Tuesday, February 28, 2006

I can still feel the Bear paw~

I may not have community in the larger sense of being a part of a big group or culture, but I sure as hell have community in a rock-solid intimate daily life way.

My community is family. My community cares about me in the same way I care about them. My community is there when someone is hurting or has not only a need, but many times, even a want. My community not only loves me...but adores me. And I, them. My community has increased over the last couple years.

Genuine. Filled with integrity. Gentle people. Caring. And...very important, they too are perv pigs.

What prompts this entry?
Something that happened yesterday.

Last week I made a Bear date day. He and I...for today. As life progresses and becomes more difficult, it has become harder to connect with people. Even when I try, there is a detachment. For example, Sunday night. We got a group together, went to the movies. Then food. Laughed. Talked. Hung out. I love everyone at the table. It was good to be surrounded by them. And yet...while engaged, I was simultaneously standing back because the pain created a separation between the others and myself.

Be in the moment. Be present. To be in both is...challenging. So it is easier to be alone.

Yesterday was a big session day. Once I get a little distance, I'm sure I'll write about it. It left me trashed.
It is not new memories or hidden secrets. Instead, I am overwhelmed with the realization of how much pain a little child can begin to touch before they need to tuck it away.

This grief leaves me paralyzed.

I called the Bear last night to cancel today's plans. You see, I feel...toxic. I fear the heartbreak that is pouring out of me will contaminate and drown anyone I come in contact with.

In an attempt to explain this to the Bear, I discovered he would not be moved. Futile exercise. My messy, bloody state doesn't scare him. More importantly, my heart was massaged by his big bear paw of resolve.


It is difficult enough to ask for help. We aren't comfortable with pain, with disability, with anything that doesn't appear to fit the norm. I believe this is what separates family from everyone else. They are there for you, regardless of how sloppy everything seems to be.

Part of what I need to learn is that when I feel incredibly isolated, I must learn to reach out to my community...my family. Although they may not fully understand what I'm going through, I do know their support lightens the load. I cheat them by not allowing them to share in all parts of my life.

Monday, February 27, 2006

This reminds me of a few people. :-)

Because my replacement is doing such a great job...determined not only by his brilliance but by my lack of anxiety around workstuff, I've requested and just received approval to take the extra two weeks. We are allowed 6 weeks of sabbatical, and I had booked only four weeks.

This means I am now only at my halfway point in my time off.

It provides some needed breathing room.
For something a little lighter than the last week~

How about a little Peter Sarsgaard in suspension bondage?
Check out the March edition of Vanity Fair.

From the bondage top's LJ, here are some more.

While I'm at it, here is an Annie Leibovitz photo essay: Men, Beams and Dreams. I love structural, industrial images. These are fun to look at.

Sunday, February 26, 2006

I haven't had the desire to be touched in about 2 weeks. Very, very, very unlike me. My heart is so raw that it filters out to my flesh. My skin can't bear the contact. Any form of physical intimacy right now feels like too much. I fear that if I'm really touched right now, I'll fully lose it.

This is quite unsettling because it is so very much not like me. Yes I know it's temporary but still...

Today I have reached out to some good friends. Time away and out of myself will be a good thing. It's a bunny and me day. He came by early and right now is laying on my bed, reading one of the sex story anthologies from my bookcase. I'm sitting here trying to get it together, so I can jump in the shower and then we can hit brunch.

Later, I've gathered the bunny, Auxugen, Qnetter and his honey to join me in seeing the Academy Award-Norminated Animated Shorts playing at the Varsity.

Guess it's time to begin my day.

Saturday, February 25, 2006

List of good things.

So, have I told you lately that this analysis stuff is probably the craziest thing I've ever done in my life? I mean it's one thing to have a therapist, someone you bounce things off of...a guide. A counselor. An objective ear. A hand to hold in difficult times. It's another thing for someone to give me a few tools and some safety gear so I can jackhammer through the hardened concrete that has filled the large gaps in my heart.

I'll write more at some point. But what I need to do now to remind myself that I am on the right path is list the positive changes and good gifts that I'm seeing because of this work. Each day, I mentally check off a reminder or two. It is what keeps me going.

~As I wrote once before, I care less what others think. That alone is a biggie. Refreshing and freeing. Yeah, stuff still stings, but it's different now.

~The LLC weekend coming up is a beaut. First ThorNYC asked me if I was planning on attending. Honestly, I never had the desire to. Not my scene. I prefer to leave the organized political stuff in the hands of those who get off on it. It's not my fetish. But for some reason I felt my hard "no" soften.

The weekend of the SEAF jurying, I was approached and asked if I'd like to sit on a panel for LLC. Very surprisingly, I jumped at it even though I had no idea how I'd be able to afford it. First, our proposal needed to be accepted, which it was. Then, thanks to Bad Faggot I was offered a room in Brooklyn for the whole time I'm in NYC! This week, Hoss gifted me with his extra frequent flyer miles. I now have a free roundtrip (non-stop both ways!) ticket in my hands.

Hmmm....methinks I am very much meant to be in Brooklyn in April.

~My boss is granting me something I've requested for the last couple years. Also huge.

~The painting I sold, that will be shipping out.

~My migraines have disappeared.
I had yet to share this news with you. I wanted to wait and see. 2 years ago, in December, I began migraines. I knew it was due to a big emotional release in therapy. The first migraine hit within 24 hours of a declaration I made in a session: "I wish I had never been born."

2 years to the month, this past December, I was on the phone with my parents. They had asked me about my therapy. I began talking, matter of factly...calmly. Within this conversation I tried to explain some positives, and I used my birthday as the example.

"Mom, Dad, you don't need to worry. There is progress. You see, two years ago I realized my birth was a mistake. I'm not supposed to be here. So I ignored my birthday. Last year, I chose to celebrate my unbirthday, the day I should not have been born. This year, I am celebrating my birthday."

There is silence on the other end.

Then I realized what I had done. I could not believe I told my mother that I shouldn't have been born. Crap.

My dad jumped in and said "you wanted to be born. Your mom was in labor for 72 hours!" I heard him, but thought to myself "yeah...that proves that I didn't want to come out."

For two years, my migraines came every 3 weeks, for a couple days, like clockwork. My last one was in early December, before talking with my parents. The next one was due a couple days after speaking with my parents.

I have not had a migraine since my blurt to the folks.

Many things.

~Being recognized on another site.

~Reconnecting with some people who were some of the first great pervs I met when I arrived in Seattle.

~Getting to know new folks.

~Oh yes, once again I want to thank the person who sent me the virtual bunch of roses on V-Day. Every time I go to my user page it makes me smile.

~Heh. This is the kind of thing that's been happening. And it's all about timing. As I'm writing this entry, an email came through. My shrink forwarded me an email he had just received. It is a call for art submissions for queer artists who have been hurt by religion. The show goes up in July, and the deadline for submissions is April 3rd. This is so fucking not a coincidence.

Lots of doors opening and interesting stuff happening. It seems there is something new every week. I need to keep looking at this type of development because honestly, right now, it is the only thing that is keeping me on this path. I have to trust my shrink quite deeply to continue which, with the pain, is tough to do most days. I continually fear that the deeper I go, I will just break and lose it. Go crazy for real. Become lost in some alternate reality.

Taking a moment to see the larger picture helps to ground me.

Each step rips me open, further and greater. Each move uncovers more cobwebs, revealing more ghosts.
And...when I shut down the clanging noise of my head...and listen to the quiet in my heart, I know I'm on the right path.

Friday, February 24, 2006

One more time!

About a month ago, one of my blog entries was listed in the Daily Bloggerback best of blogs round-up on Pierre Tristam's website. Well it happened again. Mr. Tristam included one of my koan entries in today's list. Check out Candide's Notebooks for the full list. And please take a little time to explore some of his other links. It's good stuff.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

There is so much to write. Each day, my heart pain is greater. I thought I knew, from failed love relationships, what a broken heart felt like. This has similar characteristics, yet reaches depths I never imagined possible.
Breathing...Be in it.
Time to be with it.
I can't fight it. I can't hide.
I can no longer push it away.

My koan of "why am I not painting now?" evolved on Tuesday to "who am I if I'm not The Painter?". It's a question I don't even want to look at. You see, my whole identity is wrapped in painter. This is reminiscent of when I was in leather training. One night I was told, "It is time to give up your leathers." When the reality of what he requested hit...big, sloppy quiet tears immediately drenched my face.

"But how will people know me? What will I do without any of it?"

He responded "they will know by your eyes. Your light will radiate and attract others and you will see them as well".
My identification as a sexual being was so tied to my boots, my jacket, my toys, my books, my attendance at events...and it was time to let it all go.

Tough lesson. Scary lesson. It was one of the most valuable lessons in my entire life. It showed me that the physical, the material...are only trappings. We place so much weight on it for our identity. But who are we really?

Now, it is time to do that again. I am more afraid because I realized that my identity as Painter is core. I am not man or woman. I am painter. A genderless, highly sexual, creative being. It is how I see, smell, taste, feel and touch the world around me.

It is the reason that I never fit.

What if I let go of The Painter? What does that say about why I felt great isolation as a child? What would then be the justification? Holding onto the label of freak allows me to make sense of being shut out, excluded, and ignored. It allows me to remain the victim, instead of the victor.

Freak or pervert need not be terms of shame. They can be an empowering tool. Labels and anything else we wear on the exterior can be used with strength. But it matters how we hold it to ourselves. What is the reason for wearing it? The intent? The context?

We are each unique, with our own viewpoints and way of being in the world. In this, we are all freaks. We are also collectively the same. We all need to love and be loved. Feed others and be fed. Touch and be touched. Give and receive. Cry, laugh, dance. In this, then the term freak no longer applies.

We are all ordinary.

Yes, it is a very big pill to swallow.

So who am I once I pull down ALL the labels? It is only a pile of dust? Rubble? Or is there a gem of substance that's been hidden for 46 years? What does this thing...this "it" look like?

It is time for me to find out.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006


Morford is back with a column on what he saw on his vacation while Brezsny shares what he sees for the upcoming week in Freewill Astrology.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

I didn't think I'd be posting this entry so soon, but when I wrote "fast and furious" in my earlier entry...I had no idea. It's sped up again. Therefore, it now feels right to begin my story. I've never worked a koan before...not really, and especially not with any kind of mindfulness. In spite of the pain, there is a delicate beauty and magic to what is happening inside me as the question moves through me.

My painting koan.

Why am I not painting?

This has been my struggle for the last week. Every day.
Last Tuesday, I was going to decide whether or not to take a short break from therapy so I could paint. What I knew deep down was that I had major resistance to painting. The most I've ever experienced. It has led to much, really much, and even more frustration.

So...after being still, thinking, talking, seeking the advice of a few artist friends, and being still some more, I knew that I had no idea if I would end up painting at all this month. I still don't. The idea hurts, but I can't force it.

I realized that with all I'm working toward in my therapy, hitting the painting nut was a biggie. What better time to zealously work on this than now, a time when I have no responsibilities to my job or much of anything? I've spent most of this time alone.

Since last Monday, I've increased my sessions. Last week I had a therapy session every single day. I thought I'd go back to 3 days this week, until we booked an add'l session for today.
I feel my resistance. I can taste my fear.

Last Wednesday, I walked in and sat down.
For the first time ever, I asked:

"Why am I not painting?"
"Excellent koan" he replied.
"So why?"
"I don't know. This is your koan, not mine."


"Isn't it interesting that I have many memories of my mom and I doing art stuff and no memories of her holding me, feeding me, tending to me when I'm sick. I wonder about that. How it affects my ability to paint. What if I really let go and immersed myself in painting and by doing so, lose my humanity?"

That was the first day.

"Why am I not painting?"
"Excellent koan."
"So why?"
"You tell me."
"Well I was thinking...painting is a courageous act. And it's a solitary activity. I'm obviously not that brave. And I could paint when I had others painting beside me....such as when I was in school, or with my friend in Portsmouth. Otherwise I can't do it."

"Why am I not painting?"
"Good koan."
"You didn't say it was excellent. Why?"
"Because you already know it is. You are using that as a distraction."
I become disgusted.

I've been thinking. I am disciplined. I realized I do not fear painting alone. My 3 month fellowship had me alone in the building painting. I left my lover's side every summer morning at 7 am because I couldn't wait to get in the studio. A few years later I quit my job to paint full time. I had no problem beginning each day with breakfast, 3 or 4 pages of writing, and then into the studio. My afternoons would be spent going to galleries, looking at paintings in books, and then finishing the day with tequila. It was glorious.
So I am not afraid of the solitary, courageous act.

Then I ask, "Why could I do that then and not now?"
"It's the momentum of youth."
"Oh, I get that. As we age, we slow down and so our demons catch up with us...paralyzing us."

An idea.
"I'm not painting because I'm furious with the world and so now refuse to share myself with it."
"Try again."
Then the something came to me, from a deeper place.
"I'm not painting because it is the one way I know how to hurt myself."
"That's right."

"Why am I not painting?"
This time I am just about glaring at my shrink. Dammit, I don't have the answers. He knows me. So now I expect a grand statement of discovery filled with much wisdom from him.
He responds, "If you think I can answer that, you are sadly mistaken. You're giving me more responsibility than..."


Seeing he is throwing it back on me, I had to state my latest insight.

"I'm not painting because I'm a spoiled brat."
"Well I'm going to stop that thinking right now."
"Don't you want to hear me out first?"
"Alright, I'll listen to your reason and then squash it."
"That's mighty open-minded of you."
"Yes it is."

I'm glaring again.

"I'm not painting because I don't have the space to paint. I ache to do full body work, not small wrist action paintings. In August, I became increasingly frustrated with the size of my space and so I put everything away. Couldn't deal anymore. See? I am spoiled. I have a great apartment, the perfect job, amazing friends, good life...and I'm not happy. Still want more. Spoiled."

"Recognizing your limitations is not being spoiled."

"Why aren't I painting?"

I've come up with different answers each day. There is some truth to each and yet...something is still missing. In addition, I do see the huge resistance I have to diving into the black here in our sessions. I think it's connected. As long as I keep resisting I will not be able to paint.

My table is covered with a tarp. I finally pulled out paintings and began touching up a few of them. I dropped over a $100 bucks on restocking my supplies. I have about 8 blank canvases of various sizes ready to go, and at least 5 others to rework. I've let a friend come over each Monday so he could do sketches. Normally, all this is more than enough to excite me and from there, jump back in.

Not this time.

"I touch the fire and it freezes me."
(Buffy, from "Once More With Feeling")
I can't get those lyrics out of my head.

I had completed the entire Buffy series about 3 weeks ago but held onto the last two seasons...watching them over and over. For me, at this time in my life, I can relate to so much from various characters in season six and seven. I finally returned the dvd's yesterday. But before I did, I had one more viewing of the musical episode.

"I touch the fire and it freezes me."

Truly. In therapy, I am currently headed into the fire. With each step I become colder. Flat voice. No emotion.
At one point yesterday I snapped back a comment and my shrink responded "oh...the ice lady."
He is correct.

I feel myself detaching because I don't want to go where I need to.
I guess it really isn't a mystery why I can't paint.
Painting is a vulnerable act.
Painting is all about passion.
Painting is a feeling of connectedness with everything around me.

And all I feel is cold.

At this point, I believe I will come through this. I have no idea how or when, but I will.
Last week I met with my coworker, the musician, for lunch. We were playing catch up. I mentioned my lack of painting drive in the face of my initial excitement and explained in more depth what I'd been learning and dealing with.

He said, "But Gaggie, you are painting! Maybe it doesn't look the way you expected it to, but when you come out of this...you'll know how to deal with this. You are painting."

I need to remember his words...even though it is all cold inside.

Today, the koan evolved some more...in a greater way. First in the session, and still now...as the day grows longer.
Therefore, this story will continue as such. Bit by bit.

In the meantime...
I just want to sit and cry today. All day.

As you've noticed, I haven't written about what's going on. Last night, I began an entry and was checking it twice before posting it. The phone rang. I saved the piece as a draft.

After the call I was going to post it but then in that moment I knew it wasn't ready. Developments are happening fast and furious...so it is time for me to be with this. Alone, for now.

For now...today...I'm quite sad inside.
My heart hurts.

Monday, February 20, 2006


....I have a 45 minute window, just enough time to lay glazes on 3 paintings, one which is already paid for and headed to NYC very soon. Unfortunately, I cannot get my new can of turpentine open. My palms are raw from many attempts. Without the turp...I can't glaze.

It means I'll have to see if my friend M. can open it when he arrives. He's coming over with with drawing gear because he needs me to sit for a portrait. If I don't touch my paintings now...I won't be able to until tomorrow.


Sunday, February 19, 2006

Popping in to say I am here but I haven't been up for writing. There is much going on. All good. Some very difficult, but good.
The words are inside but they aren't ready to expose themselves. Guess I'm still incubating.

Enjoy the beautiful day...

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Don't have much to write about at this time. Maybe later. But there's always our weekly Freewill Astrology.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

For you...
and for me...

To touch a bit of love and decadence today...and have it flow the rest of the year.
Today bit the big one.

I just made an extra therapy appointment for tomorrow. Within that session, I'll decide whether or not I take a little time off from therapy and will inform my shrink then. The pain has been oozing through every pore of my skin. This pain, right now, is a major distraction.

On one hand, I'm so very close to breaking through something huge. Yet with that, comes no room for anything else...important things...such as painting. Then again, as he put it today, I'm only living at about one quarter of my potential. Coming out on the other side of this would push me into a fuller life.

But why does this have to happen during my sabbatical???

Those of you who know me know I don't run from the hard stuff. Hopefully tomorrow, I'll gain the wisdom to know whether I'm running away or pacing myself which will allow me to enjoy this time off.

Yeah...it stinks, sucks, and all needs to be obliterated.

Monday, February 13, 2006

From The Nation, an essay by Bernard-Henri Lévy.

A Letter to the American Left.
by Bernard-Henri Lévy

[from the February 27, 2006 issue]
Translated from the original French by Charlotte Mandell.

Nothing made a more lasting impression during my journey through America than the semi-comatose state in which I found the American left.

I know, of course, that the term "left" does not have the same meaning and ramifications here that it does in France.

And I cannot count how many times I was told there has never been an authentic "left" in the United States, in the European sense.

But at the end of the day, my progressive friends, you may coin ideas in whichever way you like. The fact is: You do have a right. This right, in large part thanks to its neoconservative battalion, has brought about an ideological transformation that is both substantial and striking.

And the fact is that nothing remotely like it has taken shape on the other side--to the contrary, through the looking glass of the American "left" lies a desert of sorts, a deafening silence, a cosmic ideological void that, for a reader of Whitman or Thoreau, is thoroughly enigmatic. The 60-year-old "young" Democrats who have desperately clung to the old formulas of the Kennedy era; the folks of MoveOn.org who have been so great at enlisting people in the electoral lists, at protesting against the war in Iraq and, finally, at helping to revitalize politics but whom I heard in Berkeley, like Puritans of a new sort, treating the lapses of a libertine President as quasi-equivalent to the neo-McCarthyism of his fiercest political rivals; the anti-Republican strategists confessing they had never set foot in one of those neo-evangelical mega-churches that are the ultimate (and most Machiavellian) laboratories of the "enemy," staring in disbelief when I say I've spent quite some time exploring them; ex-candidate Kerry, whom I met in Washington a few weeks after his defeat, haggard, ghostly, faintly whispering in my ear: "If you hear anything about those 50,000 votes in Ohio, let me know"; the supporters of Senator Hillary Clinton who, when I questioned them on how exactly they planned to wage the battle of ideas, casually replied they had to win the battle of money first, and who, when I persisted in asking what the money was meant for, what projects it would fuel, responded like fundraising automatons gone mad: "to raise more money"; and then, perhaps more than anything else, when it comes to the lifeblood of the left, the writers and artists, the men and women who fashion public opinion, the intellectuals--I found a curious lifelessness, a peculiar streak of timidity or irritability, when confronted with so many seething issues that in principle ought to keep them as firmly mobilized as the Iraq War or the so-called "American Empire" (the denunciation of which is, sadly, all that remains when they have nothing left to say).

For an outside observer it is passing strange, for instance, that a number of progressives needed, by their own admission, to wait for Hurricane Katrina before they got indignant about, or even learned about, the sheer scale of the outrageous poverty blighting American cities.

For a European intellectual used to the battlefield of ideas, it is simply incomprehensible that more voices weren't raised long ago, in the name of no less than the force of "the Enlightenment," to denounce the ridiculous fraud of the anti-Darwinian supporters of "intelligent design."

To read the entire article.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

On yesterday's little Dove chocolate wrapper:

"Discover how much your heart can hold."

Isn't that a delicious thought to wade in? It opens up possibility.
How about some lightness and fun to break the heaviness of recent entries?

Thanks to Thor, here is some Sunday silliness for you.

Saturday, February 11, 2006



Have you ever been enraged? Not the surface rage that comes from being screwed over at work, or a Hummer cutting you off at the intersection, yet the rage that bubbles up from deep within.

I don't know about you, but I felt it yesterday. My first time. My rage cherry was popped.

It did boil up from my bowels. I had tapped into something so dark, that as the day wore on, the more I found myself falling into this newly released anger. It was so vicious, so ferocious, it terrified me. I feared losing myself in the ugliness.

And I discovered I am not at all comfortable with the blackness of this emotion.

In my session last night I spoke of the rage. Then I grieved my calm and easy way. I miss writing about other things. I remember when this blog once held small vignettes of life's charm. Things I'd see, colors, characters on the street. I hate the idea that I'm currently so self-involved. It is consuming.

I still see beauty all around me. Everytime I step out of my door and walk to the corner, the mountains take my breath away. Everything, whether rain or shine, has a vibrancy to it. I think about sharing it with you and even create the entry in my head. But it all falls to the wayside. Sigh...

The shrink told me this is where I needed to be. He reiterated a few times that it will pass, but the only way out is through. I still wonder if I've gone into dark places that really are not meant to be disturbed.

I was so embarrassed by my anger yesterday that for a few hours, I pulled down one entry. The Bear called during that time and he reassured me it was fine. I didn't trust my outward expression of rage. I knew what I was feeling inside...and it being so mammoth, couldn't objectively see what I put out.

I wasn't planning on writing the following today, but think I will.

Connections were made last night. Yes, I needed to feel and play with this anger to work past it. What pushed this into being was twofold. The first was in regards to being held. After a certain experience when I was held and momentarily felt visible...I hadn't requested to be held since. It seems that comfort and sense of home scared the shit out of me.

Instead of continuing to turn to, I turned on my therapist. The distrust began. And the anger. It was too frightening. The second thing that pushed me over the edge into the pain and rage was the intimate evening I created last week. Once again, home.

Both were examples where I needed to create my own sense of home. It reflected my past back at me and brought up all the resentment, pain and anger I stuffed for years. The holding and the party combined have sent me to the place I need to be for this time.

It is not pretty.
And it is necessary.

Friday, February 10, 2006


Hot chocolate is definitely needed tonight.
Time to make a cup.
Chuck the chai.
I'll save it for later.

Instead, I put on Concrete Blonde's Bloodletting. I haven't listened to them in years, and there's something soothing in their bizarre, somewhat dark and edgy emotion.

I think I'd rather be beaten into oblivion before having to face what I need to.
I am scared.

You see, I know that although religion is a problem, the real problem is that my parents were too weak to be their own people. They leaned on religion and allowed it to control them and therefore how they raised their family.

To face the reality that very loving people couldn't see their children through their religion-induced mist...is a tough one.

We expect our parents to be our heros. Our saviors. Our protectors. But when we can't come to the table openly and honestly without fear of being told..."it's okay. Suffering is holy. We'll pray for you to be "at peace". Gawd I hate that term.

I didn't need prayers. I needed to be held. Their Jesus or blessed fucking virgin couldn't hold me. It was up to them. They were the ones with the arms and hearts. It was their sperm and egg that created me and her cunt that birthed me. The responsibility continues after the fucking.

You don't let your kids be brought up by the goddammed pope.
If I don't do anything else today...I will take inventory of my paints and make a list of what needs to be restocked. It's shopping list day to prep for a trip to the art store tomorrow.

See? I'm beginning to get the painting bug.
Not bad, considering I'm in a fucking foul mood.

Something is brewin' and there's a big "uh oh" sitting in my gut. I have a session tonight and my shrink better be wearing armor. Each session this week has left me more and more furious with him. On Monday my mouth sliced and diced. He hasn't done anything wrong. I know where it's coming from. It is not a coincidence that my therapist happens to be an ordained zen buddhist priest, who is fully committed to his temple and the people within.

Yeah. It's time for me to deal with my immense hatred and rage of organized religions. All of them. Religion took my parents away from me. To me, it's interesting that the 'religious folk' I could/can deal with, and see as most compassionate are the ones who never speak of their beliefs (in a religious or dogmatic way). I normally don't even have an idea they are practicing christians. Whereas those who are more open and even a little preachy, tend to do a fucking fabulous job of pushing people away whenever they open their mouths.

It's about the action not the words.
Words do nothing but hurt.

Feeling comforted, loved, nurtured...is created by doing, not talking.

Marx was right. Religion is the opiate of the masses.
Religion is for sheep who need someone else lay down the dictates of how to believe and live. Religion is not for freethinkers. Religion is a drug, that can be abused as any other. You live in a fog world and let go of the reality and personal responsibility of life.


To be fair, because nothing is black or white, I do believe aspects of religion can be used in a healthy way. Unfortunately, it is rarely done. Even the most 'enlightened' practitioner, still has this belief that god is for everyone. Believers do not understand the concept or valid possibility of spiritual atheist. For them, it is all about some type of god. I've yet to meet a full out of the box religious thinker.


As I begin to face and replay this very painful time in my life, I've increasingly acquired much doubt about my therapist. All week, I've had a large sense of distrust. So much so that I fight the urge every day to cancel appointments. I wake in the middle of the night wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into.

It is fear. It is all about fear..

Yes, I will face the dragon but I don't want to. I know this because I am doing all I can to push away the one warrior who has been my steadfast ally.

So it's time for a chai tea, a walk and then a peek in my art supply closet. It is time to tuck away this ickiness until I have to sit with it this evening.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Last Saturday night.

I created a container which, if I remained vulnerable and honest, had the potential to ignite a sexual bomb. I knew I couldn't control the energy of the participants. But I could put the pieces together and see what happens.

So I held a play party. The timing worked out - the very first weekend of my sabbatical.

I hate hosting parties. I get nervous. Very nervous. I have a deep-rooted fear that no one will show up. And for those that do, I'm afraid they'll be bored. The monthly events back on the seacoast were a breeze. I didn't have to entertain anyone. Instead I was simply opening my space up...for a watering hole. Easy.

These parties are different.

In addition, I have a lot of resentment around throwing play parties. You see, I know that to go to the types of s/m parties that I want to go to...I need to create them. It is highly unlikely I'll be invited. I am not one of them. It's a societal/cultural thing. At times it makes me angry. I'm the one who has to plan, organize, and drop a couple hundred bucks to simply celebrate my sex and sm. It hurts. I do understand it all. But it still hurts.

Don't get me wrong. I still believe strongly in exclusivity.
One of my great desires is to get over the anger and resentment surrounding this.
Because I do get it, I hate the hurt. I don't need to be accepted and allowed everywhere. I just want space for me too.

Sometimes I truly dislike being a freakazoid.

I've tried really hard to enjoy other gatherings. I've played in pan and dyke space. It doesn't work in the same way for me. It feels like a different method of play, of viewing sex. A different culture. Not good or bad. Just not home. I do know if I could celebrate home and my sex more often, then the other gatherings wouldn't feel so foreign. It would all be more enjoyable.

But when one is starving...well, if I don't get meat, then everything else is too much of a tease, and therefore too painful.

And as I've said in the past, I refuse to transition to make my entry easier. I shouldn't have to fuck with my chemistry. I won't. The price for this choice is the celebrations are fewer and far-er between.

So be it.
I learn to deal and it is part of my healing and growth.

Now...having said all that...I'm not saying I won't throw larger parties. My guest list could have easily been doubled. There are many others I would invite. One day, I will. I am fortunate to know many intense sadists and masochists...amazing, intelligent, sensitive people. And regardless of gender and orientation, I want them all under one roof for a weekend of debauchery.

But for this one, I sought a very specific energy.
I fervently, desperately needed to taste home.

So it was limited, knowing full well that maybe only a handful would show.

There were 10 of us.

I was nervous. The last two parties I held didn't open up in play the way I'd hoped. Yes, there was some. The first event, about 4 years ago held more play than the second one. But it wasn't as rampant as I sought.

Interestingly, on Saturday night there were 4 who said they would attend, but couldn't make it. I heard from two of them before the party. It didn't freak me out. Yes I was disappointed, but it was okay. In the past, I would have been upset...but this time, all I felt was intense calm. Somehow, I knew deep down that whoever showed up was absolutely meant to be there.

It was going to be whatever it was.
In that, there would be perfection.

It was a fucking amazing party. It wasn't frenetic energy, yet slow, easy and very sexy. It began well when a boy walked in, and almost immediately was taken downstairs to the dungeon, stripped naked, and had shackles locked to his neck, wrists and ankles. His attire suited him perfectly and he wore it for about 7 hours.

One of the tops that walked in, saw the shackled boy, was told that the boy was up for grabs...immediately took him downstairs where they seemed to have loads of fun. At one point I was down there playing. You could hear grunts, moans and the periodic rattling chain from the nook.

That's a party.

At least a couple times, there would be a few hanging around in the dungeon, touching, or laying on someone's lap. Intertwined. Play would somehow begin again from there. Fluid.

A tapestry of sex was being woven. Different textures and colors.

People naturally flowed from upstairs for food and talk down to the dungeon and back again.

I think everyone got a chance to play. All types of play...not only s/m. It began at 7pm, and by 2am, there were 5 of us left in the dungeon. We didn't want to break the space or energy. But one boy had to catch a ferry and I needed to get away from cat hair. (I had prepped for 4 days with allergy meds so I could do this).

The Sadist and I played. In addition to canes he broke in my birthday gift. It's a toy, created by our friends at Bareleatherworks. It is crafted with their beautiful handle that is normally used for floggers. Instead of tails...it's a timing belt from a Subaru. Very mean toy. My voice was hoarse the next day from all the screaming.

Because of the energy and intimacy of the evening, we were able to go deeper than what would normally happen in more public play. Play with him is...amazing. In addition to the Sadist...I played with a few others. They were hot. I don't want to out them unless they choose to be. But you know who you are. I anticipate further play, when my body isn't oversensitized from beatings and "dumb" sensation toys. I very much look forward to being pushed...when fresh and ready...and have no doubt you will challenge me.

This was a huge risk for me.

I remembered Nayland's birthday request from last year because it was brilliant. I had created one of my own that I was going to share with everyone...in lieu of gifts...but remained silent. This year, it seemed more important for me to push myself. But prepare yourself for next year!

Nayland asked for creation. Make something. Not for him. But make something. For my personal twist, I added the caveat of touching something that is hard for me...something that, by taking risks, expands my sex. The challenge churned in my head for a couple months.

Dare to create something that opens my sexual world.

So the gathering was born. Along with many doubts.

What if no one came?
What if I didn't get played with?
What if no one likes me?
What if they are all being polite?
I really don't fit. This is crazy. I don't know my place.
How dare I step in spaces I don't belong?

But I grabbed my guts, took the chance, and was immensely blessed. Some of the aftershocks from the party are future scenes with new play partners as well as an invitation in this morning's email to attend a bondage weekend in Portland and be a demo bottom.

I guess, between sleepsacks, and bj's, this party, and getting beat...I am in the process of rekindling my erotic self.
It seems to be time.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

I'm writing this from Septieme, although won't be posting until later because the cybercafe next door closed. No more internet access but it's not a bad thing. I rarely bring my laptop to the Cafe now, instead getting back to the act of writing by hand. Today is an exception.

Maybe it's time for my Buffy notes. You see, I want to dump all this. If I clear my head then I can move on to other things. Things such as cleaning the remainder of my apartment. I began cleaning yesterday...but want to do some extra cleaning before I pull out the art stuff.

Yeah...regarding painting. I originally expected to begin by Friday. It may or may not happen then. I refuse to pressure myself with anything during this time. A little pressure yes. But no more than that. Painting will happen. At the same time, it's important for me to begin taking care of myself. I'm trying to get into good habits again. Rest. Resume my megavitamin regime. Eat well. Fresh foods. Walk more.

After a couple months of rain, the sun has been out every day this week. It's a warm welcome.


While googling for certain monologues I loved, I discovered many sites that had similar impressions to mine as well as incredibly complex writings. So you can read their ideas. No sense in reinventing the wheel. I've listed links at the end.

What struck me more than anything is that the whole series felt more real than any other tv series I've watched. Most movies as well. Six Feet Under is great. Amazing. Fabulous. Intelligent. And yet, in comparision to Buffy, it seems flatter, feeling monochromatic.

Buffy is grandiose. Over the top. It is dark. It is sensitive. Poignant. Painful. Loving.
For me, that is life. I believe when we open ourselves up, it is dramatic.

In using the overthetoppyness and drama...it unveiled humanity so we were hit over the head with the subtleties as well as the experiences we may fear to feel.

The monsters, vamps and beasties, especially in season 6 and 7, were more real, more expressive of the gamut of humanity. In turn, I became impatient with the humans. The complexity of the nonhuman characters was refreshing. The greys. The humans, although complex at times, felt fickle to me...a continual reminder of much of our society. How easily swayed we are.

I loved the lack of shame in the demons, etc. They did what they did. For right or wrong, they didn't seem to agonize much. At times, I sensed more compassion from some of them. No, I don't condone most of what they did. But even if they were going against the grain...there didn't appear to be the angst.

The show, the brilliance of Joss Whedon is that he can create vivid paintings of the human condition. Illustrate it in such a way that it becomes personal. Whether or not we are aware of it, we all fight monsters, vamps and beasties every day. Every time we struggle with relationships, with intimacy, old patterns, our own personal ghosts...they are there.

The first show that impacted me was early on. It was the first or second season. The invisible girl. She felt so ignored and invisible that she became so. When I watched the flashbacks and saw her futile attempts to be noticed or heard..well...

One scene in particular tore me up. The girl was raising her hand in class to get called upon. Ignored one time too many, her hand slowly began to disappear. It wrecked my heart.

Possible spoilers coming (although I've tried to not ruin anyone's viewing experience). Read at your own discretion.

Another show was in season 4 - The Body. Using Anya, a new ex-demon who is clumsily trying to get a handle on being human with all its feelings, was gorgeous. Whedon used her to ask all the simple yet painful questions we have at a death.

"But I don't understand! I don't understand how this all happens. How we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she's, there's just a body, and I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead anymore! It's stupid! It's mortal and stupid! And, and Xander's crying and not talking, and, and I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well Joyce will never have any more fruit punch, ever, and she'll never have eggs, or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why."

Life happens. We have this idea that grownups are supposed to feel differently than children. But I don't think we ever do. As adults we learn to hide our feelings. Once we "grow up" emotions feel raw and unsophisticated. Not cool. It's all about composure right? Whedon gave us permission to feel.

Another earlier episode, Buffy spoke to a kid who was going to attempt suicide.

She said:
"You know what? I was wrong. You are an idiot. My life happens to, on occasion, suck beyond the telling of it. Sometimes more than I can handle. And it's not just mine. Every single person down there is ignoring your pain because they're too busy with their own.
The beautiful ones. The popular ones. The guys that pick on you. Everyone.
If you could hear what they were feeling. The loneliness. The confusion. It looks quiet down there. It's not. It's deafening."

That last line is a fucking powerful reminder that we really aren't alone in our loneliness.

There is plenty of "oh my!" writing tucked within the series.

Some of the most beautiful love words I've heard were uttered in the show.

"Hey, look at me. I'm not asking you for anything. When I say I love you, it's not because I want you, or because I can't have you. It has nothing to do with me. I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I've seen your kindness and your strength. I've seen the best and the worst of you and I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You are a hell of a woman."


"When I say I love you, it's not because I want you, or because I can't have you. It has nothing to do with me. "

Smacks of unconditional love.
Very pretty.

For about a year, the Bear and the bunny were gently pushing me to watch the show. I would laugh. I had seen an episode here or there on the tube, in reruns. I couldn't understand the interest.

When I made the commitment to watch every show, in order, from beginning to end...I understood. This is a series that needs to be followed. You watch characters change. You see the good and bad in each. You see how muddy and grey life really is. There aren't easy, clear answers.

And yes, the musical episode "Once More With Feeling" had to be one of my absolute favorites. Talk about out of the box creativity!

I told the guys last week that this is one series I actually want to own. All seven bloody seasons.

If interested, here are some links.

The Undergraduate Journal Of Buffy Studies (Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Dichotomy of Self: A Study in the Shadow Selves of Buffy and Spike)

Isms in the Buffyverse (philosophies represented)

All things philosophical

10 best monologues (according to Slayage.com)
Here is the next entry I promised.
It's a "b" entry, and I don't mean the Buffy one.

I refuse to sit in the throes of distress.

So maybe if I write about something else, I can shake it off, right?
Evasion, distraction and procrastination are not four letter words.
At times, I can use them to my benefit.

Let's talk about blowjobs.
Or one in particular.

It was the week before the sleepsack fun.

A group of us had dinner at Septieme to celebrate D's (boy of Hoss) birthday. Then it was on to FSD (stands for favorite seedy/sexy bar) for one drink.

Walking in, I realized it was Saturday, and mumbled to myself "please don't let it be underwear night. please don't let it be underwear night." Personally I don't care. It could be lots of fun. But I was more concerned for the guys in there. If there's any night they don't expect females, it's underwear night. They can check their clothes at the door...and run around in jockstraps, boxers or whatever. I didn't want my presence to feel invasive.

We walked in.
It was underwear night.

Oh well. I just went with the flow. No, I didn't take off my clothes.
I don't own underwear. Pajamas neither.
And even if I did...I would have remained clothed.

We got our drinks and strolled upstairs. Hanging out. A little face sucking ensued. I found a couple great kissers. Then I stood back and watched. A friend of mine was on his knees, giving some guy a blowjob. The act...the energy in that moment was turning me on. Fiercely. The guy who was getting his dick sucked was...almost irrelevant. It's not a judgement on him, his personality. I don't know him. But watching my friend suck dick was doing it for me.

Now, I'm not a virgin in this area. Not mounds of experience but I've sucked a few dicks at FSD.
It's what I like about FSD. It is not The Cuff.

A couple years back a local paper was rating bars. They wrote that FSD is the leather bar whereas The Cuff was FSD on training wheels. They are so right. Leather in the sense of sex, not fashion.

FSD isn't about men hanging out in leather, although they hold leather night and it happens once in a while. FSD is about raunchy, nasty exploits in dark corners. Even if nothing is happening on a given night, the smells of sex, the ghosts of sex...surround you. The Cuff has all the prettily clad leathermen. It's where contests are held. I know and enjoy some of the guys there. But it has very little to do with sex.

Back to my story.

While watching the act....the stranger turned and looked at me. I think he saw my excitement. With only a look, he invited me over as the boy was finishing up. I was on my knees in a flash and took him in my mouth.

I've never seen him before. Don't know his name. No big deal. Anonymous sex isn't new for me. What was new, and what I cherished, was...the whole experience did not involve a word. No typical dialogue. No verbal yes. No verbal no. No verbal "do you want it?" One look and I knew. The entire conversation was held first with glances and then with a full mouth.

Very sweet.
Today my heart hurts.

Difficult day.

As I rest, I acutely see how tired I was. In this realization, I've become discouraged. Well, actually the realization goes hand in hand with new grunge and sludge that is coming up in my sessions. Will it never end?

It began Monday...as a preview. And today it has hit hard. The scary thing is I'm just stepping into it. Each time I think I'm tackling something terrifying...and then work through it, there is a newer, badder, more gruesome demon to face. I'll deal, right?


Sometimes, this shadow work sucks the big one.
Sometimes, being adventurous is highly over-rated.
"Heaven smiled a perfect grin,
opened up and let me in..."

-Jimmy Worm

It is not how I'm feeling, but I love the image.
My day thus far is in full opposition of the lyric.
The things one can find while sifting through old pages.
It's a little blurb, written in May 2004, that was tucked inbetween other brain dumps.

moon in the sky
fire fills my belly
the crane is strung up

The visual gets me hard. Twisted.

And on a similar note...in an odd way...this link.
Mark Morford is on vacation until the 22nd but we still have Rob Brezsny's weekly Freewill Astrology.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Finally sitting down to write...

I hate it when I've stockpiled lots of thoughts. It then feels like an immense chore to sit and let it pour. But I know. I know that once I begin writing...it flows. Clunkily at times but it's still a stream. Just may have rocks and chunks in it, that's all.

It's been mild. I went for a walk a little while ago and it was over 50 degrees. Nice. Ended up at the market where I picked up fresh produce. This morning I stocked up on milk, bread and eggs.

I don't hate to cook. Instead, I simply need one ingredient. Energy.
Most of the time it's out of stock.

Hmmm...where do I begin?

First things first. I remember promsing an entry about Buffy, blowjobs and sleepsacks. Since then, I've finished watching the entire Slayer series. More thoughts. And linky goodness.

Let's begin with sleepsacks. The others will come later.

A couple weekends ago, I received a very spontaneous invitation to be locked into a sleepsack. My first thought was "I can't. I haven't prepared for it. I haven't showered in a couple days. I haven't this and haven't that...."

The response was "So? Come over and we'll do it anyway."

I was at dinner with the Bear and bunny. The Bear saw how tired I was...mentally fried. He then suggested encasement.

So I followed them home and went down into the dungeon. Crawled into the nook...stripped...slipped into the sack, got locked up. He shut off the lights, threw in a monitor, shut the door to the nook and let me be.

I love being locked up. Fiercely love it.
And realized I was way overdue.

It took so long for me to even begin to relax into the confinement. My mind wouldn't stop.
I began to work it the same way as meditation.

Instead of fighting my noisy brain, I allowed it in and opened the other door to let it out. I become mindful of not letting anything stick.

Taking a shit.
It's all connected.

What happens in the dungeon, the play, how we act and react is not separate from the rest of life. It's all the same...and therefore each impacts the other and back again.

It had been over 3 years since I'd been locked up.
Tears flow when I think of that. Not so much for my lack of bondage but because all life has dealt to family and friends in this time.

And all I've been learning about myself.
I mourn my innocence.

Tough stuff.

In season 6, Buffy asked, speaking of our world, "Is this hell?"
Truly it is.

Life is incredibly cruel.
And yes, quite lovely. But cruel.

My pollyanna sunglasses would shield me from the dark. For most of my adult years, I never believed in the viciousness of life.
Things change.

I was locked up for almost 2 hours. Very short for me, but not having prepared for this, I hadn't taken allergy meds...and the cats were beginning to get to me. In addition I was getting antsy.

That made me sad. I've been so busy, going so strong, working so hard at the Foundation and in therapy...it was difficult for me to even stop for a few hours.

I know I need to take advantage of their generous offer more often.

I need to be reintroduced to the sleepsack, learn to relax in it, and from there reawaken my body to the joys of such play. There was a time when just the idea of any confinement would bring me to orgasm.

It is time to reclaim the limitless power of my erotic self.
Yes, it is still sunny out.

Slowly, I am regaining strength that I haven't seen in...many, many months. I cannot believe how emotionally, spiritually, and psychically depleted I was/am...which of course runs my physical self into the mud. Right now I am only setting one or two small goals for each day, and then I focus on rest. Anytime a "should" runs through my head...I kick it out.

Friday evening, in my session, it hit me. The reality of what this time off really means. When I take vacations, the work waits for my return. I am never free of it.

With this month, the load is off my shoulders. Granted, when I go back, there are a few puzzles waiting and some work to sift through. But it won't have anywhere near the feeling I have even while on vacations. When I became aware of the lack of weight...I began to cry. In tears, I choked out to the shrink "I don't feel the 5,000 lb. load on my back. I don't have to be responsible for work...and I haven't felt that free in a very long time."

The freedom continues to echo through me.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Guess what I saw this morning?

On my way back from my therapy session, I spied a small purple clump of crocuses. Spring speaks. There were 3 blooms. Today is our second sunny day. Although I love the grey and the rain, the change is wonderful. We all need the sun sometime.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Today is a very lazy day. I thought I'd get out for a while, but it is not meant to be. My body resists. For good reason it chooses to do nothing. I'll write more when I've recouped some energy.

For now, I will just offer a heartfelt thank you to those who last night shared their sex and bites and rope and canes and fists and mouths and tongues and grunts and shackles. And Nayland, unbeknownst to you as well as my full conscious self at the time...I took your birthday request, entwined it with my own personal birthday goals, and created a thing. A thing that challenged this masochist on so many levels and returned many blessings because I dared to risk. I'll explain further when I'm less sore.

Now, I have a month to be still and in that stillness, spoil my heart with what it clamors for.

Friday, February 03, 2006

Today is the day.

It is the final work day before blessed, unadulterated, relieving, regrouping, refreshing and creativity inducing time off.
4 delicious weeks.

The bulk of everything is done. Small lists now, such as:
Gaggie, don't forget to bring home your cd's, your calendar and your reading glasses.
Oh yes, and my stand up Van Gogh birthday card. Hoss and his boy gave me a card...a folded standup cut out of Van Gogh. On the inside, they placed a sticker that says:

If you hear a voice within you say "you cannot paint," then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced.

It will stand in my studio prodding me.
In addition, it is time to pull out my object.

About 5 years ago, my coworker gave the finance director and myself each a doll. You know...the Ken/Barbie kind. But these were special. Fully customized for each of us.

At the time, I had down to the middle of my back darkish coppery red hair. So does the doll. She is fully naked except for a training collar, such as what I wore then. She has black boots on...boots that look just like my 16" black engineer boots. She is tied up in black rawhide. And her body is delightfully marked with bruises.

When I had a spare room for a studio....she would be in a place of honor...a muse of sorts.

Since then, the muse has been stored away. I shall pull it out. Paper Van Gogh in one corner of the room and S/M pig in the other. Their voices..entwined...will make up my choir.

Regarding vulnerability and dying that I wrote of yesterday, yes I am still scared. Yes I need to concretely begin to deal with this tonight, in therapy. Yes I have no idea what I will find or what I'm stepping into. And yes...I can do nothing else but to dive in.

Another chapter begins.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

I think I’m freaking out.

4 am. I awoke.
Anxious because I feel I'm losing myself. It seems the stronger I get, the more positive movement I see in my life, the more blessed I am, the more I need my shrink.

Let it be said right here and right now, I am SO not comfortable with the needing part.

I wonder if my need is going to lead to lack of control and full immersion into oblivion. I wonder if I'm going to slide through a dark hole and end up as an unrecognizable being. I wonder if I'm going to...disappear.

Feel free to change the verb 'wonder' to 'fear'.

We've spoken of it in the past. Or something like it. He's mentioned I need to die to myself. He mentioned that once I begin the dying, then the rest of my life is a continual exercise in death. Within that, life is found.

That fucking ego thing. It is powerful, isn't it? It cries and screams and claws for survival.

I have to step back and see what's been happening.
Last July I took a 2 week vacation and made the decision to live my dream for 2 weeks. That is, I painted, I read, I wrote, I sat at the Café, thought, felt, enjoyed people and my quiet.

Who would have thunk that 6 months later I could do the same thing...yet now, it's for 4 weeks instead of two. Hmmm...see a groovy pattern?
I do.

A new internal strength has been slowly building and coursing through my system. The more comfortable I become with me, the more I SEE me, the more others see me.

Huh. Sounds like a profound key, eh?
The more I see me, first, then others follow. And at that point, if some don't, it doesn't matter. Literally.

I've found myself detaching from caring what most people think. Little by little...it doesn't matter.

I can mentally list ways my life has changed and I'm being recognized.

The biggie came last week. Something I've been requesting at work for 2 years...is now in the works. Our ED approached me last week and said "we had a meeting and I wanted you to know that we are hearing you...and will do X." Huge. Very huge. It left me stunned and that night I cried.

So...seeing the seeds begin to blossom reminds me I am on the right path for my life. The more vulnerable I make myself to the vast unknown, the more I find myself.

Yet...yet...the latest struggle is with dependence. Or maybe my lesson is in seeing the difference between dependence and interdependence.

All I know right now is it scares the fucking shit out of me.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Hey everyone.

Yes, still crazed in these parts but there is an end to it. It is Wednesday! That means only 3 more work days until my month off. Huge. No, really. It's HUGE! Right now, I am so burnt out I can't stand myself. The fried is overfried and all I want to do is cry. Instead, I continue remaking lists, plugging away and checking things off.

Most of last week and this week I come home from work, crash, pop in dvds and do nothing else. No Septieme, no phone, no IM's, no blogging, no talking, and more importantly, no thinking. Well, I try not to. Oh, did I mention how tired I was?

I have a small, private "hopefully girlfag gets the shit beaten out of her" kind of event on Saturday...and then I crawl in a hole for 3 days. Oh yeah....

In the meantime, did I mention it was Wednesday?
Here is Rob Brezsny's Freewill Astrology. Looking through the horoscopes I decided I was going to claim Aries instead of my Capricorn birth for this week. My chart is filled with more Aries than anything else, so I do have some birthright to it. :-)
Although...Libra was sounding good also. Hmmmm...

Mark Morford wrote something really pretty today. Another perspective. In The Real State Of The Union - How to address a bitter, war-torn but still somehow giddy and deeply horny nation, Morford shows a positive light and reminds us that all is not doom and gloom.

"My fellow Americans, we're not as royally screwed as everything Bush has done during his miserable term in office would have you believe.

Yes, we are on the brink of epic destruction involving war and sweaty religious nutballs and a mad grab for the planet's few remaining gurgles of oil and the general appalling lousiness of the new TV season. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. Destruction can be healthy. A positive force. Destruction sweeps the place bare, scrubs out the spiritual colon, cleanses the palate for what's next. And besides, have you seen "Grey's Anatomy"? Totally cute."

That's only the beginning. It gets so much better and even left tired little me with a little warm fuzziness within. Go read. It's worth the time.