not a pithy journaler. My entries are typically dry and boring.
Salvor-Hardon
A kiss is still a kiss
- Joined
- Jun 20, 2004
- Posts
- 15,669
I've been thinking about "types" especially the phrase "she's just not my type". More
than just aesthetics or arousal, but that attraction that stirs heart mind and loins
together. How did my tastes develop? What do they say about me as a man?
I know I can point to 3 moments, 3 influences on who I find I attractive. All 3 were in 1987.
One was an art teacher, tall lithe frame, always in sundresses or flowing, loose dresses, off beat, eccentric, but so warm and inspiring. My after school hours were spent, pencil and paper, with her. Learning to see differently, to think differently, to draw and appreciate beauty.
The other was Sybil Danning in Playboy, on a stone altar in black leather thigh high boots. The gothic tones and submissive poses echoed inside me so much so if I close my eyes I can still see the pictures even now.
The third was a dancer, no clue what her name was, but she danced to a single guitar played with passion and fervor. She danced the same way. She did not respond to teh music but rather embodied it, became what was being played nd let her body express visually what the guitar evoked aurally.
Even now, a dancer, thigh high boots, a woman of fire and strength giving herself up in surrender, or the magic creative nymph in flowing silks can make me smile like no other can.
than just aesthetics or arousal, but that attraction that stirs heart mind and loins
together. How did my tastes develop? What do they say about me as a man?
I know I can point to 3 moments, 3 influences on who I find I attractive. All 3 were in 1987.
One was an art teacher, tall lithe frame, always in sundresses or flowing, loose dresses, off beat, eccentric, but so warm and inspiring. My after school hours were spent, pencil and paper, with her. Learning to see differently, to think differently, to draw and appreciate beauty.
The other was Sybil Danning in Playboy, on a stone altar in black leather thigh high boots. The gothic tones and submissive poses echoed inside me so much so if I close my eyes I can still see the pictures even now.
The third was a dancer, no clue what her name was, but she danced to a single guitar played with passion and fervor. She danced the same way. She did not respond to teh music but rather embodied it, became what was being played nd let her body express visually what the guitar evoked aurally.
Even now, a dancer, thigh high boots, a woman of fire and strength giving herself up in surrender, or the magic creative nymph in flowing silks can make me smile like no other can.
M
MissBri
Guest
Just-Legal
Goth Flufflet
- Joined
- Feb 24, 2001
- Posts
- 4,075
impressive
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Sep 11, 2003
- Posts
- 27,372
.....
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MissBri
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impressive
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Sep 11, 2003
- Posts
- 27,372
MistressJett said:I have one of those too (duh), but I thought the old-ass entry would be more interesting.
Love the new av, sweetie!
I don't have any old-ass entries.
Thanks!
M
MissBri
Guest
Alessia Brio
Eroticist
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2005
- Posts
- 1,364
.....
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AppleBiter
In Cognito
- Joined
- Mar 4, 2005
- Posts
- 3,601
In honor of my 1 year anniversary of having quit smoking (which takes place tomorrow), I want to post this musing of my online smoking cessation support group. I've since moved on, but I wonder how these people are doing even now. Anyhow, here it is:
It’s four a.m. I sit here watching nameless, faceless thoughts and opinions scroll across my computer screen. My eyes, bleary, can hardly read the sentiments being expressed. I’ve been here for hours, yet I remain intrigued. Though the hum of the heater and the few hours left of darkness beckon me to my bed, I resist for fear of what may happen in my absence.
I am in an Internet chat room. It is a support group for those struggling with nicotine addiction. These are my people. I, too, am in the position of a recovering addict and I sympathize with their plight . . . but not tonight. Tonight, I am an outsider, looking in. I am curiously observing them from a fresh perspective, looking at them with the inquisitive eyes of a bystander.
As members join the room, they are greeted by first name: Tom, Diane, Pam, Melissa, Jeri, Opal, Corie, Charli . . . the room fills up and empties out fast. Over voice chat, Tom plays old 70’s disco music, reminiscent of “Saturday Night Fever”, and no one seems to mind. The conversation begins lightly, with each member sharing how they have been doing with their quit, and many shouts of “Congratulations” and “You CAN DO IT!!” are expressed.
“My one-month celebration will be next week!” Diane announces. She and Opal delve into planning what to do for her celebration. They envision spa treatments, candlelit dinners, and bubble baths, to name a few things. I continue sipping on my caffeine-free Pepsi, pretending not to exist tonight.
With the music rolling and everyone seemingly in high spirits, one post sends the party screeching to a halt: “I have lung cancer," Jeri posts, “and chemotherapy is every awful thing you’ve ever heard. It may be too late for me to quit, but I’ve got to try.” The silence is instant and overpowering. Jeri is only in her forties.
I swallow hard and feel a sting coming to my eyes. I am moved by both her courage and her conviction. Slowly, the others begin to respond. It is as though they are taken aback, and are unsure of what to say. They begin to rally around her with sentiments of love, compassion, and understanding that cause me to envision them huddled around her, in a group hug. I can feel the concern for this woman permeating off of my computer screen.
Soon, Jeri leaves the room, the conversation shifts, and the room finds themselves celebrating another milestone of yet another member with great joy. Each seems to share in the other’s victories as though they were their own. Although they are all miles away from each other and most have never met face-to-face, there is one thing that they all have in common – the fight for their lives.
It’s five-thirty a.m. and the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon. Little shimmers of pale pink and orange reflect off of my wall through the tiny slats in the shades over my study window. It’s another day, for some. For me, it’s the first day of the rest of my life.
It’s four a.m. I sit here watching nameless, faceless thoughts and opinions scroll across my computer screen. My eyes, bleary, can hardly read the sentiments being expressed. I’ve been here for hours, yet I remain intrigued. Though the hum of the heater and the few hours left of darkness beckon me to my bed, I resist for fear of what may happen in my absence.
I am in an Internet chat room. It is a support group for those struggling with nicotine addiction. These are my people. I, too, am in the position of a recovering addict and I sympathize with their plight . . . but not tonight. Tonight, I am an outsider, looking in. I am curiously observing them from a fresh perspective, looking at them with the inquisitive eyes of a bystander.
As members join the room, they are greeted by first name: Tom, Diane, Pam, Melissa, Jeri, Opal, Corie, Charli . . . the room fills up and empties out fast. Over voice chat, Tom plays old 70’s disco music, reminiscent of “Saturday Night Fever”, and no one seems to mind. The conversation begins lightly, with each member sharing how they have been doing with their quit, and many shouts of “Congratulations” and “You CAN DO IT!!” are expressed.
“My one-month celebration will be next week!” Diane announces. She and Opal delve into planning what to do for her celebration. They envision spa treatments, candlelit dinners, and bubble baths, to name a few things. I continue sipping on my caffeine-free Pepsi, pretending not to exist tonight.
With the music rolling and everyone seemingly in high spirits, one post sends the party screeching to a halt: “I have lung cancer," Jeri posts, “and chemotherapy is every awful thing you’ve ever heard. It may be too late for me to quit, but I’ve got to try.” The silence is instant and overpowering. Jeri is only in her forties.
I swallow hard and feel a sting coming to my eyes. I am moved by both her courage and her conviction. Slowly, the others begin to respond. It is as though they are taken aback, and are unsure of what to say. They begin to rally around her with sentiments of love, compassion, and understanding that cause me to envision them huddled around her, in a group hug. I can feel the concern for this woman permeating off of my computer screen.
Soon, Jeri leaves the room, the conversation shifts, and the room finds themselves celebrating another milestone of yet another member with great joy. Each seems to share in the other’s victories as though they were their own. Although they are all miles away from each other and most have never met face-to-face, there is one thing that they all have in common – the fight for their lives.
It’s five-thirty a.m. and the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon. Little shimmers of pale pink and orange reflect off of my wall through the tiny slats in the shades over my study window. It’s another day, for some. For me, it’s the first day of the rest of my life.
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TheEarl
Occasional visitor
- Joined
- Apr 1, 2002
- Posts
- 9,808
I've been thinking about time of late and just how crap I am at dealing with it.
As a cursory check of the timestamp on this post will tell you, I do tend to stay up late. I never really mean to. I always have very good intentions of going to bed at 10.30. Then, suddenly, it's early hours of the morning without any time seeming to've passed.
I used that kind of time to punish myself at one point. I'd stay up later and later, knowing that the tiredness would give my demons just that little bit more leeway to push me with, that the disorientation of an out-of-synch bodyclock would only accentuate my depression. I'd do it to feel bad.
Even now I'm relatively sane, I find myself up a the wrong hours of the day. I've seensurise from the wrong side far too many times to count, surviving on less than two hours sleep before dragging myself through work. I don't intend to. It just kinda happens.
Time's against me when I'm late as well. I don't think I've been punctual in a very long time. I know I have to leave the house by ten past eight at the very latest. And I'm often mostly ready by ten to. Then suddenly, it's twelve past and I'm scrambling to gather the last odds and sods. 20 minutes disappears in all of an instant and suddenly I'm late.
Even worse is the alarm clock trick. This is cause when my alarm goes off at 6.30. I decide, without being awake at all, that I don't want to be up. My logic states that, even though I'd wanted to get up early to write, I'd be far better off with sleeping a bit longer. Say until about 7.00. That'd still give me time to get up and get ready. At 7,00 the alarm goes off again and my brain manages to convince me that I don't even need to get up now. I don't need an hour to get ready! I can get up at 7.30 instead. I have actually played this game until 8.00 itself, by which time my brain is still trying to insist that 8.03 is a far more salubrious time to be waking up than 8.00. In fact, the extra sleep will help me throughout the day. I'd be a fool to myself not to!
Denial is fun.
I should away to bed, I suppose, before time plots against me again and it suddenly turns into 4.00am. Stupid lemon-eating time!
The Earl
As a cursory check of the timestamp on this post will tell you, I do tend to stay up late. I never really mean to. I always have very good intentions of going to bed at 10.30. Then, suddenly, it's early hours of the morning without any time seeming to've passed.
I used that kind of time to punish myself at one point. I'd stay up later and later, knowing that the tiredness would give my demons just that little bit more leeway to push me with, that the disorientation of an out-of-synch bodyclock would only accentuate my depression. I'd do it to feel bad.
Even now I'm relatively sane, I find myself up a the wrong hours of the day. I've seensurise from the wrong side far too many times to count, surviving on less than two hours sleep before dragging myself through work. I don't intend to. It just kinda happens.
Time's against me when I'm late as well. I don't think I've been punctual in a very long time. I know I have to leave the house by ten past eight at the very latest. And I'm often mostly ready by ten to. Then suddenly, it's twelve past and I'm scrambling to gather the last odds and sods. 20 minutes disappears in all of an instant and suddenly I'm late.
Even worse is the alarm clock trick. This is cause when my alarm goes off at 6.30. I decide, without being awake at all, that I don't want to be up. My logic states that, even though I'd wanted to get up early to write, I'd be far better off with sleeping a bit longer. Say until about 7.00. That'd still give me time to get up and get ready. At 7,00 the alarm goes off again and my brain manages to convince me that I don't even need to get up now. I don't need an hour to get ready! I can get up at 7.30 instead. I have actually played this game until 8.00 itself, by which time my brain is still trying to insist that 8.03 is a far more salubrious time to be waking up than 8.00. In fact, the extra sleep will help me throughout the day. I'd be a fool to myself not to!
Denial is fun.
I should away to bed, I suppose, before time plots against me again and it suddenly turns into 4.00am. Stupid lemon-eating time!
The Earl
Monday, December 26, 2005: Flow
Flow...
After 14 months of therapy and contemplation, I am in a rapid-evolution mode. Turn and turn-about. Take a position, contemplate it, let it go. Seeking always that balance, that middle way, between indulgent abandonment and stern renunciation. All the while experiencing them both, as excessive self-indugence and exclusive self-denial lead to fear of loss, and thus unnecessary suffering. I am learning what it is to just 'be'.
Flow...
Its all transient. Its all beautiful. I do not mourn the flowers that bloom and die in a day, I celebrate them. This is the model of life I want to emulate. I am learning to be content to live in the moment and let what will be to be. Like a child at play, free of care, so enthusiastically in the moment that she is contagious with joy.
Flow...
I am learning to be comfortable with being a woman, grudgingly acknolwedging that being womanly and attractive can feel good, and I that need to recognize it as a source of strength and power, rather than the opposite.
Flow...
Clinging/wanting/needing/craving--these create suffering, not desire. And so I reconsile myself with that force which connects us to our own divinity--desire--living each vibrant moment as it comes, hoping it will last forever and trying not to mourn too deeply as it passes. In a heartbeat is another moment, another opportunity to experience the heart-breaking beauty of life, another moment in which the only certainty is that it will end, as all things are bound to end. Practicing acceptance of my inability to control or deny that force which is change and which some also name entropy.
Flow...
Each of my relationships is an entity; each has a life of its own, is created moment-to-moment by those I am involved with. And I find that something in me is quietly delighted by these ineffable, indefinable, and incredibly unique creations, despite the inevitable moments of intense discomfort. I struggle to allow these nebulous, nuanced friendships to flow along their uncharted and mutable courses, struggling to keep my skittish ego and my need for control out of the equation, struggling to allow them to just be--no expectations, no restrictions. Simply taking delight in what arises.
Flow...
In letting go of one thing, it is transformed into another. I accept that this fundamental law of physics and energy pertains to me. Life is a cycle, and so is Love.
Flow...
I accept that I am as flawed and frustrating as any other being, perhaps more so. Certainly, I am more selfishly committed than most to my Hedonistic Creed: That Pleasure and Happiness are the Fruit and Goal of Living. A creed, I have learned, that is oddly not in conflict with dharma-practice.
Flow...
Into a new year...
Flow...
After 14 months of therapy and contemplation, I am in a rapid-evolution mode. Turn and turn-about. Take a position, contemplate it, let it go. Seeking always that balance, that middle way, between indulgent abandonment and stern renunciation. All the while experiencing them both, as excessive self-indugence and exclusive self-denial lead to fear of loss, and thus unnecessary suffering. I am learning what it is to just 'be'.
Flow...
Its all transient. Its all beautiful. I do not mourn the flowers that bloom and die in a day, I celebrate them. This is the model of life I want to emulate. I am learning to be content to live in the moment and let what will be to be. Like a child at play, free of care, so enthusiastically in the moment that she is contagious with joy.
Flow...
I am learning to be comfortable with being a woman, grudgingly acknolwedging that being womanly and attractive can feel good, and I that need to recognize it as a source of strength and power, rather than the opposite.
Flow...
Clinging/wanting/needing/craving--these create suffering, not desire. And so I reconsile myself with that force which connects us to our own divinity--desire--living each vibrant moment as it comes, hoping it will last forever and trying not to mourn too deeply as it passes. In a heartbeat is another moment, another opportunity to experience the heart-breaking beauty of life, another moment in which the only certainty is that it will end, as all things are bound to end. Practicing acceptance of my inability to control or deny that force which is change and which some also name entropy.
Flow...
Each of my relationships is an entity; each has a life of its own, is created moment-to-moment by those I am involved with. And I find that something in me is quietly delighted by these ineffable, indefinable, and incredibly unique creations, despite the inevitable moments of intense discomfort. I struggle to allow these nebulous, nuanced friendships to flow along their uncharted and mutable courses, struggling to keep my skittish ego and my need for control out of the equation, struggling to allow them to just be--no expectations, no restrictions. Simply taking delight in what arises.
Flow...
In letting go of one thing, it is transformed into another. I accept that this fundamental law of physics and energy pertains to me. Life is a cycle, and so is Love.
Flow...
I accept that I am as flawed and frustrating as any other being, perhaps more so. Certainly, I am more selfishly committed than most to my Hedonistic Creed: That Pleasure and Happiness are the Fruit and Goal of Living. A creed, I have learned, that is oddly not in conflict with dharma-practice.
Flow...
Into a new year...
