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Archive for the ‘immortality’ Category

Normally I love fall, but it took so long for winter to go away this year that I’ve actually been apprehensive about letting go of the summer. Fortunately, we’ve had an extended Indian summer. Last week I *thought* it was over one night when I found myself craving heat, but this week it’s back. Sunny yesterday, sunny today . . . and clear for viewing the full moon last night and crone moon tonight.

It’s also been spider season with one lady in residence in our line of vision from bed in the corner of our sliding glass door:

Spider Lady & Half Moon

She’s been there every day and I know we should get rid of her big egg sac or we’ll have shitloads of spiders in our bedroom, but I haven’t been able to do that to her. I love seeing her there at least once a day and/or night. It doesn’t seem like the best place to have a web with us sliding the door open and closed and some of her anchors being attached to it. But I guess there’s no spot to weave a web that is completely invulnerable.

Lamp-lit spider on web.

Our dog’s much better after her trip to the vet’s. The x-rays didn’t show any arthritis but part of her spine had some degeneration, probably from aging in an area of past trauma which Delia thinks must have been from a time when she was a young dog and made a quick break out of the door of their house straight into the side of a moving car on a busy road, bounced off said car, then ran back inside never appearing any worse for the wear.

There have been times in the past nine months where Nico has seemed so old and uncomfortable and tired — and she IS old. Fourteen, I think. Everyone thinks she’s a puppy because she’s a runt of a husky and looks so young, up until recently when you see her walk, especially watching her from behind and her whole hind end just takes so much awkward effort to move. SOMETIMES. But if she’s excited? She’ll still bound and bounce and run around the house like crazy, even though, to me, her yips of excitement sound tinged with pain. I don’t think anything but the most debilitating pain can stop a husky from doing her husky things, so when we started noticing her having real problems has been at night when she can barely lie down and whimpers/cries like a squeaky wheel, circling around and around before painfully lowering herself down.

Anyway, the vet put her on prednisone, a steroid, which seems to be helping quite a bit. We took her on walks in the woods the past couple of days, which she loved even if she’s slowed down a lot since I met her and Delia seven years ago. Now her pace is really pleasant and companionable. She still runs ahead a little bit, but there are times when she actually walks right beside us, or takes breaks so she’s always close by.

Watching her yesterday on the trail looking so much better than she has in a couple of months I thought about how long it took for my dad to die and how unprepared I was for that. How there were so many times where I was impatient for it to happen already, for all of us to be put out of our misery of waiting, and then having days where he was present and I was so happy he was still around and it didn’t seem possible he was anywhere NEAR ready. At least, not nearly as ready as I recently had been. I feel that way a lot with Nico where I can’t help contemplating the convenience of her death one day when she seems uncomfortable, lethargic, and droopy-faced, then feeling overjoyed the next with how well she’s doing — how alert and happy she is, how it’s so not time yet — how YOUNG (for her age) she looks.

My ninth grade (and seventh grade) English teacher did something pretty fucking progressive and unheard-of for kids as young as we were in a public school: she taught us a section on Death and Dying. Practical planning stuff about funerals and wills, the Kubler Ross stages of grief, and of course literature like some story about a brave young man  with a brain tumor (title escapes me, but not the memory of how much I disliked that book) and one I’m forever grateful for being exposed to and having TAUGHT to me (not just read on my own), The Plague.

I remember all of us talking about what we wanted to happen to our bodies after we died and everyone laughing when I said I wanted to be dressed up like the Chiquita Banana Lady and thrown into the woods to rot and be scavenged by animals. Since then I’ve changed my mind, partly because I loved my dad’s funeral including seeing him all dressed up in his coffin that we picked out with special things tucked in to go with him, including stuffed animals that were ours, but that he kept after we outgrew them. I was shocked by how much I did not want his eyes to be plucked out for harvesting; I’d assumed he was ineligible for donating because of his glaucoma (which he was, but they weren’t aware of it so the question was posed to me anyway) and I was just totally unprepared by the topic even coming up even though of course we are all listed as organ donors, but MORE unprepared by how viscerally opposed I was to having his body — especially his eyes — taken out of him when I’d been looking into them MINUTES before that.

So. Aside from it being illegal to throw costumed dead women into the woods, I realize people have emotional, albeit irrational, attachments to the bodies of loved ones and I’ve even become attached the IDEA of my own dead body and perhaps want a more traditional type of ritual to accompany me to my final resting spot. Plus I’m extremely fond of coffins.

I asked Delia if she knows if people can come to our house to put Nico to sleep when the time comes so she can be at home and we can bury her. Delia said she’d prefer to take her to the vet’s. When I heard that I experienced another one of those irrational, emotional reactions (especially since Nico is really DELIA’S dog, not mine) of not being able to bear the thought of taking her to a place she’s afraid of and have to die there. I know it’s over fast, but having done that (thankfully only once and with a kitten we’d hardly had for any time at all) the drive there is just too fucking sad and crying your heart out in a clinic standing around in that sterile setting is just not the ideal to me. I am so glad my dad died in hospice where we got to hang out with his dead body for a few hours afterward (I probably wouldn’t have understood it before, but that is incredibly comforting and helpful, not to have to be seperated physically from each other right away), but obviously a seventy year old parent is pretty different from a fourteen year old pet.

We’re all smart enough to know that television and movies are inaccurate and unrealistic, but I personally never realized how much until my dad took years to die, and then again especially during the days and hours surrounding his actual death. I felt and still feel very unprepared for the process of death by aging and protracted illness. My mind is still boggled by the concept that all of us, if we are lucky, have to watch our parents die. I don’t feel like I was taught to expect that or how to process that even though I’ve probably been given more tools and experiences to deal with that than most post-baby-boom American kids have. I’d had friends who lost parents way too young and I knew it was devastating to them and in some cases they even talked about it a little, but not nearly enough to ever intimate exactly how huge that loss was. I and my dad were not too young, it wasn’t a tragedy, and it’s still hard and has taken SO LONG. I mean, it’s still not over for me. I’m still shocked by the revelation that death is never over or never not coming and that it’s VISIBLE and active for So. Many. Years. I’m trying to accept that with Nico . . . even to use her as practice and I am flummoxed at how ill-prepared I still am . . . how disbelieving, impatient, sad, and scared I am in spite of feeling that’s not really in my nature. I feel like I’m the kind of person who should be able to embrace aging-towards-death gracefully, with serenity instead of blubbering.

I don’t even know how my mom has handled the past thirteen years, seeing her own dad’s decline and death, living with and taking care of my dad/her ex-husband (they continued to have a fond and extremely helpful dysfunctional relationship even after his death), packing up the house she grew up in and moving her mom out of it and into first one home, then another, and now a third offering an even higher level of care. I really do not fucking know. I don’t think she really knows either, but I know it’s a lot harder for her than she’s gotten help for, and my distance from her doesn’t help. What I still idiotically fail to GRASP is how this is THIS LARGE a part of life. Because tv never taught me that and even though my family has always talked openly about these things and plans for when we die, I still can’t remember exactly what I’m supposed to do with my mom’s ashes and I still can’t believe that IF I AM *LUCKY*, I will live through many more loved ones’ deaths. I read so many young adult books about death — GOOD books about a girl whose dad was shot about a kid with Lou Gehrig’s disease about drug addicted kids . . . about pretty much every kind of unanticipated death you or someone you know could have but not so much about the deaths we all aspire to without any proper planning.

What is the life span of a spider? I have no clue. I am still trying to brace myself for the day this season when I look out the window and in the cracks around the sides and she’s not there and doesn’t come back.

Call me superficial, but coming home with much-blonder hair meant so much to me – it boosted my mood and ego a billion points. Our hair-chick ratted and teased it to be tall on top because she has a Rock of Love fetish, so to take advantage of it we did a slutty faux-schoolgirl shoot and I was too in love with myself to stop there, so I snagged some webcam shots:

Just the day before this I went to the mall and wandered around by myself while Delia got a laser treatment. I was in my usual comfortable-slob mode wearing a pair of old black sweats that were falling down (the drawstring broke a long time ago so I try to hold it together by wadding the waist up in front and whipping a ponytail-holder around that wad to cinch it up) so it looked like I had shit in my drawers, nerdy silver tennis shoes, and an old-lady baby-blue polar fleece ladies jacket from LL Bean that was a Christmas present from Delia’s mom a few years ago. I looked so old and so tired and so washed out and I felt that way, too. Like I should apologize for looking so shitty.

I had that quintessential “she’s given up on herself” look. Theoretically I HATE that criticism and don’t care what I look like which is part of why I became a webwhore in the first place; since I rarely feel motivated to dress up and be seen, the thought of being paid to do it and have a visual record of the times I did appealed to me. I’d be off the hook and could always point to those pictures as proof that I CAN look good if I WANT to and have already DONE that. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Why do it EVERY DAY? Of course, there’s a slight flaw in my logic since we broadcast spycams and most people paying to see them would like me to look sexy on them all of the time, or at least more often than I do, but whatever. I walked around the mall looking from a respectful distance at clothes and makeup and other ways to improve my appearance, feeling like I wasn’t worthy or capable of asking to touch anything expensive and beautiful enough to make a significant change.

The point is that I looked blah and yucky and didn’t feel good about it at all. No, that’s not the point. The POINT is in the contrast between how I felt that day and the next, when I came home with my hair really blonde and stood in front of the mirror and drew outside of the lines of my lips and filled them in with thick, gooey gloss and frosty highlights and brushed on dark eyeshadow and put on fake lashes.

I felt like magic. Like this is why people want to look like porn stars. Because (sometimes?) it feels a lot better than looking like muted, sloppy shit. And it doesn’t matter if I just applied a boundary of fakeness between the plain foundation of myself and what people see, because it felt best when I was the only one looking at myself there in the bathroom mirror or taking self-absorbed pictures of myself.

Why am I hiding the plain truth under all of this bullshit self-criticism and analysis? All I’m trying to say is that looking in the mirror and seeing yourself looking like a hot fucking slut feels VASTLY SUPERIOR to slouching around feeling like an unattractive slob. It’s inconvenient, but true. No matter how much I wish my protestations that looking good is a waste of my time and money were true, THEY AREN’T.

It’s fucking biology that we want people to want to fuck us on sight, that we want people to be jealous of us, that we want people’s eyes to light up when they see us, that we want to advertise our fantastic genes (or that we want to look better than our average ones). If you’re a woman (who isn’t still shattered by one or more people hurting you because you looked like hot sex and they took it from you) some part of you wants people to look at you with desire and appreciation. Even when it annoys me to be gawked at, it charges my fucking battery. It’s absolutely electric.

You want to look so good that you can control a man into paying for dinner just to get a whiff of your hair and stare at your cleavage, that you can render him insensible to paying for everything you need to keep looking so good — to maintain your value and keep commanding higher and higher prices — shoes that make your feet arch and sparkly jewelry accentuating all your graceful, slender parts and tight pants and shiny hair and fat, pouting lips and pampering spa treatments performed by undemanding female hands that MIGHT just render you pliant enough to be amenable to saying “thank you” with your soft body. It’s an expensive art and time-consuming work to always look like a shiny, animated toy cocksucker and I’ve never mastered it or even kidded myself that I could compete on that level.

The older I get, the rarer and more exciting it is when I get a taste of what it feels like to BE hot sex. Normally I am the one LOOKING at one of the shiny girls, simply appreciating how they glitter from head to toe, putting so much time and money into tanning, waxing, accessorizing, and accentuating every single morsel of their bodies. Hoping that someone admires and respects it enough to make it worth their while, constantly forgetting that there are intrinsic rewards to looking like honey come to life and taking soft female form and maybe that is enough for them.

My head and body have been so fucked up and bloated and distorted off and on for so many years that now, getting it back on track, I’m at an age where I don’t take it for granted anymore that tomorrow I could be riding some strange boy’s cock and having him looking up at me in complete amazement and disbelief, moaning about how he can’t believe he’s really fucking me. That might never happen again, which is fine, but it would still be nice to know that it’s POSSIBLE even if I don’t want to act on it (it actually feels especially powerful knowing I probably won’t). How many years do I have left where I’ll be ABLE to turn heads in public? You don’t have to be a great beauty to make that happen. Do I really want to waste those opportunities playing the invisible slob?

It’s disgusting to admit, but when I pass a mirrored column in a mall I want to make myself wet looking at myself. When I walk by a shiny window of a restaurant I want to see my own reflection on top of people who are WATCHING me and not be able to resist smiling, knowing that they are delighted and mesmerized by what they see. ANY woman can manage if she has time and the desire to advertise herself using resources like bleached hair and juicy lip stains and clothes that highlight your best bounce, wiggle or stride. Resources she can extract from men. It’s the OTHER circle of life. It might be a totally fucked up stereotype of gender roles, something progressive men and women want to move away from (or better, switch up for fun — I do fantasize about being a sugar mama to young women and sometimes men), but sometimes I can’t help celebrating it and wanting to WIN at it and enjoy the cheap/expensive thrill of it.

Attempting it often feels awkward and unnatural and hardly-worth-it, but when it works the rewards feed some primal need in me that are so close to my core I can’t dismiss them as fake or stupid or unhealthy. There is no pretending we can evolve past this.

Note: originally this entry included more reflection and deeper insight on where my confli
cted feelings about making myself up to look “sexy” (or at least presentable) in public (and in general) might have come from but it turned into a total downer so maybe I’ll save that for another time. I feel like I should apologize for my undying fascination with mulling over these matters and warn you that they don’t end here and I can’t unwaveringly commit to any one perspective on them.

I’m already totally embarrassed by this post even though the whole point of it is not to be.

GROSS.

We had a great visit with Delia’s family. My sister and brother-in-law loaned us Mr. Squishypants (their two year-old son/our nephew) which makes socializing so much easier; he’s beautiful, charming and a joy to be around. We had dinner together then went to a big park in Seattle and played until it got dark and we could see the full moon between the trees.

At that point Delia’s uncle, a slightly grizzled, mildly-boozy-from-dinner Iowa farmer, shook Mr. Squish’s hand and solemnly looked him in they eye, saying he’s a wonderful boy and hoped he’d see him again soon. Mr. Squishypants returned a firm chubby-fingered grip and nodded his own head in slow, somber agreement, his big blue eyes level as he said, “yeah”. He says “yeah” a lot these days. He used to say “dick” or “dickle” when he meant “yes”, but recently he replaced “dickle” with the standard “yeah”. Anyway, it was moving seeing an expression on his little face that conveyed something like, “we served in the war together, buddy, and saw things we’ll never speak of when we get home to our families, but I will never forget you. I’m glad I saved your life once, and you mine.” It was like unexpectedly witnessing a secret handshake between two people you never would have guessed had met somewhere before or had a common bond.

It just fucking amazes me how kids learn to communicate, not just with words, but by mimicking our nonverbal language. Sometimes by removing the knowledge of the meaning behind the language a kind of universal human truth is spoken. Mr. Squishypants and Delia’s uncle shared a solemn moment full of mutual respect and human connection that transcended what was spoken and understood. They made a connection and I witnessed it (because I was holding him in my arms at the time so they were face to face), the way his angelic little face dipped as he bowed his head slightly to say, “yeah” and he blinked his eyes for only a moment, the rest of the time maintaining eye contact — it was so full of intuitive wisdom. On one hand it makes you think about how little substance there is to our interactions, that it’s all a meaningless charade we teach each other and find compelling when someone does a good job of acting it out. On the other hand it makes you wonder how much meaning is created in a big and powerful way by the emotional response we have to witnessing and performing these interactions. Like when we smile out of obligation even when we don’t mean it and somehow we feel better inside for doing it. Yes, we’re machines whose behavior can be shaped, but why dwell on our mundane construction when our experiences FEEL so profound? I can intellectualize it and scoff at it as simpleminded copycatting barely more advanced than tricks you can teach a dog, but watching my nephew shake hands or raise a glass to his fellows and say, “cheers!” or high five people or DANCE is like cuddling with divinity, whether such a thing exists or not.

And have you ever noticed how much two year old bodies resemble monkeys? The way their legs and toes move. The way they bend at the waist. How can you avoid trusting, even if just for a moment, in both evolution and God when you see that? A little monkey with my grandma’s face, my sister’s face, his dad’s face, even my face. Layers of the gift of immortality, or at least its illusion.

*****

If I’m not pregnant, my period will probably start today. Also, here’s another post over on Fertile(?)Trixie if you’d like to read about my paranoia regarding orgasms and implantation.

It’s very strange to walk through a bookstore and have my eyes captured by so many familiar authors and editors: people I know through the blogosphere, people with whom I’ve exchanged emails and links, people I’ve met in “real” life, and even people who have or are about to send me contracts and checks to put my own work in their volumes. It’s not the least bit glamorous, but it feels that way anyway because I know OTHER people (horny nineteen year old college girls with sensitive nipples, I hope) might think it’s dreamy and impressive because they don’t know any better. Right now it feels super cool to me because I feel like it happened to me by accident, without intent I’m a dork and it’s COOL to look at names on the spines of books and think to myself, “talked to HIM on the phone, met HER on porn set, commiserated with HER regarding obnoxious blog fans, was stark naked at HER house, am quoted in THAT book, blah blah blah”.

I can whittle the vanity down to something even simpler, though; it’s delightful knowing some of those book people know who I am. It’s neat-o to be in a public place surrounded by people who think books and the people who write them are really cool, and to feel “special” because some of those people whose names are on books because they’re responsible for the content inside of them, SOME OF THOSE PEOPLE KNOW WHO *I* AM!!

Through my porn sites I have attained a degree of immortality. It sounds crazy, but it’s true and it fascinates me. So much of the work I do amplifies and extends my living; I do feel like I’m more alive because so many people KNOW that I’m living, WATCH me living, READ me living, etc. It’s heady, powerful stuff that overfeeds my most basic, primitive survival instincts. Maybe my own instincts have gone off the rails or I’m unwittingly describing the hallmarks of some kind of pathology, but whatever. Some people cheat death through extreme sports to feel more alive, some people have kids, some people perform acts of heroism . . . but I feel more alive simply because a few bloggy book people (along with thousands of men who’ve become erect and spilled seed over my web-graven images) know who I am.

The idea of low-level celebrity is becoming more and more intriguing to me as it becomes more common in our world and as I attain some of it in a barely-measurable way. If Kathy Griffin is D-list, I guess I’m somewhere around Y, which as you know is right next to nothing; it may not be much, but it’s an eye-opening position granting me a zillion unblocked views into the various phenomena associated with fame and its varying degrees. Even if you are decidedly NOT famous, if there are a dozen people in the world who assume you must be and they communicate that assumption to you in a prone position of worship you DO learn something about the condition. Most of the time you just snicker to yourself because the concept of YOU being FAMOUS is ludicrous and hysterical, but you still have to recognize that you’re experiencing something that most people don’t and in that way you are exceptional. You are, for example, the exception in the bookstore, not the rule.

*****

Fucking has been a daily event for the past few days, and will continue to be for the next couple of weeks as we continue trying to get pregnant. Thanks to some good timing with Netflix and some splendid hand-me-downs from a blog reader (thank you very much for Mr. Beaver and Squirm Sockets, which I especially like), we have some hot movies to accompany our wholesome procreative sex efforts. WARNING TO VOYEURS: if you’re expecting wild, nonstop sex in a variety of positions during our baby-making attempts you’re bound to be disappointed. We don’t want to overdo it, and we’re aiming to finish in the missionary position every time for maximum spooge retention.

I’m now going to go poop. The reason I’m telling you this is because it makes me feel so ALIVE when I talk about pooping. If I pooped and nobody knew about it, I would feel half-dead, but knowing that my stinky essential ritual of daily life is haunting strangers around the world? I feel like a god. Like a god who doesn’t carelessly use his divinity to give up on pooping, because a true god knows that it feels so pleasurable when the poop stretches the anus.

Sometimes I wonder how much time other amateurs spend putting together galleries for their updates. I suspect that I waste more time than most doing very silly things that other people automate. For example, I relish picking out a font for my domain name that will fit the mood of the photos. Then I waste a bunch of time placing my domain name image onto an appropriate spot on the photo that won’t cover anything up. I enjoy seeing the way the colors and the shadows and everything compliment each other. It’s ridiculous how much time I spend on these little tasks. But I like it.

Another thing I wonder about is the interplay between vanity, porn standards, market demand, individual fetishes, reality, legacy-building and “art”. I find myself sorting through hundreds of pictures of myself trying to pick through them and create an enjoyable gallery for members. It’s HARD though. All of these conflicting demands vie for my attention. First of all, I myself have a short attention span so I don’t really like looking at galleries of more than 25-30 pictures. I find it very repetitive and boring and wind up really not relishing a few really sexy images — it’s almost as though as soon as I see allllllllllllllll those pictures I find myself aware of the clock and that I need to hurry up and scroll through them. Perhaps this is just a function of my femininity though? Maybe guys don’t think that way. Plus most people in the internet porn industry slap together huge galleries of 75 or more pictures. But then again, lots of those galleries are built around girls who are flawless looking. Frankly I wind up with a very mixed bag of content. I have a few really flattering images (a VERY few), a lot of pictures that cater to individual fetishes (hairy, freckles, natural tits, etc.) that a lot of people withOUT those fetishes don’t really find appealing, and a lot of images that are artistically interesting but antierotic.

Full Gallery appearing in my Members-Only area with Sunday 2/2 update
JOIN NOW for access!

When I look at pictures like the one above I’m just not sure what to do with it. It certainly doesn’t depict me at my aesthetic BEST (see the chin fat, the exhausted expression, etc.) but it’s an appealing image. I think it would be more appealing to me if I were looking at a stranger though instead of myself. And then there’s the problem of it being on a “porn” site. Well . . . I don’t really think most of the stuff in my members area is “porn”. Although I love the porn title and feel it’s important to commit myself to challenging the stereotypes associated with the word (and the only way to do that is to call what I do “porn”) . . . really a lot of what I love making most is stuff that you would find shoved into a library book and accidentally left there. Seriously, that’s what I imagine most of the words and images on my site are really meant for . . . to be discovered with no explanation and no context. Just intimate photographs and jotted notes for someone to discover and wonder about, unable to decide if the women they’re looking at are ugly or beautiful, average or exotic, rare or commonplace, passive or aggressive. Unable to do more than imagine what the circumstances were surrounding the taking of the pictures or their lives in general.

I’d love to make a site (or *something*) like that and have fantasized about it before . . . something the captures the trespass of finding something that wasn’t meant for you but that you long to keep and wish you understood better. The kind of thing you want to stick under your mattress or save in a shoebox. The only hard part about doing a site like that is that with guest content I wouldn’t be able to give credit back to the models without destroying the mystery of the whole thing. MMmm. . . or maybe not. Maybe there could be little “unveil the mystery” links. And of course I could always pursue photography more and then I wouldn’t be under any obligation to give the models any credit at all. Sigh. One of a million unpursued ideas I have . . .

Speaking of doing more photography, I put an ad in the local paper for naughty people to pose for me. And I have fantasized about approaching young girls like an old rotten-toothed pervert. My sister and I were in McDonalds a few weeks ago and the girl behind the counter was fucking angelic. She was plump and had the sweetest face. So far I haven’t seen any barely-legal chubby girl sites (although I’m sure they’re out there) — the teen sites always seem to focus on the skinny underdeveloped set. But seriously, the baby fat look is just as provocative and sexy, I think. Anyway, I wondered if there was a way I could give this girl my card without totally scaring the shit out of her and having the law on my ass.

Anyway, back to my competing demands when putting together content for my site; somehow I feel like honoring those competing demands in a very inconsistent way that is my “special purpose” or comprises the personal “legacy” I am supposed to be building with my life. Although I feel conflicted about it sometimes and hypercritical of it, I LIKE that what I do is a mixed bag of all kinds of stuff: the thoughtful and the careless, the priceless and the cheap, the mainstream and the marginalized, the captivating and the repulsive, the dirty and the sweet, the pretty and the unpleasant, the hard and the soft, the forced and the natural, blah blah blah.

I don’t think that most people understand that when a girl has pictures made of herself . . . it’s not porn, it’s immortality. It’s the fountain of youth. It’s enduring proof that she’s a sex object in hard copy just like a girl in a magazine or Jesus’s words in a red letter edition of the bible.

DOWNSTAIRS
It’s really odd . . . houseboy is downstairs learning Premiere (Adobe video editing software) on the laptop while I’m upstairs working on galleries. We’ve exchanged a few emails this way (yes, we’re in the same fucking house and we’re emailing each other) and I find myself really enjoying it. I like being close but a little removed. Communicating without speaking.

Hahahaha! He just sent me an email telling me to quit slouching (he is checking on me on the spycams). Hehehe.