Some of my very favorite postings….
POST 6-12-08: Taboo
There was no hello.
There was only the anticipation, the look, and the understanding that I would be relieved of myself.
And then my head slammed into the wall.
If I had wanted it, there would have been evil in the intent. Darkness often usurps my consideration when I wonder what it would be like to be own victim. To feel myself from the inside, to taste what it is that simmers in the basement of my mind would make my understanding all the more actual.
His hands know better than I do, and elicit satisfaction without the brutality. Where I would tear, they scratch. Where I would batter, they beat. It’s better this way. He gives me what I need when what I want would destroy me.
The blows are sharp. I lean into the pain and love it for its complexity. I shouldn’t internalize it as much as I do, but I think I would like it less if it came without explanation. I do not deserve this; it is not something I have earned. It is something I have asked for.
My body breathes in the violence. My sweat signals I need more. When all I have is my control, he forces me to release it. There is only more: more breathing… more screaming… more succumbing to strength that is comparable to my own.
There is pleasure, too: fierce jolts of it that free me of my reserve. My spasms do not stop him. From caress to squeeze to whip, it all equals the same reaction. And though I offer a piece to him, I keep most of it for myself. Intricate greed makes me the best and worst of submissives.
Perhaps one day I will offer my surrender to him – or another – entirely. Until then, if I cannot have what I want, he will give me what I need. And for this, I thank him.
POST 5-9-08: I cried for madder music
I chase my bitterness with wine tonight. One goes down easier than the other, and I imagine the clouds in the horizon are mountains. It’s going to take more than wine to get me to tell the truth, though it rises in the back of my throat like the lyrics of my favorite song.
My lips press together. The softness can hardly hold back my relentless craving for the familiar. It’s a bittersweet contradiction that the thing I’ve said I don’t want is the only thing I can think of. Though nothing ever comes of such morbid romanticism, I can’t help but pick at it, click on it, try to force my way through stories I’ve already read.
The colors and the flavors and the sounds are now no more than a hand held up, a gesture of encompassing acknowledgment that does little to sway my conflict. If anyone understands this, it would be you.
More seems to happen when I’m not consciously looking. My mornings start when I find it; my days end when it vanishes. The minutes in between are what keep me awake.
Were my resolution less a tangible force, I’d be more inclined to dim the lights and ease into acceptance. Or maybe I’d actually speak the words I really mean, I can’t quite be sure. Pride, ego, fear, and consideration make a strong filter for the division between mind and heart and provide a convenient cover story.
Still I stand behind it all. There’s safety in pain, a lustful satisfaction that masquerades as comfort. I’m certain you know what I mean.
Something always breaks in the end. If it’s me, and with my scratched surface and itching arms it may very well be, I will tell the truth.
Salvation or my ultimate ruin is only a few words away.
POST 1-9-08: My finest hour
I suppose this happens to every band. You book a show on a random weeknight in a random bar in the city. It’s summer, you figure the warm weather and lure of $2 frosty PBR specials will entice your friends and fans to make the trek to see you. But the unfortunate truth for most bands –at least, for the bands I know- is that your mailing list, though robust, is comprised mainly of working folk with loftier tastes than PBR. They prefer the comfort of their suburban back porches to the crunchy stools at a Lincoln Park pub, and for the most part, you do, too.
You’re not overly shocked then when 10 p.m. rolls around and the pub, which has actually turned out to be less crunchy than you anticipated, is populated only by the bartender, the band with the later time slot, and The Girlfriend.
The bartender, who is also the sound guy this particular night, waves you to the stage. It’s a surprisingly large stage with bright lights and neon signs that actually work. As you begin your first song, you find that even the sound is good. It’s a shame there aren’t more people to hear, because tonight, the band is better than good.
To you, this night becomes a paid rehearsal. But to me, The Girlfriend, there’s no better time to see you.
There are no self proclaimed virtuosos in the crowd tugging on your guitar between songs, asking ridiculous questions about your gear. There are no drunk college boys in the background yelling, “Freebird!” not because they like the song, but because they think it’s expected and cool. There is no threat of a large woman in a tank top drunkenly spilling her beer on your mic stand.
I realize that these are among the things that make a rock n roll show. But on nights like this, whether it’s conscious or not, the band lets down its guard. By the time you roll into your second song, you’re in your element and it shows.
Although I’ve said I never want to be that girl – the Yoko who must infiltrate every aspect of her guy’s musical career, I can’t help but envy your talent and band. I’m fortunate in that I’ve been allowed to be as much “in” the band as I can without actually picking up an instrument. I suspect it’s understood that my passion for music possibly exceeds even your own.
I’ll never know exactly how much of me has wound up in your music, but I hear you distinctly in nearly every note. The one privilege I have as The Girlfriend is to know you better through your music. And on nights when it’s just me dancing in the stands, I feel brilliantly lucky to be a part of your talent.
This particular show, reduced to just an hour, for you may only have been one in a string of should-have-been-mores. But for me, ranks as one of my favorites.
You will always be my finest hour.
