touch me with your naked hand, or touch me with your glove


This is my latest shrine. It just sort of ‘happened’. And then when I noticed it was ‘happening’, I thought I’d add some things to help it along a little bit… seeing as I had zero spare creativity and absolutely no idea what to say in my next post. I thought I’d let my alter do the talking. Well…my alter, and the diary page that I tacked to the wall. Apparently I’ve stopped giving a shit. Y’all can just read my diary now. It’s so much quicker.

I was directed to this cover of the classic Leonard Cohen track by someone with whom I am at that delirious early stage of development, where you exchange music that can speak for you. I suppose putting it here might be a bit vain (HE THINKS OF ME WHEN HE HEARS LEONARD COHEN!!!!!) but I thought I’d do it anyway, because it is the sound of my life right now. It is in my head and in my walls, and hearing it may help you feel and understand things I cannot write about yet.

what made it special made it dangerous…

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Sometimes we just have to do what feels good, even if it requires a greater surrender than we’ve ever had the courage to make before. Our darkness is as real, as valid, as beautiful as our light – never sharing that with anyone is such a waste of everything we are as humans. It may take a great, horrific leap of faith to let go of our own shame and finally be honest with someone we care about – but it is such a relief when we do. Whether that person understands or not – whether they judge you, leave you, or think you are  a nutcase – doesn’t really matter. Because it sets you free. If we go around denying parts of our own soul, flinging out a different set of lies to every new lover, friend, or casual acquaintance (tailor-made to whatever it is we think they want of us) then how can we ever hope to have anything real?

The past week I have been completely wrapped up in my own world. It’s hard to be specific about what is going on, because I don’t even really know myself. I do know that I am happy, and have very little fear of being hurt. It is incredibly ironic that the man I am most vulnerable with is the one I am least afraid of now. I have given him power, and giving him power has given me strength. I still have secrets – things it may take me a long time to tell him, if we get that far – but I feel as though I am growing, and that I am more me than I have been in recent memory. I am not so naive as to think I have no desires or expectations – but more than anything I just want to know that I went as far as I could, and that nothing was wasted.

I have started a new art project, at his insistence. I have always been shy about showing him my work, or performing in front of him, and he knows this. He gets incredibly frustrated with my hiding things from him. Being ordered to do this task by him has given me the guts to explore territory I would never have dared go to without that. Wanting to please him, and knowing his tastes, has given me the permission I felt I needed to take bigger risks. The latest pages of my scrapbook are some of the best I have ever done. Maybe one day I will be okay with showing them to the world in general, but for now they are just between me and him.

If I let other things slide for the sake of enjoying the moment, then so be it. My life will still be here when things die down. My inbox may be filling up quickly while it goes untended, but I know that my heart, my work, my blog and my life in general will be better-off for me having become absorbed in something strange, and new, and giving it everything I have. I think the surrender will set me free.

it’s not a walk in the park to love each other

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Sorry I haven’t been posting nearly as much as usual lately – it will pick up again, I promise. I’ve been feeling very creatively handicapped recently. I know I haven’t posted a new outfit in, like, FOREVER. But that’s mostly because my love life has just been so fucking fascinating  (I would use a sarc-mark here, if anyone had ever taught me what one looks like. If anyone knows, please leave a comment. That would come in serious handy).

I have been scrapbooking, though. Even when my relationship status changes ten times a day, I still find the will to cut and paste. Maybe that says something about me. But then again, maybe it doesn’t…

Simple decision-making is also proving difficult.

Now the pale morning sings of forgotten things

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Sometimes I want to be like the moon, and turn my face to someone I love so that I can bathe in their warmth, their desire, and reflect it back to them without ever having to say a word. I wish that there was a way to make myself stop giving, stop trying to make everything easy for other people, and just let things die, if that is what they would do without my tending. Sometimes it feels as if, without my effort – without my constant straining to keep things alive, and growing – all the men I truly care for would allow (or have allowed) everything between us to fade away and eventually become lost, like a wish blown through a dandelion head. It is only when I lose my patience, when I want to tear it all up into tiny, irretrievable pieces, that they take my hands and lead me away from such destruction. Then they behave as if I were being hysterical - as if it were ridiculous that I should not simply FEEL how much they care about me without them ever having to show it.

I am a little ashamed to admit that I have spent a large portion of my time around people I did not really love, purely because they loved me, and I could feel it. Living your life under a canopy of adoration can be like living in fairy-land; you lose track of time, you know that there was something important you were supposed to be doing with your life but you can’t quite recall what it was…because all that matters is that you don’t have to work so hard anymore. You can relax. You are safe.

Maybe there is always a lover and a beloved. It certainly feels that way sometimes, when I am struggling to get anything close to the reaction that I want out of someone. On an intellectual level, of course, I understand that in order to do the things he has done for me, the man I am thinking of as I write this must care for me in some way. But understanding something on an intellectual level does not help when two people are trying to see if they can be together without causing the other heartache. You have to come to some kind of agreement – I will not let you burn yourself out with loving me. I will take over before you get too tired.

Nothing factually significant has happened since my last post, these are just the thoughts I have been living with for the past week. Really they have nothing to do with this one man. I am not entirely sure if I even want him. But there is something at stake here, I feel, even if it is just in my own mind. The only way it can continue is if I learn to be like the moon, and he does not let me grow cold when I do.

There’s something inside you, it’s hard to explain

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In bed all day, and dreaming of nothing. Apparently I have stopped grinding my teeth. I’ve been waking up with slices of sunset across my face, my recollection of the last week growing dimmer and dimmer. The hours have bled into each other, the way they do after a long, long party that you can’t perfectly recall. Moments of our time together keep coming back to me in flashes - as if it were not really my life, but images from a film I had seen or a book I had imagined into existence. I am filled with fear that I will remember the wrong things. I can feel my short-term memory being converted into long-term, and I know I have no control over what I hold on to. I remember there were cocktails in the sun. His hand stroking mine at dawn as I lent back against him, feeling the heat from his chest. Drinking white wine that first night in Soho, and getting drunk too quickly because I hadn’t eaten anything all day. The little corner table where we sat and joked about harmless, day-to-day things - the way you do when there is something tender, and painful, and almost forgotten, hanging between you that no one wants to disturb. I remember skipping as we went to my friend’s house, making him laugh. Thinking how miraculous it was that he should be meeting them, when it still seems so miraculous that I even know them in the first place. And then the relief that comes when different parts of your life intertwine, and nothing terrible happens, no one catches you out. Smoking together as we lay on the floor, gazing drunkenly at artificial starlight, thinking how perfect is this, and this, and this, and how much easier than I thought it would be, even though there is a certain kind of disappointment in that too. Joking over our lunch, like children. Letting him feed me.  Forcing him to dance. Pretending to be asleep in the night, when really I was thinking how, how can this be?

It is so strange when nearly four years worth of speculation, fantasy and paranoia is replaced by a real human being who can see all the expressions that play across your face when you have a conversation, and ask you what they mean. And then insist when you refuse to explain. I remember he made a grab for my camera, for the photos that I had taken of our weekend, and I was genuinely terrified. I begged him to give it back in a way he knew he could not ignore. I can only wish I felt that safe with him.

And yet I have promised to see him again. I promised in a moment of tenderness, when anything else would have been ridiculous. He, in turn, promised never to look at what I write here. I think, out of the two of us, he is far more likely to keep his word.