The cat…?

March 8, 2020

This morning I look like something the cat dragged in – naughty pussy!

Deep in Life

March 8, 2020

To be in nature like a human tree, your desires
spread out like deep, luxuriant foliage, and feel,
on peaceful and on stormy nights alike, the universal
sap flow through your hands. To live with the sun’s rays
warm on your face, drink the scorching salt of sea-spray
and of tears, and hotly taste the joy and then the grief
that fashion foggy human forms in space. To feel
in your own beating heart the turbulence of air and fire
and blood like wind upon the earth, reach for reality
and stoop to mystery, embrace the rising daylight
and the falling dark. Like evening’s purple and cerise,
to let the flame and flood flow from the crimson
of your heart while your soul, like pale dawn resting
on a hillside, sits beside this world and dreams….

Anna de Noailles
Trans. Jean Morris

Berserkergang

March 8, 2020

A cold wind shakes
A cold wind shakes my body
My bones shake my body
My bones are a cold wind

A drum thumps
A drum thumps within my chest
My heart thumps within my chest
My heart is a drum

A fire burns
A fire burns my face
My blood burns my face
My blood is a fire

A horn-blow sounds
A horn-blow sounds in my ears
My shout sounds in my ears
My shout is a horn-blow

A bear stands
A bear stands before me
I stand before me
I am a bear

And then…blackness

I come to when all has passed
To witness the carnage that I must have wrought
As I wear blood that is not my own
And my shield is torn by my own teeth

I fall into a melancholy
It will not abate for many nights
I eat not, and drink sparingly
I am as if dead

I am empty, lost to sense and self
I weep not
For to weep is to know grief
And there is no room for such in my desolation

The all-father died for seven days
For the sake of wisdom won he hanged
I too die for a week
But it is the price, not the reward

Finally, I return to my senses
My voice to song, my heart to joy
I am again at ease
I live once more

But how long will this last?
It is not I who musters the men
The fires of war are not lit by my brand
It is beyond my ken, I know not

But this I do:

As the life of an oak is reckoned
From the time it is an acorn
Till the wind which will fell it
So too is mine before I will fall
To the storm of my rage again

James Frederick William Rowe

attention to religion

March 8, 2020

I’ve been greatly criticized for the attention to religion that I give in the books, but I’ve been criticized, on the whole, by people who haven’t read the books. My attitude to religion is that religion is a most interesting and extraordinary human phenomenon. I’m fascinated by it, interested in it, and at some points critical of it. And the points when I become critical are the points when politics come into it, and religion acquires political power — political with a small “p,” for example, within the confines of a single family, or Political with a large “P,” on a national or international scale.

When religion gets the power to tell people how to dress, who to fall in love with, how to behave, what they must not read, what they must not wear, all those things, then religion goes bad….Religion is private thing, and a fine thing and a good thing, as long as it remains private. As soon as it becomes public and political, it’s dangerous.

Philip Pullman
Interview for NPR 14th February 2017

My reading as a child was lazy and cowardly, and it is yet. I was afraid of encountering, in a book, something I didn’t want to know. Perhaps my earliest literary memory is my fear of the spidery, shadowy, monstrous illustrations in a large deluxe edition of “Alice in Wonderland” that we owned. A little later, I recall being appalled, to the point of tears, by a children’s version of the Peer Gynt legend in an infernal set of volumes we owned called “The Book House.” I also remember, from the same set, a similar impression of pain, futility and crabbed antiquity conveyed by an account of Shelley’s boyhood. I read both these things when I was sick in bed, a customarily cheerful time for me.

Still later, in the fifth or sixth grade, I was enticed into reading, for my own good, “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.” The adventure in the cave gave me lasting claustrophobia and a dread of Twain, besides whom Poe and Melville seem good-humoured optimists. O. Henry was the only recommended author unreal enough for me to read with pleasure. Having deduced that “good” books depict a world in which horror may intrude, I read through all my adolescence for escape.

John Updike
On Childhood Reading

the first werewolves

March 8, 2020

wolfwoman

There is a certain irony here, because many of the first werewolves to be outed in society from the 16th through the 18th centuries were actually women. Just as our American ancestors had their Salem Witch Trials, Europe had its Werewolf Trials, and a large number of the so-called “werewolves” tortured and burned at the stake were female…In the 17th-century werewolf trials of Estonia, women were about 150 percent more likely to be accused of lycanthropy; however, they were about 100 percent less likely to be remembered for it.

There’s also a pronounced lack of female werewolves in popular culture. Their near absence in literature and film is explained away by various fancies: they’re sterile, an aberration, or — most galling of all — they don’t even exist. Their omission from popular culture does one thing very effectively: It prevents us, and men especially, from being confronted by hairy, ugly, uncontrollable women. Shapeshifting women in fantasy stories tend to transform into animals that we consider feminine, such as cats or birds, which are pretty and dainty, and occasionally slick and wicked serpents. But because the werewolf represents traits that are accepted as masculine — strength, large size, violence, and hirsutism — we tend to think of the werewolf as being naturally male. The female werewolf is disturbing because she entirely breaks the rules of femininity.

Julia Oldham
Why Are There No Great Female Werewolves?

I’m concealing a crop underneath my clothing. It peeks out of my skirt as I move into the car, pressing painfully into the flesh of my thigh.

“Where are you folks off to tonight?”

“Just a club,” we both mutter, looking anywhere but at each other.

The driver nods and says no more.

He doesn’t notice the collar around Dylan’s neck.

I’ve been aware of my kink since I was six years old. Of course, at that age, I had no idea what it meant. I just knew I got a “special tingly feeling” when we played baby-sitter/child and I was punished as a naughty little girl. I started exploring it in my later adolescence.

It’s one thing to come to terms with the presence of a kink; I’d written and spoken about it extensively, explored it in the safety of the bedroom. But to act on it publicly — to walk into a room, clad in lingerie and leather, and ask a stranger to dominate you — that is a whole other ball game.

Dylan and I were a $55.45 Uber away from cementing ourselves as kinksters.

Esmé
Kink tales: When my best friend became my Sub

Recovery and nightmare

March 8, 2020

Recovering slowly from Splatterday.

Nightmare last night. I have them frequently. Vivid, frightful things, where impossibilities abound – fears and desires, illogic and terror. The strange delight of inaccessible horizons. phantasmagorically weird, like the fiction of Borges…

I have to rebuild myself slowly.

P