Friday Raves & Rants

RAVE: Woke up today, same as the day before.

RAVE: Breathing in and out works just great!

RAVE: Still smiling (most of the time, anyway) and finding reasons to keep doing so.

RAVE: Making other people smile and laugh and helping them enjoy life whenever and wherever I can.

RANT: I’m currently homeless — or as I like to think of it, “between homes.”  Hey, it works for other things… people drive “pre-owned vehicles” now, because that’s not the same ugly thing as a “used car.”  Right.  Anywho…

RANT: Had a couple of different places I’ve stayed so far and been able to keep my few personal belongings with me (the rest is in storage) but I don’t know anything about tonight or after.  I have several potential contacts and resources and things that might turn into places to stay, but I don’t know.  The uncertainty is what kills me.

RANT: My dad still writes incredibly powerful poetry, even when he’s writing of his struggles with disowning me.  Back toward the end of July he wrote that one, and I only discovered it a couple days ago when I went to show off some of his music and poetry to someone, which I do frequently. He’s done some great work, as well as his photography which he shows on his website — and I noticed that his “most recent poems” section had one called “disowned” which I figured (rightly) was about me.  I have said often that I knew he’d need time to work through things, but I hadn’t really realized just how much time.  I still love him, I still hope, but I don’t know how things will go.

RANT: Almost a quarter of the housing posts I’ve looked through in the bay area — at least the ones anywhere near my price range — are variations on the theme of “I’m a young single guy, offering cheap or free rent in a great area, single females only please, no dudes (duh, I’m not gay!)”  They all seem to be genuine offers, posted and re-posted and posted again, and I honestly have to wonder if any of these dudes start to wonder why nobody is jumping on the offer.  One post was such a gem that I had to save a copy — in just one paragraph, this guy writes how his ex is leaving in a month “maybe 2 at most” but the room is available now… that he’s “totally cool and non-judgemental” but “my ex will probably take most of my stuff  so there will be room for yours if you need it”… and the kicker for me was “Don’t worry completely drama free.”  Not.  In the meantime, there are very few places actually available for what I can afford.

RAVE: People are still happy, beautiful creatures capable of infinite good and endless love, and we saw a small measure of that goodness with the ruling on CA Prop 8.  Sure, we see people doing sad, ugly, bad and hateful things every day — sometimes we’re the ones doing, not just observing — we all have those “off days” and hard times, but that in no way diminishes our capacity for creation or lessens the impact of the joy we share.  Find a way to make somebody smile today — because whether it’s 50 minutes or 50 years later, that smile will be all the difference in the world.

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This morning’s writing…

It aches.

I want her to take me, to use me for her pleasure. I want to be taught, for her to show me what to do to make her scream in blissful orgasm again and again and again. I need her to fuck me, to fill me deep with anything she has — fingers, fists, tongue, toes, toys or some surprise that only she would dream…

And I don’t even know her. I’ve never seen her. Or, I suppose more truly she’s every girl I see. Every woman I know. Every boot and skirt and tight pair of jeans and each beautifully ample breast and those barely-a-mouthful gems and her scent — oh, the intoxicating scent of Woman! — and she is everywhere, sitting beside me on the bus, standing in the coffee shop, walking toward me on the street (and then right on by.)

I find her, and I try to speak. I don’t know why I bother — she sees the clumsy. She knows the awkward. She senses the fear. She pulls away… or pulls her Boy closer. She thinks he’s a “man.” She doesn’t know: there is no such creature. “I would love to… but my boyfriend would kill me!”

Then sometimes… sometimes the beautiful ones stay, they talk. They share my life, but from forever and a fortune away. Whether across the county line or the length of the country, there is distance I cannot cross and cost that I cannot afford. She is Aphrodite, she is Death, she is Frozen Witch, she is Faerie and she is Puppy… and she seems impossible to ever touch. She is sister, she is friend, she might someday be lover, but today she is only the wind… I hear her, I know she breathes and sighs and her gentle coolness touches my heart, but she is never truly with me.

So today I turn once again to the manufactured images, the sights and sounds that pretend they are her… the carefully crafted, entirely artificial cries of ecstasy and horribly faked fucking — and my hands will help me forget the ache, for a small time.

Only she can take the pain forever.

Valentine’s Day Cat! Well, almost…

The cat was alive.

At quarter to 4 pm today, Valentine’s Day 2010, I was walking down the road on my way to take care of a couple of errands.  As I went by the curve where the street branches apart with a large triangular planter, I saw a black cat lying in the gutter… I almost kept walking, except that it wasn’t mangled like “roadkill,” and I noticed there were only one or two flies on the body… so I stood and watched for a minute or two, and could see its chest rising and falling — slowly, but it was breathing!  Blood had pooled under its open mouth, and I knew it must be in terrible pain.

The cat was alive.

Managed to get over the shock that had kept me frozen for a few moments, and tried to think who I might call.  9-1-1?  No.  It could be quite some time before I got transferred to somebody who could help with animal emergencies.  Then I realized I was only a block away from the police station!  Sprinting down the street, lucky enough to get to the intersection as the light was ready for me to cross, no fussing with the pedestrian signal, and down to the doors of the station — which was closed.  Duh… it’s the weekend.  The sign on the door also listed a few weekdays when the police station is closed; the city is bankrupt, after all, and it costs money to keep the doors open.

But the cat was alive.

It was now 3:55 pm.  I thought of what else I could do, who I might contact — called my friend RPJ  His family has cared for several pets through their lives, and I figured he’d have good input.  He conferred with another friend who was there with him, and looked up the phone number for the local Animal Control Center.  I hung up the call with RPJ — two minutes total — and dialed their number.

The cat might still be alive.

A woman answered the phone — 3:57 pm — and I tried to speak clearly and coherently as I explained that I had come across an injured cat and wished to get help for it.  She confirmed my statement that it appeared to have been hit, and that it was still alive — then she asked me where it was in the street.  I answered honestly, that it had been toward the side of the road, near the gutter; what a good thing, too, since it had finally fallen over there and not where it would have been struck again and again as cars went by!  Because of where it was, it might just have a chance!

The cat could still be breathing…

The woman on the phone informed me that since it was the weekend, I had reached the after-hours dispatch line, and that unless the animal was blocking traffic, they couldn’t send anyone out to take care of it.  She offered that if I “wanted to accept the responsibility for it,” that I could pick up the cat and drive it in to them.  Even if I weren’t on foot, there’s not a chance in this world that I would try to pick that cat up, not knowing how it had been hurt, or what I might break in the attempt… I didn’t know what to do.

The cat was suffering, and might already be gone.

Reluctant to give up, but feeling powerless and not knowing any specific resources, I tried to keep walking, to head forward and start my errands, hoping that somehow I would find an answer.  Two blocks down the road, I was about to cross the street when I saw a man and a woman returning to their house with two large dogs.  Pet owners — perhaps they knew where to turn, and could certainly appreciate how serious the danger was!  I explained the situation again, and the woman suggested calling “Friends Of Animals.”  She didn’t know the number, but she went inside to get a phone book.  I found the number and called, at 4:06 pm.

The cat didn’t have long to live, if it didn’t get help soon.

One ring, and the recording of an answering service cheerfully informed me that Friends Of Animals was not a shelter and their volunteers currently had no more room, but that they could provide free and low-cost options for spaying and neutering, and that if I could get my pet to the point where it was ready to be adopted, that they could help me with the adoption process.  If I would please leave my name and telephone number, speaking slowly and clearly, they would return my call as soon as possible.

I was wrong.  The cat had been dead from the moment I saw it.  I was only foolish enough to believe that it might have still lived.

What a wonderful Valentine’s Day treat, wouldn’t you say?  Plenty of love in the air, hearts kindled with caring and compassion!  Or at least plenty of hands tied, dollars lacking, and a dead cat that’s probably still in the gutter right now.  I’m so grateful to know that it doesn’t matter if I care, because nobody else does!

Various thoughts and musings…

There is something powerful — magnificently, deeply, indescribably, and inherently powerful — about a cunt.  Completely outside and apart from anything to do with birth, life, creation… any of that stuff… there is something that commands attention.  Something that, if only for the smallest moment, says “Stop! See, observe, behold and wonder!”  A demand to pause in admiration and joy that few other things in life truly prompt.

Not simply because I find myself aroused by the sight of a woman’s wonders; there are many things that bring the same arousal.  Breasts or bare feet as much as a long, hard cock (whether it belongs to a girl or a guy!) and even someone fully clothed can all draw that same physical response, the same mental focus and emotional lust — but it’s just… different, somehow, viewing any vulva and noting a touch of awe, every time, no matter the situation and no matter how visually appealing a particular pussy may be.

Perhaps if I were straight, or a gay man, I might feel differently — I don’t know, and never will.  That’s okay, and honestly I think it’s wonderful to recognize this respect, to marvel in its mystery and let it stay surprising and secret.


I’ve listened to Simon and Garfunkel sing “I Am A Rock” quite a few times lately.  It’s really interesting to remember how I used to hear that song and never looked beyond the face of the words — I envied the man who was “safe” and “shielded,” who by virtue of being such a rock and an island, never felt pain and never cried.  How wonderful that would be!  So I truly believed, for so very long.

But over the course of a year and a half that I spent learning to care for myself, to care about myself, and to fight the depression that held me captive… I also learned to understand that the hurting and the tears aren’t something to wish away.  If all you ever do is cry, if the only feeling you know is pain, it may seem sensible wanting to be rid of it forever, but you’ll never understand how incredible the good feelings are when you do find them (and you will find them!)

I learned — perhaps then, possibly later — that what so many of us call “safety” is all too often simply imprisonment.  It seems safe because you don’t have to think about what might happen, or what you could feel, or what someone may do — when you’re locked up in “armor” and “protected” by the things you use for enjoyment, things you substitute for contact with people, you don’t have to make decisions or judgments or really do anything at all!  And you miss out on the greatest part of being alive: Thinking. Feeling. Doing. Loving. Other people.

And at the end of that time, I was finally able to declare with conviction (and more than a few sobs choked back as my tears fell) that “I am no rock.  I am not an island!”  It was beautiful to me then, and I still appreciate the memory today.

I’m unusual, not so typical… way too smart to be waiting around!

Just a few hours can make a big difference in my mood, it seems.  My last entry I actually wrote down on paper — yep, the pressed wood pulp stuff I seem to always avoid! — at the time, and just before posting this entry I typed it up and submitted it.

Looking at what I wrote, and remembering how I felt, I wasn’t feeling bad, but I certainly wasn’t cheery and bouncy.  All it takes is a little effort and a little smile and you can pull yourself out of pretty much anything — so a bit of a nap, a little “playtime,” and then of course hearing from Pouf, turning on some FUN music, and I feel great again!

Oh yeah, the chocolate didn’t hurt things either.  Dove dark chocolate squares, and they all have a little message or thought inside the wrapper.  Ate two squares, and inside the first it said, “Life is precious and an opportunity for you to make every moment count.”  The second one was just “Close your eyes and relax.”  Sure, they could sound kinda cheesy, but at the time they were just what I needed!

I know this post is rather disjointed and random, but whatever.  I was looking back over some of the things I’ve written down over the past few days (damn, it’s crazy, but this “paper” concept is actually useful!) and I came across this note:

Phia says: Fear is not a weakness.  It is normal.  It is natural.  But we need not embrace it!  Fear is a very understandable and a very natural first response to many things.  But true happiness requires us to step beyond fear, through reluctant acceptance, past promises and resolutions, to firm decisions, and from those decisions, direct and purposeful actions.

Sometimes I wonder where I come up with these things — they make so much sense, but damn, I sound so SERIOUS and DEEP!  Anyway, I guess it’s just part of who I am.

Other things I’ve been thinking about lately:

I miss Anne.

Let me back up a little bit here, because I doubt anyone here knows who Anne was… When I was maybe 12 or 13, I somehow ended up with a stuffed bear.  It was styled as a panda, and between its hands it held a heart.  I think — not positive, it’s been a very long time — that my grandma on my mom’s side had given it to the family as a kind if “Here, I don’t want this — find someplace to get rid of it.”  I wasn’t about to let that darling little bear get thrown away, or even donated to Goodwill, so I stepped in and asked to have it.  Anyway, this was the same time that I had picked up the unabridged copy of The Diary Of Anne Frank from the library.  I very clearly remember asking what I thought was a rather innocent question of the hypnotherapist I’d been seeing at the time about the phrase “…finding a bit of seed in my panties…” that I’d encountered in reading Anne Frank.  Of course, that launched a flurry of skittering around and my therapist very clearly expressing to my folks that it was time for me to have “The Talk” and she recommended a couple of books — both available at the local library — both versions of “What’s Happening To My Body?”  She quite wisely pointed out that for any guy or any girl, it was vital to understand what happens to both sexes at puberty, and the format of the books was suitable for answering any questions I might have.  My parents agreed to check them out from the library, and they did, but they insisted on reading anything in them before I did, and assigning specific chapters that I was to read, and others I needed to skip, and yet others that they must present “The Truth” quite clearly before I was allowed to read “What the rest of the sinning world falsely claims.”

Of course, I managed to read the whole thing after all, and not surprisingly, the sections they had forbidden entirely were regarding safe sex being an option, rather than “the only SAFE sex is abstinence until marriage and exclusive partnership thereafter,” and the parts they wanted to “correct” were regarding masturbation being sinful and evil.  I know they meant the best, and I don’t fault them for it.  It just makes me laugh a bit now to think back to how even then I didn’t particularly believe them on those subjects.

Right!  So, I was talking about Anne.  Gotta love those long tangental sidenotes… So, Anne had a heart between her hands; the back of the heart had been stitched together at one point, but the stitching had long since come apart.  It was, I soon found, the perfect place to put my rings when I took them off to masturbate, and there was always a conspiritorial feeling in doing that… Anne was much more than just a stuffed toy to me.  She was a friend, a confidante, and really almost the only “person” I talked with about things that were difficult for me at the time.  I kept Anne by my bed and slept with her for years — in fact, right up the the time that I shipped off to Utah and the [note: name of residential facility].  I was allowed to bring her with me, which really surprises me even now, but she was required to sit in a little basket of “personal items that you don’t get to touch.”  Well, after a year and a half without her regular company, she managed to end up someplace other than the top of the “must take this home with me!” list… and she got left behind.

It was a devastating blow when I first got home, but time seemed to heal the pain, and though there have been a few times I’d thought of her, it was always just a bit of “hmm, there was that bear, wasn’t there?”  Well, as I was going through all my things here recently, I found a plush toy version of Babar The Elephant that my dad gave me several years ago, and got one for himself and I think both of my sisters… I never really liked the elephant as something to cuddle with, but now I find that it’s not so bad to hug and hold — but of course it reminded me of how I used to sleep with Anne, and I realized that I really do miss her still.

Ohhhh-kay!  Been writing here for an hour now, and although there’s probably a lot more I could say, I really ought to just take a break and post this now!

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