Thursday, April 17, 2014

Sadistic response

There has been talk recently, in academic circles mostly, that the sadist and the masochist are on the same side of the coin; that is, there is some sadism in the masochist and some masochism in the sadist. I've done a bit of research on this and some thinking, and whilst I don't refute the concept as out of hand, I don't think that generalisations of this order are of particularly great value when considering any particular individual.

I've searched my mind and soul for any sadistic drivers in myself and I can't really find anything to speak of. Sure, I am capable of being inconsiderate or of not understanding someone else, or of not understanding all their needs. It is entirely possible that I'm driven by my own set of neuroses and/or needs and wants and I don't necessarily see the needs of the other with clarity because they interfere with my own. But, we are all capable of this, aren't we?! Don't we all regret some behaviors at times; wish we had been more empathic, considerate and kind?

But, I'll give you this. I understand the sadist's mind better now - today - than I did yesterday. Here's why...

We used to have two dogs. One died some time back and that left the little girl alone. She was sad, as were we, and thus we jollied her along; gave her liberties. She, in kind, was quite good. Yes, she'd still pee in the house when it rained. She'll do that forever, without a doubt. She doesn't like to be wet and she'll take her chances at being in trouble about it. It freaks me out. It upsets me greatly, but since it hasn't been raining all that much, I have lived with it, even though she always pees on carpet, which is it's own nightmare.

In the past two weeks she has taken it upon herself to pee in two different places and I've been upset with her, but not overly so. I think I've been distracted and simply cleaned the mess as best I could. This morning, I woke to find my son cleaning up a large pee in a third spot, on the way up the stairs. I saw red.

I grabbed the dog, and took her to the wet spot, and asked, "Do you see that? Did you do that? DID YOU??? You're a very, very naughty girl!!" I gave her two swats on her ass and put her down. "Get out! GET OUT!"

She made for the door and I alerted the family left in the house that she was staying outside for a few hours. She knew she was in trouble and it wasn't until I got home about noon that I heard her whimpering at the laundry door to get in. I opened it and told her that I was still unhappy and I whipped a tea towel down on the ground in front of her nose to make the point more emphatically.

She made for the dog door and went outside, making her way in later in a cagey, underhanded kind of way. She didn't bother to come to me. I made no offers to accept her. Instead, she went and lay under the coffee table, grateful to be somewhat close, I think, and enjoying the feel of the carpet under her.

Honestly, I felt much as a sadist, at least, the sadist that entered my life, probably feels. I was punishing her not so much by corporal punishment (two smacks isn't that big of a deal) but by banishment. If she wants to behave like a untrained, disobedient bitch then she has to accept the consequences of that. I've been banished myself so I know just how she feels, yet I don't feel a moment's sympathy for her. She brought this on herself. I mean, my God, it hasn't even been raining lately!

She's made a few attempts to come my way, standing in front of me in the laundry a few times and getting in my way, but I don't feel inclined to her at all. If I accept her I'm accepting her behavior and she'll just go and do it again when she feels inclined. Better to have a darn good long feeling of being rejected and get it into her head that if she wants to live here - to be treated like the princess she believes herself to be - then she lives here and plays by the rules.

See, that sounds ultra Disciplinarian, doesn't it? Sadistic, even?  Maybe that is going too far, although I am punishing knowing that I am causing her some vague emotional distress in order to alter behavior. Maybe, that's sadistic...

What a pain in the ass it must be for the disciplinarian/sadist to have a person repeatedly do the wrong thing! I used to think that it would be boring to have a girl behave well all the time. I like a little chutzpah in a person and I like to test the waters myself. I like to go up to the line and mark that territory. Yet, if my little girl were to behave nicely all the time, what a relief that would be; that finally, after all this time she was well trained, well behaved; knew the rules and obeyed them. Wouldn't that be so much better than this nasty scenario? Even 'nice' people will punish, if they have to. I wonder if I learned to be this way by example...

Sunday, April 13, 2014

The masochistic urge

Last night I experienced what I will call a 'masochistic urge'. I woke in the night, my mind a continuous moving image of sadistic romp. My light nightgown had moved up so that I was more or less exposed and my body was crying out for some sort of sensation. I knew that I had to do something to relieve what I will refer to as 'emotional pain'. I felt ungrounded; free floating. I was profoundly aware of an open cunt, and also conscious that my ass was empty. It felt so very wrong to feel this way; totally unmoored.

I had a few thoughts as to how to relieve this state of despair. More than aware that I needed to feel something, I pinched the skin of my right wrist and felt a mild relief, but not enough to do any lasting good. Remembering that I was at the holiday house with few supplies at my disposal I decided to get up and have some Panadol and then scrunch up tight, night gown covering me and to will myself to sleep. In the dark, I could find no Panadol and there remained only one thing to do.

I reached for an anal plug, coated it with some lube and put it in place within seconds. I squeezed. My goodness, instant relief! I felt grounded now, much better equipped for the rest of the night ahead. I got back into bed and squeezed and squeezed, and much like a parent rocking a child to sleep in his cot, I lulled myself back to sleep in this way.

This morning I have been aware of a general agitation. I know what I need and I can't seem to get it. I can't seem to convince my partner in life of this need of mine to be dominated at his will on some sort of a regular basis. It is like chalk and cheese, really. How can you explain to someone that has never had these needs that they are real, invasive, chronic and can't be helped?

It's not about the pain. I don't necessarily need pain. I don't need him to make welts or bruises necessarily. It's much more simple than that. I need to feel sensation. We have delivered every day a newspaper rolled up tight in plastic and a dozen whacks of this provides me with sensation that is satisfactory to settle down this impulse of mine which leaves me so very agitated. It's not really that complicated or that hard to achieve relief. What happens is that the tension, the tightness in my body is released and I can relax.Which is not to say that I don't appreciate the force of something more intense, just that he doesn't need to feel that he needs to do that everytime if he doesn't want to.

One time recently he 'attacked' me on the couch when he came home. I can't even quite remember what he was doing but I do remember he was twisting my nipples and holding my cunt and providing a lot of sensation that had me squealing in spite of a son being home. Afterwards, and during in fact, I felt fantastic. So, I don't think it is about pain really but more about some force and intention with a little pain thrown in for good effect.

To be clear, I do like to be intensely challenged. I like to be tied up and taken beyond the limits of my pain threshold but I don't need that all the time. Something faster and easier can fill the gap during those sessions.

When I am in this agitated, needy state I often feel that I have built up a head of steam and I need to release it any way I can. This leads to a blitz of the house or a fast walk/jog in the park. It feels that, since I can't get the sensation my body demands I need to relieve the pent up agitation and anxiety with speed and output. I just need to do something with my body to let go of excess energy and tightness.

I have been trained to provide myself with relief. This, as far as I can tell, is what the plugs are about for me - to provide me with a way to give myself some masochistic relief from being overly stimulated by these bodily needs. I can give myself sensation on a daily basis and I can feel the grounded effect of wearing a large, heavy plug in my ass.

This does work. It has provided me with an enormous amount of relief from the masochistic urge; satisfied the urge. It's a lot of arousal to deal with, sometimes more than I have a clue what to do with, but I won't focus on that dilemma today. I'll just say that the arousal I experience can lead me to lay off the plugs which then creates the need for more masochism; a viscious cycle if ever there was one. My achilles heel is that I live with intense, dramatic, invasive, overwhelming and chronic arousal. Sigh.

Of course, even a masochist shies away at times from inflicting pain/sensation on herself. It's not always an easy thing to do. Far easier, for the sadistic partner/top to enforce this sort of regimen on her. That makes far more sense to her and is so much easier to achieve. One can relieve oneself of any sense of guilt or shame by passing it over to the other. Yes, we do do that. And, it makes sense. It means that we are not alone. We are understood. This means everything.

I've heard gay people say they wish they were 'normal', but it isn't the case. I feel this way sometimes. How sweet it would be, I think on occasion, to be a 'normal' woman who got her rocks off visiting Positano or being an Auxiliary Member of the National Library, or playing bridge. The fact is that my life is controlled by my needs. I'm a slave to my body's demands and nothing thrills me more than when my body achieves the satisfaction that allows my spirits to soar. Then, I am the luckiest girl in the world.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Battle of wills

For most people, I imagine, sexual arousal doesn't happen every day. Supposedly, men think about sex copious times a day but even then I have to think it is a fleeting thing; a short circuit of the thinking, responsible brain that knows it must attend to business/economic matters. As Nicholas Cage in The Weatherman reminds us, the brain can be obsessive and that's when arousal overwhelms us. We just can't stop thinking about it. I've certainly known that feeling and it's a good feeling, until life gets tricky because you forget something as critical to your life's happiness and well being as remembering to bring home the tartar sauce for your wife.

I'm aware that some 'bottom' partners have daily rituals - to wear a corset, or to wear no panties, or to be naked at home. Then, there are the rituals like one member of the partnership irons the shirts or pays the bills. At times, there is something very sexy about a ritual. I think, for me, it is that there is a certain amount of force - control - associated with this. Maybe I feel that rituals are better than no rituals.

Yet, if something happens every day, if it is so ho-hum and defined that there is no doubt about it, does the arousal remain? Kinksters, of course, will find their love object always desirable - be that feet, or boots or long nails - but even then, I wonder if we all don't need a rest from that endless, circuitous desire for lust.

I read this morning that a remedy for some kinks is to initiate a very unpleasant smell around the kink object so that the kinkster will associate the nasty smell with the object and want to avoid the experience. Sometimes, my ongoing lust will initiate a feeling within me that I associate with 'too much'. I know that I need to take a break - immerse myself in activities that having nothing to do with sex, lust, power exchange or control. I live with certainty that the lust won't disappear so it's not at all a risky thing, certainly a good thing, to take a break from those activities, thoughts and apparatus that make for my lust. In this way, I can return to enjoyment of the lust later.

I think daily rituals can certainly be put in place. Once you've worn a corset daily for a while, living without a corset might seem unsettling. Once you've had long French acrylic nails the thoughts of regular nails may well seem impossible. And, this is where my argument falls down. This is a daily ritual, of sorts, for me, and it is well entrenched in my life. It suggests I can do rituals.

But, I'm struggling with another daily ritual, struggling to see it as something I can do continuously and struggling to see having the ritual as arousing, even though it has an erotic component. Actually, I struggled with the permanency of the acyclic nails at first too. Maybe, I'm in that stage again; struggling to accept that my own will means nothing here. I'm struggling to accept the significance of the daily ritual as to its power and effect on my day, my state of mind, and yes, to my high state of arousal. I'm caught in the vice between understanding that obedience is 'de rigeur' and the knowledge of what the daily ritual does to me. And, right now, the struggle is not being experienced so much as a turn on but rather a bit of a turn off.

I know that I am a natural submissive. My arousal of concepts associated with this state tell me that. Yet, I do find the 'every day' concept very difficult. Like, you mean there is no time off, I ask? There are no exceptions? There is no holiday or excuse acceptable? You mean, you're going to be a tyrant; an obsessive compulsive/anal retentive; rigid? Don't get me wrong, part of me loves rigid but part of me fights rigid, tooth and nail. In a battle of the wills, who must win? Don't even bother answering. I know. I know. Sigh.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Scripting a fantasy

It's impossible to not write here right now because if I don't write here right now, nothing else of worth will get done, so don't mind me, just go about your business and ignore this piece of dirty writing.

It all began yesterday afternoon. Well, no, it all began yesterday morning when I was given one of those spankings that are given for my own good. We call them 'sensory integration spankings'. Then, some use; a lovely breakfast out. We slowed right down after that and I sat down with my tumblr scroll. I was allowing the photographs to roll down in front of me, looking for something juicy when, lo and behold, there before me was the full version of the film, 'The Story of O'. I didn't move for the next hour and half. It's very old now but it still takes me places that I adore.

The first time I saw it, and I haven't seen it since that day, I was about 16 and when I came home, alone in my bed, my body climaxed in a way it never had before. Of course, I must have read the story hundreds of times since then, but watching it on the screen was really something else again.

I used to wonder about this desire of some men to loan out a woman to other men. I had trouble totally comprehending what they saw in this but I think I see it now. What complete ownership of a woman is this that he decides that another man may have her for an evening, or even for a few minutes, because he has deemed that he may do so; that he is in such possession of her that he is comfortable that she will accept his command and that she will return to him afterwards. She does what he says to do, comfortable in the decision because she is that at peace in being owned by him.

I slept well; don't think I dreamed. However, upon waking I could feel my body on fire. I've been told that my fantasy life doesn't mean all that much. After all, it is I that controls the fantasy. Yes, I get that, but I still enjoy my fantasies a great deal; still get a lot of succor from them.

It went like this. I was owned by another one of those faceless men. I couldn't tell you if he was blond or dark, tall or short (although he did have a particularly long and thick cock...), only that he was my owner and that when he gave a direction, I complied. It was early Saturday morning when he told me that it was to be a weekend of silence and that I was not to look at him. There was no argument over this at all. Our agreement was such that he directed, I complied.

Since it was to be a quiet weekend, it became a weekend of catching up on paperwork for him. He had me kneel by his side at his desk, naked, close enough that he could touch me at any time. He had a penchant for the riding crop that weekend, and as he laid it over my bare rump, three times each day (he had a tendency to be methodical and ritualistic), he would comment on how much he loved to see the marks, and how proud I must be to wear those marks of ownership.

Although I could not utter a word, and he put the ball gag in while whipping me to ensure that no words left my mouth, he spoke to me almost non-stop, telling me how beautiful I looked and how pleased he was with me. He caressed my body, told me often how delightful it was to see my asscunt stretched out by the big plug. In fact, he kept it in nearly constantly, only taking it out to wash me and to allow me to empty out, only to return it to stretch out the hole again overnight. He used me after a bath, and before he returned the plug, by the way, because that was convenient and that way his semen could slowly leak out. He told me that the plug was an extension of him and since he could not always be inside me, the plug took his place.

I remember him washing me particularly. He did it tenderly and I particularly remember feeling so proud of my status as the white washcloth gently was rubbed over my rings of ownership that were through my nipples and my pussy lips. I remember feeling beautiful. I remember feeling very happy and very deeply at peace. I rejoiced in it all; even the pain. 

As you can imagine, by the end of the fantasy (and there's a lot more detail since these fantasies can go on for a good hour) I was soaked in sweat. The silk nightie I was wearing was wet and sweat dripped from my face; was through my hair. Okay, it's just a fantasy. I controlled it. But, boy, did I ever have fun scripting it. Now, it's onto other thoughts, I hope.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Sexual liberation

I went to a session recently where there was a panel of erotic/porn writers talking about their work. In their discussion there was talk of the institution of marriage and it was made clear that it was passe (imagine a mark above the e) to have female characters remain in, or return to, their marriages. Notions of women's sexuality had gone beyond that idea, they said. It almost felt wrong to remain committed to a relationship that was average when there was so much untapped potential out there, at least in terms of telling a story that involved women's sexuality.

Even Elizabeth Strout, author of The Burgess Boys, a self-confessed conservative woman from Connecticut, had some concerns about her character Helen, also a conservative woman from Connecticut whose husband has been unfaithful, accepting Jim back. Part of her, she said, wanted Helen to go out and grow.

Helen is very interesting actually because there's a paragraph in the book that alludes to Helen feeling uncomfortable about some other person having been found to have whips and rope and nipple clamps in their house. She's not being judgmental about them here. She's jealous, because thoughts have crossed her mind but she's put them aside; certainly not discussed them with Jim. And, here the exploration of Helen's sexuality remains; locked.

It's an important next stage of women's rights to live a full life, I think, this exploration of their abundant potential for sexual fulfillment. I cast no blame per se, for there is nothing to be gained by blaming anyone, but many the married woman has had a tepid sex life and that's no longer something that is seen as being acceptable or necessary.

This is all very personally interesting to me because if I allow my protagonist to go off and satiate her appetites (such as Emma in The Secret Lives of Emma), does she have an incentive to return to her marriage? Naturally, love, commitment, duty, family, a long past together and so on are important factors, but if she is sexually fulfilled in very new ways 'out there' can she return to what she already knows? Logic tells me that she can only return if what she is returning to has also grown; enlarged; transformed. Is it possible for both people in a marriage to grow such as they can complete one another again together? Is there acceptance of the notion that it is just as much about the two individuals as it as about the union of the two individuals? Are husbands ready to accept that?

As I see it, this generation is more savvy and more gun shy about marriage. They still want a lifetime partner, eventually. The desire for a mate seems to be hardwired into us, but they are in no rush and they seem to want to try out a lot of partners. You can say that the boys are in relentless pursuit of the next catch, but lots of girls want to play in this way. They aren't in a rush to settle down either, until they are, and then they want a man to commit to them, because that's the way life works on the whole. We understand the importance of family.

I do wonder and that's all it is, wondering, if men are struggling to keep abreast of the changes in thinking on relationships. If women are less prepared to put up with things, what then? I know that I'm very close to my elastic limit on the limitations I have put on myself - to put everybody else's needs ahead of my own; to be the 'support company' of the cadet unit, to be the reliable one who sends everybody else off fully equipped for a wonderfully fulfilling time. The support company is an essential part of the unit, of course, but where's the fun for them?

I'm smiling as I write this for I just remembered something. I was in my late 20s. My boss was twice my age and I was complaining that I got to stay in the office and mind the shop whilst he got to travel and have fun. "Well you go off with Kevin (the Chairman) to Sydney, then," he said. "Let's see how you  like that!" Of course, he knew I couldn't think of anything worse. The other side of the fence isn't necessarily as green as you might think, was his point.

Another time I said that it was all right for him. He was sitting on his side of the desk! "Well, let's change spots," he said, and he came and took my chair and I took his. He pretended to be me, always good for a bit of acting, was he, while I laughed away sitting in his big chair. Nope! I wasn't meant for that chair at all. He had made his point.

I don't want to manage the money, or make the trades, or wear the pants. That's not what I mean. I just don't always want to have to wait until every other member of the family has all their needs met before I can do what I want to do. I want for my wants to be as important as their wants. When I explore this thought with my husband I can see his mind processing the danger. "She's getting feisty as she ages," I can hear him thinking.

But, when you are surrounded by thoughts that women have rights - and not just to vote but to live a full and satisfying life in every way - it's impossible to not hear the call.  "Move over," we seem to be saying to men collectively. "Make some space!" "Listen to my fantasies, because I have a plentiful store and let's get on with the business of satisfying them!"

In my opinion, this is the tip of the iceberg and there is no going back. A woman has a bountiful libido; a rich and very naughty mental file of fantasies. This is the new message. The woman who wants to have her goals taken seriously has been with us for while. I have just been slow in insisting that mine be taken seriously.  But, the sexually liberated woman has arrived and look out, because she is not going away.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Everyday life

There's so much to love about Elizabeth's Strout's The Burgess Boys. At the heart of the novel is Jim, Bob and Susan Burgess from Maine, all grown up now, either divorced or with a troubled marriage, but still living under the cloud of their father's accidental death when they were very young. Bob did it, by mistake - let the hand brake go, enabling the car they were all in to roll down the hill and run over their father. Or, at least, that is what he thinks. The truth is something they may never know. They were all so young.

I was struck by a simple line in the novel that explains that Bob is 51, tall, and a likeable person. However, he didn't know that. Bob was much more inclined to believe of himself what others told him. Jim, the older brother, had never stopped being the big brother, sarcastic and putting him down. Susan, his twin, disliked him so much that when he comes to help her son she can't even be hospitable. She offers, begrudgingly, to warm up some frozen pizza. (This bowled me over.)

As readers, we come to know the real Bob - a man who has a great deal of generosity of spirit. All their lives they had thought of Jim, the star attorney living in New York City, as the sibling to look up to. But, Strout reminds us in this novel that perception can be an illusion. It's Bob who steps up, once he begins to move out of the shadow of guilt that has plagued him all his life.

I've always been interested in the effects of birth order in families. Most first born children feel some burden of responsibility and those born later can experience the freedom of having another child take on that responsibility, so that they can do something more creative. Or, younger children can feel that they don't measure up to the first born child. We bought a second hand car from a man whilst living in Connecticut and I remember him telling me that his sister had never forgiven him for being born. It can go so many ways. Yet, the facts remain that it's those first relationships in life that stay with us; give us succor at the same time as they manipulate us to thinking about ourselves and our siblings in particular ways.

I do wonder if a very difficult childhood shared with siblings creates some bond that really must be explored at some stage later, in order to make sense of who we are now. Poverty, the loss of a parent, a sibling who has run wild or who was born with a special need can induce feelings that almost can't be expressed, until we are ready, often decades later in life to explore those memories and put them in their proper light.

So much is said in a family without specific words ever being spoken. Parents, can, for example, constantly remark how hard one child works, never mind that the other siblings have been striving with their own goals silently for years. What's the message here? Is there something about the approval of one child's goals over another? Or, one child can be the carer of the parent whilst the other jettisons off to live his own life, rarely seen. And yet, it is the child that stays away that is so often spoken of, or revered. What's the parent really saying? Some things are too hard to say. Some things are said carelessly. But, every word leaves it mark. Of this we can be sure.

In large measure, The Burgess Boys is about every day life. Some things do happen, but in many ways it is about how one moment leads to the next and the next and then something stagnates or changes, the situation transforms into something else. Every moment of life actually has a variety of options. We can choose to be kind or cold. We can choose to talk or to stay silent. We can choose to help or hinder; to be positive or negative. All of these choices tend to be affected by what others say and do as well. So, it's a melting pot really and what happens next is anybody's guess. It can look 'everyday' but the choices are infinite.

I think the really outstanding aspect of the novel is that I began the novel not finding any of the characters all that interesting and likeable and I ended the book grateful that some issues in their lives had been resolved and that all was, fundamentally, well for them. I closed the book after reading the last page pleased for them, happy that they were growing into themselves. I wished them well.

This morning, I heard Strout in an interview and she said that the characters had "gone" for her now but that she believed that they lived on in the readers' world, giving to them what they needed. She said she wrote with that voice in mind; that the characters and scenarios she created were for those readers who needed them at that time in their lives. I believe, and have always believed, that when we are ready for things, truths, they come to us. We make sense of the material. For many people, life has no purpose, but when there is so much to learn, as there is, life always has purpose.

Monday, March 31, 2014

Writing impulses

Writers sometimes keep journals about their project(s) and within those journals are all sort of contemplations about why they are hooked on a particular topic or idea, who their characters are and why they do what they do. These diaries can be filled with contemplative reflections that go on in a stream of writing way for pages at a time, or just a note; some little snippet of an idea to be considered on some other day.

I'm deeply immersed in one such diary at the moment and considering the motives of the two main characters in the story. I feel I know what she wants but I am not entirely sure of what the male character stands to get; not at all sure what is motivating him. Well, sometimes, I am sure of what he wants and sometimes he just confuses me. But then, is that I, the writer of these characters that is feeling different today than I did yesterday, just as all our emotions and thoughts fluctuate somewhat from day to day, or is it my vision of Daniel that is seeing things in some sort of new light; something that I didn't see there before? At the end of the day, it is all perception, not some truth of the matter, I think.

Of course, we don't necessarily want to be seen under a bright, neon light. We may have no desire whatsoever for someone to understand us in our entirety and so it is with the writer's process - some characters are tricky; some choose not to reveal themselves in any complex and complete way. That's why we write notes, trying to pin them down; to make sense of behavior that seems to have no logic of its own.

Diaries are used for catharsis, too. Moments of anger, frustration and joy ask to be cataloged in a diary. I've no idea why exactly except that for some people there's an instinct working that tells them to 'write it down' and so we do; the heartbreaks, the moments of happiness; a sudden burst of understanding about a situation. We write down changes too. We notice, our intuition notices that there has been a change within us and our intellect goes to work to try to figure what it was that our intuition noted. Since we learned language we've felt right about getting things down.

I've noticed all morning that I feel different than I did, say, last week. Yes, a weekend away in the country stimulates my senses and getting out of the city is enlivening for my spirits. But, it's more than that. My body, over the past five days or so has been stimulated (used) and having expressed myself in this way (that is, felt deeply and contentedly objectified several times over) my mind is in a state of peace; not empty but slowed right down. I've no desire today to do, but rather just to sit with myself. Never mind that I have writing to do. I'm doing the writing that I'm not required to do, as you can see.

This is no permanent 'fix'. There's still a long way to go before I could feel that the situation has settled such that every day is an authentic day, or a day in which all is in its place in my world, but I don't feel any longer that sense that I'm living in my own little nightmare, unable to make it go away. It's back to that feeling of contentedness (even though nothing has actually changed other than the use, and my sense of things, and my feelings about all that), and that understanding of the contentedness that it is no permanent state. What I mean is that I know that I am a slew of emotions that alter and change without my being able to set them in a particular way. All I can do is notice them; be aware of them; celebrate them when I feel as I do now; as if I have walked out of the primordial swamp intact; alive. "I am alive!" What a wonderful feeling is that!

Of course, the idea is that when one is enlightened enough, one simply accepts each new day and each new set of feelings as they change and transform as being 'right'. If one is simply awareness, one looks in on the situations of life and accepts all that happens; all that one thinks.

I'm not explaining it well, because at this moment I am writing as if I were writing in one of my hand written diaries, none too worried about being logical; just exploring an idea. The best I can do is to say that I am very aware of this moment where my fingers are gliding over the letters of the laptop; where I sit here at the big round table with myself, surrounded by pages that offer endless ideas about the creative process and feel...content. I have no particular needs. I'm not even focused on doing the task at hand (as is obvious) but rather sitting with myself, whoever that is.

As I woke this morning I remembered, quite out of the blue, that I had a conversation with a woman about two years ago now. She used to look after me when I was a little girl, She cooked for me mostly but she also talked to me a lot. There had been a gap of about 20 years since I saw her last and the first thing she said to me was "I'd have known you anywhere. You haven't changed at all." I didn't like to ask then what I woke up wishing that I had asked. "Who is that little girl you know so well? What was I like? Tell me about myself."

I'm beginning to think that no matter the subject of our writing, at the end of the day we inject every situation and every character with a part of ourselves, because the most fascinating part of any human being's journey through life remains the eternal question, 'Who am I?' We may never know.