Saturday, June 7, 2014

On Hold

My life is on hold. I have pressed pause. I didn't do this intentionally, it just kind of happened. I am in instamatic picture, freeze frame, whilst all around me are mobile; in motion, moving forward in the ever transient 'now'.

Love keeps me immobile. It chains me to stagnation. Insidious tendrils curved and caressed my feet, massaged their gentle way up my legs, and wrapped themselves around my body. The warm hug of love infusing my very soul encasing my eyes and making me blind to the fact that I am now stationary.

The subtle shift in condition from flowing and empowering love to being on hold was so delicate that I failed to notice. I berate myself. I call myself a fool and an idiot, loathing my trusting nature.

I disgust me.

Being on hold allows me the luxury of reflection. To work out how I came into this position. It is the same pattern of relationship played out again and again. The cracked record of my romantic life. Same men, Same relationship. Same trusting self. Same mistakes.

I truly despise me.

Love had freed me up and allowed me to be beautiful again. It allowed my natural song to be sung; sexual and wild. Free flowing and expressive, expansive, inclusive. It de-robed me from a tarnished existence and made me shine again. People noticed. They saw me sparkle, become effervescent.

I became curious once more, keen to explore and understand my body. how it worked, how I came. That had always been a problem, my orgasms. From hurried, selfish lovers who used my body and kindness as some form of masturbatory tool. To me being too generous, placing their needs before my own. I found myself in a situation where I could not come, unable to work out why but the ache and the longing of release being ever present and very real inside me.

It was this that pushed me forward; this that drew me to him. He was the key to unlock the mysteries of my body and mind. that old jaded euphemism, hackneyed, common and worn out but so apt here in my situation. A key and a lock.

And yet here I am locked down again with the same desires. It was my lust that made me realise I was chained yet again. It is not a desire or an ache within my loins that stirs in my now. Rather an energetic force that propels me to movement and makes my shackles chafe. I look at people and try and keep my lustful wolfish smile from my lips. Disguise is my friend. That glint of desperate need in my eyes is not so easy to cover and the more astute amongst my friends see it, a few comment on it.

My desire to fulfil my sexual needs is tangible and heavy, both hot and cold. A weight and the price I pay for loving a married man.

I want to break this bondage, to walk away and set us both free. The old adage of you can't help who you fall in love with is hollow and to subscribe to it means that I am a powerless victim. In my mind I recall the powerful, prowling lioness that I can be and claw at this victim stance. Yet when he calls my name I go to him, compelled because of love.

There is no imminent resolution. No quick fix or snappy answers. Time I know is my true rescuer. Time will help me unlock these chains. Time will empower me to allow them to fall from my body. On the other hand, if I blame time for my emancipation, do I also accuse time for binding me again next time, or do I blame love? I know the person I will blame the most will be me and my humiliating inability to learn from my mistakes.

In the mean time I remain on hold.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Trigger Warnings

Rebel's prompt this week is about trigger warnings, and to be honest I have been pondering which way to go with it. I don't usually follow the prompt but this one seems right up my street as I write erotica and illness, necrophillia, domesitc violence, murder etc. so most of my work could have some form of trigger warnings on it. Indeed on some of the ones I feel are more extreme I put something up at the front about people of a delicate disposition should look away.

There were several ways I could have gone with this. I could have written something heinous that set off some people's triggers. I could write about censorship and the compulsory trigger warnings on writing and books. However I was taught that if you are going to comment on things then 'add value'. I think if I went down that route then I would not be adding anything to the argument, just adding hot air.

Thus, I wanted to talk about something that I am passionate about in the frame of trigger warnings. I want to talk about intelligence.

In my working life I come across people if all shapes and sizes and intellects including learning difficulty (IQ of 80-90) and learning disability (IQ of 80 or less), as well as exceptionally brainy people (IQ of 150+). I need to communicate to all of these people, using a variety of different methods. I do not have any difficulty in communicating with them in a way that makes sense to them. One thing that I do not do, I never do, is dumb things down. I treat them like articulate human beings, because they are. Individuals with a unique sense of self and self identity.

I see trigger warnings on things on Fetlife where it may or may not be appropriate. What I find is that the 'trigger' is usually insignificant to me as a reader but of huge import to the author. I find them an irritation because they preclude me from thinking and making my own choices, if I want to read the article or not without explaining explicitly what the content is. I find that mildly offensive at the time and very offensive when I reflect upon it.

We title things to give people an idea of what the contents are. There is blurb on the back of books, DVD's, games and so on to give us more of an idea of the content so we can make an informed choice. That is why they are there so we know approximately what it is all about. Our curiosity takes us further if we want to. What is the point of getting a book if I already know what happens in it?

I am a huge fan of series like Wonders of the Solar System and Blue Planet. They cover topics that I know nothing about but pitch it at such a level so that I do not feel stupid but that it is engaging and educational. It is poles apart from Americana-esqe programmes which dumb things down to the lowest common denominator, instead or presuming that their audience has some modicum of intelligence. Spoon feeding is a huge turn off to intellectual engagement of the subject, at any level and at any age.

So let's examine the lowest common denominator for a second. The average IQ is 100 and I have yet to meet a person who does not want to be considered as an individual, a unique being. From that it is the right to make their own choices, what they want to wear, what they want to watch, what they want to read. They customise social media sites to suite them such as Twitter and Facebook. No one has a Twitter account full of Conservative party announcements when they are interested in elephant riding and not politics. They choose. They are selective.

McDonald's now famous warning sign of 'hot contents' when you buy a hot beverage is not a warning to protect people, it is a legal back covering exercise. I do not know of anybody, including people with learning disabilities, who are not aware that a cup of coffee will be hot. It does not come as a surprise to them. Therefore, it is not out of concern for the customer, it is out of concern for themselves, much like trigger warning where the concern is to relieve the uncomfortable feelings of the author.

I am all for warnings about explicit lyrics and age ratings as there does need to be some regulation; some way of knowing if it is age appropriate or contains offensive material. To be able to read my blog you have to acknowledge that you are over 18 and readers are warned that it contains adult content. I am for correct descriptions of things, accurate blurbs and titles. I am all for individual choices. The UK Mental Capacity Act states that we have the right to make unwise choices (I love that bit about it, it always makes me smile). Trigger warnings take away that right to choose, they take away any level of intelligence to make a judgement whether or not we want to read or watch something.

I am pro choice, pro intelligence, pro individualism.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Love and Scars

"Oh dear." 

It was a statement, a social comment, and a hug all rolled into one. The syntax was slow and delicate with the vowels protracted and soft. The tone inflected in it was critical but playful, telling me off but in a gentle manner. Cosseted, akin to a mother gently berating a child so that they know where the boundaries are. 

"That was silly now wasn't it?"

 The muscles around my mouth twitch into a suggestion of a smile as I ram the remnants of the chocolate biscuit into my mouth, my guilty pleasure and source of chastisement. The swallowing of evidence is not an attempt to hide it, rather a rebellious defiance that I actually have finished the whole packet of biscuits and loved it. My head is held high in mock defiance bordering on outrage at this accusation. 

I cast my eyes down knowing that I have broken my diet, tempted by dark chocolate digestives. I know she is right. Guilt does not consume me because she makes me feel loved. That warm effusive love that permeates everything: your whole being, your hair, your soul, everything around you, rooms and soft furnishings, the sky and birds and cars. All encompassing in the invisible stability of gentle love. 

I turn and inhale to say something, to reprimand her. Witty quips jostle for first place in my brain, tripping to the tip of my tongue like school children fighting to be first in line. 

I look and she is not there. Reality becomes a mirraged haze for a second. An Escher picture where I don't know which way is up. Then it reasserts itself; she is not here, she is dead and gone. Cremated. Memories of her funeral and wake swim lazily to the surface of my brain. Pain stabs at my heart. The quips wither, drying my mouth with their corpses. 

A sigh chokes down the tears and grief. Another sigh calms the sudden ache in my heart. The third deep breath reminds me that I was loved and that it is not the love that has died, just my best friend. A flicker of a smile flashes across my mouth as tears collect in my eyes blurring my vision of the detritus of gluttony that is the empty packet of biscuits. 

Screwing up the empty wrapper I put it in the bin. I smile at the weird juxtaposition of grief and love. Had I not known her I would not be so sad, so empty like a gutted fish at her loss. Her unbelievable sunshine that she brought into my life. It is almost an oxymoron the pain and love combined; that the love she showed me and the love we had for each other keeps burning, never ending. I hear her commenting on things that I am doing, I smell her perfume as I walk in the room. All of these things calm me, they help me through life. I talk to her, long conversations about both the frivolous and the serious. I talk out loud like a mad woman, schizophrenic in nature with only me hearing the response. I know she is dead and it is only my imagination, a construct in my mind but I talk to her none the less. Bollocks to what anyone else thinks, I embrace this insanity of grief and love. 

With her or without her, if I had been given the choice to not know her and not feel this pain; I would choose pain every time. Always pain. Because with it came something special, a mutual love and respect that is uncommon and is the be cherished even if it was cut short.

As always the beautiful Rebel hosts Wicked Wednesday, please check out and comment on the other wonderful entries.