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Archive for the ‘Cabin Journal’ Category

After months of not using the cabin “properly” because all I had was a tiny wooden tv tray downstairs (so I spent most of my time up in the loft which is really only suitable for cozy lie-down tasks), I finally spotted the perfect table and bought it with a small portion of one generous philanthropist’s donation(s) to the cause:

Price of my new table for the cabin.

It looked pretty wrecked, but then the guy came out, said he hadn’t even washed it off yet . . . I scratched at a fault with my fingernail and it crumbled right off!

Dirty, DIRTY table!! Goooood Girl, table . . .

So I bought it. I’d been lazily keeping my eye open for a desk or table that would fit, be serviceable and feel lovely but it took all these months to drive by the perfect table sitting on a sidewalk for sale. I couldn’t have found it on purpose or known this was exactly what I wanted. And I wouldn’t have wanted a new, reproduction version of this table.

Delia and I brought it to the cabin, inserted it into place, and I cleaned it. Almost all of this rusty stain disappeared:

I'll bet I can clean this off completely with vinegar & elbow grease.

The white apron around the edge of the table won’t ever be close to pristine, but Delia told me to rub the rusty legs with aluminum foil and they’ll get better:

Contrast rusty pole on left w/ shiny pole on right (scrubbed with foil).

I haven’t scrubbed much more than that, but I have spent a few good hours sitting at the table since then, feeling it’s perfectly faded and mildly scratched smooth cool top.

I think it’s pretty hard to find a formica table with chrome AND a leaf AND with the gingham top. The ones I see online with a gingham pattern all have wooden legs (and definitely no leaf). Not that I care about making great antiquing finds, but I do like to know a little about my tools and things I like. For all I know this IS a reproduction, but an older one than the styles they make now. Definitely leave comments if you know more about these tables or have some memories of these kinds of tables you feel like sharing. We could stuff a whole little family into the cabin for Thanksgiving dinner or Chinese takeout or something!

Look at my table leaf (& me in my shiny kettle)!

‘Tis clean! But still so touched and used.

Look at how clean my new old table is now!

Right now I’m doing a bunch of time-consuming windows updates on the laptop so that I can install windows live writer as an offline blog editor, but now I’m not so sure I want to do that. Really I just want to get over there to the cabin RIGHT NOW and sit at my table.

Stay tuned for more rhapsodizing about My Perfect Table (and all of the things it is perfect FOR).

I couldn’t fall asleep last night. Around 2:30 or 3 I thought about going to the cabin to write down a couple of ideas and fall asleep whenever I got ready, but the truth is I’m afraid to go to the cabin at night. In the dark.

When we got the cabin I thought Delia and I would use it together sometimes to have a break from the cams. From the overabundance of machines constantly coursing with electricity. From the distractions of always being at work and often wanting to get away from it. But in almost four months we’ve never spent the night here together. And I’ve never spent the night here alone. I don’t mean I’ve spent the night here with someone else, I just haven’t spent the night here period.

So I guess WE didn’t get the cabin; I got the cabin by myself. And I’m still afraid to use it all the way. When I should. Which is lame because even though I must have gotten the cabin by myself, FOR myself, the rent on it does make us short in other areas. Which Delia makes up for on cam. I make up for it on cam and in other ways, too, but in doing so fall short on promoting our sites and other things I should be doing.

I thought we would come here and cook things in the toaster oven, wrapping up meatballs in shiny crinkled aluminum foil that would get filled with little trickles of salty meat-juice. Hang up twinkle lights and make love in the loft where nobody can see us (except maybe some people whose porch light I can see through the small, high, uncovered window across from the loft, if they have binoculars and feel like using them to look in here).

The girl in the big house has a big dog. I’m partially afraid to go to the cabin in the dark out of consideration of her, that she might hear me or see my shadow and think I’m an intruder in the fenced yard and get nervous since I never come here in the dark hours. But what I’m really afraid of is that she’ll let the dog out in the dark and she’ll feel all protective and rip off my face or arms with her teeth or just bark and growl and I’ll be paralyzed with fear at the gate. I’m afraid of dogs and afraid of having to explain myself to people when they catch me out alone in the dark.

The days have gotten shorter and shorter ever since I got the cabin, so the few daylight hours keep getting squeezed in by more and more dark hours that I’m afraid to use. If I didn’t share the cabin yard with the girl in the big house I would be here in the dark all the time, I think. But maybe not. I’ve gotten to the point where I want to be close to Delia whenever its dark. Nothing else feels right, which is weird because I used to live for being alone at night. I guess it’s been many years since I felt that way, though.

We only have a few more days before it all turns around and the days start getting longer again, but that still means I have three months before it’s anything like September when I started this thing. But that’s only in terms of daylight, which won’t be warm and toasty like it was in September. It will be wet and heavy and cold. So I think I need to get over this soon, and start coming here in the dark and not waiting around for it to be like September again.

Monday, 9/6/2010: Day 4

This is the day I moved a vibrator into the cabin.

Post-orgasm with the vibrator I brought to the cabin.

I still haven’t taken a nap here but now I’ve broken in the loft with masturbation and orgasms. There’s no internet access here (a good, preferable, integral thing to this whole cabin experience) and I don’t have any dirty books here, so I was very limited in terms of porn to accompany my vibrator time. I’ve only downloaded three videos (not counting that Gossip Girl episode) to this laptop and those were all for research purposes just to gauge their quality so out of those I chose to masturbate to a teaser video Delia made last year.

I skipped through the parts I’m in to get to the real meat of the thing/away from visions of myself. I wanted to come to her Twin Peaks-y schoolgirl-in-plaid-skirt-and-white-panties thing, but  it’s hard to time things just right with a short compilation video like that meant merely to entice. I’m a chick with a vibrator though, so I got off on it three times. It makes me extra excited, actually, and I come faster when I’m “afraid” that the part I like is going to end REALLY FAST . . . when I know my favorite parts are limited. I didn’t time it properly the first time and wound up climaxing as she was eating her cum on the donut (totally NOT what I want to orgasm to, though I love directing her to eat it), but I did better the other times.

I also wrote an outline and some notes for a short story. I might have done some other stuff, too.

You can check out other people’s “Half Nekkid Thursday” pics for this week here (links are in the comments). If you like truly amateur / non-porn-pro stuff, you should definitely check it out.

9/5/2010 Cabin Day #3: word count: 955

The girl in the big house has a dog. A big dog I was afraid of when I first saw her and didn’t know who she was or why she was there, giving me a low woof. My heart started pounding and I hid around the corner from my own cabin door on the deck, wondering what to do. Because I’m afraid of dogs even if they have friendly benign-looking spots.

But everything’s okay now; I learned her name and already love her and am happy she’ll be here. I miss our dog and it felt so solid to pet this big new girl.

Don't want to turn on the heat yet so wearing thick hoody.

*****

I feel weird and self-conscious about the fix-it man and the girl in the big house knowing that I’m not actually LIVING in the cabin, but coming here to write. It sounds so fucking pretentious, but these people are nice so they are respectful, trying to make genuine curiosity as non-invasive and supportive as possible.  This town is full of  “artists” and other people who are totally full of shit, fanciful dreams, and beliefs in astrology and revolution. I’m not fully committed to being one of them, and every single position on the spectrum of fancies-herself-a-writer is an embarrassing place to be seen. Even with this cabin I’m nowhere near invisible.

9/4/2010 Cabin Day #2: Word Count: 3203

Before leaving home, I discovered voicemail from fix-it dude left last night. He called again as I was heading out the door. Very considerate, but I can’t think of a good time for him to come over to fix the shower so I say in an hour. This day is scratched because no matter how considerate anyone is, it is still an interruption or two or three. Four if you count having to talk on the phone. Should I wait for him to get here before I poop or hurry and try to push it out now and hope he doesn’t arrive mid-dump or soon thereafter (you can see and smell ALL in this cabin; the toilet‘s only 27% private)?

When will he be back to caulk it after assessing the job? Should I try to start working or wait for him to get back, finish, and be gone? Should I eat my potato salad or wait? Because you know I hate being interrupted when I’m eating or working; interruptions are diametrically opposed to The Purpose of The Cabin, at least on day two they are. And oops . . . What about the tools he left?

Point is, I still haven’t been naked in the cabin OR taken a nap!!!

Anyway, that whole business spanned the morning hours, including a field trip to the art store while I waited for him. I bought some soft colored pencils and black paper and got a mini-headache from some obnoxious twat wearing way too much perfume. I could’ve bought the electric skillet I want with that money but I decided colors are more in keeping with The Purpose of The Cabin than a skillet.

I started to draw some imaginary marsh plants (aka grass) in the back of the black sketchbook (I don’t want to ruin the front pages with my first “colour pencil” drawings) but it looked way better than I thought it would so I stopped because I was afraid I would ruin it. Instead I moved on to color a big girly I-Love-You heart for Delia while the fix-it guy caulked.

After he left I made Russian Caravan tea to sip with my potato salad (which the new guy at the store forgot to ring up so I got it for free, guiltlessly because I didn’t even notice his mistake until hours later) and another luna bar while watching an episode (The Grandfather) of Gossip Girl on my laptop, the only tv show we ever bought online to watch on the computer. This thing is so weak, though, that the video is all choppy. I only watched half. I wish I had a grey blazer like Chuck’s with a baby pink bowtie over a grey and white striped shirt. I’m too small and short to get suits off the rack, and even if I could afford Bass-like ensembles I’d wear them in a filthy wrinkled way. The cabin doesn’t have a spot to hang up long clothes and I’m glad. I haven’t showered in a week. I think I’m going to wait until this caulk cures and shower here, at the cabin, because it’s way nicer than our shower at home.

I know, Gossip Girl probably seems as diametrically opposed to The Purpose of The Cabin as fix-it man interruptions are, but I colored a fat junior-high heart for my girlfriend and have a book in here called “Tarot: Mirror to the Soul” (which I love in an almost totally non-ironic way) so maybe I’m not as earthy and/or sophisticated as you think I am.

It wasn’t my plan to stay at the cabin so many hours at a stretch, but I think I need to break it in real good before I can expect to accomplish anything. If things don’t work out tomorrow I’m going to work on my Chuck Bass impersonations and experiment with the toaster oven (I’ve never had/used one before).

I wonder if there’s any dream-come-true that doesn’t involve intellectually regressing to age ten?

9/3/2010 Cabin Day #1: 0 (zero) words

Loading stuff up in the van to take to the cabin I worried that the neighbors would think I was moving out and leaving Delia. Maybe that worry was just a projection of my own discomfort over making time alone/away a priority. Because there aren’t good models affirming pursuing time alone away from home unless it’s to do regular work that regular people do in the midst of whole bunches of other regular people. People who desire as much time alone as I do are widely regarded as unhealthy freaks or suspected of having other motives besides a simple need for solitude. Whatever the reason, I wanted to keep running back inside to hug Delia and get reassurance that whatever I‘m doing it‘s not what it might look like to the neighbors.

*****

At the cabin the wind blew and I wondered how come the skinny tall trees here don’t fall down. I amazed myself by not being annoyed that there’s a daycare with kid sounds a block away. I felt the sun on the back of my neck. I gazed at the crescent moon with breakfast around noon. I scratched up my arm and the back of my thigh on blackberry bush thorns. I figured out where I can stand and lie in the cabin with the blinds open without being seen by the girl in the big house or the people next door. I made a note to buy a couple of curtains to further hide myself when desired in those couple of places where I can be seen. I caught up on all of the pooping I didn’t get done while we were away from home for three nights.

I started to stop thinking about how to get down the ladder from the loft  (how do I mount it under the slant of roof? Do I turn around and climb it back down or just walk straight forward like I’m going down stairs?). I lit a candle. Then I blew it out when we left to get gas, but only $15 worth because we’re almost out of money until Tuesday so we didn’t reset the mileage on the odometer because our fuel gauge is broken/stuck on full.

*****

Things didn’t go exactly as planned, meaning I didn’t have time to plan to make things perfectly prepared.

Want to read more about Day One at The Cabin? I’m hiding the minute details after a break so as not to bore or overwhelm folks who don’t want to read about my zero word count day:

Read the rest of this entry »

Have you noticed us getting up earlier and going to sleep sooner on our cams? That’s (partly) because starting September 3rd I’m going to get up early to head over to the cabin we’re (good news!) officially renting to do off-cam no-internet work sans distractions. Normally I quickly grow disgusted with a morning-person routine, but now it seems totally different knowing there’s a purpose to it.

It rained heavily on Thursday. If I hadn’t gotten up at seven in the morning, excited about the possibilities of such early rising once the cabin time begins, I’d have never known there was any blue sky to be had that day. I’d have missed seeing this moon:

Blessing Bestowed from the West

There’s a place – a real live place – where women artists can apply for residencies. Actually, there are lots of places like that, where those kinds of people can get free lodging in inspiring locations to focus on their work, but the one I’m thinking of is SUPER DREAMY . . . fucking storybook-land perfection in terms of its tiny private artfully-crafted houses (each resident has one all to herself) and woodland setting.

Most shockingly dreamy of all is the way the women are catered to; the small handful of residents (women, all of them!) have a chef who prepares crazily wonderful dinners for them every night. There are pictures proving how thoroughly stocked the kitchen is with racks of zillions of containers of spices and rows of carefully labeled provisions and specialized pots and pans used to make what appears to be an ABUNDANCE of food every night just for these six or seven women. Meats and comforts and fresh green things and berries and sauces and fanciness and desserts and lots of colors and textures on big plates and side dishes.

On top of all that, the chef ALSO prepares individual baskets for each resident full of her favorite foods to help sustain her throughout the day while she works in her perfect little house. And there’s a garden full of plants someone else tends that each resident gets to pluck and cut flowers and leafy things from. FOR INSPIRATION AND SHIT!

I know that being there wouldn’t be actual utopia, but it does provide a model to ooh and aah over. I think it’s awesome that a very teeny-tiny percentage (wish it were more) of talented women in the world get to experience opportunities like that, to be told that their own self-directed art is so valuable as to warrant a few days . . . maybe even a whole month(!) . . . of concentrating on nothing BUT the work she most wants to do and that she will be sheltered and reliably fed to delicious excess if she likes so she can take care of her work while someone else takes care of her basic needs with sensual generosity.

Same time as picture above, but looking 80 degrees to the south.

What an exquisite fantasy! But it seems so decadent, like I know that I personally could never warrant such treatment. It’s a nice daydream but it actually makes me nervous to think about having such a giant privilege bestowed upon me. I’m nervous enough about the idea of renting this cabin, feeling like I need to prove that I “deserve” it. That I’m worth blowing more money on when I already have so much.

And then I remember that my grandma made my grandpa dinner every night to his specifications. Dished it up and brought it out to him. It wasn’t fancy, but she SERVED him. And every day she fixed him a box lunch even on the days when he was only working in his garage out back, a one minute shuffle away from the back door. I know times have changed, but when I was growing up I never fucking once saw a man prepare and serve a grown woman food. NEVER ONCE outside of restaurants (which I rarely saw) and pancake breakfasts at the Masonic Lodge where it was a wonderful novelty to see the men with aprons on, coming out to the long tables to pour coffee and bring us our hotcakes.

It wasn’t just my family that was like that. Most people my age and older grew up seeing men (and children) waited on at home and women NOT.  I suppose gender-blind egalitarianism is the ideal I should desire (and I do in some ways) but part of me needs to experience the balance of intimate privilege tipped dramatically towards women to undo what I learned by watching. I wasn’t brought up to BE that kind of woman who waits on men — not at all; I wasn’t taught with words to do it  — but that’s what all the women in my family DID to one extent or another and the men DID NOT. You have to be crazy to think that kind of learning is something you can just erase with your intellect when you grow up or even along the way with words of “you-go-girl” encouragement.

Looks promising upwards and eastwards

Even though I never grew up wanting to be a woman who takes care of a man, once I outgrew the entitlement of childhood I came to FEEL that having someone take care of me wasn’t something I deserved or could expect the way a man in my grandparents’ and parents’ generations could and that the only way to live my life just-so, to my specifications, was to live alone. I didn’t think this on a conscious level, but I think the past ten years (and then some) of webwhoring have involved more conscious efforts to recognize and reconcile this conflict; I want to work — to do MY work and do it MY WAY — and have someone else take care of the housekeeping and cooking. For my work to be the most important thing I do and everything else to be relegated to the distraction pile which I should be able to demand someone else pick up and put away. To believe that my work is so important that I should be angry and frustrated when I do not have the tools or environment to do it properly. BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT MEN OLDER THAN I AM GREW UP EXPECTING AND DOING. And so what if their work wasn’t important or they would bankrupt the family with their business schemes? You didn’t fucking criticize the work, jobs or dreams of men. You just didn’t unless you wanted to be the evil villainous bitch in the story.

I shouldn’t feel guilty about wanting to have as many places to do my work alone as my grandpa did: a garage, a basement, a toolshed, a closet where he kept his Black Velvet and other private treasures, and a windowless office he hardly went into that nobody else was allowed into that was always at least 15 degrees cooler than the rest of the house. My grandma didn’t have any place in her house that was her own like that, just like my mom didn’t have a special place in our tiny house for herself like my stepdad had a whole room for his model train. And if Grandma fucked up some shit in the kitchen Grandpa would go ballistic on her ass. So I guess maybe I SHOULD feel guilty about wanting all that man-privilege since being an abusive asshole came with the territory. I don’t know. But on Friday morning I’m going to work alone in the cabin AND I CAN HARDLY WAIT!!

Also? I’ve drafted a new personal ad for a slavey-houseboy type. Not putting it up for awhile though as that’s a whole time-consuming process in itself. I also keep wanting to blog more about how going to college totally distorted my idea of money and assessing the worth of an investment in myself, perhaps making me approach financial risk-taking in a more “manly” way than I would have otherwise.

More morning moon pics to come?

*****

So. I don’t anticipate members and fans seeing a noticeable change in focus on our sites because of this and will probably see more exciting stuff on cam rather than less since we have to cam more to pay for everything. One of the good things (in terms of “earning” my cabin keep) is it’s already making me more disciplined and focused in how I prioritize things, clarifying what needs to come first (which is really REALLY challenging when you have boatloads of everything to do and have an easily-overwhelmed mind like mine). Right now at the top of the list is simply getting ahead on shooting and getting updates lined up, so that’s what I’m going to get back to work on right now.

I often fantasize about having a windowless closet with a narrow cozy built-in bunk to sleep and daydream on. Where nobody can see me, cut off and curtained-in by dark, heavy layers of hanging clothes. Or of being in a fantasy sleeper-car on a train on a comfortably narrow berth, dark wood paneling all around with chugging train sounds and gentle rocking. Or of being in an even-smaller, quieter version of this cabin, this time with a built-in little bed. No electricity, no webcams. Or of having my bookwormhole.

Sometimes I close my eyes in bed and time-travel back to the best drugless, not-sick sleep I ever had. I went on a women’s retreat with a bunch of gals I really didn’t know. Upon arrival I half-assedly engaged in the crafts they’d set out, then went to the cabin. There were a handful of these cabins on the lake, a BIG lake with no motorized boats allowed. QUIET. The other women complained about the cabins – the uncomfortable bunks something they were only tolerating for the coolness of the Retreat. In the middle of the day while the cabins were completely deserted I climbed onto my little wooden shelf, nestled down into Delia’s perfectly awesome sleeping bag, faced the wall, and fell asleep for hours. Undisturbed, unseen, far removed, not missed. I absented myself from everywhere else except my private cocoon.

I got up for a late dinner, and that night slept again in a completely heavy, renewing, needy, guiltless way. Even with the women sharing the cabin with me, I felt alone with my earplugs in and my lack of intimacy with them. There was a woman on the shelf above me, two shelves holding a woman-each perpendicular to my head, and two shelves parallel to me across a tiny open space. I was the first person to go to bed, and the last one to wake up. I liked having the shelves of women around me, being in a small hibernating hive, quietly together without any of them knowing me. Not talking.

I was reading Strangers on a Train that trip. I accidentally left it at the lodge so I never finished it, but it was good to have it when I did. A sugar daddy sent it to me off my wishlist so I feel a little guilty over losing it, but my possession of the memories of that trip are so clear the book is still one of my treasures even though I don’t have it anymore.

*****

The opportunity to rent a small cabin/shed space came up this week, synchronous to a handful of needs/desires/opportunities converging on me/us. It’s the kind of thing I would never seek out because I don’t think I deserve it, but under the circumstances and upon careful thought and discussion we both recognize we’re way overdue for what it will offer. It is just THE THING. It’s not in a remote location — in fact it’s on very shared space minutes away — but because we’ve been there and know the person really well who’s renting it I’m familiar with the setting, comfortable with the people who might be around, and aware of the benefits of its location. I haven’t actually been inside this cabin on the property, but I’m going to check it out soon.

Yes, I’m worried about how we’re going to afford it, but the with the house and the cabin/shed we’ll be paying the same amount we were paying for rent on individual houses before we moved into this place with its cheaper rent. I’m pretty sure it will be worth the relatively small investment in terms of providing space and opportunity for more creative content creation for our porn sites, too.

It’s not a done deal but if it works out I will be healthier with a space to be solitary and invisible, to write without obligation or interruption (I know, we don’t have kids and we work at home, but there are SO MANY INTERRUPTIONS mostly named THE INTERNET and webcams and too much space with all of it messy with cables and overwhelming work things everywhere), to sleep with complete cozy abandon, and most excitingly for our fans this might give us the kind of space and convenience we need to have more sexual adventures with other people. I will have someplace to go if Delia wants someone over for fooling around, and vice versa (though I mainly anticipate fooling around with mySELF, dreams, and pages and pages of watery blue words). We’ll have a convenient place to go away together, away from work. Because working at home with 24/7 voyeur cams on you means never getting a break unless you leave, and when we leave work I want to relax, not wander around a mall or drive hours to see a movie, or blow money to sit on uncomfortable chairs in a restaurant, or wander around in the woods being scared of cougars wondering how we’ll get home when our car breaks down (I still need to blog about that).

I’m also really excited about sharing the dreaminess of a little place like that and the things I do in it. But not having to share it WHILE I’m there.

I’m grateful to a number of people and strangely-timed messages for helping me decide to seize this opportunity. Two of those people are Heather and Libby, so thanks for the inspirations.