Toying with the idea of spending most of my leisure time within the arts (presently drawing/painting, guitar, tango)... and perhaps a bit of writing.

And finding whoever I find along the way.

Hm... feels like one of those small thoughts that ripples outward into something larger if held onto over time.

change... to make a decision that will redirect the course of future events.

a migrating urban goose flies for days, ever higher into the clouds, finding slipstreams and favorable winds to accelerate its progress; in one fateful instant, it finds itself sucked into the intake of a supersonic jet on a three-hour voyage across the Atlantic Ocean...

in the past, the concept of personal freedom was always connected to the amount of time available. "available" meaning open for anything, everything and nothing. the rationale, on some level, was that if there were no pressures to actually do anything, that would indicate that the time spent in the midst of activity would have to be more productive.

on some level, that logic held a certain appeal. in the days when autodidactism seemed the only path to learning, yes. intense study, time spent thinking about ideas, allowing creativity to take its course. after a lifetime spent in opposition to every education authority available, there seemed to be few other viable choices.

in the past year and a half, however, this has revealed itself not to be true. as the realm of technology becomes less and less professionally interesting, it becomes clear that most other vocations require educational creditionals. after throwing darts at a cluster of related career choices, the present one found itself in the bulllseye. hence, school.

immediately upon setting foot into the first lecture class, one issue became painfully apparent. a latent fear of not being able to learn.

not being able to learn. how is that possible? it wasn't a question of being "smart" enough. it wasn't an issue of motivation... and for the first time, the educational establishment actually seems interested in the students rather than just the statistical mean of pass/fail and GPA. the problem, then, was something far more intrinsic to the way rather than the what.

the learning styles of other people never seemed to make sense. regurgitation of empty facts, solutions to equations for the sake of passing exams... is it really learning if the knowledge is forgotten immediately after the testing period ends?

more frustrating, though, was the feeling that learning was a slower process than it seemed. if data would be formed into a personal sense of information, then transformed into individually learned knowledge, the process itself would have to be inherently different from the cookie-cutter "cramming for success" approach that seems to be at least tacitly condoned -- if not implicitly expected -- by most educational command structures. and so learning has gradually become a puzzle, a riddle of sorts.

if learning is not something done quickly, not something done on command, not something to be forgotten as soon as it is digested, what is it?

and the answer, until quite recently, seemed to be immersion and waiting. immersion in the sense of surveying as much of a field or issue as possible. piling the memory high with possible points of reference and interpretative horizons. making it impossible to forget due to the assimiliation of so much data. sleep would take care of the rest; most connections seemed to be unconscious anyway.

a time-consuming approach, to say the least.

looking forward, now, there must be a more condensed way to learn. time becomes shorter, attention more precious and required for so many more questions. the question is no longer whether learning quickly is possible, but rather, how to learn meaningfully in a short period of time -- without becoming a mindless regurgitator of facts...

elaboration. repetition. overlearning. what part does creativity play in all of this? what a strange question. perhaps if sleep holds the answer to the meaningful combination of ideas, dreams can manifest a means of interacting with those ideas.

dreams. expanded focus... open curiosity rather than obsessive concentration.

to play the opposite... worth a shot. perhaps the tension headaches will dissipate, if only a smidgen.

audio: repair . forgive & forget [richard davis remix]

note to self: associate with positive people only. negative people will latch onto you, leaching time and energy for as long as they can...

there were ample warning signs that this might happen. naturally, i charged in, thinking that it would be simple -- and extricating myself has become somewhat difficult.

somewhat.

emails back and forth. suddenly this other person is revealing deep secrets in an attempt to "fix" a situation that was a relief to finally end. the possibility that this could have gone smoothly is no longer such a clear path to resolution. even after anticipating several routes to this outcome -- and taking precautions against them -- it is difficult to maintain a clear sense of a desirable future.

becoming dominant apparently has its price: the more submissive personality may not clearly demonstrate the extent to which it has voluntarily relinquished self-control... until its position in the shared space is threatened in some way.

now the question becomes how to shift that shared space into a less volatile state without wasted energy or time... of which i have neither at present. it is a valuable lesson: some challenges are better left unconquered. the spoils of victory are sometimes more troublesome than they are worth.

audio: pete moss . strive to live [16b mix]

note to self: do not associate with negative people, only positive ones.

more later.

finally, at long last, it is finished. the perfect computer has been built.

and it's completely unimportant.

in the past, it was always a question of figuring out how to ration processor cycles. close this app? open that one? wait... the computer is thinking, let it finish.

and so on. of course, now that the machine has been custom built for performance, all of this building has also taken place at a pivotal moment when computers themselves are becoming more of a side show than the center stage attraction.

somewhat sudden, nonetheless, that technology is taking a backseat to reality: over the past six weeks, a recent class has brought unknown resources to the fore, simultaneously arousing a sense of confusion, curiosity and complete impatience for old limiting beliefs. the difficulty now lies in having to untangle outmoded self-defense mechanisms and transform them into useful ways of interacting with a remodeled worldview... and then there's the question of how to live without a nine-to-five... until other endeavors pick up the difference (and the debt).

technology is no longer a fetish. flesh and blood have taken its place.

about time, saru. the world has been waiting for you... which isn't to say that computers are somehow not intrinsic to communication and work; perhaps moreso now than ever before. the main difference is that it is now as natural to go offline as it once was to go online... an odd sideffect of this is that, having stepped outside of that world, computers and technology are now easier to interact with -- in a way, it is more familiar now that it isn't so close, not so bound up in questions of identity. technology, and the mastery of it, is no longer a question of pride. a processor is just a processor.

i can hear myself think again...

audio: cibelle . shine of dried electric leaves . instante de dois

a moment that was only to find explanation by accident, much later. or possibly not by accident at all.

during the practice session, a group of three was to speak to the fourth while seated in a quadrilateral formation, facing one another. one person was to be the "conductor", setting the pace of the session and leading the fourth person into an altered state.

creativity was suggested; the enhancement of creativity, and the method was visualization. having established the parameters by which suggestions would be delivered, the conductor began the session. eyes closed, breathing calm... feeling the immediate sensory reality, beginning to focus more internally... allowing any images to arise, easily, effortlessly...

the session lasted for approximately fifteen minutes. nearing the end, an image became immersive, real, literally submersive: the sensation of being held in place, drifting slightly from side to side, inches below the surface... looking upward at the surface of the water, a concentric circle rippling outward along the surface. the sun and blue sky were visible as impresssions on the water's surface, the cloudless sky reflected and transformed by the alternating motion of the circular waveforms extending outward in all directions.

much later that evening, deep into the night, sitting in front of the computer, there was a sudden urge to initiate an image search. in 1995, an anime was released involving humans with cybernetic bodies and even brains, pondering their own existential significance as human beings (and apparently falling prey to a superhacker who could take control of their bodies and minds). there was no particular reason for the search on that topic, other than a tired, wandering mind.

and then it became clear. the visualization from earlier in the day of slipping below the water's surface and gliding quietly underneath. it was actually depicted in the anime, used to set the tone for a moment of philosophical introspection. one of the cybernetic characters -- these machines don't float -- had fallen into the habit of scuba diving through the use of a powered device strapped to her back. her reliance on the machine was underscored by the fact that in many ways, she was also a machine... in a way connected to the reality of her own mortality through reliance on technology to survive, and yet deeply estranged from the feeling of being human by her own reincarnated state of inorganic functionality.

how was the choice made, entirely outside the realm of consciousness, to relive that image, from the inside? and why did the unconscious mind decide to present the source of the inspiration more than eight hours later, without even being asked to do so?


audio: bt . see you on the other side

what does the word 'celibate' mean?

so easy to forget...

"maybe you're not so far off, after all..."

a kiss goodbye, with the expectation of another day, another time; the prediction of a future that may have ended before it began.

it was a strange situation from the beginning, as seem always to characterize my interactions with other people:

from early on, it seemed somewhat ordinary. she wanted sex... and pursued me... and i was vaguely bored. but this time, the boredom became an intention to play, to push her a bit. there probably was a bit of cruelty mixed in, a desire to push her away, to make her fall in love, to say that she loved me. the reality of who i am is somehow unimaginable to others, so they manufacture an illusion that fits their preconceived impression. recently, it has become an increasingly simple matter to pace their realities, then amplify and feed them back.

in her case, first we played a game. the seduction. we saw each other rarely, instead exchanging emails. she had the feeling of being the aggressor, as she later would say "i pursued you for so long because..." of course, any intelligent cat knows how to earn its food. how? by enticing its owner to work for the cat's affection. my primary reason for engaging her was her ability to appreciate descriptive language. what she failed to realize was that my writing wasn't for her -- it was an idealized portrait of her, one that does not exist. therein, perhaps, lies the cruelty. hundreds of words, painstakingly crafted, honed and sharpened in order to take her mind away from reality and into a world where she could be who she wanted to be... and yet, the fabrication of such a mirage ultimately leads to a realization of sand, heat, and little else.

the particular oddity of this situation lies within the fact that at no point in time was i ever taken up in the moment; it was always a conscious game, fueled by an unconscious impetus. the feeling was one of oscillation between curiosity and compassion: curiosity at how far the game could be taken, and compassion for the fragility of her mental state. the fascinating beauty of it -- how a person can pretend to be "normal" and yet have an unspoken something deep inside of them, something that makes them unusual. i have yet to meet someone who has that quality, and is not also in some way damaged by the world in which they live.

as i wove a mirrored reality around her, insinuating an idealized version of myself into it, the enjoyment was primarily based on the fact that there was a hidden structure that only i could see. her role was predictably filled, almost as if there were secretly pulled levers and switches that caused this feeling and that, triggers for emotional states and physical arousal, even at a distance.

at this moment, it has come to the point that in a state of erotic hypnosis, i was able to guide her to an orgasm without touching her, or her touching herself. i have come to exist inside of her mind... the ultimate goal of any seducer -- introjection. "i imagine you inside of me... and i ache..." she says. of course, it is not a perfect simulation, but this is an art rather than a science, and i don't want to hurt her; rather, give her an experience that she can hopefully remember fondly after our time together has passed. no, more than that: i want her to be able to demand that her lovers treat her differently than before. her own weakness, until now, has been reflected by her "toys", as she calls the men in her life.

it seemed immediately apparent that she had rarely if ever been truly cared for, as she immediately attempted to slide into a purely sexual relationship. empty sexuality always seems a waste; it is a kind of intentional numbness, an escape. SM was naturally her chosen form of expression... and it fit perfectly that her habit was to dominate.

my original nature was passive. passivity, of course, is an easy way to draw the attention of predatory influences. the web of scar tissue that surrounds my early life and obscures my memories could have its roots somewhere within that early tendency to shy away from pain.

over time, a toughness became necessary to move inside of the world and not become a victim of it; the perversion of timidity into masochism became internalized as punishment of the body through harsh training and discipline of the mind. as time passed, my experiences with the martial arts, with the psychological act of fighting itself -- against peers, authority figures, my own intertwined fear of death and desire to die -- have become sublimated into a desire to challenge, deconstruct and reconstruct every power structure that i encounter. i am driven now to find out if life is truly as empty as it seems, and if there is any way to find a respite from the constantly unraveling red thread that seems to be the only reason for modern society to continue. most people seem blissfully unaware of the dark origins of eros, including this woman who is most likely, at this moment, contemplating whether to throw away her misconceptions, her desire for order, her sense of predictability, to fall in love with someone who feels incapable of feeling the emotion himself.

audio: cantoma . moonsmith

amusing that she tried to play the dom, but found it impossible to keep herself from laughing too much to fulfill the role properly. it was entirely and intentionally my fault.

at this point, when dealing with ordinary people -- or those who would find me to be unusual, including this recovering "good girl" -- my frame is one of understanding their motives without their comprehending where mine even begin.

"Please help me, Ms. A. I need you right now..."

Upon hearing the plea of her consort, Lady L., the severe expression of Ms. A betrays none of her true intentions. Her long eyelashes and expressive eyes the hue of brilliant coral blue are muted by the presence of expertly crafted eyeglasses. The vermillion tones of her hair pulled back into a strict ponytail only adds to her appearance of unimpeachable authority.

Ms. A savors the delicious tension in her pupil's voice. As she has been instructed to do, Lady L's fingers continue their exploration;

having been on the outside looking in for so long, it has become natural to reveal only the barest glimpses of this inner world. more often than not, this world is simply not accessible to anyone who does not live inside this skin. or at most, accessible only to a few others.

her body responds by allowing for deeper penetration. She settles into the pillows and the softness of the bed that cradles and gently supports her shoulders, back and hips... the lesson in masturbation has begun.

From her vantage at Lady L's knee, Ms. A observes the telltale signs of arousal beginning to have their mesmerizing effect on the face of her counterpart: eyes narrowed and dark, lips a deepening rouge, skin slightly flushed. She reaches for Lady L's right breast, enclosing the pink areola between thumb and forefinger, increasing the pressure as her fingers move to encircle the reddening nipple. As her fingers reach the firm yet supple tip,

naturally, control over social situations, both personal and professional, begins to shift... everything is changing now, more tangibly than ever before.

Lady L begins to increase the pace of her own fingers between her thighs.

A sigh escapes her lips. She nestles herself more deeply into the softness of the pillows, enjoying the connection between the two points of stimulation. A moment later her eyes open, shining and intense in the semidarkness of the room; her fingers are soon replaced by Ms. A's slender middle and ring fingers. Ms. A begins with methodical precision,

checking email. has she written back? not yet.
probably with "the boyfriend" today.

lightly at first, caressing her outer labia briefly, then the inner labia, then deeper inside. Lady L closes her eyes again, her mind entirely consumed by the delightful anticipation of what is most certainly to come.

Moment after moment, she becomes more absorbed by the smooth progression of Ms. A's fingers sliding easily along her innermost regions. She begins to feel a heat spreading throughout her body

and he knows. the odd part about it is that her frame is stronger than his -- she tells him that there is another, and he begrudgingly accepts it as fact, rather than simply deleting her from his address book and finding someone new.

as the rhythm gradually increases in a synchrony of rotation between Ms. A's wrist and her moist inner walls. Her breathing becomes shorter, faster, she is no longer pacing herself... giving herself over to the inevitable release that looms so near.

Ms. A's fingertips search knowingly for their destination, their speed accompanied by a steady circular pressure. Lady L cries out and begins to feel herself losing control,

his weakness stems from his inability to walk away. she simply wants to play, whereas he introduces his own, and most mens', insecurities into the relationship by not properly defining his boundaries from the outset. and of course, knowing how to deal with her tests when they inevitably arise.

her entire body consumed by the radiating sensations that seem to transcend pleasure and become a pure agonizing ecstasy. Ms. A leans over her, studying the passionate abandon and focused concentration that has given Lady L's face an expression of rapturous vexation. Ms. A begins to feel a tingling warmth of her own as her full breasts begin to swell and her nipples become taut. She softly bites her lower lip in an attempt to properly maintain her composure. Her body betrays her, however, heart beating more rapidly as her excitement builds... she quickly touches herself and inhales sharply, suppressing her own sounds of lust while expertly turning her attention back to her pupil.

Sensing that the time has come, Ms. A moves closer to support Lady L's hips with her knees and begins to rock her fingers higher inside.

fear of being alone, of psychic death, may be the single most important obstacle to overcome. it is difficult to realize, however, that social disconnection is not death. all relationships are transitory and must be continually renewed in order to survive. the beauty of this realization is that human interactions are characterized by a certain plasticity, a changeability by which one can manifest seemingly contradictory character traits without loss of overall consistency.

Lady L's voice becomes louder, her cries more frequent and urgent as the rhythm becomes faster, fingers plunging ever deeper. Ms. A can feel that Lady L is at the moment of no return, and strongly commands her to bring the sensation to complete fruition as her inner muscles begin to contract harder and harder. Mentally, Ms. A counts from ten to one, having calculated the exact moment at which Lady L will lose the ability to contain herself. At last, Lady L is no longer able to form words, writhing and trembling, her breathing ragged and wracked by the most beautifully unpredictable moans.

At the height of the moment, there is a pause as Lady L arches her back and all of her muscles become tense; Ms. A's fingers too, pause and allow her to ride out the unbearable perfection of its apex. Lady L is absolutely lost now, lost

to a varying extent, human nature is unpredictable. often our true motives are hidden even to ourselves. the real question is whether or not we allow ourselves to express these elements, and learn to do so skillfully.

can i surprise myself every day? can i use those moments to fuel my ability to create and more essentially, to be creative in a meaningful way?

in the incandescent undulations that seem to continue and continue without end, reverberating through every cell of her body and overwhelming all attempts at regaining control.

Only after a few minutes have the previously unimagined sensations begun to subside, as Lady L's breathing returns to a level that allows her to speak again. She finds Ms. A lying to her left, eyeglasses perched primly on the delicate arch of her nose. Ms. A's glasses are nonetheless unable to hide the rosy glow of her cheeks as she combs her fingers through Lady L's tousled and unruly hair. And when she is ready, Ms. A whispers into her ear, almost inaudibly, "that felt good didn't it... perhaps too good. I have decided, then, that our next lesson will be on the topic of spanking..."

"Alright. This seems to be the appropriate time." A light sonorous chime is heard lilting its way across the room, accompanied by the rustling sound of clothing and hushed voices.

Quickly gathering round, eager faces turn upward toward the deeply lined countenance of their clever old teacher and mentor.

Sitting in a slightly elevated position, legs folded comfortably in seiza on a soft yet firm pillow... it is a thick, supportive cushion the warm color of saffron, matching a flowing, well worn and simple robe that drapes an aged frame whose posture is relaxed, yet alert.

"As with all of my stories, this one concerns itself with questions of love and change, sometimes suffering, but more often", eyes twinkling in a bemused, enchanting way, "the everyday world in which each of us -- you, and even you" -- pointing a gnarled old finger straight forward toward the listener's nose -- "can perceive things in different ways." The wrinkled, expressive features soften, belying their true age as time itself begins to smoothly slide forward, becoming malleable and indistinct, one moment rolling seamlessly into another. Each listener begins to focus on their own sensations of ordinary sitting and listening, allowing themselves to find a unique place in between the words of their teacher's calm, even tone of voice. With each breath rising deeply and falling into a continuous wave of sound, the words seem to arise of their own spontaneous volition:

"Today's story is a bit different from the others. You may have the impression that it is the tale of a young man and woman, but try to look beyond it."

. . .

A voice reminiscient of wind through autumn leaves begins to unfold the teaching tale for the day.

  Overcast, quiet. Faintly in the background, the early evening tides can be heard in their familiar ebb and flow. In toward the shore; pause; then washing sand, shells and even small fish out to the sea. Every so often, gulls flying overheard train their keen eyes on the curling, lapping motion of the waves in search of a fresh evening meal.

  Caught in a small alcove at the corner of a rock outcropping, a wave ripples and swirls, becoming an eddy that pulls surrounding water into its darkened center. The deep, seemingly impenetrable blue of the sea, speckled with the foam crests of upstart wave formations, forms an endless body that stretches to the horizon and beyond.

  Bare footprints in the sand trace a path along the water's edge, sometimes weaving farther, sometimes closer to the point at which the sandy shore disappears into its liquid counterpart. Following along the path, the footprints begin to move farther away from the water, soon to be joined by another set of prints. This set is somewhat smaller, with a slimmer line connecting the impression of the pad with that of the heel, implying a higher and more delicate arch of the foot. Moreover, the smaller footprints periodically leave their linear trajectory along the waterline to inscribe twirling pirouhettes, tiptoe sprints and even the balletic grace of en pointe maneuvers. Following the course of the two intertwining sets of footprints stimulates within the viewer an idyllic imaginary scene, a sunset perhaps, alight with the playful laughter of those who delight in the companionship of one another amidst the radiant warmth of the dying afternoon sun.

  Overcast. Silent. Nearly enveloped in darkness. The footprints have become blurred, distorted, in the process of washing away entirely and returning to the smooth, virginal sand of the inevitable morning's tide. Heaving upward from the farthest reaches of the distant horizon, tidal waves begin to rise, gaining strength and speed, eventually crashing heavily against the beach. Wave after wave relentlessly pummels the finely grained sand, mixing it into a thick compound of watery cement; it has become clay to be molded and recast as the sea sees fit.

  The footprints are gone, never to be seen again.
  Where are their erstwhile occupants?

engorged blushing peach
enveloped in sweet fragrance

pendulous arc through crisp evening air
just above nose, tongue
teeth

do not inhale, do not exhale
do not lick, do not bite

run, escape
the terrible initiation of spring.

realizations

- image: woman, in form only, body and face changing as if a mirage.
- idea: female-as-sexual-selector is false. for one to idealize the other is to lose self identity in pursuit of a poisonous illusion. both individuals are responsible for protecting themselves, physically and "psychically", from the omnipresent danger that either partner can hide their true selves until it is too late.

i have saved myself by instinct twice so far. time to learn this lesson firmly and remember it.

more later.

impatience.

in the stairwell during a break in lecture. we climb the stairs to a secluded landing two floors above the lecture hall. she pushes me against the wall, her eyes are clouded with an intensity that seems to spread throughout her whole body, transforming her entire posture. her breathing is shallow and quick, causing her voice to take on a slightly higher pitch. her words tumble out in a fast, unpremeditated rhythm.

she draws closer as i gaze quietly at her, lips slightly parted and knowing what will come next. she seems fully intent on having her way with me, enacting a real version of the emails that we have been sending back and forth... naturally, though, i am going to make her suffer a bit for it. i pull her close, then lightly push her away and start to quiz her about her boyfriend with laughter in my voice. she denies that they are actually a couple, saying that they've been seeing each other "off and on for a couple of months". a lie.

you said before that he was hot... do you like him?, i ask in a soft, singsong voice... "yes, but he's not as hot as you," she breathes. thank you, i reply, almost as if yawning. after a few minutes of distracting her from our reason for coming to this hidden place, gently allowing her mind to reassert control over her emotions, i unceremoniously walk away, leaving her hot, bothered and a little bit dumbfounded.

she hasn't shown me why i should take her from her boyfriend, so i won't. if she has a problem with that? i don't care. unexpectedly, i have become dispassionate... without attachment to the outcome, the process becomes clearer, though definitely not any simpler.

fascinating that a person will act from a basis of emotion, and only afterward explain their actions in a way that aligns with their imagined sense of self. from the beginning, i knew that she intended to test me and find out if i was "new boyfriend material". i'm not, not for her, not right now. hence, the game began with an ambiguous phrase. before she could resist, she was indirectly asking for more. at that moment, one strong reinforcing response allowed her to express herself fully, without conscious interference. only afterward did she have to face the consequences of an action that caused dissonance with her desire to appear modest and "good"...

in everyday life, this happens all the time. habits are hard to break; the average person often speaks without thinking; emotions, memories, desires come upon us before we can comprehend their causes. so our inadequate mental apparatus is forced to clean up the mess, explaining "i just changed my mind" or blaming fate. in the case of having been lead astray by one's own desire, the victimized self needs deniability -- "it was his fault; he made me feel that way."

she wrote me an email later that night, explaining that she wanted nothing more than to know my mind, my "soul", as she put it. the amazing part of this is that she may actually be sincere in her reframing of the situation -- she doesn't even know what came over her because her conscious mind was not involved in the decision. after the fact, however, all kinds of mental gymnastics are performed to re-mold and re-sequence events to fit with "who she is"... although, in light of her actions, she is clearly not a single consistent personality, but a complex of sometimes conflicting elements, each with its own agenda.

the question, then, is threefold:

• how do these emergent facets of personality manifest in our daily lives,
• how "conscious", or volitionally aware, are we of them,
• how are our unconscious motivations intentionally manipulated by others?

having studied for a few years, the sequential nature of this process only now begins to reveal itself. in earlier days, i may have referred to it as "hacking"... but this software exists inside the minds of every person alive today.

the real question, then: who needs computers?

a garrison of square black letters stand sentinel against white signboard, the sidewalk buttressed by sawhorse barricades and yellow tape. "please do not cross this line. a movie is being filmed..."

production assistants stand in phalanx position, each wielding a clipboard, a haggard, bored look and a somewhat unconvincing authoritarian air as they patrol the intersection. should anyone display the audacity to set foot across the threshold, they are sternly warned. the street is cleared of pedestrians, as everyone crowds around at a twenty foot remove from the four corners facing the improvised set.

we are too far away to see exactly what happens, but after about ten minutes, the p.a.'s begin to relay orders down the street. shouting in unison, they signal their readiness for the impending event. moments later, the intersection erupts in a cacophony of steel colliding against steel and tires squealing against pavement. after about a minute of dimly visible but clearly audible mayhem, the take is complete and action ends.

people are still not allowed to cross the intersection, however, and are beginning to ask questions about the delay. the production assistants nearby offer no explanation, instead maintaining a truculent silence other than warning us to stay in place "for safety".

across the street, the corner is likewise cleared of anyone not involved in the shoot. among the crew members milling about, a young man wearing a black jacket and nondescript beige pants turns the corner, apparently lost in thought. after taking a few steps, he stops and takes a sip of coffee from a distinctly bland styrofoam cup. for the first few minutes, no one notices him, and rightly so -- aside from being a few inches above average height, his appearance is resolutely unspectactular. if not for numerous close-ups taken during the previous movie whose sequel is unfolding in today's crash scene, his face would be completely anonymous.

the production assistants- turned- pedestrian- traffic- coordinators whose day began at four a.m. this morning give us the signal. we are free to go, passing through the intersection under their watchful gaze lest we disturb the wreckage and debris so artfully strewn about. the ordinary-looking thirtysomething year old assumes a slightly hunched, almost bashful disposition, shyly acknowledging the crowd of fans and admires who pause to pay homage to a movie star as they go about their everyday affairs.

audio: l'arc en ciel . anemone

no apologies, old man. this is far too amusing not to record. besides, perhaps one day you'll remember these moments and think, "i wrote this bollocks?"

and she's enjoying it too, judging from her responses.


...ballet boots... taut calves and thighs, straining to be freed from
their glistening black encasements, boots laced tightly to provide the illusion
of function when their real purpose is something else entirely.

Bleary eyes slowly focusing on the blackboard... only to find reality
quickly supplanted once more by images unfolding in brief bursts of subconscious
communication with the deeper, darker parts of the mind.

A slight stirring below brings him back to the present, and a rather unappealing
debate about illicit substances being used as medicine...

From the corner of his eye, he unintentionally begins to take in the sight of
the sometimes-cute-sometimes-not redhead sitting nearby... no, she becomes transparent
as his imagination reveals a vision of the curvaceous, dreamy brunette a few seats over
who also seems lost in a bit of covert reverie. I wonder whose film she's starring in,
he asks himself with a bemused half-grin. More images splash across the pages of
his improvised sensual screenplay... hands behind her back, held there, breath visibly
incited to a quick, heated rhythm... her eyes closed as she is told that they must be
at all times unless given permission to do otherwise... so close, the heat from their
bodies driving her slightly mad... mad for the whispering kiss that lightly dances
across her lips and then is so cruelly taken away... always so deliciously close that
she can taste it... worth risking an equally stimulating punishment should she choose to
break his playfully impossible rules.

Rising from his seat, he quietly moves across the short distance to the door,
intent upon finding a breath of fresh air outside. After all, he didn't come
to lecture in order to think about his classmates...

motion: garbage . cherry lips (uncensored)

as you listen to your breathing, you can feel the movements of your body, in your rib cage, your abdomen, your posture. you can take in a full, natural breath, then let it go, completely and easily. you may notice your breathing as it becomes more settled, deeper, calmer. inhaling again, slowly and fully... then you can you allow yourself to let go of any tension as you exhale, feeling more and more relaxed as you listen to the rhythm of your breathing...

the surroundings were not entirely ideal, but the relatively soft lighting and warmth of the room worked to our advantage. the small restaurant was nearly empty except for the small group of friends at the bar. we had not seen each other for quite some time, and had become engaged in a conversation that took an unusually psychological turn. she mentioned a few issues that had been bothering her recently, including anxiety and panic attacks.

the first aspect of taking control of an issue can sometimes be re-creating the problem itself. in an everyday tone, the suggestion was made that she remember how it felt to experience the onset of anxiety -- physical manifestations, i.e. tightness in the chest, rapid breathing, etc.

it was all too easy for here to recall those sensations.

after lightly touching her on the right knee and shifting her thoughts back to the comfort of the present, an explanation followed that she had actually not been in any danger at all -- that she had actually created the experience herself.

next, she experienced the onset of anxiety again; this time, after entering the anxiety state, she became aware of her body in that mental context and at each step, was able to fully consider the fact that she was both the same, relaxed person as before, and the person creating her own sensations and thoughts at this particular moment.

the last step was to give her the opportunity to unravel the moment by simply becoming conscious of her breath. as she became more aware of her breathing pattern, it was only a question of pointing out the connected nature of her posture, and the feeling of what happens when the breath becomes steady, even, and relaxed. as the body relaxed, so did the mind.

the most interesting part of the experience was that she could so easily be guided to feel a fully "real" physiological state -- a stress/panic response -- while sitting in a completely unrelated environment, with friends in a safe place. it was only a light induction, of course, lasting only about two minutes to move her into the altered state and then about five minutes to bring her back. and the language patterns felt so natural that she began to exhibit signs of suggestibility almost immediately...

an unintentional, and exciting experiment. a first step.

I swear by Apollo thanatos, hunched forward to gather heat from the dying embers, grasps a fleeting thought for long enough to share itPhysician and Asclepius and Hygieia with his brother, hypnos. their kin, the oneiroi, whisper quietly amongst themselves nearby, building silent worlds in the darkness.and Panaceia and all the gods and goddesses, "if you prod him with a fork and he still squeals,making them my witnesses, then you know you've got a live one... but,"that I will fulfil according to my ability "if there he lies without a trace of fire in his veins, well.and judgment this oath and this covenantyou snatch him right up."

a cold, gentle wind passes, and with it, the voice of their mother, nyx. "if only your desire for what ran inside those veinsTo hold him who has taught me this art as equal to my parents and to live my life in partnership surpassed your desire to emulate your brother,"with him, and if he is in need of money to give him a share of mine, and to regard his offspring as equal "your words would be less silken and your lips more crimson, as the fine example set by your sisters' affinity"to my brothers in male lineage and to teach them this art - if they desire to learn it - "for the blood of those who no longer have use for the confines of mortality."

hypnos, pensively regarding the swirl of burning ash dancing about in the atmosphere before him, replies quietly,without fee and covenant; to give a share of precepts almost to himself, "consumed by its taste, warmth, the urgency with which it appears and is eagerly devoured... aching for ownership of the pulse itself before a dying wish ebbs away to nothing. so often", he intones in an indecipherable rhythm, "those wishes were gifts, handspun creations from my own enchanted looms. if only they knew that such payment was their fate,"and oral instruction and all the other learning to my sons and to the sons of him who has instructed me "would they have been so enraptured by their dreams?" thanatos laughs, looking kindly uponand to pupils who have signed the covenant and have the wistful image of youth that mirrors his own delicate countenance. "come brother, it is time to get to work."taken an oath according to the medical law, but no one else.

Fire in the Phrase
An Unfinished Original Work of Literary Brio
Author Unknown

"Only if you're a good boy," she said, full cherry lips curving into a winsome yet mischievous smile. In a room that had become saturated by the idle chatter of overstimulated minds, the words were clearly audible, despite her unusually quiet tone of voice.

Frostbitten clouds began to roll darkly over the horizon, hastening the slumber of an indifferent winter sun. A crepuscular spell seemed to fall over the inhabitants of the city below, transforming the bustling avenue into a mass of lugubrious shadows hastening toward unspoken destinations.

He was suddenly in a bind, loath as he was to offend his newly betrothed who sat only an arm's length away. She was a fiery Italian brunette, possessed of eviscerating wit and a penchant for litigious behavior (she once sued a grocery store chain into oblivion for "allowing" a can of Campbell's to tumble from the top shelf, leaving a rather dainty scar on her otherwise flawless forehead). Her perpetual jealous fury led to various bite-and-scratch encounters, not
all of which had been entirely unpleasant. He did, however, find himself leaning toward a more refined path to pleasure, and had begun to enjoy the present conversation.

A good boy, he thought, composing a revised version of the phrase as a vision of his own propensity for creative mischief. The words "bad" and "girl" figured prominently in the revision process, as did several more evocative phrases and concepts. Rather than incur the inevitable wrath of the Implacable Wife, he took mental note of the unmentionable scene unfolding behind his eyes and decided to write a little something about it later.

Easier to send an e-card of manic singing trees or
Insipid ducklings quacking loudly just a click away

Release corporate remote control
Scrawl a few line breaks without punk tu a shun
So important to breathe in the new year

Change is all though it may seem to stay
the same for a while
So I say not sure of the words

Enjoy it