Sunday, May 24, 2009
Item #1: Coraline - The Game for Nintendo DS
If you've read the book, seen the movie, or played the game, you already understand the point of the storyline. If not, here's the five-cent version: Coraline finds an alternate reality in which there is "The Other Mother" and "The Other Father." It is then up to her to learn that the parents she had to begin with really aren't so bad.
The Fish Response: I really bought this game on a whim, but it elicited dreams of "The Un-Me" versus "The Me" for days and days. (more about this later...)
Item #2: Newsweek - In which I read the article about Kate and Marianne
At my job, I have to spend a lot of time waiting on the clock. So, I browse cnn.com, newsweek.com, and / or msnbc.com while waiting for the minutes to tick by. So, without actively PURSUING Kate and / or Marianne, I read an article about their message. I read the first article...the one without all of the pussy-footed re-writes.
The Fish Response: I started to question some things I'd held as true-beliefs from the article and the timing it used to show up in my life. I read this article on the same day as I saw that show "I Want to Save Your Life."
Item #3: Lessons From The Fat-O-Sphere
On Friday night, I was dragging The Hub here and there, and I had a coupon for Borders. I hadn't intended to "rush right out" to buy this book, but I was going to give it a read eventually. (I think it JUST came out?) But I had a coupon; and after browsing the store for a few laps, I hadn't picked up anything else that blew my skirt up. So, we went home together.
The Fish Reponse: I had been poking around the respective blogs for a few days, and I could already feel some things resonating with me. I didn't rush right home and read the book, but it made it into my list of things to do today.
"What's the point, fish?"
I was giving my girl a bath when I started to realize that everything comes together under grand design. The Un Me...the concept of acceptance...the discontent I feel with society (that I felt before but for a different reason)...AND I've already taken my meds for tonight; so, this might wander around a bit.
For as long as I can remember, there have been two versions of me. There has been the reality version of me who goes to work, went to school, makes really good meatloaf, and has been known to whine and / or shrill at a moment's notice. But then....then there is the imagination me...the me that can shift into whatever look/feel/attitude that is appropriate for the current scenario dancing around in my head...The imagination me (notice that I did not say imaginARY me)...can fight vampires...looks great in leather pants...sometimes has wings...sometimes has been known to saucy right up to the good-looking guy for a kiss...The imagination me has all of my intellect, my stamina, my life lessons, my ten-pack imagination BOOM - and (this is the really important part) none of my fears. Imagination Me has been living inside of my head since I was a teenager. She's gone from stick thin with fake boobs to more natural, earthen in tone, and believable in shape. Imagination Me is H-O-T, but she looks MORE LIKE ME than she ever did in years past.
And lately, I've been starting to wonder why Imagination Me and Regular-Duty Me can't get together for some one-on-one party time. Let's do some Vulcan Mind Meld and merger our butts off. And you know what? I'm fairly certain that is the lesson I've been seeking.
Acceptance. Fat acceptance. Bisexuality acceptance. You're a kinky bastard and that's ok acceptance. Broken home acceptance. Broken body acceptance. Just general, all-around acceptance. This is how it is, and this is o-tay. Bring the Imagination Me and the Me Me together for some chattin' time so we can get down to some business.
I think this new co-existance is going to bring with it new ...rules...behaviors...new regulations for conduct....but I'm finally at a point in time when I am totally ok with that. It feels familiar...like I'm sinking into myself the way I used to after flying....but it's all me, man. I'm buzzing. I'm sizzling. I'm electric like lightning. I feel creative, seductive, evocative, and hard-foul mouthed. I feel brazen and sweet. I feel like a mommy and a darling sex toy. And you know what? That's just what happens when the outer edges of me meet the outer edges of the Imagination Me. Get us all the way together?
I'm coming, baby....just be a little patient...but I'm on the way...
Saturday, May 23, 2009
"You are your body." I am so in love with that right now.
Epona = Best.Dog.Ever.
Sometimes, it only takes a little thing to break the cycle of a big thing. Its all about the little things.
Did you know that I love you? I do.
(Now, doesn't that feel nice?)
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
My garden is finally starting to bloom. The tulips have already come and tuliped
their last. But the astilbes look very pretty. The bleeding hearts
are...bleeding their hearts...? And the bridal wreath is already pissing me off.
(It was completely not my choice to plant those bastard bushes.) Everything
looks lovely, except for the irises......Oh, the irises. Epona, Miss Priss,
apparently hates the irises....because she takes every single opportunity that
comes her way to SIT ON THEM. Oh yes, dog butt right on the plant. Stalk? Break.
I will be lucky to have *A* iris this year.
For more RTT, go visit Keely. You can blame her for my
random-ness....well, today you can.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Ok - the idea for the show is the "Diet Detective" ferrets out a person's bad habits, helps them overcome their fat-ness, and makes merry all over the place. The Diet Detective is a formerly fat person who is now thin, and he wants to "save your life" by making you thin, too. My curiosity was piqued; so, I watched. Today, I wanted to know more about said Diet Detective; so, I googled.
1. Y'all, I was smacked in the face by Mr. Diet Detective's COMMERCIALISM. I didn't, for one second, believe that he really wanted to save my life. I did, however, believe that he wanted to
sell me a book. The mass capitalization of the fear of fat is really starting to bug me. When did we go from "Roman-esque" to just flabby and fat? Every single time I try to force myself into something thin, my Higher Power smacks me upside the head with a visualization of the
Venus of Willendorf - BECAUSE SHE LOOKS LIKE ME. Hips like you wouldn't believe? You betch'er ass I got 'em. Ask frog. So lately, I've been thinking that maybe it isn't my concept of thin vs. fat; maybe it is my concept of me vs. the "thems."
2. (And this is where the Melly-mentality really veers from what might be considered sane...but it is my thought process...) You want to save MY life? Why? Just because I'm a big girl? What if I'm an axe murderer? Do you still want to save my life? Are you basing your life-saving choices ONLY on the fat factor? If the only criteria is fat-ness, what do you do later on when you find out that the guy you're praising for losing one hundred pounds also has a history of beating his wife? Or is a pedophile? You don't know me from Adam, but you want to save my life? Really? Are you sure? What makes you so invested in my life that you want to save it from the great, evil fat? Furthermore, maybe I don't WANT you to be THAT invested in me?
So, IWTSYL didn't snare me. More than anything, it bugged me. Burr-under-my-skin type irritation. At first, I didn't know why I was so irritated; but slowly, the concepts began to dawn on me. I know that I'm struggling with the conflicting visions of myself, but I want
to be accepted - by myself first and foremost - no matter what. Media that downs me because of my size isn't helpful. So, nix it! (you bastard tv makers, you...)
Sunday, May 10, 2009
To say that I have trust issues is a major "duh" statment. I think about this a lot because I'm somewhere lost in the middle, and I don't know which way to go. I have only recently fully come to understand the extent to which my former Dominant went to replace me. Same collar. Same tag. Same line. "Owned and Loved." He took everything that was mine in that world and painted it over her.
Now, though, right in this moment, I don't know if I feel bad for me or for her. Because while I lost everything, she was nearly re-formed into something she was not. Someone she was not. Let's not even say nearly. He took everything I had become, everything he shared with me, and simply stuck it over her completely.
I have two minds about this:
1. Property doesn't have a say in where it goes, what happens to it, etc. These feelings shouldn't linger because it was understood, in the beginning, that the determination of outcomes was never mind.
2. Why wasn't I good enough? Why couldn't he see me for the really good submissive I was?
I have carried this for years. I still carry it because I don't know how to shed it. I have a massive distrust of anyone of the dominant persuasion even though I still function as a submissive personality. I don't know how to let go of that hurt. I don't know how to reconcile that past with this present. I don't know how to let bygones be bygones because I was so completely broken down by it. I see that I am still hurt by it, and I see the residuals from it, but I don't know how to let it go.
The question that most often lingers in my mind is this: Does he even have any idea what he did? Does he have any idea how hurt I was? Does he know how I continue to carry this around?
There are clues to it all around my house - still. I don't begrudge him his trinkets, but they are difficult for me to see. I had to give up that life in order to keep a promise I made before we launched that endeavor. For a long time, I felt guilty because he gave it up, too; but now I see that I had to give it up, too. And first. But as with so many other hurts, I simply see them and swallow it down. It seems there is no reason to give voice to the pain because it doesn't get me anywhere. I'm not looking for a fight - only resolution. I want to let go of this trust issue. I want to let go of this pain and feeling of being fractured. I want to know if I am steadily on one side or the other so that maybe, one day, I can have those desires met.
I want to know which way to go...and I want to be able to trust someone if they offer me a solution...
Friday, May 8, 2009
- Buy and mail anniversary card for Mom & Pop
- Go to the post office for stamps
- Grocery shop
- Pick up photos
- Scan photos to be copied
- Find cards for Nurses' Week
- Figure out what to bring for the Nurses' Week pot luck on Monday
Projects to do:
- Tiara's graduation booklet
- Navy booklet for dad
- Army booklet for brother
- Bear's curtains
- Paint swatches for room
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
"I love the sound when you come undone..."
I'm sure I have seen you play a million times, but there are only a few that stand out in my mind. I remember the very first time I saw you play. It was with Daddy Ron down by the river. I remember being so nervous for you, but you seemed very...."with it." By now, you were a seasoned veteran at this stuff while I was still the green tadpole.
I remember watching as he led you to the horse, and I remember thinking that there was no way I'd be able to get on the thing as easily as you did. I won't say that Daddy Ron beat the hell out of you because I've seen you take greater pain, but it was a far cry from soft. I remember being worried about you; but when I saw your face, I knew it was all like rain. And when he put you in the cage...and left you there...and left you there...? I thought you would be upset at being left because he seemed to have forgotten about you....but you became a different person then....a different being. The air around you even changed. I wanted to know you then...so incredibly badly...but a part of me knew that I couldn't be in that moment with you. One of us always felt the need to take care of the other one.
You always have this moment during a scene. You're like me more than you know - only I was the physical version of your mental struggle. In every scene I've ever seen (rhyme!), you struggle with yourself. Ultimately, I think that is why we were there to begin with - to struggle against ourselves. On the outside, you have a calm, cool, collected exterior shell. It keeps you safe. It keeps you at a distance. During the scene, though, you had to get beyond that and be vulnerable - something I think you dislike as much as I do. I always could see it on your face. Your features always showed the struggle to keep up the exterior and get to the end result. We can't do both, though, and I always knew the minute you gave over and accepted the pain as your due. I think, in some ways, you wanted to keep up your exterior because you could BE the good submissive then. I think you were afraid that if you let go, you wouldn't be as good. It was beautiful to watch, though; and after, you were always pliant like water. It would sort of sneak up on you sometimes and flash across your face - particularly your constantly-knitted forehead. And then, your features would smooth, and you would sink into your body, and you would go further than you originally intended.
When I saw you take the single tail, I remember wondering if you'd get mad. The last time you had played, you had to get mad in order to get there. This was another stranger, and I wondered if you would have to get mad again. You never looked more to me what you fantasized to be than in that moment. And I've seen many moments when you were TRYING to get the look. This was natural. This was from your core. I could tell you were scared because you wouldn't stop moving your fingers. You knew from the beginning that it was going to hurt, but I could tell from your body language that pain was the whole point. I think you were trying to prove something, but I could never figure out what it was. You had the posture of someone trying to make a point. "I can DO this." It occurred to me later on that maybe you were trying to prove to Darrin that he couldn't hurt you as he so greatly feared. It takes a tremendous amount of love for someone to give people like us what we desire, and I think few people can stomach the results...even such a large Moose.
I also remember thinking that you looked like milk when the first strikes began to fall. You were there, shaking your head no, but your body was becoming loose, like you always do, like water. But your skin was so creamy that you reminded me of milk - the consistency of water without the lack of obvious color. And I remember you cried. And I remember the marks on your shoulders and back. And I remember that the air around you changed. In that moment, you were a whole person. I'd never seen it before, and I've never seen it since. Every fragment I'd ever seen of you sluiced into a whole being - a wholly fulfilled being. Whatever it was that pain gave you, you had it in spades at that moment. It rolled off of you in waves. It was sweet like candy, and I had to sit down. I have no idea how you got down from that cross because I don't remember anything after that moment.
I miss those moments - not only for myself but for you. I miss seeing you that way - vulnerable in a way you could never be with me. I enjoyed being the voyeur to those secret parts of you. I miss knowing that you have that, that the desire is fulfilled for you, and that you can have - at the very least - moments of being complete.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Children of the Cross, as I like to think of us. Yes, I know, that probably doesn't make sense to a million people out there, but it makes sense to me, and it will make sense to some of you, too. We were young, we were incredibly fucked up, and we needed something solid. Pain is a solid force when you surrender to it. Pain can make the haze clear (or the clear hazy, if that's your goal), and pain can make everything seem worth it. Kinksters, we were not; we were in it for the pain - don't let anybody fool you. The people who made it about sex pissed us off, and we made it clear that we were here for a purpose. We wanted to see that white light on the outsides of our gaze, and we could fight off four or five of you to get there. We had something to prove - even if we didn't know what it was at first. But beyond that, we had something to gain, something to attain. We were the subculture within the subculture. And it was a beautiful thing. (The most beautiful thing I have ever seen is your face, flushed red, when you felt the first sting of the single tail. Pig tails be damned; you were THE woman, the first woman, the only woman, in that moment.)
Nearing 30 now, I often ponder the psychology of pain, the purpose of it, and whether or not I'd ever go back to that place. I do miss it. I long for that fuzzy feeling like it was a limb I've lost. Sometimes, I feel lost without it. It was while pondering this concept of pain that I came across the Newsweek article "Mad Pride." BAM! The concept of pain smashed headlong into the concept of fucked-up-ed-ness and the origin of all the not-too-normal.
I spend a lot more time than I let on thinking about what is normal. Was I ever normal? Did I enjoy being a lot LESS normal than I am now? Surely, there are drawbacks to being fucked up just as there are drawbacks to being medicated and on an even-keel. I remember the highs and lows of letting my body, my brain, and my emotions do whatever they wanted. I remember that I used to write poetry, fiction, and songs. I remember that I felt a deeply connected spiritual grounding that I feel I have lost. I was a damn-strong mentalist (we'll not use words like psychic around here, Missy), witch, and healer. DAMN STRONG. I remember that I enjoyed pain because I enjoyed the end-result. The path to it wasn't important; only the moment when I got there was important. I could choose to do anything to get me there. Some would argue that we were not unlike addicts in our quest for pain-zen. I know I sure was. I chose to give up MUCH in that search.
But there are some days when I feel I've been numbed to all of that just so I can do what is expected of me. If I want to get out of bed every day and come to work, I have to take my medication. How much have I sacrificed to be part of "normal" society? Gone are the crosses. Gone are the spine-numbing heels. Put away are the instruments of pain. They collect dust, and it makes me sad. Mom jeans (though I am not a mom) and sensible shoes pack my closet now, and a Saturday night means in bed by 10PM.
In every culture in the world but America, the state of being fucked up is celebrated. You can talk to a spirit? The Native Americans would be elated. You can feel someone's pain and diagnose their illness? India is calling you. You say you can hear ghosts? Britian has a TV show just for you. If you can do any or all of these things in America, however, you are promptly labeled and drugged. Even if you can't see or hear ghosts but you just can't-get-out-of-bed, we've got a pill for you. Beyond this, in every culture in the world but America, the state and concept of pain are revered also. Because pain leads to the state of fucked up, which ranks highest among what people can do to make themselves more god-like or bring themselves into harmony with their gods. In my mind, you can't have one without the other. When we became "normal," we stopped seeking out pain. We stopped seeking that state of zen because we had bills to pay, husbands to feed, and we were incredibly fed up with the bullshit we got from the other members of our subculture. When did that happen? When did we cross over from Children of the Cross to Baggers of the Groceries? And why can't we go back? Are we on the outside now, forever?
The discussion about Mad Pride is one I have had with myself a million times. Would I be better off without my medications? Would I be happier? More creative? More spiritual? Or, am I just better where I am now making sure I am able to do what society says I must? Is there a happy medium? I want to believe that I can do both; but on some days, it is incredibly difficult when just being a normal worker-fish makes me so goddamn tired. What room is there for pain, for fucked-up spirituality when you're so tired? The thought of being a weekend-er pisses me off. It relegates something incredibly personal to me, incredibly important to me to a hobby. I truly feel as though I am hiding part of myself, part of my history and story, by just being 9-to-5 fish. I feel like a fake because I'm not all here - part of me is still back there waiting for the next strike.