Last year I committed to spending more time at the beach. AND I DID.
My priorities and my visions of normalcy and success shifted with every minute I spent at the shoreline.
My intention was to continue regular beach visits in 2019 — multiple times every week — but so far this year … I haven’t gone much.
Today I didn’t even want to leave the house. Like most days this month. February is the worst month of winter in Washington (even without the snow that piled up last week); even though the days are getting longer, it’s not nearly enough sunlight after months of reduced daylight hours. It feels like darkness falls way too soon every day.
But I had to get one of Delia’s checks in the bank. It seemed like a waste of gas and putting-on-clothes to turn right back around and go home, so I made myself go to the beach, telling myself that I could just sit in the car and read. Just GO. Just GET there.
And there it was … proof that THE BEACH IS FOR ME, written like a personalized welcome mat:
Without planning it, the tide is often low when I get there. Especially on days like today when I had to ease myself into just the idea of being upright.
Funny coincidence: last night I read a story featuring sandwriting that was also like a personal bridge, but between where I picture the author Emma Donoghue and here in the Pacific Northwest. Starting out reading Slammerkin and The Sealed Letter, she has always seemed SO across-the-pond and decades and centuries ago from where I be, but in Touchy Subjects there she is writing about JESUS and TACOMA and the word COCKSUCKERS in the sand.
So far this book is full of stories I would never have imagined her writing, but I was totally surprised by Room coming from her, too. But maybe she was just making fun of us for that big JESUS CARES ABOUT YOU sign you can see from the freeway that you can imagine was an inspiration for it. It makes me miss Tacoma, actually. Lots of things make me miss Tacoma. But then I go to the beach here and don’t give Tacoma another thought.
Anyhoo … I had very tender feelings for “The Man Who Wrote on Beaches” when I read it last night.
“…he had a home with a view of Puget Sound and a good job and a great collection of German steins and a lot of laughs. Above all, he had Margaret, who was twice what he deserved.”
The older I get and resign myself to being My Authentic Self, I have to accept that even though I’m capitalizing those words like I’m in on the ridiculous joke of myself, I’m honestly NOT joking. I’m earnest and can say with my whole heart that I love The Man Who Wrote on Beaches. With recognition, relief that I haven’t taken it QUITE that far (but only because I got the idea of asking Jesus into my heart out of my system as a teenager), forgiveness … and no measurable amount of irony.
My mom & dad on their Valentine’s Day wedding in the sixties
Seeing who I come from — thinking about who these people are/were, and who they raised me to be (and loved me INTO being) — is a good reminder to try to be the best of who I *am*, instead of struggling to be better at being more like other people, or trying to give people what I think they want or need instead of what I have and who I really am. I have so many of my parents’ limitations and their gifts – when I look at them with love and realism, I can be kinder: more loving towards myself. More honest with myself.
I’ve been thinking a lot about love as privilege in the past year or so (and privilege and love in general).
I’ve also been circling back to my childhood and young adult years, reflecting on how I experience love and intimacy and connections most profoundly, and where there are gaps and raw little injuries I keep re-experiencing, and accepting that even though I’ve been (and am) really fortunate when it comes to loving and being loved, I still need to puke vomit gag “love myself more” if I’m going to thrive (be the best, happiest, most free, most positive and contributing version of my human self I can be) and make the MOST of my good fortune and unique gifts.
Mommy: 20, Daddy: 32
I’m thinking right now of what it means to be fruitful and multiply. How hard they worked to bring us into being and how they did their very best. Not that any of us believe literally in crazy bible shit like that (or that it has any relevance to us today: OBVIOUSLY NOT), or that they took us to church; they didn’t (though that church they’re standing in is where I was baptized and where my sister’s first wedding was and is a powerfully beautiful place that figures prominently in my values and development – that church is part of my home, even though we didn’t belong to it).
I am meant to bear fruit. I am meant to do things that result in exponential increases of abundance. I believe we ALL are meant for that. I need to accept with celebratory unapologetic abandon and leaps of faith that I can’t follow off-the-shelf mainstream/normal-person blueprints for that.
I don’t want to love or live a little.
I want to — and I do — love a lot. With fires baptisms feasts famines DEEP QUIET HIBERNATION PERIODS debauchery pestilence dreams deafness sacrifice communion peace oil foot-washing long walks alone VISIONS (hallucinations) long silent walks together temple-building and being laid low over and over and over to be resurrected again and again and again. With trances prayers uncontrollable dancing tics dramatic little speeches blessings levitation transmogrification cave-dwelling and secret walks in the garden, just me and Jesus alone. Just you, and I. With stories and songs delivered especially to/for children. With radiant naked trust and fear-blasted visages and loyal marriage to my own pleasure. And confession and absolute loving forgiveness that we are all just human monster saint angels.
This song is so annoying-sounding, but the lyrics/concept are about having your need for love and attention and comforting acceptance exclusively met all night long:
I believe that I am made in the image of “God” because I don’t know you, but I love you. And I *do* know you. We know each other. The reason you are reading this or anything about people on the internet is to feed an emotional and spiritual hunger. Don’t be shy. I love that about you. We love that about each other.
We believe in magic and bullshit and making babies. Or just masturbating alone on Valentine’s day watching the tubes, like I did today. Together. We are all one body. We are all alone. Happy Valentine’s Day. If it sucks, use your imagination. Get religion. Get a call girl. Or a camgirl. Listen to Hozier all night if you want to. There’s some pretty good stuff in the world. If you can’t find any of it, have a tender conversation talking to your divine little self. Hold your own hand. Do it in earnest.
I just used some of my webcam money to subscribe to one of my favorite radio programs ever, Hearts of Space. Nevermind the ill-advised acronym (so typical of nerds to make a hilarious mistake like that, god love ’em).
Since our porn business operates on a subscription basis, it’s interesting to research other subscription-based internet products, their price points, and comparing the offerings. I loved reading the HOS: WHY PAY? page. Like porn, music is something you can get free online in a million places. Even when people don’t ask you to justify charging for it, many of us feel we MUST explain it (I’ve been criticized by adult webmasters for the times when I’ve disclosed similar information and confronted those questions when maybe I should leave them alone). It’s inspiring to read the way Hearts of Space explains some of their business approach (and costs outsiders don’t comprehend without being taught) because it’s so firmly rooted in a clear vision, one that I know DELIVERS an experience I’ve never gotten from any other radio programming. There is a certain personality, there are seductive, hypnotic voices I’m attached to, and there is a well-planned journey offered by HOS.
HEARTS of SPACE PRODUCER STEPHEN HILL’s CAREER seemed to take a sharp detour in the early 70’s when he abandoned his architectural career and opened a recording studio. . . . In retrospect, Hill realizes he never really left architecture. He simply became a sound architect who learned to build his castles on the air. “Architects create environments with physical materials.
I do it with sound.” – Stephen Hill
It’s also interesting to observe my own thought process in deciding what kind of subscription to get: I chose the $13 a month all-access plan because I don’t feel like I can shell out the money for a year even though I know it would save me money in the long run. Also, The internet radio channel only (no archives or playlists) probably would’ve been good enough for me, but if it wasn’t, I didn’t want to try to figure out how to upgrade mid-month. Out of laziness/a desire to be efficient with my time and not necessarily need or probable usage, I chose the more comprehensive membership. I know people go through similar though processes when deciding which membership plan to get for our sites.
Hearts of Space is an inspiring model of how to create and sustain and love a “product” that’s not personalized for each individual listener but still manages to feel intimate even though it’s mass-delivered and not even live (except maybe one hour a week, I think). It speaks of a void and manages to fill it –inside of me and outside of me — at the same time. I’m fascinated by people and groups who design and deliver stimuli producing what appears to be a relatively mundane experience (compared to, say, a roller coaster ride in a theme park or a provocative theatre piece, etc.) that manages to infiltrate people’s lives by being constantly accessible in private, demanding little of them but providing addictive stimulation. A little like a favorite diner or coffee shop. Something offering sustenance you could get elsewhere, but elsewhere just wouldn’t be QUITE right. I believe there’s something about the earnestness of the proprietors to deliver an actual EXPERIENCE they’ve envisioned in rich detail and feel in their own bones that makes Hearts of Space , some bookstores, a couple of Indian and Thai restaurants in Tacoma, and some porn sites exceptional.
I love music and I love feeling distant connections to people, but it’s impossible for me to listen to voices or most music and WORK at the same time. “Space music” offers me the kind of escape and transcendence I long for. It’s a spiritual salve for me that allows me to imagine journeying into a meaningful peaceful nothingness of wind and colors and stars and the smell of ozone. It gives me a lot of the feeling I get from imagining my ideal forms of church or prayer or sanctuary or space travel. It’s like having a lucid flying dream. That’s totally worth $13 a month to me. “Greetings, space fans . . . “
There’s a vibe on Hearts of Space that I’d like to infuse my own site with – that I’ve always wanted to be there and have maybe succeeded in transmitting some of the time (not the SAME vibe, but a quality or peculiarity of vibe). I think it will be helpful to listen to HOS on a daily basis to remind myself of the possibilities and how personality and vision and voices (even in very limited doses, more often without words) can combine in powerful, seductive, and soothing ways. How to make transportation out of your aesthetics and values to take people to a place they recognize as one where their belief systems make perfect sense. Or freewheeling careless nonsense. Where you look around and feel yourself and even though nothing has changed, you’re like, “THIS is it, what I was trying to remember that was bothering the tip of my tongue.”
Fantasy list of what I might do if I had a month free with no distractions or obligations, and enough money to do it/them:
*rent a cheap studio apartment in Portland (OR) and do nothing but live nights, anonymously wandering around listening to live music and frequenting titty bars.
*make music. Maybe learn the software and stuff to record pornolicious soundtracks using my keyboard (and figure out what extra electronics and stuff I need to make it better). Maybe take drum lessons. Maybe learn to play that harmonica CBM sent me. Maybe go to open mic nights. Maybe sing a lot.
*go to all kinds of different churches, try out different modes of worship, read and journal/think about spirituality.
*walk to the library every day, read papers and magazines and books and books and books and books and books and books and books and books.
*go to every single museum, attraction, or whatever possible in Washington state. Study maps. Drive all over hell.
*take care of my body every single day in as many different ways possible EXCEPT sexual excess: cooking and eating right, taking long walks, breathing deeply, stretching, dancing, and taking all kinds of classes: tai chi, hooping, belly dance, boxing . . . whatever’s available
*completely immerse myself in learning about one particular issue or cause, blogging/talking about it, and volunteering my time to it.
*write for 30 days. Whatever I want. Without showing anybody on a daily basis.
*watch/”consume” porn, fuck and masturbate a lot and get the review portion of Trixie.com off the ground.
*do phone sex again, but for many hours a day without trying to do anything else (no worrying about looking cute on cam, no doing camshows, no public blogging, no trying to figure out if the person is a member or not . . . just anonymous phone sex).
*Do some creative work (maybe just making one or three full length pornos that we could sell on DVD and actually be proud of) that takes a long time without WORRYING about the outcome or whether we’ll have enough money to do it right or having to do any of the other daily/weekly repetitive grind stuff we do that interrupts the flow of things that could take 2 to 30 days.
Two things to note: when I fantasize about taking time off it never involves regular socializing. It’s always stuff I want to do in a reclusive fashion, without phone calls or parties or meeting up with people in a chatty way. Also, when I dream about time away, it rarely means time away from work or being productive, it usually just means time away from the way I’m *currently* working so I can try a different kind of work or more focused productivity. I fantasize about having routines and ritualizing work but not to the extent where I lose the freedom to pursue it with the kind of continuity that doesn’t exist when you promise yourself to wake up at a certain time each day. I fantasize about not having to “check in”, about being isolated in a way that doesn’t allow anyone to look over my shoulder or judge my progress. I fantasize about full immersion in an experience devoid of distractions and mundane concerns. I fantasize about thinking and feeling and realizing ideas and absorbing/fondling new ones. I do not fantasize about interacting with people even when realizing my fantasies would necessarily involve SOME interaction. In my fantasies I assume these interactions will be limited, structured, and not come within a mile of overwhelming the real experience which is something I have with myself (and Delia in some of the fantasies, who I think of now as a part of myself, not someone I “socialize” with).
Yeah. Pretty much all of my fantasies about taking time off of work or having more of something good lead right back to fantasizing about doing MORE work, in a different and/or better and/or as-yet-experienced way. On the other hand, my idea of what “work” is, particularly what my job(s) in life are, are extremely broad. I have a certain level of faith that everything I desire to do will ultimately be productive in a life’s-work way.
Welcome to my blog and homemade porn site! I've been a proud WebWhore since the year 2000; I plan to make porn for the rest of my life. I hope you enjoy exploring my personal site whether it's getting to know me through my words or seeing me naked in my pictures, videos and webcams!-Trixie