Archive for self-discovery

GROUND FLOOR

Posted in writing with tags , , , , , , on January 8, 2017 by kimmy

elevator-pic

Although my imagination tends to embellish more than I care to admit, this time he appeared more handsome and seductive than in my most fevered dreams.

Was it the lazy way he lounged against the elevator wall as it slowly lowered us to the ground, or the gently possessive curl of his fingers around my wrist that made me sweat? I wasn’t sure. The only thing of which I was certain was that my desire would never be satisfied; that this was only another one of our endless erotic preambles that invariably concluded with nothing.

For many years, too many to count, he has prowled my dreams. Like a jaguar, sleek and dark, rousing both apprehension and desire so often that the two chase each other in a never-ending circle. Predator and prey always in motion, neither captured nor capturing. And for all these many years, I blamed myself for not yielding, for not allowing the cat to savage my body and satisfy his need.

But he is and always has been a cruel hunter, not availing himself of easy game, but reserving his attention for only the choicest morsels, those who embody closest his ideal of physical perfection. And I, alas, never conformed to those lofty standards and was, in both life and dream, judged to be wanting.

Yet despite my imperfection, he maintains his irregular orbit. Sometimes so distant that I wither and freeze; and at other times, as tonight, I burn.

And so this chase would continue unabated, as it has done for decades, if not for those fingers snaking around my wrist and his dark eyes prodding me to begin my flight. I suddenly halted the game. The elevator had finally reached the ground floor and it was, at long last, time to exit.

I stepped out and the doors closed behind me, carrying him away to places I neither know nor care. The goddess may be generous and willing to forgive the constant rejection of her bounty, but even She can become weary of the game.

ROLL THE DICE

Posted in writing with tags , , , , , , , on January 1, 2012 by kimmy

A friend once asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.  Since I was at the time a headstrong young woman of 22, I replied, “a fireman!” with all the defensive sarcasm I could muster.  I was more than a little miffed that my companion was underwhelmed by my then-current incarnation.  What was I supposed to do to impress him, stand on my head and recite from Henry V

It wasn’t until years later that I understood the nature of the question.  Rather than a condemnation of what I was doing, it was curiosity to know why I was doing it.   What’s more, I learned that I was just as curious to discover the reason.  What the hell was I doing back then?  Did I have a plan or was I simply on automatic pilot?

Though I thought myself a rebel, upon reflection I realize that I was drifting along currents that I didn’t personally direct.   So was my friend, which was probably why he asked the question.  Did he know where he was going, or was he just reacting like me?  Maybe he recognized a fellow drifter and wanted to know if there was a way to escape the undertow.

Because that’s exactly what it was… a dangerous riptide unseen on the surface, but once in, nearly impossible to counter.

I didn’t know I was in it.  Nobody does.  We drift along thinking ourselves masters of our own lives until that life slowly comes to an end, and with its closure, comes the sudden realization that we’ve been captives instead.

Not so, you might object.  My life is my own.  Yet were crucial decisions made over the course of that life based solely in the moment, or were they driven by fear, need or ambition?  Did your actions follow from pure sense of self, or from dissatisfaction and desire to find that sense of self?

If you thought yourself lost or less than, you are not alone.  Everyone thinks that way when they’re caught in the undercurrent.  It will disorient you faster than anything imaginable.  It will drown your bearings and torpedo your will until there’s nothing left to do but flail and keep your head above water… if you can.  No amount of education, prestige, power or privilege will act as life preserver now.  All of that was amassed in reaction to your condition, not in spite of it.

The harder you struggle against the tide, the stronger it becomes.  Not because it is an overwhelming force, but because you believe that it is.  Your parents, friends, children, colleagues, countrymen or foes have only the power you choose to give them.  If you think yourself at the mercy of external factors, then it is so.  Beliefs, no matter how ridiculous or farfetched, create reality and as long as we believe control resides outside of ourselves, then we will be forever caught in its current.

And so I ask myself today, the first day of 2012, what do I want to be when I grow up?  Just another fish drowning with its school, or take a chance on something of my very own creation?   Hmmmm… I think I’ll roll the dice.

DERAILED

Posted in musings, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 9, 2009 by kimmy

Sometimes the best laid plans go awry. 

I should have known that avoidance wouldn’t work, but after some serious soulsearching, it was my only option.  Being the catalyst for radical change wasn’t the role I wished to play, so I decided to put as much distance as possible between he and I.  Maybe it only forestalled the inevitable, but I was determined that no one would suffer by my hand.

Least of all myself.  It had become a torment to be in his presence and yet not part of it. I hated being caged and forced to behave like a good moralist.  But the circumstances were beyond my control and there was no point pining for someone unattainable, so I turned away.  It didn’t matter that he sought to bind me to him by unconventional means; I could dismiss those ethereal ties and walk unfettered without him.

Or so I thought.  I tried to distract myself with friends and new acquaintance, but they only served as a reminder and that mystified me.   It was his story coming out of other mouths, his eyes gazing from other faces, his quirks demonstrated by other hands.  It was as if I was being shadowed by a thing I could neither acknowledge nor confront.

It only stiffened my resolve.  I persevered until I was nearly home free, interacting in the moment with as much raw honesty as I could muster.  I was only steps away from complete liberation when the portend of a dream brought everything to a halt.  A freight train derailed in a broadside collision with a speeding passenger train, the boxcars crashing in every direction and my sifting through the wreckage for survivors.  The only one I found was shellshocked and no longer recognized me.

I knew what it meant, but I didn’t want it to be so.  Was this my reward for acting in good faith?  It troubled me and I couldn’t go back to sleep.  He was beckoning in such a visceral way that I could no longer ignore the summons.  So I answered the call and wasn’t in the least surprised when all my carefully laid plans suddenly imploded that very afternoon.

WAKING AND DREAMING REALITIES

Posted in musings, personal with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 5, 2009 by kimmy

I absolutely did not want to get out of bed this morning, being caught up in a dream so vivid and sensual that I wasn’t sure where I was.  When the alarm sounded, I wanted to throw it across the room for daring to interrupt.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t return to that moment.  It was like a soap bubble that once punctured could not be remade.  But as fleeting as it was, the effects are long term.  I am, hours later, still plagued by vision and deep-seated longing.

It would be easy to dismiss this as an act of the overly-imaginative, but why?  Is the activity of the subconscious mind unimportant?  Or does its non-linear nature disturb us so profoundly that we disregard its messages?

Granted, it’s difficult to reconcile two seemingly disparate factions.  If your waking and dreaming minds are at odds, then your behavior must be tailored to the medium in which you operate.  Clearly, we cannot move from one impulsive act to another without carefully weighing the consequences, but dreamstate eliminates them.  You are free to act from the deepest part of self, exploring scenarios which otherwise might be off-limits.

And was do your secret activities say about you?  Are you repressed and only able to express creativity and emotion in the privacy of your own head?  Or, are you problem-solving and making sense of your life through strange metaphor?  More importantly, how have you integrated what you’ve learned into your life?

If you’re like most people, dreams are just pleasant (or occasionally terrifying) diversions to which you attach no significance.  Think of all the dismissive commentary that comes to mind.  It was just a dream.  Just ignore everything and learn to mistrust yourself.  Go back to sleep.  Like that will make a difference?  There are no such things as monsters under the bed.  They only exist in the bed, and are usually parked next to you.

Worse yet are the condemnations of the uplifting dreams.  It’s just a pipedream.  Happiness is only for the stoned?  You’re dreaming your life away.  I thought I was devising ways of making it better.  You’re just a dreamer.   True, but only if I believe that the sole measure of success is that obtained by mindless adherence to corporate principles and the utter disregard for the soul’s yearning for truth.

I’m not going to limit myself and pick through the crumbs offered by external reality.  I’ve seen no evidence that living by its code unifies the world’s inhabitants.  Much to the contrary, they are being slowly ripped apart and devoured by the same entities that promise deliverance.  I will not add myself to the feast.

If that makes me a dreamer by default, so be it.  I accept my lot and embrace the happy dreams that both waking and sleeping provide.

DYNAMIC TENSION

Posted in social commentary, writing with tags , , , , , , , , on September 16, 2009 by kimmy

 

What’s to be done when the life you want is not the one you’re living?  Do you spend your time daydreaming of an alternate reality or take the steps necessary to realize it?

I have often heard that people are reluctant to change because they fear repercussion.  It could be argued however, that change occurs whether one is embracing it or not.    The real question is for whom are you living your life. . . .for yourself or for something or someone else?

It’s not such a strange notion.  When we are young, our dreams are big but unfocused.  They are usually linked to the expectations or karma of our families, and it’s not until we’re much older (and hopefully wiser) that we regain control.  But by then, we are so entrenched in habit that we fear starting again and just resign ourselves to fate.  This makes for an unhappy lot of adults who yearn for fulfillment, but are loathe to part with the familiar.  Over time, they forget that it was choice that shaped them, and their inherent joyfulness begins to fade.  They assume the mindset and physical form of the aged and bury themselves in distraction until death releases them from any further obligation.

But it’s never that easy.  Death will not discharge anyone from responsibility;  it can only delay it.  If there is a reason why you are slow to make change, consider the arguments against it.  It is not the repercussion of others that you should fear, but the enormous toll your own procrastination will levy.

FALLING DOWN THE WELL

Posted in musings, personal, writing with tags , , , , , , , on January 26, 2009 by kimmy

The pain is so bright and unceasing that I’m on constant alert.  It’s like being stabbed repeatedly in slow motion.  What a God-awful sensation.  I had no idea that people live like this everyday.

How do they manage to drag themselves to work without dissolving?  Is it possible to interact with others without bursting into tears at the slightest provocation?  I’m assured it’s relatively easy, once the Prozac kicks in.  Oh, joy.  Moving out of a 40 year bio-active paralysis, only to re-enter a pharmaceutical one.  I think I’ll stick with the pain.

At least it’s real.  This emotional disembowelment is better than living in a drug-induced coma and watching the same thing take place.  The pain is there regardless; you’re just too stoned to care. 

I’ve already been down that road.  It only appears to be the path of least resistance.  Sure, you can sail through life unattached to emotional fluctuation, but there is a bill to be paid for it.  If you leave it unpaid until the very end, the interest and penalties will kill you before the myocardial infarction does.

Heart attack . . . interesting pairing of words, don’t you think?  The layman assumes that his heart simply stops working, that he has been betrayed and attacked by his own viscera.   Never does he think that it’s a slow disease process to which he actively contributes.   The cardiac muscle weakens and fails because he has, through his choices, cut off the very thing the heart needs to survive.  Whom has really attacked whom?

If you don’t value yourself as a complete human, it’s easy to shelve the pain, to laze about, disregarding the fundamental needs of the body and soul and then cry unfair when it breaks down and strands you along the side of the road.  You think AAA will send a wrecker to tow your mangled heap back to town?  I doubt it.  If you’re lucky, you can crawl back, grateful to be alive.

PRIMORDIAL NEW YEAR

Posted in erotic fiction, love, romance, sex, writing with tags , , , , , on January 1, 2009 by kimmy

“Don’t move.”

The words slid into her ear, molasses-sweet and sticky.  Even if she had wanted to run, it was too late; they held her like flypaper.  The explosion of neighborhood fireworks outside the bedroom window was slowly muffled, replaced by the drumming inside her chest.  There was something dangerous within that sought release.  It beat against her, hammering at the bars which caged it, but she wasn’t certain whether to loose it upon him.  There was no way of knowing what it might do.

She had never intended to be drawn in so deeply.  Friends and colleagues had warned her, telling her to beware the charm that had waylaid others, but she dismissed them.  She was immune to entrapments.  What possible hazard could he pose to something dormant?  In fact, she was so confidently numb that she believed herself incapable of feeling.

Of course all that hubris evaporated one afternoon when he took her by surprise, effectively rendering her defenseless.  It was both terrifying and exhilarating, and despite the well-meaning cautions, she found herself shedding self-restraint one hobble at a time.  It was difficult to recall why she had them at all.  When he was near, she operated in a zone of moral ambiguity that seemed particular to them.  Established boundaries were curiously suspended, as if their peculiar connection took precedence.  That she never disputed it was proof of collusion, although she couldn’t explain why.

It was easier to understand as a function of her brainstem than that of conscious reasoning.  She recognized him with the same fervor and singlemindedness as a reptile knows its mate.  And when he growled at her that night, she responded in kind.

He pressed her into the wall, reaching beneath her dress to pull away her panties and the last vestiges of reserve.  She acted without thought, wrapping her legs around his waist, surrendering not to him but to herself.