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Archive for April, 2010

Last night Delia knew exactly when the big fat moon was due to rise so we took our first beach walk alone together without having to feel guilty about not bringing the dog. We looked at ghostly white clematis and sniffed lilacs in the darker-than-dayness and stopped to stand in the sand to watch the entire moonrise from start to full exposure until it clouded over.

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When my ex and I split up the first “important” purchase I made for my tiny studio apartment was a new comforter. One that was expensive and heavy and lofty and luxe. It’s still one of my most valued possessions, probably in the top ten right along with my cheap drugstore bottom-of-the-line Parker fountain pen and my dancing bananas ashtray.

For almost eight years that comforter has lived in our guest room, unused 99% of the time while Delia and I have slept under lesser blankets. WHY????

I think at first it was partly because she thought it was too heavy, but it may also have been that I wanted to keep something so precious mine-all-mine, and in order to do so I didn’t allow it to be enjoyed. Because maybe it would get spilled-on or the dog would make it furry or because it was a treasure I procured when I moved back into myself and wanted to keep it preserved as a symbol of solitude. It makes no sense to me now.

This week we moved the good comforter into our bedroom. Where it belongs, on top of both of us, a big blanket of bliss.

Nico was fifteen years old and people STILL frequently asked if she was a puppy — so pretty and smaller than people expect Siberian Huskies to be (even though she was normal-size for a female husky). But if they watched her walking from the hind end they’d understand she was an old girl. She started to look like an elderly woman hobbling doggedly with a walker, dragging her hind legs stiffly forward one at a time after reaching forward to brace herself with her two front legs.

Eat as Many Treats as You Want!!

There *was* a choice of whether or not now was the right time to put her to sleep. I’m aware that there are people who would’ve put her down a lot sooner and others who would have let this stretch out forever with doggy diapers and thousands of dollars in vet bills. I’m aware that we might have made this decision for ourselves as much as for her and that I’ve been able to absolve myself of any guilt because she was really Delia’s dog and her decision to make based on twice as many years with her and a lot more love. I’m also aware that Delia gave her a good life and that she’s a HUSKY, and she couldn’t do her husky things anymore – there hadn’t been ululations for a year or more and her sickle tail was permanently drooped into brush-mode. She was confused (at times heartbreakingly comically so, like when she would stand at the hinge of the door waiting to be let out of the bedroom when the door was already open INCHES away from where she’d fixed her gaze – it WAS funny, though sad) and her mobility profoundly decreased. She’d been losing her balance (or her legs just gave out) while she pooped and would often fall over then finish pooping while lying on her side.

Anyway, there was a lot of stuff and seeing blood in her gelatinous-with-mucous diarrhea Saturday night was the clarifying symptom that it was TIME even though it hadn’t been that many days since she ran through the house as much as she could, yipping both in pain and excitement, not able to NOT force herself to go as fast as possible even after wiping out twice trying to navigate the corner between one hallway and another. If it were any other kind of dog you’d think I was describing a very fit and healthy animal, but huskies are just that awesomely driven to RUN and defy every limitation imposed on them.

So we decided to make her last two days full of good things, like her last walk in the woods. It was very very slow and the smallest hills were like giant mountains to her. She even looked at one incline so wearily that she turned around, like “just take me back to the car because I’m DONE”.

Nico's Last Walk in the Woods

During and after making the decision I’ve felt a variety of emotions: excitement looking forward to freedom and possibilities, relief, uncertainty, guilt, confusion, sadness, loss, worry . . .

Our beautiful companion's fur, walking slowly

Two women came to our house to do it after Nico had two days of walks and lots of her favorite soft peanut-butter treats and lots of love and attention lavished on her. The vet and her assistant were loving and gentle and pleasant and thoughtful and smooth and patient and respectful.

Small and short-lived.

The hardest part was the hour before they got here when we were waiting. Everything was ready, Nico was totally worn out, and there was nothing to do except know that she was about to be gone and didn’t even know what was coming (I think Delia felt more confident that Nico did actually know and was fully prepared and welcoming – either way is actually pretty sweet).  I wouldn’t trade that hour of waiting for rushing around or not experiencing that weird duality of tranquility on the outside and guts churning on the inside, though.

Waiting for the vet to come

During the process I felt a fast cycling of emotions of calm, euphoria, gratitude and resignation sort of like when I was in a car crash and had a few seconds to emotionally prepare myself to die and then was elated when I survived. But with this there were also overwhelmingly intense guts-in-the-throat needing to bawl emotions like when I was with my dad during his death.

How beautiful and floppy and light her dead body looked wrapped in a blanket with her gorgeous face exposed and then her front legs tumbling out. The looseness and complete lack of worry. The weird exciting sense of potential like you could reanimate her, so fresh and ready with all of the soreness and stiffness she’d been suffering from magically erased. She really did look like new life (and none of these pictures are communicating the reality of any of this, or at least my perceptions and experiences of these days). She was so so so beautiful.

No more breath, no more heartbeat.

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Helping Nico die and being present for it helped me with my dad’s death, to process it more and remember it and grieve more freely and more fast. It’s been eight years, but I really didn’t know a lot about how to be with his death and my feelings about it so it’s been a very long and protracted experience. Watching Nico die — feeling her die, touching her dying and dead — I feel spiritually more at ease than I did when confronted with my dad’s final moments. Maybe my idea of peace is wider and simpler than I must have wished for back then. Maybe my expectations for myself are lower than they were then. I don’t know, but I’m glad for it.

I am an imperfect witness, not a bumbling guide stuck with the horrible responsibility of having taken someone I loved on a journey to a brick wall on a dead end. Maybe I’m getting to be okay with nothing being perfect and not being in control and just appreciating the long moments I’ve had to absorb the profoundly ordinary in all of its individual rarity and treasure it and bask in my blessings. My dad is one of a few people I’ve had telepathic experiences with (even if they were probably more accurately described as intuitive communication or whatever) so maybe I thought I failed by not knowing what he was trying to tell me at the end or that I failed by crying and possibly making him sad or worried during his last minutes of life. There’s a lot less pressure with a dog and it was more okay with me that we were all together but alone at the same time.

The Incredible Machine

Like with my dad it took a number of minutes for her to stop all the way. “She’s not breathing anymore but she still has a very faint heartbeat”. For like four minutes. When we were kids Daddy bought us lots of National Geographic books. One of my favorites that may have impacted my worldview more than any other was “The Incredible Machine” about how humans are all electrical and mechanical and stuff. I never absorbed facts and information the way my sister could (it’s amazing how we had the same books at home and the body of knowledge her brain constructed out of them is so vastly different — and more vast in general — than mine) so what I retained from it is just a philosophy that I might not find in it if I were to read it today, but that might have been the first book I ever read to give me a celebratory nontheistic way of looking at life that was deliciously SPACE AGE eighties-style, like 3-2-1 Contact and synthesizers and stuff.

While Nico was dying it started raining and we were glad it waited until then, not starting until after her last three walks and other quiet time outside. That night the smell of the evergreens after the rain was magnified to supernatural proportions and for a minute I enjoyed imagining that Nico bestowed an enriched sense of smell on us as a parting gift.

Then I stopped wasting brain juice on that and just focused on vacuuming up as much scent as I could with each inhalation, tasting wet green dogless walks in the future moonlight, just me and my girlfriend.

*****

Delia and I have been living together for almost eight years (the first time she told me she loved me was the day my dad died). It’s a significant chunk of time as far as human measurements go but also . . . brief. Losing Nico is another transition for our relationship and maybe I have the feeling like I will contribute more as a partner now. Nico was rooted in so many years of history and two other serious relationships for Delia so she was never really “my” dog; I don’t mean that in a bitter or unloving or detached way . . . it was my way of copping out of taking care of her fully so that I didn’t clean up as much poop or let her in and out as often or get her food ready. I’m excited that we’re entering another stage together and that it’s happening now.

Pair of Trillium

I can’t complain . . . I really can’t complain or regret this loss or wish for any of it to be different. I can’t say that I wish we didn’t have to go through this or that she could have lived forever. Of all the ways of dying and lives and chunks of years of experiences out there to be had, I’d say this death and these years and our lives have been blessed, relatively comfortable with relatively little pain, and filled with pleasure. Am I still bursting into tears? Yeah, but I can’t complain.

I totally have spring fever. We can go anywhere! Do anything! The light in our house looks different. The pretending-to-be-a-grownup feeling is back when I go into my office. Maybe just because everything is intensified after so many intense days? I don’t know, but this is the first time in all these years we can leave the doors wide open and not be afraid that Nico will run away. It’s not that a husky doesn’t love her people, SHE’S JUST PROGRAMMED TO RUN AWAY FROM YOU!!

*****

Check out Delia’s post with more pictures of Nico and background. Contrasting pics of her in her younger days really shows how much she changed physically over the years, plus it’s really interesting to read/see more about Delia!

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Note: I feel EXTREMELY fortunate we had a way to pay for her to be ushered out so gently with at-home euthanasia; not everybody is so lucky. Humanely ending an animal’s life is really expensive for most people and doing it yourself is something most people aren’t equipped for (and legally/socially is a prime example of some really interesting double-standards, misunderstandings and class differences in our country). Anyhoo, if you love your pet and can afford to do it this way when the time comes, I’d recommend it as being well worth the extra money (if you can swing it) to have that special time at home and is worth finding out in advance what vets (or other people?) can help you with this when the time comes. I also feel extremely fortunate that my dad died in hospice which is much more like dying at home than like dying in a  hospital, but better than dying at home maybe. I loved it, and think it’s hugely important to be able to spend time with your dead loved one for hours, if you’re lucky enough to have that option and the kind of death you get to see coming.

Just a quick note:

We’re spending a little quality time with our dog while we can, plus our main internet connection has been down all day (apparently I am the only one in our town with this problem) so most of our cams have been down with it. We still have spycams up in the bedroom on this page on the last profile (scroll down to SpyOnUsGals), though.

If you happen to see crying, well . . . that’s life. We’ve also got some doctor appointments for ourselves coming up and a bunch of serious housecleaning we NEED to do, for a variety of reasons (example: our dog is SICK). I’ll post more later, etc. In the meantime I’m not really doing much with email, twitter, the phone, etc. so you probably will not be hearing from me this week. There is some newish stuff in my NEW members-only blog, though!

Last night we fucked and it has been so long and was so badly needed that it ached in a certain way that for some reason brings to mind a very weird comparison when I try to think of how to describe the feeling.

Sometimes it feels inside like swallowing a hard boiled egg WHOLE. Peeled/no shell, but just like something very big and round and smooth and filling inside your throat. It’s too big and it hurts in an achey/stretchy way, but you know you aren’t going to die from it and somehow it feels really delicious as you’re forcing it into this deeper place of comfort, gulping and swallowing it deeper and deeper while it gets closer and closer to resolution and aches.

This is not a big cock analogy at all, and I know if it’s not a big cock analogy (or even if it is?) that it’s probably a turn-off, but I can’t help it. And it’s definitely not a “deep penetration” analogy because I am not into deep penetration. KEEP IT FAT AND SHALLOW!

Anyway, the boiled egg thing is just the closest I can come to describing something that feels really intense: both soft and difficult at the same time. Something involving a lot of flexing and straining that’s a challenge with a destination that is just SO CLOSE the whole time. There is so much give to a boiled egg.

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Do you remember when telling someone to “go suck on an egg” was a big funny dis? I never understood that. I still don’t understand it. And it has always sounded like something vaguely pleasant and sensual to me. I totally don’t get it, but if you do could you please explain it to me?

*****

Not that Delia’s cock isn’t BIG . . . it is big! It’s just not as big to my vagina as swallowing a whole boiled egg would be to my throat.

Maybe the boiled egg analogy is actually a subconscious metaphor for the real analogy, which is that perhaps I’ve always wanted to be a snake and swallow my prey whole and feel it go down the inside of my long snake body and have everyone be able to see me guilty, stretched out, my eyes obviously too big for my mouth and everything else.

That is why I prefer to eat in bed where no one can see me (except for the voyeurs watching our spycams). I’m a private snake, so when I say “everyone can see me” all stretched out I mean that I myself have seen snakes stretched out in one round spot like that and I want to feel what that looks like, not really that I want to be looked at myself. I would like to eat in a grassy nest and lay in the sun, hideously deformed by my meal while the animal inside me moves down and down and down and I know it was too big and it’s gruesome and difficult the way I have to keep forcing it down, but it’s so exciting and so fulfilling, I wouldn’t give it up for anything. There is no question of spitting it out now. There’s no turning back . . . . it’s inside me and at some point soon there will be the tiniest bit of relief . . . a little less pressure . . . so that I’ll still feel entirely sated and thoroughly filled up, but it will have hit a certain spot of pleasure and I’ll have just a little more room to breathe.

An affirming read (one of many lately) on recognizing that trying to do it all is TOO MUCH, and making a goal of doing less:

. . . they have decided to not work at the limit of their ability. they are not interested in finding the line that is their maximum output except to be sure that they are much below it. they have decided not to do everything that they could.

“and so” she said “we’re going to see what comes out of the space we’re allowing for”.

this has sat well with me. it is a breath before i eat. it is the light splayed across my wood walls in the morning. it is not trying to do everything i can. even though i’m excited by all the permutations, it’s about looking inside myself to decide the next movement rather than thinking about every possible way i could do everything all the time.

i think i have probably let people down. i still struggle with guilt. i freak out and bolt for maximization at least once a day.

but i’m trying to give my life wiggle room. just barely.

Last night we stayed up until four watched the last four available episodes of Mad Men and today I am reading for pleasure and having my period and thinking inspired thoughts about videos I could make but probably won’t. My hands smell like sweet and salty foods and stiff girly hair products and thick royal jelly eye cream. This feels a lot better than a week ago when I was wound up (again) thinking I had to do everything and all of it had to be perfect.

Every so often (but not today) I get a whiff of a cosmetic scent that reminds me of some little-girl-science-meets-makeup product where you “mixed” your own lip gloss, creme blush, etc. with tiny white spatulas. It reminds me of how exciting it was to go to World of Toys in Bellevue (where rich people lived!) in the seventies and how much crap Daddy compulsively bought us.

I simultaneously long for my childhood sense of entitlement when it came to pressuring him to buy us stuff and am HORRIFIED by the memory of it. It was pretty cool to actually believe that I could have anything I wanted as long as I could convince him to buy it for me and that everything else could be checked out at the library. I’ll bet if I could put my finger on the smell of that toy-makeup stuff or just remember the name of it I might be one step closer to dominating the world, or at least feeling like all of my time belongs entirely to my own pleasure.

Sooner or later I am going to have to detach from the things I want to do a lot, but less than the things I want to do most and am made to be better at than the rest of it. Sooner or later I’m going to have to recognize the futility of guilt. But today I am still just pretending I don’t feel like a failure because I’m enjoying myself.

Tomorrow I should go on a walk by myself and take pictures of apple blossoms on old trees planted by the wives of dead soldiers.

We were looking forward to doing our camshows last night and today for some orgasmic relief, but unfortunately our cable keeps taking a shit on us and going out during our shows. Today the reason they’re giving is “pocket outages” from downed trees because of the severe wind we had earlier this week (so I guess while they’re working on that they have to take it down? I don’t know).

Last night it went down during Delia’s show and stayed down during mine so I scrambled to do it in our bedroom on the DSL which is NOT set up as a camming station — no lights, no space to move the cam around, no toys, etc. It’s not something you can just adjust quickly, but it worked out alright because Delia came in and gave me her cock to suck on so everyone got to see her squirt a load on my tongue and have it drip down onto my juggies.

Today? I kept getting disconnected, had to log out ALL of our spycams on the cable to stabilize it, then my period randomly started gushing out of me which is great but requires some extra set up and me wanting to capture a few images since it’s so rare and precious . . . and right when I start fucking myself and was looking forward to an orgasm, the cable went out completely. With the amount of time I had left and my cramps starting it wasn’t worth it to try to move it into the dark bedroom/dsl station so I just had to cut it short and Delia canceled hers (she also has a really sore throat).

We’re still going to do members-only chat today, but the rest of it I’m sorry to say has to be written off as a loss and chalked up to bad weather, bad timing, etc.

I’m going to try to record a quick messy red masturbation video now. Which of course I won’t have time to actually edit and post.

FEELING REALLY FRUSTRATED.

I didn’t do it on purpose, but I took some of these pics at exactly 2:28 am in 2/28. Technically, I took them at 2:28 on 3/1 but I don’t switch the day in my head until after I’ve fallen asleep.

Full Moon, February 28th 2010, 2:28 am

I intended to post these images of the crone moon along with a tribute to pianist Martha Argerich and wax on about the furious potency of certain women as they age, and that I have never seen or felt any man hold a candle to a woman like her. Maybe I was going to write about how watching her almost makes me believe in a pantheon of goddesses. I think I might have intended to use her as just one example of why feminism is still relevant to me: that women of talent, of fury, of power, and of age are so invisible to us and when we do notice them, they’re despised and/or part of a fetishized niche: curiosities collected by people with very special interests.

Triple Goddess in the form of YouTubed Martha:

I’m not somebody who believes the only way to celebrate age is to exhibit disgust for those who are enchanted and aroused by youth, I just think think the imbalance of visibility and admiration is grotesquely skewed to a point that pains and mystifies me. I want MOREMOREMORE grey hair and widened wisdom and that patient look of years of practice you can see in Martha’s eyes. Like she could summon up thunderbolts and DESTROY YOU in the blink of an eye and go right back to playing with smoking fingertips except that destroying you would be a waste of her time so maybe she’d just wink and shuffle off to mist her orchids and you’d know that she knows exactly how many pounds of bullshit you’re full of.

The mastery of older women. I want to be surrounded by that and bow before it at least once a week. Towards that end I seem to be in certain kinds of love with a stout greying-haired dyke with twinkling eyes who told me about oxytocin and makes me want to beg her take me golfing. Even with ten other people in the room listening to her I feel like she’s talking directly to me and I’m drifting towards her, ready for our bosoms to melt into each other. You know that feeling like you’re RIGHT ABOUT TO KISS SOMEONE even though she’s halfway across the room? I can imagine breathing our mouths into a soft little seal where she could magically keep talking, ministering to me, reeling me into a quiet place removed from everyone else’s noise where I could even become blissfully deaf to myself. Every time I see her now I can feel it, melting into her at the mouth and the chest and the belly. I don’t think I’ll do anything about it because I’m pretty sure she has cats (or A cat, at least, of course) and I’m too young and scattered to waste her time with my crushing, but a somewhat-younger woman can dream. And melt and drift and submit.

February Full Moon Dancing

I didn’t get around to digitally memorizing the most recent full moon in March, but I was CLOSE with a camcorder in a windstorm at night while clouds raced across her wake of light without losing any speed. And then there were too many of them and only my eyes could appreciate the glimmers of shine that were still visible from down here on the ground.

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Note: I hate the words “pics” and “vids”, but those abbreviations work really well and are more popular search terms, so I stick them in my blog entry titles anyway (also to alert folks following my RSS feed that it’s a multimedia entry and maybe worthier of a click-through).