Fluid Flow of Films

August 7th, 2021

There it was, buried deep deep within a lengthy, dense article fourth footnote of a 5,000 word piece. Her heart still racing as she permits herself a gulp of air. She found the task before she had to answer for it. The white clay walls of her bedroom began expanding back to their normal human size. By now the list exceeds three items and requires a written record.

She uncaps the bright blue pen with the unicorn light. The physical pen carries the meta weight of taking notes that could potentially save her from severe punishment. The kind of punishment where you don't come back to your bed at night. This thought causes her to take inventory of the things in her room. A heart shape single piece of dog food sits next to her basket of glitter. It acts as a loving reminder that tasks in the harem are not completed to the standard of a check mark but rather to the standard of the one issuing the command.

"Okay. Add Master's blog to the list of possible places in which a film order can come from. That makes my blog comments, his blog, my fetlife account, the film computer note file, and email." On a sticky note and in all caps she writes DO NOT FORGET TO DOWNLOAD MOVIES. Her attention turns back to the article in front of her. An article of over 5,000 words that she only found out about when Master woke her up twenty minutes ago.

To be fair his footsteps woke her up. The loud, purposeful, and rhythmic steps were impossible to confuse for anyone else. Her brain working hard to wake her up before Master opens the door -

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Vanitas Vanitatum Omnia Vanitas

July 5th, 2021

I walk straight to my bedroom, passing the kitchen, living room, movie room...etc. Every inch of each room is another memory and right now I know which one I'm looking for. On a blue tiled desk sits a red spiral notebook with sporadic notes, pages are missing and a stain from a coffee cup marks the first page. The desk itself is enchanting, filled with glitter glue, feathers, pink and white buckets containing various markers and pens, and all of my little guys. A miniature blue and white three compartment box contains hair clips, paper clips, and earrings. A trough sits, gathering dust but nevertheless contains the mark of a life lived to the point of tears and thus only recognizable by a slave. A single heart shaped piece of dog food (also gathering dust) remains as a reminder of how on the wire life truly was.1 My fingers mechanically move from one page to another and I start to get lost in his handwriting and my shame for not remembering the details of every lesson. I pull my mind back to whatever now passes for present 'time' in order to find what I'm looking for, which I do...

Half of the notebook page is torn off and in the corner is the date 4/29/2019.2 Written in the middle of the half sheet of paper by Master in Latin is: Vanitas Vanitatum Omnia Vanitas.

Meaning vanity of vanities, all is vanity: the human condition is meaningless.3 Vanity did not mean what you're thinking at the time but rather and simply...meaningless.

This phrase came about during one of my desperate4 attempts to solicit Master into explaining to me what the purpose of being here truly is... Why do I need to learn Spanish, why do we need to write, who cares about anything other than having fun if it will all come and go without any sort of confirmation of the reason behind it all? This is when he wrote down Vanitas Vanitatum Omnia Vanitas.

We spoke frequently about the human condition and on the importance of doing things regardless of the outcome. I'll share with you that Sir Issac Newton became my favorite example of the importance of doing & meaning. You see, Newton's alchemy never produced the philosopher's stone or the elixir of life5; however, his contributions make him one of the greatest known mathematicians (author,scientist..etc). The questions I was posed with were: Should Newton have refrained from exploration since he did not actually achieve what he set out to do? Was all of his work pointless since he spent his life looking for something he never found?

At some point I made peace with the answer (that I very much do not like) which is that being alive means that you do things regardless of the expected outcome. Meaning in life comes from the meaning we put into it, other than that...it is all in fact meaningless. Way back when, I answered correctly to the Sphinx's riddle and was awarded passage on this journey. I'm no hero but by now have lost everything. There is no more rebirth, call for the winds to change, or a different battle ground. Now I am left behind as a disciple using the divine scripture in an attempt to find no good answer.

Lightening strikes the ground outside and rain begins to pour down from the clouds. Closing my notebook, I take refuge in the bedroom you gave me, now tinted grey by the rain forest's very own rainy season. The long leather light brown whip dangles from side to side as the air flows in from the window, touching my face therein giving me some small amount of fleeting feeling again.

Another memory buzzes around and I'm desperate to strangle its life so I will never forget. Once upon a better time - I asked Master if I could take a nap and his way of relaxing me was to charge in with a whip when I was already tucked into bed. He hung it from the pole that holds my drapes so it's always visible. It worked by the way, sleep was so sweet with the burning whip watching over me. Memory after memory floods in harder than the rain. The giant tree of life's branches dangle outside the window, weighed down by the nests of the kiskadees bringing life. Some voice deep inside me reminds me that I have to move, (why? I'm not sure yet) step by step and breakaway from the film of memories that are on repeat within my mind.

  1. In my low energy, resistant and desperate for control moments...Master would remind me that life is on the wire and everything else is just waiting. [↩]
  2. The date being written after Master told me to. I was still very new and could not possibly understand why one would need to record the date of a 'simple' conversation. [↩]
  3. earthly life is ultimately empty, if you prefer. merriam-webster does. [↩]
  4. If you served an oracle what would you ask? Mind you, time is limited in our search for everything. [↩]
  5. thx a fucking lot. [↩]

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Welcome to the other side where we do things because we want to and not because we have to.

June 27th, 2021

The rain is pouring down from the clouds into the valley below us, taking away the entire town with an opaque mist. Lit candles fill every corner of the room with eternal flames. You and I are refugees left on the couch to piece together the wreckage that the ocean left us with. A bottle of french wine sits next to the King's crown in such a way as though to give an offering of thanks. A final gift for its service of riding around on the head of such a great Man. Because yes, it was good to be his hat. Red and pink roses sit on the corner, pointing down, and expressing that they too know...that their smell was once sweeter.

Just outside the room sits a podium with nuts and seeds our Master left for the birds who moved in to enjoy. Below the podium, there is a trail of fruit seeds that in turn the birds brought back in order to honor their Master. As the sun slowly sets a familiar owl is somewhere preparing a requiem for his favorite audience member. You're curled in blanket next to me and I feel the cold coming down from the clouds swirling beneath our feet. My hand is insufficient for the task of writing the story that I need to tell and yet it moves up and down the blanket trying to comfort you. We both know that the cold has crept in and I can't get it out. I want to protect you the way he did, for we loved loving you together. No amount of barricading the doors, moving things, or shrinking our bodies will now get rid of the cold that came in uninvited and unnoticed.
---
On one of our first of many walks in Costa Rica he took me to a cafe and looked me in the eye, telling me "Welcome to the other side where we do things because we want to and not because we have to. "

For so many years I was afraid he'd send me back but he never did. I didn't know it at the time but the only comfort I needed was him. And it was his to deny or allow. Master brought me into his home, thereby plucking me from the plains of the Midwest and aging my body like the finest of wine. I came to him a girl who was filled with insecurities and desperate for his hand. My Master. I saw my own body as a shameful mistake and his response was to make me dance naked in a waterfall in the middle of the jungle. To tear down my lack of language and build it back up by teaching me the real meanings of each word. To put tools in my hand and break my fingers until I knew how to use them. To make me learn the lessons of the world by going to the oldest parts of it. Each time I tried to run and hide inside myself he humiliated me into the present. He taught me how to make love with a God. If I tried to lie about who I was, he caught me and cut the person from me until I learned to tell the truth. In his hand every bite of food became a taste of history. He hammered me down until I was a piece that he too loved. I lived so many years in my time as his slave. My Master who will never be stuck in just one moment of time and no amount of time will be enough to learn from the man who is always here.

The truth is that what I write will never be enough either.

So, Master thank you for leaving behind so much of everything. I'll forever resent the ocean for giving me the best moments in life with you and then taking them away so fast. Please save a spot for me on your farm. I'll bring goosey boy, the frog, and the Diplomatico. And until then we'll talk here and through my movements. For you blessed me as your bimbo, forever cementing me happily on my knees.

Sweetest dreams, my handsome Master.

Posted in BDSM, Nicole | 11 Comments »

Reflective Costa Rica.

January 14th, 2021

The best thing about living in Costa Rica are the walks. Even on a hot day, nothing is better than taking a walk here. Which is why when my alarm goes off for me to start the day with a few tasks, I don't mind in the slightest.1 With my book bag in tow, I head down the hill and into the valley towards the church square. Arriving at the photo printing store on the corner, I sigh heavily with the relief that the store is actually open. Then only to find out they are no longer taking head shots and printing photos. Right, Costa Rica is great but be aware that if a shop sells a product or service one day, the following day their is a high possibility that the service is no longer available. So, I strap myself in mentally for what may be a bumpy ride through the mean streets until I can find a store that will immediately print a picture my mug.

So, I went into the very next shop advertising the same services and while they can't do the picture and printing there, the dude did point me in the direction of a 'mom and pop' store next to the pops shop.2 I make my way through this little city on foot towards a landmark I know and even if it turns out to be a dud, its nice to know that I know this place so well. Finally after 800 meters or so, I make my way in the door to be greeted by a tiny old man and his wife. I explain to him that I don't speak Spanish very well but this is what I need and through gestures we understand each other well enough. He sits me down at a stool and takes a few photos, then immediately places himself on a chair next to a computer that is close enough for me to reach out and touch. Next to this desk is another computer in arms length of both me and the desk he is sitting at, making a close triangle. In a rush he plugs in his camera and then starts shouting at the computer, his wife comes over and sits in the chair/desk next to him. He turns off this computer and then makes his wife change seats with him so he can answer the phone at the other desk. Once his phone call is done, they switch seats back again for about a minute until he gets up to go check on the computer at the other desk. At this point he asks his wife for something, to which she puts them item on the chair behind him, and in such a way so that its resting in the small amount of space between his butt and the back of the chair (where he cannot feel or see it). Unsurprisingly, he had no idea she put anything there because she also didn't tell him so when he gets up and makes her switch desks again... he misses the item. So now hes sitting in the opposite chair and shes sitting in the chair with the item in question. He asks her for the item and she points at her butt and I sit quietly in my chair watching my personal Laurel and Hardy show. This up and down-back and forth goes on for another few minutes while I just sit on the stool whistling. Don't despair though because he does eventually toss a few copies of my face my way and I get out of there before I'm sucked into their black hole. I immediately call my girlfriend to tell her that the first place is off and head to this place for her picture before he takes the photo sign off of his shop and will no longer provide this service or alternatively, there is just a giant hole in the ground where his business used to be.

I take a few steps towards the market and instantly feel waves of heat across my back, telling me its about eleven AM. Today is one of the rare days in which a task ended up working out instead of me having to comb the city. Thereby also giving me a little extra time.

The direction I'm walking goes past my second favorite pipa-fria-amigo in the country.3 I part ways with my 1500 colones to which he hands me one open coconut and a bag containing the other two. Since my task took way less time than expected, I walk slow and sip slower basking in the sun. From my vantage point (next to the round about) I can see the super market ahead and it occurs to me that I don't want to carry outside produce into the store and besides I took the trouble of bringing an empty backpack. So, I squat down using one hand to maneuver the coconuts into the bag while drinking the other. Just as I set up everything inside I hear this terribly loud almost alien sound in front and around me. My brain takes a few beats to try and recognize what it could be, because although I'm next to a busy roundabout...it definitely wasn't a car crash. I look the few feet in front of me and see thousands of shards of glass on the sidewalk where I would have been walking if I didn't stop to pack my book bag. Still sipping my coconut I straighten my knees from the squatting position and see the entire road is covered in glass of various sizes. I start scanning for a crash but then on the road next to me a pick up trick is wildly veering back and forth in a small space on the road and pulls over so fast a foot behind me that the truck crashes into the hedges. So, clearly they took the roundabout too fast with a large protruding pile of unsecured glass in the back of their truck! Still somehow left in the back of the truck is what looks to be like seven or eight sheets of glass, that were by now half falling out of the truck. So, even when the dude 'pulls over' a few other panes of glass, still intact fly out of the truck crashing onto the ground. By this point cars are starting to come and I can hear the sound of the tires grinding the glass on the ground. A line forms behind the truck and people are honking and the two dudes are throwing the glass around yelling and then just take off without doing much of anything with whats left of their glass transportation. I wonder how tiny of a piece of glass will actually make it to the destination. Which is my cue to get the fuck out of there, being as my face is saved from being cut up in a thousand pieces. How ironic would it be if right after I got my picture taken for documents, I would have a super cut up face that's unrecognizable by the picture, making the entire day void?

  1. Also it helps if you've lived in Romania. That helps perspective on pretty much everything. [↩]
  2. "Do I know the Pops"?! Of course, they sell the ice cream. [↩]
  3. The dude has a little hut next to a busy roundabout where he sells coconuts, onions, and a small selection of other produce. Almost everyone here has modified a part of their home into a little business selling ice cream, tamales, or fruit...its super cute. [↩]

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No, we can't be friends.

August 18th, 2020

Imagine my surprise when I'm about to head outside for a walk1 and our groundskeeper cuts me off before I can get my first foot out the door. After a lot of panting and whispering he manages to get out that, "the police are at the gate and they want to speak with Nicole".2

Weird, but it can be any number of things as of late...so I make my way quickly down the stairs. My Spanish teacher is already at the (locked) gate and is trying to explain to the two men and two women through the fence that I don't speak very much Spanish. Then the 'Special Agent' from the US embassy identifies himself as such in English. We ask for some identification and he clumsily flashes his badge through the fence (blocking all the important parts of it) and shows Hannah a(his?) card. We confirm that its nice that he has some identification but we'd like to know why these people are seeking me out. After much boring back and forth about how I'll talk to them but I'm not going anywhere, we agree and I move to the secret location on the side of the fence where I can still be seen by everyone and can also see Hannah speaking with the other two women.3 The sky is that beautiful grey mixed with blue and the clouds are so low over the valley you feel as though you could grab each one and rearrange it into a different shape. A new and unpredictable sky every hour is part of the reason I love living in Costa Rica.

So, I mentally strap in for the ride that's about to occur and repress the flashbacks of dealing with any sort of US bureaucracy. First, he wants to explain that I'm not in trouble and that "this is a welfare and wellness check because some people are very worried about me." Ah, those people and their definition of care. I confirm that the terrible passport photo of me that he has printed out is in fact me and I apologize for people wasting his time. Then I cannot help but notice that he has print outs of me from a recent article on Master's blog where I'm being strangled by a zip tie. It's hard not to chuckle at the print out of my head looking like a hot air balloon. Everyday something new in the scandalous live of a slave.4 I confirm that the photo is also me and see - I'm alive and about to take a great walk in the beauty that is Costa Rica and I even remembered to bring an umbrella this time. Then he drops all of his printouts and I suddenly feel the pang of danger that would be if my neighbors had printed photos of me naked with my passport photo. I also abstain (to no ones credit) from mentioning that the sex we had after that photo was some nasty good sex.5

"Well, we think a crime has been committed here." At this point I'm starting to get annoyed at being badgered by someone from the US government.6

"Sigh, no crime has been committed to me. I am in a consensual BDSM relationship. Not being held against my will, I'm a fully functioning adult who is about to go on a walk. If this is actually about my well being then we have nothing else to discuss because as you can see...I'm great." I stop myself from telling him that the header on Trilema changes so if he wants equally good pictures of Master then he can just wait a day and hit the refresh button but people gotta learn on their own.

He asks some more personal questions which I abstain from answering and then asks me a few more times if I'm actually okay.

Which gave me flashbacks to how dudes actually pursue women by hoping that on the 10th time that they ask her out, she'll be worn down enough to say yes. Because all life seems to be for everyone else is the same mad lib script used over and over again which transcends police investigations. After he gets his predetermined number of okays, we return to the other two women and to Hannah. He repeats the same speech about "how we're not in trouble but the opposite and people want to make sure we're okay." Then he requests a photo for proof that its actually us and I can only hope that the photo is now clipped to the one of me being strangled and left in a desk somewhere. Maybe he gets a new job and doesn't get to go through all of his papers and then some other agent inherits the desk. She finds the photos and gets inspired to pursue a life of kink and slavery. Its much more exiting to be the one who is being investigated, anyways.

Hannah and I continue on with our walk to get coffee and then vodka. Its a little difficult to maneuver the long chain that is attached from the top floor of the house all the way down the hill when its raining but we always manage.

Its taken me an extra three days to write this post because I couldn't decide how much of the stupidity is necessary to dissect.7

I keep encountering this thing wherein people who "care" about me think that them telling themselves this means that they get to interfere in my life. The concept is flawed. Why do you think that you know better and how do you find that acting on this makes you any different than someone who is an actual abuser? The beauty of BDSM is that the control is immediately identified and not used as a manipulative tool.

So, sure care about me... but what you don't get to do is make decisions for me or attempt to force me to live my life in a particular way according to your narrative. This is my life's story. I lost my family, friends, and I have skin off of my back for it. Furthermore, over the past two years I've seen a great deal of how manipulative people can be to themselves and to the people they love. Masking concern over my "death" is not you actually caring. The truth is, that you want me to be dead so that your thoughts about the world and lack of life will finally be confirmed. Well, I'm never going to play that role. Regardless of what you tell yourself, you don't want to actually help...you want to be in control over reality. So no, you don't get to use my life to make yourself a hero in the story that you tell people.. "I helped her, I saved her from the bad bad man by forcing her to do what I wanted instead!" Being the main character of your own story takes work and its your choice of how you interact with the world that will determine if you're leading the story or just another NPC. Besides, "life is on the wire, the rest is just waiting."8

  1. walks are fabulous in Costa Rica [↩]
  2. Damn, if reporters are here and want to take pictures I'm going to miss out on an opportunity of getting my collar in another country's newspaper. [↩]
  3. If someone out there is being held against their will, I sure hope that the police aren't interviewing them in plain sight of their captors. [↩]
  4. Red wine over fed time... [↩]
  5. Well, really only them. [↩]
  6. To his credit, none of this is his fault. The dude is merely doing his job in the typical US style of doing things. [↩]
  7. If you think everything on trilema is true to the point in which you think I'm murdered, how do you discount the other articles that were linked in that post? Or the mention of my name in the following posts? How do you construct an honest narrative knowing that these things exist? How do you decide which lies you're going to tell yourself? Do I care that much? [↩]
  8. A quote by my boy Karl Wallenda who was a circus daredevil in the early 1900s. [↩]

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Passing days

July 23rd, 2020

Rays of sun cast themselves through the ceiling-less stone skeleton structure of which I'm taking refugee in. Lately, I find myself here, in this spot...head back against the gratified covered walls and knees pressed against my chest. Broken beer bottles, assorted discarded clothing, and plants sprouting through the cracked stone surround me in my squatters palace.

The stone frame makes up a large main floor, a stair case leading to the roof, and one into the basement, of which I haven't yet either been desperate or courageous enough to check out. No actual walls connect the frame, but the field of grass surrounding the abandoned structure is so overgrown that the interior is still well hidden. Its so peaceful here that if I rest my eyes long enough I could fall asleep among the other discarded things. Occasionally, a disheveled person will appear and then disappear into their own corner of the den of disillusionment.

It used to be that I came here when I was being punished. The first time was when it was raining. Originally, I had tried the buss stop bench, but its constructed in such a way that the roof tilts the rain water directly onto where you're supposed to sit (which as a masochist I loved, but practically speaking was ruining my shoes) and this was the only dry place I could think of to go to. Now though, its become a place of solace and refuge for me and in that way just as good of a friend as anyone could be.

My purple and orange tye dyed book bag sits beside me as a reminder that I can't get too comfortable as I'm due home soon with coconuts. Its not even so much that I'm due home 'soon' - I'm just due home before Master has to wait for something he wants.1

I look at my flip phone and allow myself five more minutes to think about the same three things I've been mauling over for months. Its this weird game of time wasting that I'm embarrassed to admit that I partake in. Somehow I believe that just five more minutes of thinking will provide a solution I'm clearly to ill equipped and ignorant to come up with. Another five minutes pass and I take a deep breathe, gather my belongings, and say goodbye again.

  1. The coconut filled book bag is the same bag I bought with my friends and used in high school, then college, and occasionally i'd take it the plane for work trips. Never did I think its utility would be stretched as far as helping me haul fruit as a slave in Costa Rica. [↩]

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A balcony report

July 21st, 2020

Master and I were sitting out on the balcony observing the hawks gracefully soaring through the sky.1 This prompted a conversation between us, in which he taught me a few things about predatory birds.

It's possible to identify a predatory bird by two specific behaviors.2 The first being the soar & plane motion (which allows the bird to use few calories due to him using the wind for energy) and swooping.

These two points will help you distinguish one type of a bird from another: eagles soar, falcons swoop,3 and hawks are somewhere in between.

Furthermore, these are three shelling points for a cluster in nature.

And as a bonus, try observing chickens sometime. You'll see them look up and around as a mechanism to scan their environment for vultures. Apparently, they even remember the good hiding spots for when one of them sounds an alert cluck.

  1. The balcony is on a hill that is as high as the trees which presents an excellent vantage point for viewing all sorts of animals. [↩]
  2. Well, first he asked me to identify that are the two things a car does... which are acceleration and steering. [↩]
  3. If you think a cheetah is the fastest animal in nature (clocking in at about 60MPH) you'd be wrong. Its actually a falcon who can swoop at speeds up to 200MPH. Which is a great speed to break a preys neck at. [↩]

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Bimbo at the gates.

July 10th, 2020

My old friend, the green bus stop, shows itself just around the bend. It's strategically placed in front of a church, coffee farm, and a coffin store. The stop always has some interesting characters meandering around. Sometimes a cat, this time cows, and usually some Costa Rican grade gypsy children running around. The coffin store is fittingly decrepit, the coffins are placed on wobbly unfinished shelves and no signage is posted to indicate that they are for sale. The front of the store has no fence but a tiny gate connected to nothing, and usually a few sullen men sit on the ground in front of it. I cannot imagine a less inviting place to square yourself with the dead. Which is probably why I love coming here when I'm in trouble. I don't mean trouble in the 'I had a bad day at work' or 'my date didn't show up'. The kind of trouble I'm in, is the kind of trouble that most people spend their entire lives avoiding. It was a mere hour and a half ago when Master told me to get lost and don't come back until sunrise. What I did, since you're wondering... is fail. I failed the most important task of any day by being unable to repeat what Master had just taken the time to explain to me...

We're eating lunch, plantains, salad, and steak. Lunch is delicious, on time, and things are seemingly okay. The plantains are excellent.

"Are the plantains made with butter or oil?"

My question first reflects some comical looks and then a story from Master. The story is about when his grandmother served soup to her guests during Communist Romania. Someone asked her what is in the soup and her response was meat. I remember to smile as Master tells us the story and the mention of a ration on meat makes me wonder...

"Why did the communists so successfully organize beautiful construction in Romania but not meat for the people?"1
"Because the communists didn't want to"
"How come? Doesn't meat make people stronger and happier?"
"Vegetables make people stronger and the communists don't care if people are happy, like me."

A comparison to how the people of North Korea are expected to show up and smile when it's their leaders is presented.

"Yes, but North Korea doesn't actually produce anything."

The wheels in my bimbo brain starts turning...

"Are social work projects required in order for a government to be classified as communism?"

Master begins to quickly explain interesting differences between communism, socialism, and pantsuitism . My mouth is open and I stare off in an attempt to both understand a new concept and memorize it at the same time. I failed and therefore am left with a string of inaccurate ideas --

"Violence is monopolized in communism, projects are in a closed circuit in socialism (at this point I vaguely recall Master explaining that something else operates in a closed circuit. My small brain can only remember him saying closed and open while moving his hand back and forth.), and individuals have property rights in pantsuitism . You know, feelings are cared for and people are important. Socialism and pantsuitism can overlap."

Then a question was asked to me by Master to which I could not answer. I asked him to repeat the question, which he kindly did but I still could not give an answer nor repeat the question.

Which brings us to the bus stop in front of the coffin store on my full day of failure.

All that being said, I have to come with a disclaimer in that its obviously not word for word what was said by any party. Wouldn't it be nice if you could trust a bimbo to accurately remember and report? I wish I were a better person, in a lot of ways but until then, I'll have a notebook.

  1. This because we were just in Romania and I saw first hand at how great the bridges are -- especially high in the mountains. [↩]

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Triles an' Tribinlations

July 10th, 2020

Well it's a-happened, O Lord yes-indeedum and-a thank yew. I suppose this'n be what all my Daddy was talkin' 'bout back what 'fore I done shove off to join them National and Innernational Harem Corps, he says to me, "Honey, what you take yisself for, some kinda atom-a-thon gon' record this 'n prin' out that, in go dem pie parts 'n out whoa'sa commin' sweet pineapple pie? You one o' dem e-zee-bake ovens, girl, ain't no more fight on you'n a knob onna chile's plaything?". But now my Daddy, well, there's just a whole heap of things he don't right understand, you'se hafta take that inna consideration. All's the same though, I reckon somewhere in his hollerin' and stompin' about there may've'n been just the right sized nuggeta truth to break my poor teeth on lo this mornin'.

It was such a fine day, well the startin' of I mean, I'd've hardly believed it coulda been so sweet if I'da been promised it so the night afore. All balmy and nice, and when one girl got her bones up well after me but asked herself on back to bed on accountin' of nightmares or somesuch I asked myself too, and then I'll be damned if I didn't tuck myself right into Master's cozy bed, all wound up in there and snuggled tight like a July caterpillar. On and on I floated 'tween where'n I was'n where'n I wasn't, an' my toes all wiggled in the warm and soft I dreamt for hours 'boutin' how the kitchen sink was all empty an' not a dish in it to clean. Then a girl came back home from 'er shoppin' with a whole damn mess of that there filet mignon an' all's the kinda things goin' with that, and I woke myself up'n mosied on in there spyin' Master makin' what's his famous salad, 'cept it's always diff'ren', 'n girls coming this way'n that carmelizin' plantains er heatin' up a griddle for them steaks. Someone even asked, they said, "Master?" and he was all "Whut?" and she was like "Master, how's'n about we have us a shampain with our lunch?" and wouldn't you believe he said yes! Right afore we all sat down to eat why he popped that shampain cork clear 'cross the livin' room at me'n just about took my eye out, shakin' crown to toe'n deelightful mirth.

Then we get to diggin' on in, after cheers'in'n whathaveyou, and whooee Lord them plantains what the carmelizin' did to 'em jus'bout put me in a hold. So I says so, and jus'bout everyone else nods an' also says so, and so's then I get to askin' all after that there recipe, whereby I learn t'ain't nothin' more to it'n slicin' up some plantains'n dustin'em over with cinnamon and that fancy cardamum what the finnicky girl keeps buyin'n them pods down Central Market's way. "Supposin' you put any butter'er'errl in that pan tho'?" I asks, thinkin' it awful strange plantains could carmelize just on they own meagre little power. "Butter!" comes the answer, and I looked aroun'n found everyone jus' sorta sideways laughin' at me, you know? An' it's at that point, lemme tell you, things start-a movin' on towards that no-good sum'bitch apocalypse what's got me tight inna bind by now.

So Master says, he recalls I mean, a story 'bout his grandmammie back in them red commie times what they had there over'n Yurp some time ago. Seems his grandmammie usedta ennertain a whole lot, and got to makin' all manner'a fine comestibles for 'er guests, whereby one asks her, she says, "Woman, what manner-a vegetable's contained in this here soup makes it taste so goddamn good?" and what would you know that illustruss specimen comes on back with but "Meat!". And now well it took me a while to get it explained that weren't much meat back then on account of them red commies not carin' much 'bout it, which I took to considerin' awful odd. "How's'n 'bout realizin' meat's makin' people strong and happy tho'?" asks I, and Master says them buncha pinko meanies didn't care whether they own people was happy 'er not!

Then this other girl what carmelized those devil plantains, she says somethin' confangled 'bout them po' folks in North Korea and how they's compelled to look happy when they's got to be, but Master comes back retortin' this an' that 'bout how them North Koreans ain't be makin' a damn thing. Not like them pinkos what they had in ye old countrey way back when, he says, they dun made a whole lot more'n any United States dun theyselves even, if'er reckon by head an' head, all fare!

Well it's about this time a big question started deformin' my head, and I turned it on over and over insides as it were as I chewered on all manner-a deelicious items until finally that question jus'bout demanded to get itself on out. So I says with my big filet mignon fork all wavin' through the air, I says, "Iffin' somethin' ain't doin' no social work projects could that thing still be qualifyin' as red communism?" But I asked it a lot more elegant, 's'jus' by now my poor head's so battered'n'blue from all my own rackin' an' rakin' through it I don't quite remember how I got it put. And then he turns to me, with that wunnerful fire in 'is eyes, and so's I know he's about to wax on somethin' pontificashional, an' he says to me, he says the devil knows only, those whole waterfalls'a glory'n theory an' poems, an' before I even notice what's a-happenin' I'm all dreamy an' even though I think in my head at the time that I'm followin' 'long, I'm loster'n a whale up a elm tree. An' I suppose he dun see it, then, 'cause I started askin' 'bout a aspect som'part what he'd just said, an' he dun tell me he dun just tell me that! Well now lemme tell you I was powerful confused, and them toes what was curlin' just half a hour ago back in bed were curlin' in the bad way otherwise now unner that there lunch table, 'n Master tole me I'd better jus' start repeatin' all what he'd been a-sayin', which I couldn't kinda how I never do seem to be able to jus' right, an' then he dun say "Well forget it then," or "Well that's that" or O hell I don't even remember what mighty dismissal he finished with emittin' but it made me stone still on my chair.

You'd better believe it I prostrated 'n placated all here to there'n back 'gain over them dinin' room tiles, wantin' him to go on and mos'specially not ta get the idea I weren't really listenin' or interested in what all he'd been sayin'. An' he tells me after we's all done eatin' I'm to go out on the porch 'n write out what he'd said, an' I told him right there weren't no way I could do that, an' he jus' gimmie that look 'n say he'd go right ahead 'n whip me raw iffin' I couldn't reproduce it. I tell you I dropped that big ol' fork in my plate right then, on account-a losin' my appetite. An' all who were eatin' 'round that table tried and tried to get me right again, sayin' I shouldn't imagine the worse, an' how if I was sure it was gonna turn out somethin' terrible no matter what I'd at least as well enjoy my lunch while it lasted. Well I did my best to stop cryin' 'n get down them last bites, but it was substantial rough, bein' as I felt them forebodin' clouds all gatherin' 'round me.

An' wouldn'tcha know, despitin' many hours out on that ball-coney tryna come up somehow with what all'd be tole me I couldn't get nothin' on down more'n this, which I mus' admit is not really all that much alike what Master said, tho' it share some shade a color:

"communism is when violence is monopolized
socialism is when projects are in a closed circuit
pantsuitism is when individuals have property rights and

in 15 years, the communists party completed more construction than the us in the 30's. communists didn't care if people are happy. violence is monopolized in communism. socialism is when work projects operate in a closed circuit. individuals have property rights in  in pantsuitism. socialism and pantsuitism can overlap."

Which Lord I know ain't gonna pass onta nothin' with Master'n all my time tryna remember and move through what he said ain't come to naught. An' I think, 'cause some of the girls, they tole me, "Girl, you's gots yourself a problem wherein you keep on tellin' yoself you cain't remember nothin' when you sure as well can." Which don't seem right but then I recall several times they dun showed me I did know somethin' tho' I could'a sworn I didn't. And so I been tole to copy all this story down to help me conjure up them wunnerful words what I lost, and I'm hoping they's gonna come now, 'cause there ain't nothin' worse'n bein' all wrapped up an' tied in a National and Innernational Harem without knowin' what yo Master dun tole you just before, an' I sure as all hell dun want my Daddy to think he was right carryin' on about me takin' myself for a oven.

Posted in Arin Lardner, BDSM | No Comments »

A conversation in the foggy forest.

July 4th, 2020

Clouds of white mists swirl around the giant dark green trees, rain pours down from the grey sky, and I finally see the dirt path appear. The entrance disappears and reappears in different parts of the land. It leads deep into untouched parts of the rain forest. It feels familiar, I've been here before but cannot recall any of the details. I enter and am instantly over come by thousands of insects, birds, and monkeys whizzing pass my face, all going in the same direction. Following their lead, I find myself at the bottom of a high hill. Taking one step up the hill makes my leg feel as though 50 pound weights are securing me to the ground. It's not just me that is moving slowly though, I can watch the colibri birds' wings move up and down. The butterflies are moving so slowly it's as if they are frozen. We're all stuck moving slowly in the same direction. The trees are unlike anything I've ever interacted with. Instead of green, the trees leaves are purple, blue and black. Balls of glass hang off of the trees like fruit and some even fall, creating piles of glass shards on the ground around them. Some trees have nests of flames resting on their branches but nothing burns. All the weird that grows up the hill seems to be indestructible. Shooting stars burst in the sky and turn into puddles of rain before my very slow moving feet. Looking down, I see apples growing from the ground up, various squashes line the road like stones, and a stream is flowing up the hill. No moon or sun is stationed in the timeless sky. I feel as though I've entered god's personal playground.

I feel a cold hand take my own. My eyes follow the hand, up the arm, to the neck, but every time I get to the face to try and figure out whose hand it is...the entire face disappears. The faceless entity can walk at a normal speed and pulls me up the hill. Looking behind me, I watch the few people, animals, and insects that are left behind. The figure pulls me into a dark mossy cave filled with spiders but I feel so at ease. The spiders weave their webs into intricate patterns that all intertwine with each other, creating a large blanket at the end of the cave. We sit on a few logs and watch the thousands of different species of spiders inventing new shapes. The figure starts quickly moving and I work to catch up with it. It slides underneath the webs and through a hole without disturbing any of the creations. The other side of the cave is the top of a volcano. Snakes slither all around the crater and sides of the volcano...somehow fanning the flames to make the fire larger. Suddenly the concept of time returns to my mind and I gasp for air. If I don't find a way out then I'll be stuck forever, won't I? The figure grabs my hand and pulls me down into the throat of the volcano and we end up floating around the magma reservoir. The comfortable magma river floats us under the volcano and from the bottom it looks like glass. I can see through it and watch the liquid pumping its way to the top. The river drops us off at a huge bed of clouds, I follow you through the cloud forest until we end up at the ocean. Jelly fish are floating in the air around. First you sit, then me, and from the vantage point we can see beautiful deer swimming in the water.

The faceless person takes a drink of the ocean and I instantly know who it is.

"But you're not alive."
"No, I'm not."
Buried words begin pouring out of the deepest parts of me. "Why'd do it? You didn't even say goodbye."
"I can't tell you why, just that I'm not coming back."
"I'm sorry I left you alone. I thought you'd out grow the sadness. We were supposed to get better as we got older. Come back, please. We all miss you and love you. I'm begging you. Their are so many things that no one but you understands about me."
"You can meet me here whenever you'd like."
"Dude, this is just my mind isn't it? You mean to tell me that you only live in my mind now?!
"..."
"When they said they went to your funeral, I knew you killed yourself before anyone told me. I'm sorry I left you there. We should have stayed together. Living with you was so much fun, I miss it...we always had fun. You should have told me.. I would have been there. Remember all the concerts we went to, the birthday parties, the strip club the night I was mad?"
"You'll have to go now. You're going to wake up in another country, in another time, and I won't be there. But I'll always be here."

And so I did wake up. I always do, no matter how tightly I try and hold on to you...when your face is clear, blurred, when you don't say a word, and when you talk to me through my dreams. I always wake up without you.

Posted in Nicole, Ramblings' | No Comments »

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