We got up too-early to go dance. It was worth it, but then all we wanted was a movie and food-in-bed and murder-porn lazy-time.
With the velvety curtains drawn around our well-fed body heat, it finally got too stuffy by other people’s Sunday-night time-for-bed standards under the sloped-ceilings of our sleeping alcove. I whined for Delia to make me a bulls-eye egg NO WAIT can we take a walk?
Out in the dark in our pajamas, strolling the silent neighborhood … so many stars. My pj’s are a soft knit dress and thin fleece hoodie: no panties, no bra. Just shuffling along. It feels balmy compared to a couple weeks ago when the moon was full and the ground hard-frozen. She finds out her new nalgene does indeed glow.
We should be walking naked. Through gardens, not towards the obscenely-bright porch lights of people who go to bed so early. We should be walking naked with bare feet. RUNNING, even. Maybe we will someday, and then come back inside to dance. Or if it’s summer … stay outside to dance. All night long.
There’s Orion. There’s The Big Dipper. There are billions and billions and billions of things I don’t know the names for. Just tiny little lights in darkness from where we’re moving, such tiny barely measurable distances together, walking at night towards another cold still building where we’ve danced before, and other people. Maybe for a hundred tiny little years.
HOLD MY HAND, I said. WE’RE MATES. MATED FOR LIFE.
We left the sometimes-lit straight roads for the darker curving trails. Little miniature hills roped with roots, rising and falling under our feet.
I can hear her downstairs, smell the buttered bread and egg she’s frying for me coming up the stairs.
while it sucks in some ways to be separated from my wife for extended periods of time, we’re learning a lot from it and how we want to craft our lives and work. I’m still learning
to let go of shame over needing and loving the vast majority) of time alone
how to take time off of work / not try to exploit everything for work
now when we spend time together the majority of it is TIME OFF, not working (this is still harder to commit to than it probably should be, but IT’S AWESOME and we’ve done a lot more special things … like 3 and 14 and lots in between
That’s supposed to be me going in for a kiss at Lost Lake Cafe
Braved fear of flying to visit my fave guy … and acted like a terrible brat
FIRSTS: self-administered thorough enema, and MAMMOGRAM
Election: forced to let go of comforting hopeful illusions | plunged into surreal scary absurdity
we’re on the raft of the Medusa whether we like/deserve it or not
grateful for reading books like Catch-22, Fahrenheit 451, The Plague (and just lots of books in general) as a teenager
Delia & I celebrated our 6th/14th anniversary … by getting OUR FIRST TATTOOS!
Christmas at my sister’s house … and acted like a terrible brat
connecting dots with 7, 10 & 11, need to do more to apply tools of 4 and 8
and recognize that I may be great at forgiveness but it doesn’t pan out demonstrably as love if I’m still afraid & defensive / not fully acknowledging or dealing with my hurts & needs that are still there and real consequences even if I want/can understand and forgive others
experienced & observed the mysterious depths of Delia’s exceptional love, patience & wisdom
I *DID NOT* do a lot of things (ex. unfocused fearful nowhere-going drudge work, sex or socializing with many people) … and it was good.
one of the hardest (but best and most necessary) parts of pausing most of my visible work and quitting doing unsustainable work things has been losing external validation; I can see now how much of a counterproductive dysfunctional burden that’s put on my relationships
I’m returning to my original personal ideal of poly that’s so hard for me to not be ashamed of: my primary relationship is with my work and self. My most important & forever-partner is Delia. Realistically there’s not room for other intense & time-consuming (which I crave) secondary relationships.
My midlife crisis is winding up … things are coming together, and things are falling away. I feel like I’m getting ready to fly. Even if only in a very handicapped-wing comically human way.
Probably the biggest thing I learned in 2016 was how much I need to work on (re)building my value system and self-esteem. My happiness, sense of self, relationships, health and well-doing are reliant on being sure and proud of my values. When you and your value system and your job(s) are remarkably different from most people’s, it’s vital to have a strong tested articulated foundation you’re confident can hold you up that you don’t want to compromise.
My favorite image of 2016. Poignant beautiful tragicomedy.
I am (and you are too, whether you want to be or not) a designer. Being a designer is a huge part of who I am and what I value. I want to design my days, my life, my work, my home(s), and the experiences I share with others with a radiant, challenging, free, dynamic, safe, pleasurable, spiritual and sparkly set of finely-honed, timeless values.
Maybe I shouldn’t be looking forward to 2017 as much as I am, but I’m revived and relieved to know I AM SMARTER, STRONGER, MORE DECENT, HARDER-WORKING, MORE LOVING, MORE HONEST AND HAVE MORE TO OFFER THE WORLD THAN THE GUY A BUNCH OF PEOPLE MADE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Chances are, SO ARE/DO YOU!Plus a whole long list of more good stuff! I know this beyond even the slimmest, foggiest, shadow of a doubt.
In my life? I AM A SUPERPOWER … in humble submission to the superior collective goodness and love of billions of other people, creatures, stories, teachers and songs (ex. Prince, Bowie, et al).
Plastic eggs make sweet Easter tree-jewels! People make things humbly special in our town. Less like strip malls, more like old-fashioned home. And it is home to me, so of course I was here alone for Easter time, wandering around outside enjoying springtime.
A couple of days later Delia (my wife) came home to me and we had the BEST time. Since we’ve basically been living and working in different places for a couple of years — her in our Seattle studio, me in our out-here home — we’re finally getting the hang of taking REAL DAYS OFF TOGETHER (instead of everything overlapping with work as self-employed work-at-home webwhores). Taking real days off together makes me very happy.
We did a bunch of errands and stopped at the self-serve farmstand bursting with daffodils and other flowers, and a book I’ve been wanting to read for a long time (Oryx and Crake) was in the free book box.
For dinner we drove to our favorite place to get burgers in the next town over. We love sitting in our car to eat, especially when the sky is so blue and the temperature promisingly warm without being hotter than blazes.
Usually part of our burger date includes stopping on the way home at the lot full of used cars, trucks, boats, trailers and RV’s. We like to just walk around and look at what’s there. But the lot was pretty empty and we were tired and ready to get home so Delia decisively declined when I asked if she wanted to do the usual.
So we drove straight home stopping only for some groceries.
And when we were less than a mile from home … our car stopped running.
Pulled over on the side of the road, she tried to get it to start again. She checked a couple of things under the hood, couldn’t find anything obvious wrong, and wanted to stay and work on it … but I wanted to walk home so I could pee and not worry about it for awhile, and come back with clearer heads. I had to talk her into that part (it’s always interesting when Delia is a: really decisive/not super flexible feeling, and/or b: anxious … because it’s rare she’s either of those things and I kind of enjoy the way our roles change when that happens).
The whole time Delia & I have been together we’ve only driven old &/or beater cars that were given to us for free or sold to us for cheap; as a result we have enough practice with cars breaking down (and Delia is often able to fix them herself or at least knows enough about what’s wrong to make good decisions about paying for repairs). At this point it’s one of the few things that doesn’t give me the kind of anxiety attack you’d expect and just sort of makes me feel grateful because so far it’s never put us in a super dangerous situation, and this car especially has managed to break down maybe half a dozen times but always delivers us VERY CLOSE TO HOME or right where we can get help without causing a traffic nightmare before it gives up, even when we’ve been on long treks a hundred+ miles away.
We came back later as it grew dark and she tried and tried a bunch of things. But honestly my mind was pretty much made up to retire this car. There were a bunch of problems with it, including the transmission, and I didn’t want to worry about it breaking down anymore. It has served us really well. It was a relief and a sign to me when it broke down this time. But Delia felt a bit stressed out about it.
The role reversal of her overthinking and spinning her wheels while I am calm and at peace with a decision makes me feel a lot of tenderness for her, and gratitude for the ways we balance each other out. The moments when I am not crazy and struggling with her soothing me are FEW, so it’s a relief when *I* am sure, and *I* am calm.
Me: we’ve broken down a lot together. And everything’s been ok!@DeliaTS: we have! I’ve broken down with you more than anyone else!
A photo posted by Trixie Fontaine (@tastytrixie) on
When the weekend starts I get to feel invisible, the way I do when I’m up all night. Independent of other people’s expectations and standardized routines. Normal people go their way, and I untether myself from any semblance of connection to the majority, drifting into a continuity of creative solitary work that makes me glad nobody cares what I’m doing tonight, or if they do care, they know that I want to be left alone.
Like our friends who left a message about a party invitation for tomorrow. That I’m glad I didn’t hear until tonight when it’s too late, even though they already acknowledged on the message that they know I’m not too big on gatherings. I will tell them that if I were going to go to any holiday party this year, it would be that one. And it’s true. Just being invited is good enough for me, and being invited too late to actually go is the cherry-of-relief on top.
I don’t know. Maybe I’d go just for a few hugs and a couple of tamales if I could somehow look pretty without washing my hair. Or if I knew I’d meet somebody with a big dick there who’d take me into the woods and fuck me. But I do have to wash my hair and even if I did, there wouldn’t be some big-dick no-problems stranger there, and even if there were, I’d come back from the woods with my clean hair all fucked up and everybody would feel sorry for me for being such a slut.
Everybody always feels sorry for me for the wrong fucking reasons. I’m so fucking bored by normal-people interactions I want to rip my dirty-clean hair out and my clothes off just so we all have something to talk about.
The phone rings with a name I don’t recognize. So I pick it up. If it was somebody I actually knew, I wouldn’t want to talk and would have just sat there, cringing and guilty, waiting for the ringing to stop.
A man’s voice demands to know who I am.
Dude, you called me … who are YOU?
He’s frustrated and insists that *I* called *him*, but I didn’t. I didn’t call anyone. But I’m compelled to help him get to the bottom of it. A woman’s voice breaks in every so often to balance out the guy’s tension; she’s really sorry to bother me. She thanks me for my time.
YOU CALLED ME! I MISSED YOUR CALL! I’M JUST CALLING YOU BACK! AT NUMBER (not my area code) (not my phone number at all). I tell them my area code (not the one he said called him at all) and we’re all flummoxed. How could this be? So I suggest they try calling “me” back again to see if the same thing happens. AND IT DOES! They call a number that’s not mine at all, and my phone rings!
We’re united in this intrusive, totally mundane mystery.
She apologizes again. I say it’s fine and that I’m totally bored anyway. And it’s true. Whatever normal conversations I could be having with people I actually know sound like boring torture compared to this meaningless interruption (that would bore most normal people) that’s like random chat roulette, trying to untangle some absurd crossed wires that we’ll never make sense of. I roll out hypotheses about google voice and call forwarding, I ask who his carrier is … I think in my head of someone who might be fucking with me because he likes fucking with people from a distance. But it’s probably none of these things. We’ll never know who each other is and why we wound up talking to each other.
Those were the only people I felt excited to be verbally engaged with today. On Friday. When normal people get off work and do normal “fun” things.
Strangers are the only ones you can say anything to. You don’t know each other so you can start from anywhere. Your entire reason for interacting is random, so whatever you say to each other can be random, too. You can pick the most important thing or share something real and observable happening right now. You’re not building on a relationship and have nothing to lose. You have no obligations to each other. Whatever and where and who you are RIGHT NOW at that moment is what you have in common, and RIGHT NOW is what I want to explore most closely. The observable things, the creation of connection starting from “zero” where there’s so much detail to explore without any memories of each other from any past time or any fear of we’ll break our friendship or future together. With strangers you get to be anybody, and still stay safely alone. You can teach each other magic and give each other keys you could never get from people you know. With people you know, you have to waste time asking about yesterday and planning tomorrow and wondering if they’re sick of you yet and how to manage yourself and your time together.
My spiritual advisor says “stay close” and “call anytime”. And he means it, but I don’t know how.
People say call somebody when you need to talk and “that’s what friends are for”. I don’t believe that. If you’re friends with somebody you know that they’re busy. You know they don’t have time. You know they’re going to worry and want to fix it all. You know you’re going to owe them afterwards, and you don’t want to owe anybody anything, especially not a harrowingly dull session listening to them tell you the whole entire plot of a movie you don’t fucking want to see LET ALONE HEAR SOMEONE DESCRIBE blow-by-blow, or shopping trip where they had to return something but then they forgot the receipt and then you won’t believe who they ran into. What’s worse for me is if the conversation is actually GOOD because I don’t know when the conversation should be over, or how I’m supposed to end it. So I just keep talking until my ear gets hot and my brain is jangled and nothing I say makes any sense and I just want to scream I LOVE YOU BYE BYE!!!!!! Instead you know the ending will be planning to see each other and I want to see each other but I don’t actually want to plan on it or commit to it and I don’t believe it anyway and just get off the phone and eat 3,000 calories because I don’t have xanax so I just have to eat my way into a tunnel of calm.
You can’t call people who care about you and just be as fucking weird or sad as you feel. It’s fucking unsettling, and I don’t want to unsettle people I love; that’s extremely counterproductive and I do enough of it already. I would rather call the prayer line of a televangelist or the sex toy infomercial line that has sex-specific numbers (I called the one that’s supposed to be for men because I figured they are used to hearing it all, but they insisted I call the line for women but it didn’t make sense because all of the operators were women).
What is the weird-feeling or sad-feeling equivalent for hitting the punching bag or pillow when you’re angry-feeling? For awhile it was the internet, but I think that internet is gone.
Sometimes you just want to hear somebody else’s weird voice in your ear, and that’s all. Somebody saying goodnight just to you and only you. And sometimes the only (or the best) way to get that is to pay a stranger for it.
Note: all is well here, and Delia puts up with talking to me every day if I want, and makes it so I get to be alone a lot without every being really *alone* or having to stay that way. Which is so fucking awesome that I continue to feel self-conscious and guilty about it and am still learning how to embrace it.
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.
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