Twilight into Dawn

“Father God, I ask You to lead me when I’m blinded by ways I have not known.  Along unfamiliar paths, please guide me.  Turn the darkness into light before me, Lord, and make the rough places smooth.  I know you will not forsake me.”  (more or less from Isaiah chapter 42, verse16)

            I was going to write some more about Helen today, as she rather lingered on my mind from yesterday, but then a couple of things happened – A friend (and I’m probably not only using the term loosely, but downright recklessly) had some unexpected misfortune come her way, and also, I ran across the above verse that, oddly enough, echoed a couple of things I’d written to her.  So, what the hey? – I’ll echo them again here a bit.

“…blinded by ways I have not known”.  You know, that’s pretty much always true.  I’ve always found it interesting that the Zen kids in ancient China and the early Christians both came to be known as “followers of the Way”.  And, the leaders of both groups spoke of this notion of unfamiliar paths and walking in darkness, toward light (“We see now as if through a glass darkly” – St. Paul).  The Way is indeed, an unknown path to us.  It is the path that leads away from self, and therefore most of us (me, for one) are horribly unfamiliar with it.  It is a path of faith – a path that one does not walk with a precise, crystal-clear vision of its end (if it even has an end).  As Paul puts it, we can just barely manage a dim, blurred vision of what lies ahead – but we walk with an assurance that what lies ahead is more than worth the effort required for the journey.  (“I can’t quite see what they’re serving, but, God, it smells delicious from here!  Could be chocolate cake!”)

One of the few Zen koans that I ever solved to my teacher’s satisfaction was the one, “You are atop a 100-foot pole.  How will you advance?”

(My initial response was, “Uh, I’m kind of scared of heights – Can I just climb down the pole?”  No go on that one.)

So what was the answer I finally came up with after only, oh, ten thousand hours or so of sitting in meditation, mostly thinking, “My knees are feckin’ killing me”?

It was this:  “Take the next step.”

In my not-so-humble opinion, life would be boring as hell – or rather, a boring hell – if we knew in advance exactly where every path would lead, and exactly how our lives would turn out.  Kind of like watching a ball game when you already know the final score.  Me, I’m with Helen Keller, who quotable-quotedly said, “Life is either a daring adventure…or nothing at all.”

We are all at sea (hopefully not aboard the “Titanic”), but if we are following the Way, then our journey is a grand adventure, even if we do not yet know precisely what “the new world” that awaits us looks like.  Sure, it’s got grizzly bears – but it also has cute, little prairie dogs.  There’s wind and storms, but amazingly enough, the sun always pops back out.  (Not to mention the beaches are nice.)

We travel hopefully, because we know the Path leads, ultimately, home to Eden.  One of the great Zen masters noted, “From the moment of your birth until now, you have been turning away from light to darkness.  Time to turn round, and go home.”

We’ll get there.  Trust me – I might bullshit you every now and then, but I wouldn’t lie to you about something this important.  So, have faith, and continue on – it works.

Happy Friday, boys and girls.

(Okay, well, you kids have fun – I gotta go slit my wrists now because my future looks so bleak and desolate.  But don’t worry – I’ll be back.  Women – the bane of my life.  Sheesh.)

"Let Her Cry, for She's a Lady"

“Ain’t nobody rock it like this,

 Ain’t nobody out there swift like this…

 …And any minute I’ll be rollin’ through,

 So get ready, get ready…” – Fergie

             (Okay, that song doesn’t really go with this entry, but I’m just totally digging listening to it as I type.  Let me have some fun, okay?  The lyric that actually goes with this scribble is, "Let her cry, for she's a lady...Let her dream, for she's a child..." - the song is "Wildflower", by Skylark)

             Helen was sweeping.

             That’s what Helen did, when she wasn’t occupied with something else.  Some people exercise compulsively, some people watch television, people do all sorts of different things…Helen swept with her broom.  Swept floors, or a deck, or the space outside the front door, even though all trace of dirt and dust had long since been swept away.  She swept, in a neverending attempt to eradicate dirt that only she could see.  She must have effusively thanked me ten thousand times for buying her that damned broom.

             And I let her sweep.  I didn’t bother her about it, didn’t idiotically point out that whatever surface she was bustling away at was already perfectly clean, didn’t suggest for no good reason that she do something else.  And that was likely one of the most intelligent things I ever did in regard to Helen, and one of the main reasons that she felt so comfortable in my home.

             But on that particular day, at that particular point in the space-time continuum, I did interrupt her sweeping.  God only knows how many hours she’d been at by then.  All I can tell you is that it was fairly late in the evening, and I could clearly recall having seen Helen sweeping, off and on, throughout the day, since when I'd first stumbled into the kitchen for coffee that morning.

             I simply said to her, as I passed through the kitchen for some ice, “Come in the living room a minute.”

             She obediently and without hesitation set her broom aside, and followed me into the living room.  I sat down precisely in the corner of the large, sectional sofa, and had her sit in my lap.  She leaned her head against my shoulder without speaking.  Helen always was a quiet one.

             Honestly, I didn’t have any particular plan of action in mind when I’d told her to come with me.  But I was reasonably confident of a bit of inspiration coming my way.  And, thank God, it did.  I stroked her hair with my hand for a bit, and then, after a minute or two, softly kissed the side of her forehead, and said simply, “Good girl.”

             Silent tears appeared, swelled, then slowly spilled out of her eyes, and trailed their way down her cheeks.  One of the things you need to learn in this life is that a girl crying isn’t always a terrible thing.  Sometimes it’s something you ought to just allow, and not try to “fix”.  After a moment or so, she casually stuck her thumb in her mouth.  That was another of Helen’s habits – sucking her thumb.  Helen had suffered much in her life, and had developed her own coping mechanisms.

             (I am, by nature or habit, a relentlessly sarcastic, needling bastard, but I take no small point of pride in the fact that I never once ridiculed Helen about her thumb-sucking habit.)

             We sat there like that for quite some time.  I had the good sense (for once) to not say anything else, but just to hold her there and let her cry inaudibly and suck her thumb.  I have often wished that you could heal a girl’s wounds simply by holding her in your arms – the world would be an infinitely easier place to live in if that were true.  Nonetheless, it is true that, sometimes, for a moment in time anyway, that really is more or less all it takes to take her pain away, to at least temporarily banish it. 

            Eventually Helen simply nodded off there in my lap (which kind of necessitated my sitting there awhile longer, which, okay, I wasn’t exactly crazy about, but, oh well).  Every now and then – grace of God - I get this stuff right.

Love and Remembrance

If "it's all about Dominance and submission" (the title of my blog), then what is Dominance and submission all about?

Love and remembrance.

In a world gone mad, we have become loosed from our moorings.  We are adrift in a relativist sea where "man" and "woman" have both gotten lost.  Those of us who have been fortunate enough to get back ashore, have - as with an exclamation point - planted the flag of Dominance/submission, so as to help us stay recollected of who we are.

The brilliant philosopher/theologian, G.K. Chesterton, wrote, "We have all read, in scientific books, and, indeed, in all romances, the story of the man who has forgotten his name.  This man walks about the streets, and can see and appreciate everything, only he cannot remember who he is.  Well, every man is the man in that story.  Every man has forgotten who he is....We are all under the same mental calamity; we have all forgotten our names.  We have all forgotten what we really are.  All that we call common sense and rationality and practicality and positivism only means that, for certain dead levels of our life, we forget that we have forgotten.  All that we call spirit and art and ecstasy only means that for one awful instant, we remember that we forget."  (Chesterton, from "The Ethics of Elfland", in "Orthodoxy")

The rise of the subculture of Dominance/submission is merely a dramatic exaggeration of a fundamental truth, made in an attempt to help us remember, to recollect ourselves, and to never again forget the essence of who we are as man and woman.  Collars, crops, and shackles are merely our talismans, visible, tangible reminders, meant to sustain and reinforce our recollection.  Men assert their authority in a dramatic fashion - commanding, punishing - in order to remember what in hell a man is supposed to be.  Women likewise submit themselves to physical bondage and as "slaves" to help them recollect how they are to be tied to a man.  It's ironic that, in an insane world, it's the people walking round in leather and collars who turn out to be closest to sanity.

I think those who have discovered what has come to be referred to as "Christian domestic discipline" have come closest to getting it precisely right.  They do not, by and large, suffer from the excess of exaggeration that plagues the general world of Dominance/submission.  Or, rather, they have simply gotten more nearly right the whole concept of proper Dominance and submission.  They have reasserted within themselves and their relationships the proper roles of "Man/woman", "Husband/wife", within the overarching Truth of God's unique creation of both.  They have a fundamental understanding - a clearer vision - that is lacking in the lives of those practice Dominance/submission outside of, or without, a basic Christian philosophical foundation.  Not that they couldn't perhaps benefit from having some T-shirts printed up that say, "Spank your wife for Jesus!".  (What can I say? - I'm twisted, and hopelessly irreverent.)

If, just to wrap things up here, I can borrow a line from Sean Connery in the film, "The Untouchables" - "Thus endeth the lesson."

Kiss Her Goodbye

(Abridged version)

            I was leaning over the kitchen counter, arms straight, both palms pressed down flat against it.  If I could have shoved the counter through the floor, I no doubt would have. 

            In response to Melanie, I growled, “God damn it, we’ve been through this.  You’re going back to your – HELLO! – husband of 12 years, and the father of your child, and that’s the bloody end of it.  And I have no desire to talk it to Goddamn death all night long.”

             Undeterred, she bravely (or foolishly) approached me, reaching out a hand to stroke my nearest exposed shoulder.  “If you want me to stay…”

             I snatched my drink up off the counter, and knocked about half of it back.  “Do…not…do this.”

             Changing tactics, she hung her head and mumbled, “Have you talked with Vicky? – She’s really upset about leaving.”

             I glared at her, “Victoria is a 7-year-old child who has been put through an emotional hell over the past year.  Of course she’s upset.”

             “She adores you.”

             That softened me a bit, at least momentarily, and I couldn’t keep a smile from creeping its way into my frown.  “Well, of course she does – (A) She has excellent taste, and (B), I’m adorable.”

             Melanie just looked at me.  Just…looked.

             My frown reasserted itself, and I sighed wearily, then took another drink.  “I’ll talk to her.”  Jesus, God, why do I have to fix every damn thing?

........................................................................................ 

            Victoria was sitting up in bed, scribbling away on a pad of paper resting on her knees that were drawn up under the covers.

             I sat myself down on the side of her bed, my guest room bed that is, and smiled at her – even though she was, at the moment, rather resolutely refusing to look at me.  “Hey, kiddo.”  No response, other than an increase in her rate of scribbling.  I smiled.  “What?  You’re not speaking to me?”  It began to hit me somewhere around then that I was likely going to miss Victoria even more than I’d miss her mom.  Truth be told, it was kind of nice almost having a daughter.

             Finally, she stopped scribbling, and turned a frown in my direction.  “Why don’t you want us anymore?”

             Aw, for the love o’ Jayzus.  I sighed again – I was doing a lot of that, it seemed.  “Vic – it’s not that I don’t want you here.  It’s that your mom and dad are getting back together, and hey, that’s a good thing, right?”

             She puzzled that one over for a moment, like she thought I might be trying to put something over on her, then complained, “He doesn’t read me bedtime stories like you do.”

             With a tight-lipped smile, I said, “Hey, different people are good at different things.  You know your dad loves you, Victoria.”

             Turning her head a bit, and eyeing me rather suspiciously, she flatly inquired, “What about you?”

             I reached my arms out to her and said, “Come here, you idiot.”  She let her notepad fall to the wayside, and wriggled herself into my arms.  I hugged her and said, “You know I love you, Vic.”  I squeezed her, and added, “In fact, you are pretty much my favorite person in the entire world – certainly under the age of 12 anyway.”

             I drew back just in time to catch her biting her lip thoughtfully.  Then she asked, “Can I come and visit you sometimes?”

             “Mmm…I guess you’d need to talk to your mom and dad about that one.  But listen, you can certainly call me anytime you like.”

             She had another question (girls always do).  “Do you think I could sleep with you and Mommy tonight?”

             (Hmm…Jeez, you think you could give us an hour to have wild sex first?)  I nodded.  “Absolutely.  Happy to have you aboard.”

             She wrinkled her nose and said, “You guys aren’t going to be all naked, are you?”

             “Actually, I was planning on wearing my bunny rabbit, footie pajamas to bed tonight.”

             Giggling, she said, “You don’t have footie pajamas!”

             I sighed – once more for good measure for the evening, and only inwardly this time.  That’s right, Jack…always leave ‘em laughing.

             Damn, how I hate doing the right thing sometimes.

On Orgasms - "Ohhhhh..."

       Different girls get different looks on their faces when they orgasm.  Or, hey, sometimes the same girl gets different looks with different orgasms.

       There's the ones who tilt their head back way back, clench their teeth, and make this hissing sound that makes you momentarily freak out and think, "Oh, shit - I'm in bed with the devil!"  Then there are the ones that do that shuddering, guttural moan, "Unnnnnhhhh...".   Then there are the ones that just have this really wide smile spread across their face, that makes you have the somewhat idiotic thought, "Gee, she looks happy."  Personally, I kind of prefer the ones who scream out, "Oh...God...DAMN!", in such a way that I can inwardly smile and nod, thinking, "Yeah, all right, I nailed that one dead-on perfect."  (What with my innate insecurity, I need that reinforcement that I'm doing a good job.  I'm kidding, but not really - for about five years, every time I was in bed with a girl, I felt like I was taking a final exam or something - and terrified of making anything less than an "A+".)

(Just to note:  My reciprocal of that one is a forcefully groaned, "Jeezus Christ...", usually followed shortly thereafter - soon as I catch my breath - by a chuckled observation of, "Damn, that felt good.")

       I wonder what the hell atheists yell out when they orgasm?? - What? - something like, "Oh, nothingness!"??

       But I wanted to tell you about this kind of spooky one, that you don't see very often.  That's the one where the girl gets this really wide-eyed look, like she's a bit fearfully/apprehensively wondering, "Oh my God - What's happening to me?", like it's something she's never experienced before.  (Which, let's face it, this day and age is very damned unlikely if she's over the age of 12.)  Any event, had that happen once, and the really interesting part was the way she grabbed hold of my hand (rather tightly, I might add).  I don't know, there was just something about that tableaux...I mean, since I was, in some sense, the "perpetrator" of this event, it just struck me as being a bit like someone clinging to their attacker for comfort, in the midst of being assaulted.  Something like that.  Anyway, it sort of genuinely spooked me for some reason.  For some time (three weeks, maybe?) thereafter, I consciously made an effort to only induce "light" orgasms.  That doesn't work at all though - it's kind of like the more quietly you try to open a door, the louder a noise it makes.

       The only ones that really "bother" me are the ones who just do that rapid, shallow panting thing - I always fear, "Oh my God - I made her have a stroke!  Damn, I hate it when that happens."  Anyway, I'm always extremely relieved when they regain the power of speech.

       I'm not really sure I had a point in writing this entry, or, if I did, it must have gotten lost along the way.  Anyway, girls are funny.  Not funny "haha", funny "interesting".  They make some interesting faces anyway.  Guys, on the other hand, I think mostly make "stupid" faces when they come...but, what the hell, we're stupid, so it fits.

P.S.  I guess I should throw in here (only because I'm unlikely to ever be able to - logically - use it anyplace else) an old Jewish American Princess joke (that I can get away with telling because a Jewish American Princess told it to me).  How can you tell when a Jewish American Princess has an orgasm?...She drops her emery board.

Cruel to be Kind

       You do have to be cruel to be kind sometimes.  And I can do that.

       I recall once when I had Priscilla scrubbing floors for, literally, a couple of hours - until she was sobbing audibly.  Tears are usually a fairly reliable sign that you've sufficiently gotten your point across.

       Passing by, I simply said, "You're done here.  Go to bed."

       When I retired for the evening myself about an hour later, she was lying on her side, turned away from my side of the bed, and I assumed she was already fast asleep.  But once I'd settled myself, she mumbled, "I'm sorry I'm so wicked sometimes."

       I caressed her hip and noted, "Ah, you're not all that horrible, Pris."

       "I am!", she replied.

       I sighed and suggested, "You know, angel, the wisest course of action for you here might not be to disagree with me."

       After only a barely discernible moment of hesitation, she (wisely) said, "Yes, Sir."

       I smiled, patted her bottom, and said, "Good girl.  Now go to sleep."

       "Don't you want to fuck me?"

       "Do don't whine, Pris."

       "I'm sorry - I'm such a terrible slut."

       Feeling something between amused and exasperated, I said, "For Christ's sake, Pris, I can hear you grinning over there."

       Which brings us to one further discipinary note - It's nearly axiomatic that a girl, once properly chastised, rather surges with a desire to be properly fucked.  God in Heaven only knows precisely the workings of that psychology - all a man can do is take note of the fact.