Shadowedge's Books, Blogs, and Blather

To say it aloud

2009-10-12T21:29:00.000-07:00

Trigger warning: this post discusses non-consensual sex, specifically rape.

I was reading about the Clothesline project over on Scheherazade in Blue Jeans, and remembering when I lived in the college dorms and walked past the line every day.

I didn't want to acknowledge it. To look at the installation would be to admit that I had been raped. But this is not about that. This is about the boy I knew in high school who was raped.

He told me one day, about how he was at a party, and drunk. And when he woke up, he was tied to a bed, where two girls refused to let him go, and had sex with him. I wonder, sometimes, if that was why he cultivated the persona of a "player", used drugs, had trust issues... maybe.

But what I was thinking about today was how his story was the mirror image of the one I knew, and how I have never heard another case of a man being raped by a woman. I'm sure it happens... but do they tell anyone?

Who could they tell? How would that fit with the ideas of masculinity as strength, as sexually adventurous, as sexually indiscriminate? Who would they tell?

It's not really my story, but I felt the need to say something about his story, which he may, or may not have ever told again.

Show and Tell Time

2009-10-07T18:24:00.000-07:00

The lovely blog Stirrup Queens decided (apparently some time ago) that show and tell is wasted on the young, and decided to kick it web 2.0 style, by having a weekly post where people can post a show and tell on their own blog, and then get rounded up at the weekly thread. So without further ado:

Shadowedge's Show and Tell:

This is a cake (yes, posting about a cake was totally a nod to Stirrup Queen's post about making a sukkah cake) that I made for my very dear friend, Moonkai for her fairy themed birthday party. Now, Moonkai's favorite cake is angel food cake with whipped cream frosting, which is pretty easy to bake. However, it is much harder to decorate. So, I plotted very carefully. I would buy nasturtium flowers at the farmer's market, since they are edible, festive, and would go with the theme. Then, I decided that the cake needed a topper. I went to every party store, scoured the inter net, and could not find a fairy topper that was not a) so far out of my budget as to be laughable (50$ for a cake topper?) or b) Tinker Bell, which was simply not the theme.

I finally saw some pictures of the Schelich fairies, and then had to track them down. I finally found one at a local Target. I was almost done. But the figurine was heavy enough that I was worried it would either squish, or fall off, the cake. So I grabbed a fancy vase, and turned it upside-down in the middle of the angel food cake after I frosted it with the whipped cream. that supported the figurine quite nicely, and the nasturtiums hid the edges nicely. I also, (as you can kind of see) sliced strawbeeries to decort the bottom edge.

Needless to say, Moonkai was appropriately impressed.

Go see the rest of Show and Tell here.

Books I've been obessed with...

2009-09-29T21:11:00.000-07:00

So, my grandfather died, and my car was hit by a truck, and the insurance companies are still giving me the run around, and I'm taking three classes, and working, and my comprehensive examinations are THIS WEEK, and what have I been doing?

I've been reading: non-academic pleasure reading. (Also, I cleaned the bedroom, which is way more impressive than it sounds).

So, what have I been reading?

David Weber's Honor Harrington series:

This is some seriously good hard science fiction with a distinctly militaristic bent. And awesome. Honor is a (female!) strong, capable warrior, who kicks ass, takes names, and has a treecat. Yep. The first novel On Basilisk Station is available free from the Baen Free Library, which I love more than bagels. And I really like bagels.

J.R. Ward's The Black Dagger Brotherhood series:

I lovingly refer to this as my vampire porn crack. Exceeding well written, this series could boil a river in midwinter. Yes, it is that hot. The female characters have minds of their own, and the new take on vampires (they are actually a separate species, and can only be sustained on the blood of the opposite sex of vampires) gives this paranormal romance an interesting twist. The series is not perfect (same sex attraction is not addressed until the most recent book, there is some gender role stereotyping, especially in the behavior of the male characters) but it is well worth the read. Start with the first book, Dark Lover.

Re-reading:
Tamora Pierce's Alanna the Lioness series:

Man, I love these books. They are young adult books that I encountered in high school, and are excellently written, with one of my favorite female knights ever. Alanna doesn't want to go to a convent, and her twin brother, Thom doesn't want to become a knight. Instead they switch places, and Alanna becomes Alan, a page in training. Alanna has to work for her shield, both against her size, and against the Duke of Comte, who she distrusts with good reason. Plus, there is always the chance she could be discovered before she earns her shield, and be sent home in disgrace... Alanna's coming of age is documented with grace and bluntness, and watching her struggle with love is moving. I still want to be like Alanna when I grow up.

So, that's some of what I've been reading, for the past few weeks.

Prejudice and other unpleasant surprises

2009-09-13T19:20:00.000-07:00

I was not expecting to be hit by a car. I was not expecting anything at the moment, I suppose. I was driving home, just making my way through one of those immense parking lots that sprawl in all directions, and are always mostly empty.

There was a line of cars parked in the fire lane, and I drove around them. As I did so, the truck pulled out, into the passenger side of the car. My neck was whipped around, and all I could do was utter the words " Oh no, not again." This was not the first car accident for me, and the specter of months in rehab for my already injured back and neck flashed through my head.

I pulled into a parking spot, afraid the truck that had hit me would just drive away. But no, the vehicle pulled up just a few spaces down from me. And that was when I noticed that the driver was Hispanic. It was only much later that I had a chance to think about the upwelling of anger and blame that came into my mind, visions of illegal drivers without insurance, angry men yelling at me, no one believing me. I was frightened, and shaken up, but all my fear and angry were directed at the poor man who had run into me. And, part of it was because he was Hispanic.

Typing this, I'm aware of how it sounds. It sounds awful. It doesn't sound like how I would like to think of myself. It sounds like racism.

But I, mindful of how I was treated the time I accidentally ran into a woman's car, was polite. I may have been a bit short, and insist on calling the insurance companies, as we stood there is the blazing sun, but I tried not to make what had happened worse.

I did the best I could.

The gentleman could not speak English, and my Spanish is almost nonexistent. His daughter translated for us both. There was no screaming, or recriminations. Mr. Martinez (not his real name, of course) was terribly polite, admitted it was his fault, and inquired into my health. He promised that he would pay for the damage out of pocket, if the insurance company would not cover it. We shook hands as we parted, and I continued my drive home.

As I drove, I began to think of how surprised I was at his actions and kindness to a complete stranger, who he may have sensed was upset with him. I found myself thinking that for a Hispanic - I caught myself. It was only then that I started to think about my instinctive reaction, anger, and fear. I cried, both from the events of the past hour, and from the realization that, despite a liberal background, and a host of classes on just this sort of thing in college, I was a racist.

I had made judgments about Mr. Martinez from the moment I saw him, and was amazed when they were proven wrong. I can't do much about my reaction then, but I owe Mr. Martinez an apology. And I owe it to myself to be aware of people as people, rather than react to their ethnic background.

So, now, in addition to my apology, a thank you: Thank you Mr Martinez, for being a wonderful person yesterday after you hit my car.

A memory

2009-09-10T21:17:00.000-07:00

Setting: High School

His name was Robbie. The diminutive only made him seem casual, instead of young. He was not child-like, which (come to think of it) might have been part of the attraction. The corruption of innocents came later. He rode the bus home with me, just three stops from the last one, which was mine. I was always at the end of bus routes, it seemed.

He swaggered, and smoked, and had slightly unkempt hair he was forever pushing out of his eyes. We had nothing in common. Yet somehow, I conceived a lust for him. Perhaps is the was the classic air of the bad boy from an earlier day; a greaser, almost, with his muscle shirt, decidedly working class family, slick hair, and pounding music. He sat with his legs spread, and the outline of his cock would brush against the fabric. And I lusted after him.

I had a boyfriend, and had been having sex for almost a year. I wanted all the time, obsessively. I lusted after Robbie. I flirted with Robbie. Some days he would flirt back, and some days... nothing. Which might have been part of the fascination. I found adoration boring. But I wanted to be wanted.

I invited him over, while my mother was at work. He brought over a Metallica CD, played "no leaf clover". We kissed. He tasted of cigarettes, the cranberry juice I had offered, and sweat. Bitter. He touched me for a while, and then I sent him home. Three hours of late night phone calls later, and nothing was said about that night again.

I thought of Robbie today, a song on the radio sending me back to high school. I wonder where he is, what he is doing. But not enough to try to find out. The taste was bitter, and I didn't want more of it.

New loves, and new directions

2009-03-25T21:18:00.000-07:00

I admit that the title of this post is, perhaps, a bit of a misnomer. After all, this is not the first time I have posted verse to this blog. Indeed, since I made my confession about the hidden nature of my poetry, I have, somewhat paradoxically, been far more willing to share it.

But, there is new love in my life! Not a new love for me, but rather, a new love for my love, Mazzikin. While I have not talked at length about polyamory, and how I do it, I have mentioned ere now that I have several people whom I love very much in my life, and am involved in relationships with to varying degrees and permutations.

Mazzikin and I are secondary (yes, we use the dreaded ranking system). For us, that means we are not only not exclusive, but do not exercise veto powers over each other's partner choices. He lives an hour away, and visits most weekends. Mazzikin is extremely respectful of the relationship between Paradox ( my primary relationship) and I, and he and Paradox have a firm friendship between them.

Recently, Mazzikin had attracted the attentions of a lovely girl, and was, in fact, quite smitten with her himself. The chemistry was undeniable, at least to those of us observing. Indeed, both Paradox and I felt compelled to remark on the sizzling nature of the attraction. And, what with one thing and another, things have fallen into a lovely poly tangle. As Paradox is fond of putting it: "My girlfriend, and her boyfriend, and his girlfriend."

Recently, Mazzikin wrote about the process of this all coming together in a private post. He remarked that it would be nice if I commented on it (I'm a truly horrible commenter. I feel that unless I have something truly brilliant to say that I should not even bother, and hence, mostly don't), as the lady might like to see an affirmation of my support for this budding romance.

I agreed that it was always nice to have a bit of affirmation, and sat down to write something out. What came out was verse.

Beloved of my love

Know that it is better
than fine,
this new thing
you are weaving,
with a man I love.

We know that love
spreads, and grows, just so:
strawberry plants
with innumerable fruits
all
on the same stalk.

When you look
at each other
you glow, twin suns in an evening sky,
each the other's light.

And I'm still here,
my own light, dancing in reflected glow
of constellations lighting up the sky.

We will be called
"The Lovers"
a cluster of tiny dots
and
intangible lines
drawn together.

An Egg in my Hand.

2009-01-12T05:55:00.000-08:00

I hate eating breakfast when I first wake up. My mother made this a moot point: I would eat, or I would not leave the breakfast table. But after I went off to college, like a fledgling bird turning her beak up on the early worm, I slowly stopped eating breakfast.

I knew it was good to eat food in the morning, that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and all that jazz. But I stopped.

I had tea, instead, with cream and sugar.

Then, I started again. Because I was working real jobs, and couldn't just stop when I was finally hungry and have a much belated breakfast. But it was still hard for me, to wake up that little bit much earlier to make sure I had time to make and eat something.

So I boiled a half dozen eggs, one night, and for the rest of the week I walked out the door with an egg in my hand, to be eaten at my desk when I got to work.

An egg in one's hand is a satisfying thing. It is pleasantly curved, ovoid in shape, light brown in color. It is cold, but slowly warms. An egg in my hand reminds me of being a child, living on a farm. We had chickens, and I would carry each egg like a precious thing in my hands into the kitchen. An egg in my hands reminds me of my mother, and my childhood, and being fed.

An egg in my hand is breakfast.

A poem about sex.

2008-11-23T21:24:00.000-08:00

If you you don't want to read about sex, please exit now.

I've always had a hard time writing about sex, both in general, and specifically in verse. It seems to easy to slide into cliche, to say something so metaphorically that all impact is lost.

Sex, for me, at least, is not metaphorical. It is not fireworks, or burning loins, or amazing flower laden bliss. Sex is raw, and naked, and silly, often. Sex, if I'm doing it right, is where I get to be my most honest, naked, uncomplicated self.

And that self might mangle a metaphor, or two. But I'm more likely to talk dirty by saying "Fuck me." That is how I want to write about sex.

I think I may have done it this time.

Without further ado, the poem:

I wake from my dream
just long enough to
turn off the alarm,
curl back into blankets
and wait for you.

When you come home,
I beg you
to fuck me
like you did in my dream.

You lay
your head on
my thigh, hidden under blankets
and you're looking at me
while your
cold, cold hands
slide up my legs.

I'm wet, and warm,
and writhing on your hands, fingers in me
warming slowly.

Until I beg you
please, please
to fuck me
and you do.

Psst. Anyone still there?

2008-11-04T20:00:00.000-08:00

"Well, Shadowedge," (I say to myself), "where have you been?"

"ummmmmm... On the Moon. With Steve.* "

"Oh really? And the Moon, I suppose, has no Internet?"

At this point, I realize that things have degenerated into silliness, and stop. But here I am, at long last.

Did'ya miss me? Did you notice I was gone?

And why am I posting tonight, of all nights? Well... I've been contemplating hope. The last evil in Pandora's box, after all the others were released into the world. I could use a little hope. But I'm trying, according to Slovotsky's** law (the number of which I cannot remember) : "When you really want something, try to want it a little less. "

This is my second presidential election where I have been of age to vote. After my first attempt to elect someone I liked failed miserably, I'm crossing fingers, toes and everything else that can be crossed. Yes, that includes my legs. But if things go well, there will be some celebrating. If things go badly... well, there is a lot of rum with my name on it waiting for me.

Wait... Really? Obama won? While I was writing this?

McCain is making his concession speech...

Oh my. A rush of relief breaks over me. And that is enough for now.

Thank you, everyone who voted.

* This is a bit from an Eddie Izzard show. I recommend it highly.
** From Joel Rosenberg's "Guardians of the Flame" series.

A post in which I talk about being "nice."

2008-08-19T07:04:00.000-07:00

This was originally a comment on Unspeakable Axe's post about the disparity between the number of books and other resources aimed at introducing female to topping, versus introduction males to bottoming.

My comment turned into an essay against the concept of "nice." So for posarity, and on the off change I have any readers left after the long summer hiatus I'm reposting it here.

I’m going to try and explain all the thoughts that are fluttering around in my head on this issue, but since I’m on day #3 of a horrible headache, it may not go so well.

I could really get to hate “nice.” I, like most females I know, was raised to be a “nice” person. The definition of “nice” shifts from person to person, but a few things seem to be constant: “nice” girls don’t hurt people , and “nice” girls don’t like sex. Needless to say, getting hot and bothered from hurting people while having kinky sex is right out.

Sadism is the refined art of being not nice. Exceedingly not nice. (And yes, not all tops are sadists. But let me get to that.) So is it any wonder that there are fewer female sadists around?

Now, as I said earlier, not all tops are sadists. But tops do take control of the power dynamic, sort of by definition. And that’s not “nice” either. Telling someone what they are going to do, to you, or for you, or in general is not “nice.”

“Nice” is putting up and shutting up, and doing what needs to be done, and not enjoying one damn bit of it. Or, at least, this is my understanding of the phenomenon.

To enjoy sex at all is breaking the “nice” paradigm. To enjoy kinky sex, more so. To admit to oneself that one enjoys things that hurt (oh so good!) is to warp “nice” all out of perspective.

But let’s be clear here. The glass (a little more honest) MY glass is only half full. Because for all that I like to think of myself as having broken the “nice” paradigm it lingers.

I’ve been reading Ellie Lumpesse’s (http://www.lumpesse.com/) masculinity interviews with great interest. In several of them, the men talk about the need to make peace with topping. This consensual power play we do SEEMS to go against the egalitarian feminist sensibility that most of us (I do hope!) hold. It doesn’t, I think we can agree. We do it from a place of informed consent, often warping the cultural perceptions around gender, power and sex, and it is a fulfilling part of many of our lives.

Take the feminist angle, and a dose of “nice” and no wonder there are not female tops coming out of the woodwork. Admitting that one likes to hit people and listen to them gasp on that edge of pain/pleasure: that is scary stuff. Even if the people you are hitting want it as much as you do, consented to be there, and are enjoying the heck out of it.

Getting out of “nice” is work. Work: reading, and thinking, and reading some. Finding a voice to say what one wants. Finding other voices who think like you.

And even then, even if you get that far, you find yourself back at “nice” sometimes, wondering if it will ever feel like it’s alright to want to what you do.

I could get to hate “nice”.

Exhibitionism, or why I spent most of Friday night naked.

2008-06-03T06:20:00.000-07:00

At this point, I work on the expectation that when I visit C and C's place for a party I will, at some point, end up naked. The why of this is not so much complicated as lost in the mists of time, poor memory, and a drunken haze.

This description, I realize, makes it sound like a drinking game gone awry and into depravity. Certainly, in one sense it was. But there are fundamental differences between how social nudity is handled at C and C's events and others I have attended.

In my experience, nudity at other events (specifically, in my case, high school parties years in the past) is characterized by a sense of shame and (sometimes) humiliation, paired with a conflicting set of social mores which simultaneously encourage one to get naked for the pleasure of the male gaze and condemn one for doing so. A girl, in this situation, is supposed to be drunk, and tricked out of her clothing. Wanting to be naked is right out. Or, if one does get naked of one's own volition, one is branded as sexually available in the worst way. Really, once one is naked, in these situations, one is tagged as sexually available, whatever the circumstances of disrobing were.

In contrast, C and C's events are characterized by an explicit respect for everyone's comfort zones, especially in the amount of clothing that one chooses to wear, or not. One friend of mine will happily sit around wearing nothing but her bra, while another friend declined to take off any of her clothing, but was happy to watch the rest of us caper about in nothing at all.

In the same vein of difference are the individual reactions surrounding the process of getting naked. In my perception, there is a distinct lack of shame, and an attitude that most often shouts: "Ta Da!" The exception might be Char, who's approach might be characterized as, "I'm so shy. I'm so shy. I'm naked! I'm very shy, indeed."

And while large amounts of intoxicants are usually involved in these parties, I am of the opinion that that has relatively little to do with the nakedness, except, perhaps, as an excuse for the commencement of the exercise. (Not that we need an excuse, really. But it does make the transition from clothed to naked more explicable.)

I like being naked. (As anyone who has lived with me for any length of time [hi Keathwick!] can tell you. ) Left to my own devices, I would most likely wear a bra and underwear, or less all of the time. I don't, for a host of reasons, including that it would make some people uncomfortable, but that is my general inclination. This has little to do with exhibitionism, and a lot to do with liking to be naked.

For years, in fact, I would disclaim a liking for exhibitionism, despite a penchant for having sex in semipublic locations. However, it is no longer deniable: I like people looking at me. Perhaps it is an occupational hazard: actors (as I am from time to time) adore the spotlight, the attention, the knowledge of being watched.

To quote Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, by Tom Stoppard: "We're actors! We're the opposite of people!"

Of course, Paradox would claim that it is my essential Scorpio nature has something to do with the desire for attention. I could claim that Moonkai's fondness for my exhibitionistic tendencies warped me.

Regardless, it seems that I have acquired a fondness for being naked that goes beyond the joy of not wearing clothing.

"That kind of girl" Reprise

2008-05-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

After my contemplation of what kind of girl blogs, the exhibitionistic possibilities, and the shaping of a blogger in this post, I have a new take on the subject.

Via Pharyngula (a recent addition to my blog roll), this post from EvolutionBlog (who has now joined the rapidly expanding ranks of blogs attempting to take over my reader), which quotes from this article from Scientific American,* which examines "the explosion of blogs" in the light of neurological explanations for the rewards of blogging.

There are well documented rewards for expressive writing:

Scientists (and writers) have long known about the therapeutic benefits of writing about personal experiences, thoughts and feelings. But besides serving as a stress-coping mechanism, expressive writing produces many physiological benefits. Research shows that it improves memory and sleep, boosts immune cell activity and reduces viral load in AIDS patients, and even speeds healing after surgery. A study in the February issue of the Oncologist reports that cancer patients who engaged in expressive writing just before treatment felt markedly better, mentally and physically, as compared with patients who did not.

(...)
According to Alice Flaherty, a neuroscientist at Harvard University and Massachusetts General Hospital, the placebo theory of suffering is one window through which to view blogging. As social creatures, humans have a range of pain-related behaviors, such as complaining, which acts as a “placebo for getting satisfied,” Flaherty says. Blogging about stressful experiences might work similarly.

Flaherty, who studies conditions such as hypergraphia (an uncontrollable urge to write) and writer’s block, also looks to disease models to explain the drive behind this mode of communication. For example, people with mania often talk too much. “We believe something in the brain’s limbic system is boosting their desire to communicate,” Flaherty explains. Located mainly in the midbrain, the limbic system controls our drives, whether they are related to food, sex, appetite, or problem solving. “You know that drives are involved [in blogging] because a lot of people do it compulsively,” Flaherty notes. Also, blogging might trigger dopamine release, similar to stimulants like music, running and looking at art. (Emphasis mine.)

All of this is terribly interesting, I admit. And there must be a reason why those of us who blog do so. Self medication for a host of reasons is not out of the question. But it is the final paragraph of the article that I find most relevant, especially in light of the previous post:

Some hospitals have started hosting patient-authored blogs on their Web sites as clinicians begin to recognize the therapeutic value. Unlike a bedside journal, blogging offers the added benefit of receptive readers in similar situations, Morgan explains: “Individuals are connecting to one another and witnessing each other’s expressions—the basis for forming a community.”

Ha! Community. And the most interesting aspect of my experience of the blogasphere is that people with vastly different backgrounds, cultural contexts, genders, sexual identities, areas of interest and expertise have given me a window into their lives, and thereby enriching my own. How each of the blogs on my blog role have changed my world view is food for thought and a post for another day.

* When one is blogging about things which science bloggers are blogging about, it is important to cite attributions correctly. Well, this is important in general, actually. But specifically in this case, lest I look like a big plagiarizing idiot. **

** Speaking of big academic idiots: Do not, as you value the respect of your professors, EVER turn in a reading response to an article which the professor neglected to hand out in class. Making things up at length to cover the fact that you did not read the assignment that was not given out is a new level of pretentious stupidity.

By reader request feminism, and cleaning the kitchen

2008-05-19T21:00:00.000-07:00

The endless battle to keep the kitchen clean was on my mind, the other day as I once again found myself up to my elbows in hot soapy water. Entropy is rampant in my kitchen. The kitchen is currently housing four people's cookware and three peoples messes (one roommate is slowly moving out), and this means that things build up very quickly.

Distribution of Labor: Well, we all clean. Some of the chores are divided between Paradox and I: I mop, clean the bathroom, and sweep. Paradox takes the trash out, vacuums, and does the lawn. Are we enacting gendered divisions of labor, since I'm cleaning the bathroom, and he is doing the lawn?

Well, I'm 5' 6", and he is 6'4". I clean the bathroom because I fit better. He takes the trash out because in the past it has been difficult, physically, for me to do so. He likes doing the lawn, and I hate it. Sweeping is almost fun for me.

We both cook, do the dishes, the laundry. We keep house well together. This is a skill not to be underestimated: keeping house well together.

Nothing can ruin a friendship faster or with more acrimony than cohabitating with someone who does not share one's thoughts on maintaining the house. Little things, like how often the bathroom gets cleaned, or weather it is alright to leave dishes in the sink, and who takes out the trash can quickly turn into a vicious war, guerrilla sniping, and "Mutually Assured Destruction" pacts consummated at midnight to the sounds of breaking glass.

So Paradox and I keep house, with an assorted cast of roommates. We each have our chosen sphere of cleaning, and it all gets done. More or less.

I need to mop again, actually.

Blog Blather

2008-05-13T21:41:00.000-07:00

I was internet chatting with the lovely and talented Keathwick of Familiar Magic the other night, and she, in passing, remarked: "You seriously make me want to blog, too. And I'm just not that kind of girl, normally."

Now, what precisely is "that kind of girl", if I am one, and she is not? It cannot be ability, for I am in awe of Keathwick's writing skills. And she has already taken the first step of putting work of her own out for the great masses of the internet to look at. But.

It is easier to be an exhibitionist in some things than others. We have both acted, both submitted to, and won, poetry contests, both wallowed in academia, both written: and yet, I am, apparently the kind of girl that blogs, and, in her mind, she is not.

My poetry, for example. It hides. Now that I am no longer taking workshops and classes, it rarely makes it out of my computer into the rest of the world. I blame this on the pushy "poets" that my high school was overstocked with. One girl, in particular, would come up to me, and ask for my opion on her poems. They were wreached. I was polite, but horrified. I did not wish to be that person. And so my poetry hides away.

But somehow I reached the point where prose, which is hardly the medium I am most comfortable in, is what I have committed to write, at least once a week here on Books, Blogs, and Blather.

I asked Paradox if blogging is inherently an exhibitionistic endeavor. "Yes." He replied, and promptly turned over and went to sleep. But is it as simple as that? I suspect that it is also a desire for community. A specific, constructed community, built on a shared network of ongoing work, informed heavily by other members of said community. An intentional community of ideas, if you will. I admit that a feeling of desire for membership into this "community" helped motivate me.

But to return to my initial pondering: what does "that kind of girl" signify? Exhibitionism, yes. Self chosen invitation to a "community" of ideas, yes. Ahhh... one must invite one's self. "That kind of girl" is a pushy party crasher.

Alright. I realize that this is not entirely correct. After all, no one is obliged to read one's blog, and the "community" of bloggers is, in my limited experience, a welcoming group. But the fear of going where one is not invited lingers in the corners.

And yet, here I am. "That kind of girl," writing a post on her blog.

Reaffirming the mission statement.

2008-05-11T19:51:00.000-07:00

From my very first blog post, lo, a whole four posts ago:

"I'm going to talk about what I read, and what I write, and about feminism, and geekery, library science and lust, politics and polyamory, kink and the endless battle to keep my kitchen clean."

Well, let us see how I am doing. Reading, yes. Writing... not so much. Feminism... not so much. Geekery... nope. Well, besides the general book-ness, which I have already covered. Library science ... also, not yet. Lust? Hum. Still no. Politics... not at all. Polyamory: well, besides mentioning that I am... not so much. Kink: yes! And as for the endless battle to keep my kitchen clean? No.

Well. It is early days yet, here at Books, Blogs and Blather. I'm going to think of this list as inspiration, and see what comes of it.

In the mean time I shall try to knock out one of these topics a week. Which shall it be?
Writing?
Feminism?
Geekery?
Library Science?
Lust?
Politics?
Polyamory?
The Endless Battle to Keep my Kitchen Clean?

Let me know in the comments, o loyal readers. (All two of you. Hi there!)

The perverse bibliophile is useful.

2008-05-04T20:02:00.000-07:00

I have been told that I am an emotionally intelligent person, or something to this effect on more than one occasion. My sister, R. , is fascinated with the way I behave, and think about things. I tend to take this with a smidge of salt, as she is tremendously more intelligent and motivated than me in just about every way. Luckily, we went into different fields. I went the literature route, and she went the hard science route. Seldom do the two meet, although we share fiction tastes. Perhaps this is even the root of the difference: my academic endeavors were focused on the analysis of fictional characters. How they acted, why they said the things they said, and what this all means was my whole focus for several years. R., on the other hand, observes insects.

This was going somewhere. . . ah, yes.

A friend of mine called the other day, looking for my life partner, Paradox. He was not around, and she decided to ask me, instead. What her query boiled down to was weather or not it is dishonest for someone to elicit the admission of emotional vulnerabilities, if they don't really care about either you, or the vulnerabilities.

My answer would have been "No!" regardless, I think. But fresh off of a re-read of Jay Wiseman's SM 101: An Introduction, I had a reasoning and justification on tap. Namely, that it is ethically questionable, if not downright wrong to open a person's armor more than you are willing to help them put it back together.

After all, we all have a layer of armor, or skin, or manner, or something that keeps us from blurting out our troubles to the supermarket clerk when they ask us how we are doing. Intimacy, especially emotional intimacy, is, in my opinion, a reciprocal relationship. One does not offer intimacy without the expectation of intimacy in return. The exception might be in certain professional relationships, such as therapists. Even then, it seems to me, there is a commitment to working through any issues that are raise in therapy.

In Wiseman's book, this is explicated slightly differently. As I recall, his phrasing is along the lines of "Don't do anything to a person which is beyond their ability to self-heal." He, of course, is coming at this from the perspective of both physical and mental harm in the context of consensual power play, where as in this case I was using it to apply to everyday emotional exposure and intimacy.

Nevertheless, it worked. My friend felt that this concept was very helpful to her, and her situation. Then, she praised me for, what was to her, a revelation.

I took the praise as it was intended, graciously. But in the back of my head, I was jumping up and down, saying "I told you all that perverse literature you've been reading was useful! See?"

Masochism and Sunburns

2008-04-30T18:24:00.001-07:00

After a few lovely hours at the beach with visiting family, I discovered that I had acquired an epic sunburn, despite my 60 SPF attempts to avoid such.

This has, shall we say, not been pleasant.

Mazzikin and I were chatting, and I would, from time to time, flinch as the shirt that I was wearing rubbed over my burn. This inspired some interesting thoughts, apparently, involving things like Wartenburg wheels and sunburns, in combination.

I winced.

Mazzikin stated that he had rarely met pain that he could not somehow eroticize. How odd, I thought. This idea had never occurred to me, despite my love of sensation play. I pointed out that the erotization of pain is, for me, a mater of context. But it got me thinking.

As an avowed masochist, (sometimes in jest, and often in seriousness), why was this pain any different than pain which had, in the past, been eroticized? And why did my sunburn bother me less after Mazzikin advanced the idea of eroticizing it?

Well, if the context of pain is what makes the shift from discomfort to erotic possible, then one could shift the context of the pain, and thus change the mind's perception of the feeling.

But the limit to this, at least for me, is the inability to stop the pain. If, in a scene, a sensation starts to push the limits of my ability to process it, I have the option of making it stop. With this sunburn, on the other hand, I cannot stop the pain. Eventually, I hit a wall in my ability to eroticize it, and it just plain hurts.

However! Somewhere, a more masochistic person than I may get something out of the experience I had today. To recreate, follow the steps listed below:

Step One: acquire a nicely painful sunburn, primarily on one's shoulders and back.
Step Two: have a job, or other obligation, which requires one to wear a specific uniform. This uniform should include a bra, blouse, and jacket.
Step Three: Enjoy!

How it all began

2008-04-27T21:24:00.000-07:00

So one day, I was convinced by the persuasive arguments of SugarButch to place the large folder of bookmarks named, appropriately, "Distractions", into Google Reader.

And it was good. There they all were (those who had RSS feeds, at least) at my fingertips, all in one place. And so I read them. Bibliophile that I am, I read lots.

Slowly, it dawned on me. My Reader has multiple personality disorder. My Reader let me go from Smart Bitches Read Trashy Books, to Unspeakable Axe. From blogs on comic books and feminism, to blogs on sex and feminism, to blogs about kinky sex and feminism. There was even a few political blogs.

Maybe this happens to everyone. Maybe my brain does not have the strength to handle this new technology. Perhaps I shall find what is left of my mind under my desk cleverly disguised as a puddle of goo.

Instead, I seem to have started my own blog.

Great. Now I can confuse your Reader too.

Welcome, my not-yet-here audience! I'm going to talk about what I read, and what I write, and about feminism, and geekery, library science and lust, politics and polyamory, kink and the endless battle to keep my kitchen clean.

All the confusion your Reader needs in one place.