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Archive for the ‘work’ Category

I thought the beach cottage would be a perfect place to make more mommy-nightgown pictures.

When we got there and I saw that these roses (that totally matched the nightgown I brought!) were starting to bloom along the deck, I *really* thought it would be perfect! Upskirts, roses, big pink areolas . . .

Beach Cottage Roses

I waited until the last morning of our stay hoping more of the blossoms would open up, but alas . . . not enough of them were ready to make it really showy / matchy with the nightgown / contrasty with the weathered grey shingles. You wouldn’t even have noticed them if we did the shoot, which we didn’t, not only because of the disappointing open-flower count, but because it was way too glaringly sunny and bright even at 8 am. We would have had to have been ready to shoot at like 5:30 am for any hope of soft, flattering, proper mood-setting light.

I wanted mist and fog and greyness, not harsh blanched-out brightness! So instead we took some pictures of me inside wearing really tacky white pantyhose with a flocked ankle design that ripped as soon as I put them on, and then I had to get on the floor to finish the set because the landscaper dudes came over for the third NOISY day in a row to stand right in front of our windows waving their loud power tools over every bush and grass clump in sight.

*****

Other missed photo opportunities, but of the non-porn variety:

• an empty baby stroller parked alone against the concrete rail of a bridge over a swollen river
• an adorable toddler-shaped woman with a big belly who walked around town alone in head-to-toe girlish costumes including a late-Victorian (or maybe Edwardian?) beachcombing ensemble complete with black-ribboned straw hat, white yoke on her dress, black-strapped shoes, etc. and, on another day, minced past the gas pumps wearing little prissy antique heels and a too-small early-sixties prom dress with a short skirt of tiny-mesh greyish-white tulle jutting from her knees out. She stuck out like a fantastic little sore thumb of whimsy all by her little lonesome. I wish I’d have at least said hello to her and given her a compliment on her outfits.
• the lumps of yeti-sized dog shit in the middle of the sandy path to the beach, and other carelessly ignored pet excrement left by human assholes without the consideration to bend their lazy bodies over and do some scooping

Win some, lose some.

We got back home around dinnertime tonight after Delia took us to a little cottage by the seashore to shoot pictures for our sites. It was magnificent! Except for this (boring) stuff:

Many things conspired against us getting much done or even going at all; our last running vehicle broke down in the middle of a downpour Saturday night, for example. Rather than get charged for the rental cottage and not even go, Delia decided to rent a car (harder than you might think when you live at least an hour away from “everything”; she had to take a long walk and get on an early bus to go pick it up the day we were to leave, then wait for pick-up time and make the trek back to our house, then drive to the coast).

When we finally got to the beach it was 8pm. Then when we started shooting the next day I realized I forgot to bring the usb cable for our camera OR the card reader and we don’t have enough compact flash cards to hold all of the content we planned to shoot. So another long drive to my favorite depressing coastal town (Aberdeen) and back, cutting into shooting time some more.

You’re going to hate me for complaining about this, but it was also TOO SUNNY at the beach for us to shoot as much as we wanted to outside; the forecast had been for more cloud cover so I thought we could count on some fog and grey skies to even things out. Then shooting time inside the cottage with natural light was limited by the loud-ass landscaping/yard dudes hanging out right in front of our windows.

So.

We actually had a wonderful time, but I feel like I can’t just say that because people already seem to think our jobs are way too easy or something. Like I can’t tell you we took long walks on the beach and stretched standing in the sand. Like I can’t tell you I read a whole book! Like I can’t tell you I WAS GLAD we had no phone reception and only spotty internet connectivity when an unsecured neighborhood network  opened up. Like I can’t tell you we didn’t turn on the tv even once while we were there, because when I’m away from working-at-home I don’t feel so much like I need my escapist drugs of food-and-boob-tube. Like I can’t tell you I enjoyed myself. Like I can’t tell you about this morning’s Belgian waffle with huckleberries and maple mascarpone. Like I can’t tell you that almost as soon as we got home and I read some stupid emails I felt like crying and have been picking a hole into my head ever since.

Because somehow I have to make sure to convey that I love my work while having to remind people that is what it is: WORK.

*****

Delia said the whole trip and all the expenses were worth it even if we had only gotten her beach shoot done. The pictures are BEAUTIFUL! And when most people look at them they won’t even realize she was inching into hypothermia.

She did a good job so people will think the weather was tropical with a pleasant sunset breeze. They will wish they were with her in that look-so-warm water so they could suck her and suck her and suck her some more. They will imagine going on these “vacations” with us. They will say we should shoot on the beach all the time, but to have better lighting (insert know-nothing photographic advice here) and get wetter, please.

Right now I’m not even bitching about what I *want* to be bitching about . . . or about how miserable I feel about being such a bitch and Delia having to be near it when she deserves much much better.

Being cold made her eyes sparkle and her nipples hard. Her eyes are brown so sunset shining on them looks like flecks of warm honey in dark melted caramel.

Did I mention her nipples were hard?

*****

When we pulled back into town tonight, our vehicle was fixed (for a little less than $500). Tomorrow we have to take the rental car back sooooooooo there’s some more time and money we’ll be frittering away. The good news is we’ll have an excuse to go to one of our favorite Vietnamese joints when we do. The bad news is we’ve already spent way too much money this week on food. BUT FUCK IT ANYWAY I NEED MY GREASY PORK DONG.

Another week come and nearly-gone with poor sales.

I should start telling happy, good-feeling lies and not care when people act entitled and think stupid things.

No no no . . . I should just work harder at focusing on the bright spots. And forgive myself when coming home to work is hard. And work harder! And care less. Let it just be what it is: work.

This is the first month of the tenth year. It would be shinier if I had cared less, I think. I am tired of showing people how much I care. It has gotten me nothing but respect. The kind that vanishes as soon as you “get lazy”. I am tired of paying with my freedom and getting nowhere.

Don’t worry guys . . . I’m just being an asshole. Tomorrow I’ll be all smiles!!

What could possibly be more entertaining and pathetic than a moody, emotionally-unpredictable webwhore? I’ll tell you what: a “MATURE” moody, emotionally-unpredictable webwhore!!

I totally have a grey hair in my pubes. No joke!

I look totally gross from the side, but from the front and the back I sometimes look STUNNING. <<<This should be my new slogan.

Here is what I have to say over on Tits and Sass about the new .XXX domain:

.XXX Makes Me .MAD

I haven’t decided yet whether or not we’ll try buy .XXX versions of our .COMs. I certainly don’t want to. And after writing such a critical post about the asshole extortionists trying to force us into it, I’m apprehensive about putting my sites in front of them for approval or giving them my personal information. But I’d be apprehensive about that anyway. And folks in the adult industry are pushing for all of us to boycott .XXX (but I for one don’t feel sorry for Kink.com with their 10,000 domains – they’re not just protecting their brand, they’re part of the problem with that kind of excessive domain hoarding). Besides, my content is hardly consistently “Triple-X” enough to warrant that kind of a stupid-ass rating.

Anyway, do check out TitsAndSass.com not just because I’ll be contributing every so often, but because it’s awesome! Here’s what it’s about:

Tits and Sass is a group blog run by sex workers who saw a void when it came to witty commentary on the public image of our industry. The ideas promoted about us in the public eye have an impact on the realities of our lives as sex workers every bit as strong as the law, so we’re not letting any more dead hooker or stripper bones jokes pass by without comment.

We come from different backgrounds and locations, work as strippers, porn performers, pro-dommes, prostitutes, and have a love of ripping apart stereotypes. This is our space for calling out pop culture fails, celebrating sex worker culture, and talking shop.

All morning I’ve been thinking about fucking nineteen year old boys. Not any specific one, just a regular lineup of lithe little hard-muscled confused-yet-focused horny boys with motor hips and little curved dicks that don’t stop.

It’s because last night I ran across a video of Carol Cox with just the title of “Fucking a 19 Year Old”. I’m well aware of Carol Cox and that she fucks lots of people on her site and has lots of videos out there, but in my head it’s not something I crave to watch. Only by random surfing would I click and watch that, which is what makes it so out-of-the-blue to get so “inspired” by the awesomeness of it, just her smiling while this kid grunts his hips into her. No music, just those flesh-slapping fuck-sounds. No bullshit overproduction . . . it made it very voyeuristic, especially because I can imagine her husband Danny standing there behind the camera watching this kid who is decades younger than he is, fucking his wife.

We watched A Single Man the other night which had many beautiful young men in it and more than once I said out loud, Oh my god . . . I can’t even imagine being AROUND guys that age again. The chatter! The idealism! The way they think all these things they think and feel are NEW and mature and WOW!!

But somehow just watching Carol lying there having a torso of teen muscles pumping into her it made me realize it IS possible to have the cock without all of the talk. And I’m not a big old meanie, I probably would find a few of them charming in other ways, too.

Maybe all of the effort of lining such things up and getting hotel rooms and kids flaking out would be worth it — after all, it WOULD be a lot easier to shoot than us trying to shoot ourselves, which makes things more technical than we’d like them to be AND uses up both of our “talents” for only one piece of content. It really would make more sense for us to be regularly fucking other people for our sites.

I know, I keep saying it but keep hesitating. I don’t like all of the planning and rigmarole and relying-on-other-people involved in endeavors like that, especially living in an out-of-the-way place as we do; it’s really expensive and time consuming to get together with people away from home (and there’s no way we’re inviting strangers to our house to fuck us). Plus I am pretty sure (but not 100%) that Carol Cox and her husband actually do pay the guys featured in her videos – it’s a lot more professional than the way it’s presented in the fantasyland of the porn site (and I mean that in a GOOD way). We honestly can’t afford to pay other people for sex. OR waste time picking them up in bars (plus I hate bars, anyway).

But then I think how nice it would be to make something hot to look at just by lying there and enjoying some hormone-crazed fuck-machine of a teenager. Making him pull out and shoot big loads of spunk all over my tits. Thinking about this gives me very pleasant feelings.

Of course, I’d like to make them “audition” with a slightly-humiliating interview and videotaped jerk-off session first. I want to ask them questions and hear their voices shake while their impatient pricks twitch in their pants.

I look forward to the time when we have a stable of reliable boys (and/or GROWN men) like this to shoot with whenever we want to. I’m just not sure when, if ever, we’ll invest the time in finding and grooming them. Are you wondering why I’m more focused on shooting with men than women? Or why I’m emphasizing younger men as opposed to more age-appropriate lays? If so leave comments and maybe I’ll blog about it. Or just answer in the comments.

*****

God, I want someone to choke me. The RIGHT way. While I’m on top. Very few people have the touch or the right arm-length or understanding of how to not do it scary. It’s the pressure applied UP that I like to lean down into. I love the way it adds a tense time limit and everything slows down. Next time I find one who can do it I’m going to make him wear gloves, making it too difficult to get my pussy as far down on it as I suddenly want it to be. Because I’m held away. Just the tip.

*****

Delia has a hot semi-local who MIGHT shoot with her, but just the length of time of email back-and-forths and the guy’s lack of certainty about being on tape makes me think again that maybe it’s not worth the effort and bullshit. Of course I understand people’s reservations about being in porn, I just don’t have time to waste with their uncertainty or enough money to motivate them to treat it as more than just a fantasy they want to hot chat about late at night with no intention of following through. Oh wait, I asked Delia about that guy and apparently he’s actually ready to go, Delia’s just been waiting for the right time to schedule something. That’s exciting, right?

*****

Now I officially have two personal ads semi-written but not posted anywhere.

There’s another opportunity to worship women’s feet in Seattle on Thursday, September 9th (day after tomorrow) but this time I won’t be there. Hope to catch you at the next one! I’m *sure* you’ll have fun without me, though.

My end of summer beach feet with sandy, wrinkled soles.

I sort of promised myself that I’d only commit to another Foot Night if I had time to a) make peeptoes.com active, and b) schedule a few truly private sessions on top of the party to make the trip out there worth the investment of time and money. The times I’ve gone I was relatively busy but really only made enough money to cover the expense of the long drive + ferry ride and the cost of my pedicure and cheap shoes. It’s hard to be practical and say no to a foot party, though, when I love interacting with guys who are on the floor beneath me, pleasuring my feet!

Also, it’s just a lot more profitable and cost effective for me to stay home and do private shows on cam which I’ll be doing quite a bit more than usual to help pay for the cabin rental. It’s a good way to hook up with me (AND my feet, if you so desire): trixie.cammodels.com

Speaking of camming more often, Delia is available even more often than I am: deliats.cammodels.com

Nipple slip? I'm about to flash my big naturals on the beach!

Check out more preview pics from this beach gallery full of boobs, upskirts and toes!

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.

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.”

Like, fucking psychic alignment, man!

Click here for an older post about new age music, porn and more.

*****

I know, you’re all like . . . post some porn, woman!! Are you losing your mind?

I can only answer in a predictably crazy way by insisting that no, I’m totally on the verge of genuine SANITY, motherfuckers!! Seriously, like, all is about to be REVEALED!!

I’ll try to post something porny and down-to-earth for you soon, mkay? I’ll TRY.

I am always trying. I don’t know if that’s apparent or not, but it’s true.