Should I fade by cycles and turns;
roses and thorns,
by times bloody minute
and hopes shallow yearn
tunelessly humming
a mourning of cupfuls and dancing spirits
a carousel drone
complicated pleasures and simple pains
my life building to crescendo
it whirls the drain
and minute by minute I’m back here again
back in my body exhausted and bound
I’m drinking down glory
breathing in wine
a moment of passion, a moment of time
a flood of  memories
not all of them mine.


I have been insular for a long time. I have a strange impulse (to me it feels strange) to reach out and text or talk to her.  Even though we are essentially waiting for her schedule to free up and I know that,  and I know there is nothing really to be done about it.  I still feel this desire to reach out and touch base with her.  Like I’m not sure if she’s real.  And even though it’s via text, to somehow hear her voice.  Is that cloyingly sweet or just emotionally honest?

Thoughts on pain and pleasure

To truly appreciate pain, specifically pain given or received as a form of or an addition to pleasure, one must first fully explore and thoroughly examine pleasure.

Pleasure and pain are simple responses to stimuli. But as thinking beings we have the ability to move between the two states fluidly and, With practice, substitute one with the other.

Most often this is done to transfer pain to pleasure but once you’ve gone far enough in that direction there is the desire to take pleasure and form it into pain. For the novelty, if nothing else.

I’ve yet to successfully do that. Though the results of the attempts is a delightful crippling of my ability to distinguish sensation itself as something other than a heightened mingling of pain as pleasure.


I hate the feeling of anyone having power over me. Its why, for years, I’ve chosen relationships that were doomed.

Ones which were shallow, which were physical only, or were based on the premise of having one foot out the door. But I’m there now, because I responded to a friend request on facebook.

I accepted the request and responded with snark. I didn’t expect a response. It’s Facebook, I mostly play games on it. I just accept requests if they seem to come from actual people.
But she did respond, and we talked a bit, and I asked her out. It went well. It continues to go well. I think we’re doing good.

And now I’m happy and a bit scared. I don’t know if she reads this blog. I did point her to it. It’s not a secret. My rule has been from the start if it scares me, it plays. And by the gods, this scares me.

Ice cream

Dating vanilla is harder than I thought it would be.  Different, not bad.  It is akin to Dancing to music you half remember with steps you were never good at.

When you start a relationship as a Top/Master,  you sit down and talk about what is and is not allowable, what both want, what both need.  there is little ambiguity. Which is not to say there are not surprises. Delightful surprises.

But the framework is there to talk about it.  If you want an emotional escalation or something else you can talk about it.  Of course, that is the ideal.  The reality is often not as clear.  But there is a feeling that it is possible, needful even.

In a vanilla relationship I am adrift.  I’d normally have cut ties, it being so confusing, but I feel a genuine connection.  And I’ve learned to trust my Intuition, having ignored it to my peril.

Love rambling

In my core I desire a love that burns and aches through me. But I am so sheltered now, in my nest of years, that the outward me is a thing of sharps and edges.

How would you be able to grasp such a thing without being stabbed and bled? And even through that thicket, should a path be made or evident, what could anyone share with me?

A love of the darker nature of things? The spoils but not the work? A hope to hold, a hope to need, a hope for pleasure and shared silence. To love the beauty of a thing, but not need to own it?
That choices will be easy or simply made clear. That strength would match strength and become more.

All of this is clear in my desire but in action I am either too hesitant or overbold. A silence where there should be speech. Inaction where a gesture would win all. A rose given too soon, too much. Romantic verse and tokens given because doing so lightens my heart but without consideration for theirs.

I’m a mess. A jumble. Wanting the perfect acceptance of love in a novel, but knowing how unlikely it is. And still unable to keep myself from desiring it.

Cyclical knowledge

The concept that I learn anew from time to time isn’t that I am capable of love. I know that quite well. No, the lesson I am taught is that someone in the world might love me. Might be intrigued by me.

Of course this knowledge only persists as long as the relationship lasts.
When it’s over, after a period of bleak depression, I seem to have lost that knowledge. Not intellectually, but emotionally. The feeling of the possible.

What I, internally, call, somewhat pretentiously, The Dawning. A light shined into dark places. I don’t know what I’m trying to say here. Perhaps that even to ourselves, we are unfathomable creatures.

Seconds dripping by at Midnight

I’m a man of many parts. Most people are. But introspection can let you walk the paths of those parts. Most people don’t want to make the sacrifices walking those paths require. I never saw it as much of sacrifice. To know and be known, if only a little and only to yourself is a worthy goal I think.

If pressed, I will say that this life, I am trying for equilibrium. If pressed further, I will say that I have lived many lifetimes and many lives. Though in this lifetime I have had three lives.

My first life, I was a fool. I made some poor decisions. Decisions that effected friends and family. Those choices accumulated until I collapsed under their weight. I died and was reborn.

My second life was normal. Then I found my Morrigan. She introduced me to a world of pleasure and pain. To a place of transition, living hard and high on the borders. Still I kept secrets, though I learned that few want to ask the questions that lead to real answers. Because I was not ready, not accepting of her needs she began to drift away. We weren’t broken up and, in many ways still wanted each other, but at the hands of another who didn’t know her limits (or she didn’t inform them) she slipped away from this world. It doesn’t happen often and is always tragic. I shut down. Couldn’t deal, emotions became so painful that I shut them all away. Hidden in a maze deep in my subconscious. I died and was reborn.

Now is my third life, I attempt balance. Accept everyone who means no harm. Try to dance in transition and on solid ground. Accept love as it comes, in whatever form it takes. I imagine I’ll die again. Though I hope I will be in this state for the final death of this lifetime. But you never know.

Delicious melancholy

Death is the shadow at the core of the world. It moves down the elongated spirals, corridors of heat and pressure wending its way to the surface. Each of us has a death born in the fires of creation. It seeks us, all the long days of our lives.

For some of us, it finds us before our time. It walks beside us. A companion in dark places. For those of us lucky enough to have this, perhaps overly ambitious death, we are lucky. Lucky to know and acknowledge that this life ends.

To dance in the moment, to drink in celebration, to sing out. Not in defiance of death, in ending, but a celebration of life. You do not only live once, but each time you choose joy. Each love, each companion. Each is a lifetime lived in moments. A planet, a solar system, a galaxy. Making up the universe of your life. Until the end, when form breathes its last. An exhalation formed of stars

This word ‘generation,’ I do not think it means what you think it means

Culturally I would say a generation lasts +or- 5 years. Those at the outer edges may share cultural touchstones and thus identity with other generations. While those towards the center will identify with those within their own group more readily. When you start examining those further out you see that ideas transmitted by popular culture differs sufficiently to discern generations. Of course, if we go further back to when media and thus what allows culture to be transmitted was slower to reach enough people to reach enough mass to be considered a generation, we see a shift in the time frame. Indeed without media or a strong tradition of iterent storytelling, this concept of generation becomes thin. But for the purposes of modern(read 100 to 120 years) cultural shifts +/- 5 years works well.

Family Inequality

The people who make up these things drive me bananas.

NPR launched a new series on “millennials” yesterday, called “New Boom,” with this dramatic declaration: “There are more millennials in America right now than baby boomers — more than 80 million of us.”

The definition NPR gives for this generation is “people born between 1980 and 2000.” And it’s true there are more than 80 million of them. In fact, there are 91 million of them, according to the 2012 American Community Survey data you can get from IPUMS.org.* That’s OK, though, because there are only 76 million Baby Boomers, so the claim checks out.

But what’s a generation?

The Baby Boom was a demographic event. In 1946, after the end of World War II, the crude birth rate — the number of births per 1,000 population — jumped from 20.4 to 24.1, the biggest one-year change recorded in U.S. history…

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