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Looking back on my life and my experiences across the world, cultures, subcultures and around (and around) the block, one thing about the men in my life is glaringly clear: I have known and loved amazing, wonderful men. I have been blessed with memories and on-going relationships with beautiful men of this world and beyond. Maybe for me, it was a numbers game, but for whatever reason my path met theirs, I am perpetually grateful and self-refining because of how I have been loved and nurtured by the opposite sex -- perhaps more so than by the women in my life.
Please indulge me and celebrate with thanks The 13 Greatest Men Of My Life
#13 - Koyote The Blind, Toltec Master Aka Dua Shaman, www.akadua.com
Only he knows why, and he ain't saying... I have "no idea."
#12 - Allan M, My First Fiance
Allan was my first love after my gangrape. No surprise, he knew nothing about it. I didn't even admit to myself or anyone for that matter that I had been raped the summer before I went on my first date with Al on New Year's Eve. Our relationship spanned 2 years and we lived together for 1-1/2 of those years. He exposed me to a "healthfully ballanced family life" and as much as his family and Al welcomed me to be part of "normal life in Canada" I knew my heart still beat for more. I broke off our engagement over the phone while he was away on business. I never cheated on him. The last time we had sex, I had to stop it short and he went to a mutual friend's house who had always had a crush on him and slept with her. This pissed me off more than it should have and that was that.
He moved away to Toronto or somewhere back east, met and married and had children, I think. My last year in VanCity, I was walking home from work and I swear I saw him looking at me as he approached with a group of people I did not recognize, but he looked away when we were within eye contact and we slipped past one another for the last time.
#11 - Dr. Albert E. Ho Yee, Family Physician and OB-Gyn
Dr. Ho Yee was our family doctor when we came to Canada. For decades I would often mistakingly refer to him as Uncle Ho Yee. He saw me after my gangrape, treated me for abuse, provided me with contraceptives for free since I was 15 years old, and took me in when I got thrown out of the Psyche Ward at St. Paul's Hospital for being too violent (duh!). He never revealed to me my mother's secret or her concerns for my wellbeing. He simply provided me the best health care a GP can provide.
Having seen countless of doctors and specialists in the US, I can honestly say that Dr. Ho Yee is of the highest calibre and I miss the way he knew me from a child to an adult, never judging, never condescending, always a good, good man.
#10 - Gilbert, My Highschool Sweet<3
I grew up a lot with Gilbert -- well, as much as a 15 year old kid can grow up in 2 years. I was a Sophomore and he was a Senior when we first dated. It was Expo 86 in Vancouver and the World was looking at us. I was at the World's Fair everynight and I swear Gilbert and I had sex everywhere. The time his mom caught us naked on the family couch with a porno playing on their tv was not fun -- but we kept dating, even though it was clear there was more than our age difference creating issues between us. I would never be accepted into his family. Years go by and still he thought of me. Ten years after our last date together, I receive a Christmas card from him telling me that he misses me and has never gotten over our break-up. He asks me to call him if I am interested in catching up -- no pressure. At that time, I was already working at Madame Cleos and I thought it would be a good idea to catch up to let him know that I am doing "my thang." He took me out for dinner and he let me get drunker than a skunker, then he took me home. I was loaded but sober enough to remember forever the look of sad disappointment in his eyes as he said, "Good bye and good luck, Tish."
#9 - Chris J.A., Baaadaaass VanCity Bike Courier
Chris is one of those mystical sprites, interwoven into my life's stories and relationships for as long as I was in Vancouver, and it seems everytime I return. One day, I may write in detail about my relationship with Chris -- but that story is more of a supplement to my more enriched relationships. One of the key issues that Chris would bring up to explain why I never could understand him is, in his words, "You can't ever know what it is like to have your own father reject you." I smoked my first joint with Chris when I was 23 years old.
#8 - Maurizio, Vancouver BC/Jayo Grad 88
The one relationship I regret letting go of. Maurizio loved me as a friend since our first year in HS -- umm, actually, he had an incredible crush on me for the first 3 years of HS but we were "just friends." He came out when I was engaged to Allan and there's a bit of a sad story in there too, but who cares? When I went back to Vancouver in September 2007, I contacted Mitz (as I have called him since we were 13 years old) and met him and his beau/business partner and it was like we had not spent the past 15 years estranged. Our laughs were harmonious, our dance moves synchronious, and he forgave me for being such a bitch when I told him I never wanted to see him again... oh, bad phrasing, I never told him. I just stopped taking his calls and ignoring him when I saw him in person. Terrible of me. Incredible of him to forgive me -- but then again, he has not contacted me since...
#7 - Dr. Josh Blank, Master of Hair, Color and Precision
Behind every great woman is an even greater hairstylist! I need to write an exclusive blog on Josh Blank and what he has done for me, my dreams, my will to live -- seriously... Josh is astonoshing. As a man, he is perfection. As an artist, he is consummate. As a designer and businessman, he is FIERCE! I drive 8 hours round trip for 2 hours in his chair with pride, glee and a commitment to responsible aesthetic.
#6 - Dr. Cole Ba$tard, Pain Tribe
The beautifully scarred and leathered Cole. B of Pain Tribe guided my journey into the Sundance and when I met my wall, he helped me search my essence and guided me towards my first flight. My wings are tattooed with his tears. Whenever I extend my dragon wings, the spirit of Dr. Cole Ba$tard rims the space of all consciousness. Did I mention he was stunning to behold?
#5 - Juan, The Hustler
The man who introduced me to life Via Sinistrae, walking the bardos and waking in the shared dream. For years and years I had thought of him as God. As Koyote. As me. I smile at how he let me, a true O.G. pimp from Mexico and Southern Cali. I was introduced to him by Chris and Juan admits that when he saw me for the first time, he had to have me. Since Chris was a very jealous man, this made our lives difficult... but exciting. I would have given my life for his. Fortunately, he never asked me to do so. The one time he told me he truly loved me and always had, I called him a liar to his face. You never seen a pimp die 'til you seen a pimp cry.
#4 - Brian M. Viveros, www.brianmviveros.com
... actually works for Hustler, designing their swag illustrations, when not swamped with independent work as a 21st century surrealist of note. From editorials around the world to cover art and merchandising, Brian has had his handstroke in some uniquely creative projects. None the least of which is, SOUTHERN, his first feature length film with life-long friend and fellow artist, Eriijk Ressler. The duo has worked on several short projects together, most successfully to date is the cult hit, dislandia. Brian M. Viveros' original art pieces show regularly in galleries and events around the US and in Europe, with a permament display at The Museum of Porn In Art, Zurich, Switzerland.
I met Brian ridiculously -- off of craigslist, as I responded to his ad in Gigs for an actress, early 30s, for a full-length surreal art film. A week later, I was barebreasted and riding bareback on a 38-year-old elephant called Tai, at Have Trunk Will Travel. Brian dreamed and painted suspension rituals and agreed to include my sundance in SOUTHERN even though it meant extra editing, so much more footage and a split from the original storyline. I LOVE YOU, BRIAN! You and Eriijk have turned me from a dreamer into The Dream.. and are responsible for my immortality.
#3 - My Dad, my mom's husband
Now that the truth is out that my dad is not my biological father, my relationship with my dad is stronger and more expressive than ever before. I had spent years trying to bring us closer together, thinking that we could talk about the Philippines or my childhood when I wasn't such a handful (or two lol) but I had no idea that whenever I brought up "the old days" I was backing my dad into a corner where he could not express the truth. I had mistaken his silence for disinterest, when he really was acting only to protect my mom.
He is a good for my mother, and my mom is a miracle for him. I got shuffled in the middle as a kid, but as a maturing woman in her 30s, I feel I need to lead my family into a new era of compassion for one another. I think I'm the only one that feels that way though.
#2 - Solarco, My Man
My stories have come to ultra-life since you have entered them. I love you as Love is intended to be experienced, I live for you as life is intended to be created, I adore you as you adore me. You know my all and the reason that we are. Thank you for acknowledging my experiences, for being a friend to Larry Larry, and for your loving understanding.
#1 - Larry Larry, my bestfriend of 11 years
Simply put, my second husband has loved and cared for me longer than anyone else in my life, including other family. He has provided me a home, a family business, a pack of mystical bitches and more fun and life-travels than I could have ever experienced on my own. He has been a source of inspiration as well as perspiration as we grew together from our twenties and an idealistic view of the world, to our thirties and a matured perspective on our own lives. I cannot express enough how great I know Larry is. Talented, intelligent, driven, adventurous. I am sorry for more than I care to admit publicly, but it is true, I have done unspeakable things that ended up hurting LL. He was caught in the middle of my family's lies and has grown to include my new perspective in his. Even though he cannot help me resolve my issues with my biological father, my mom has admitted that she only told me knowing that I had Larry for support.
It's not at all simple, and Larry Larry you are certainly not at all simple. I am in awe of you and our friendship forever.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Return To Sender For Miles With Smiles
Observations of affirmations provided by December 3rd premie labor exercise
1) My intention for the evening ritual was to occupy that which was empty with that which fulfills. Succeeded in locating a vacancy, rendering the proximities of cavity walls and setting the ambiance to welcome coven squads from east, west, north and south.
2) During a period of pure play on space and volume, we whipped the ethereal sounds and grooves of PYRAMYTH's percussions, twits and slides from a stringy texture into a foam of marshmallows and eggwhite -- the space was a massive meringue. Lifting our arms was difficult and spongey. Lifting our feet we stretched sticky tacky.
3) In attendance were [the unnamed and the undead] and the sons of lords and lepers; the usual watchers who prefer my pussy's work to that of idle hands; the abundant feeder; the finicky fool; my great-grandfather who had participated in his first shamanic ritual over a hundred years ago; and schools of dolphins and narwhals.
4) When sending intentioned charges, employ an authentic smile to accelerate and amplify the charge's vibratory reach and resonance. Avoid clenching the jaw or furrowing the brow in a classic Care Bear Stare -- the Care-Bare Stair is less effective and costs more energy than holding a smile for a mile.
5) The Banishment Ritual is one sexy sexy striptease: burlesque in rhythm, bordello in blews. It marks the separation between ordinary walking and bardo walking. Performed in silence, exceptionally sensual, impossible to ignore or dismiss, a single glowing dance to welcome the weary warriors: Come Be Entertained! We Honor Your Hour In Our House. And they came, beaconed by the twisting amber flame of art's vehicle, across vast darknesses and vacuums, to rest their alien spines and partake in jubilant celebration of The Real Work.
6) Ejaculate was slick and lightly viscous, flavored guava with a hint of sweet potato. Female ejaculate was hot and oily, clarifying the menses a translucent sanguinity. There were no signs of clotting, no symptoms of trauma.
7) In an open jam session, participants benefit greatly from stepping back to simply listen, allowing one or more voices to build into a movement, then initiating support to the movement by consciously extending the inspiration into instrumentations. In an open jam session, the diva is useless and can afford to recline, making room for a chorus fully vested and inline with the sum of us over the one of us.
1) My intention for the evening ritual was to occupy that which was empty with that which fulfills. Succeeded in locating a vacancy, rendering the proximities of cavity walls and setting the ambiance to welcome coven squads from east, west, north and south.
2) During a period of pure play on space and volume, we whipped the ethereal sounds and grooves of PYRAMYTH's percussions, twits and slides from a stringy texture into a foam of marshmallows and eggwhite -- the space was a massive meringue. Lifting our arms was difficult and spongey. Lifting our feet we stretched sticky tacky.
3) In attendance were [the unnamed and the undead] and the sons of lords and lepers; the usual watchers who prefer my pussy's work to that of idle hands; the abundant feeder; the finicky fool; my great-grandfather who had participated in his first shamanic ritual over a hundred years ago; and schools of dolphins and narwhals.
4) When sending intentioned charges, employ an authentic smile to accelerate and amplify the charge's vibratory reach and resonance. Avoid clenching the jaw or furrowing the brow in a classic Care Bear Stare -- the Care-Bare Stair is less effective and costs more energy than holding a smile for a mile.
5) The Banishment Ritual is one sexy sexy striptease: burlesque in rhythm, bordello in blews. It marks the separation between ordinary walking and bardo walking. Performed in silence, exceptionally sensual, impossible to ignore or dismiss, a single glowing dance to welcome the weary warriors: Come Be Entertained! We Honor Your Hour In Our House. And they came, beaconed by the twisting amber flame of art's vehicle, across vast darknesses and vacuums, to rest their alien spines and partake in jubilant celebration of The Real Work.
6) Ejaculate was slick and lightly viscous, flavored guava with a hint of sweet potato. Female ejaculate was hot and oily, clarifying the menses a translucent sanguinity. There were no signs of clotting, no symptoms of trauma.
7) In an open jam session, participants benefit greatly from stepping back to simply listen, allowing one or more voices to build into a movement, then initiating support to the movement by consciously extending the inspiration into instrumentations. In an open jam session, the diva is useless and can afford to recline, making room for a chorus fully vested and inline with the sum of us over the one of us.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Spoils Of Ritual Go To The Distant Present
I'm not going to be performing at today's Riverside Art Walk after all. I roll with the punches a lot better now than when I was a kid, so I'm not to sad about not performing today for the public.
I am ready. I am so ready.
Some of my troupe, however, is far from being able to help efficiently -- their help will cost (have cost) too much already. I am looking forward to January 7, for the first Riverside Art Walk of 2009 -- that shall be our debut at the fair.
I will have some workshops or demonstrations at The Pharoah's Den during the month of December. I love the vibe there and what the men of the den are creating. Get me a piece of that action fo sho. Creative collaborating -- you're there to push boundaries, stimulate a response and provoke insight... sure, it's a fucken turn on. I get hot working with other writers, musicians, graphic artists and directors. When I ride the bitch seat behind a track virtuoso, I wet for hours after I'm off the bike. I love the ways I am turned on by creative people. Fuck me already and take a picture. Even if it's only on the level of astral intentional thought patterned experiencing. I dig it, baby.
Last night's MMORPG was smooth in cool places and chunky in some awkward places. I shared the stage with my shamanic partner and he's been having a tough time this year -- even though we are finally together, we've both had to work so damn much and I think he's still holding to some belief that life owes him a break every now and then, that he's entitled to recess. I am all for it except the entitlement part, and that such a break in the Work is either inherent to or rewarded for the process. I'm creating at a fervor where breaks are for dufusses -- I'm here to rock it! I wudnt want to be doing anything else with my time, my investment, my love, my body, my nerves, my everything that The Real Work -- and the fact that I am both artistic with the process as well as effective, damn, fuck off with recess already, unless it's a working recess....
But shit happens, and it's not at all about what I can do -- but what I can accomplish with others, treating them well and aware of our intentions and will to follow through and commit.
I'm going to perform my MMORPGs on my own performing sacred shamanic masturbation rituals and I will begin to video and document my games for my Subscirbers on YouTube... so is the plan. I think it will help my shamanic partner to value what it is that I send to everyone before he can contribute that which will enhance the transmission. When we danced in ritual yesterday, I almost felt him acting jealous, even though my t-shirt read, "mi novio es no celeo" -- i could tell, any lucky bitch could
but it was hot -- i just wish he would have let go of his need to be macho and i could have blown more cocks. even in sacred space, i had felt my shamanic partner conscious of the energies i engaged in and beckoning me to return my attention to complete him... i felt a little monopolized. it feels good in a way, because i do realize how important i am to him. but it is also manipulating and needy, and a cover for some dis ease of the heart.
turns out, my shamanic partner had participated in our ritual with compromised integrity. unable to be completely clear with himself, his movements in the sacred space lacked that clarity, was clouded with shame and scanlessness. I gave my best performance as I know and pride in doing, but felt that the performance would have been more dynamic and far-reaching had I performed on my own, or with my shamanic partner bound by Tyvek tape, facing a corner, on MDMA.
Speaking off, during the 2nd and 3rd acts of the ritual, we sustained the sensation of being on E for half an hour or more -- completely on the way we swayed the energy and filtered the flow through various charges of Aka Dua and consciously provoked the musical strands of PYRAMYTH. It was hot and groovy.
The finale was especially sweet -- Solarco and I sent the energy in our sacred space out to all in gift-sized packets. We had plenty to send away so everyone received, no one was left out. It was a great end to the party. Please let me know if and when you receive something special over the next few days, particularly flavored with chyna pi.
I have a lot of great ideas for my public debut live performance. I don't need to rush the process. My success would be pointless if I were alone to acknowledge it. I do more with the works of others than with my own -- this is fact. And it's one I am very proud of. I will keep practicing and performing on my own, but I know my best art/Work has yet to manifest in me... and it is going to take an incredible leading supporting cast of horny talented psychedelic freaks with lateral vision and shamanic mask eyes.
I am ready. I am so ready.
Some of my troupe, however, is far from being able to help efficiently -- their help will cost (have cost) too much already. I am looking forward to January 7, for the first Riverside Art Walk of 2009 -- that shall be our debut at the fair.
I will have some workshops or demonstrations at The Pharoah's Den during the month of December. I love the vibe there and what the men of the den are creating. Get me a piece of that action fo sho. Creative collaborating -- you're there to push boundaries, stimulate a response and provoke insight... sure, it's a fucken turn on. I get hot working with other writers, musicians, graphic artists and directors. When I ride the bitch seat behind a track virtuoso, I wet for hours after I'm off the bike. I love the ways I am turned on by creative people. Fuck me already and take a picture. Even if it's only on the level of astral intentional thought patterned experiencing. I dig it, baby.
Last night's MMORPG was smooth in cool places and chunky in some awkward places. I shared the stage with my shamanic partner and he's been having a tough time this year -- even though we are finally together, we've both had to work so damn much and I think he's still holding to some belief that life owes him a break every now and then, that he's entitled to recess. I am all for it except the entitlement part, and that such a break in the Work is either inherent to or rewarded for the process. I'm creating at a fervor where breaks are for dufusses -- I'm here to rock it! I wudnt want to be doing anything else with my time, my investment, my love, my body, my nerves, my everything that The Real Work -- and the fact that I am both artistic with the process as well as effective, damn, fuck off with recess already, unless it's a working recess....
But shit happens, and it's not at all about what I can do -- but what I can accomplish with others, treating them well and aware of our intentions and will to follow through and commit.
I'm going to perform my MMORPGs on my own performing sacred shamanic masturbation rituals and I will begin to video and document my games for my Subscirbers on YouTube... so is the plan. I think it will help my shamanic partner to value what it is that I send to everyone before he can contribute that which will enhance the transmission. When we danced in ritual yesterday, I almost felt him acting jealous, even though my t-shirt read, "mi novio es no celeo" -- i could tell, any lucky bitch could
but it was hot -- i just wish he would have let go of his need to be macho and i could have blown more cocks. even in sacred space, i had felt my shamanic partner conscious of the energies i engaged in and beckoning me to return my attention to complete him... i felt a little monopolized. it feels good in a way, because i do realize how important i am to him. but it is also manipulating and needy, and a cover for some dis ease of the heart.
turns out, my shamanic partner had participated in our ritual with compromised integrity. unable to be completely clear with himself, his movements in the sacred space lacked that clarity, was clouded with shame and scanlessness. I gave my best performance as I know and pride in doing, but felt that the performance would have been more dynamic and far-reaching had I performed on my own, or with my shamanic partner bound by Tyvek tape, facing a corner, on MDMA.
Speaking off, during the 2nd and 3rd acts of the ritual, we sustained the sensation of being on E for half an hour or more -- completely on the way we swayed the energy and filtered the flow through various charges of Aka Dua and consciously provoked the musical strands of PYRAMYTH. It was hot and groovy.
The finale was especially sweet -- Solarco and I sent the energy in our sacred space out to all in gift-sized packets. We had plenty to send away so everyone received, no one was left out. It was a great end to the party. Please let me know if and when you receive something special over the next few days, particularly flavored with chyna pi.
I have a lot of great ideas for my public debut live performance. I don't need to rush the process. My success would be pointless if I were alone to acknowledge it. I do more with the works of others than with my own -- this is fact. And it's one I am very proud of. I will keep practicing and performing on my own, but I know my best art/Work has yet to manifest in me... and it is going to take an incredible leading supporting cast of horny talented psychedelic freaks with lateral vision and shamanic mask eyes.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Going To The Garbage Can To Eat Some Worms
"big worms, fat worms, skinny worms, curly worms -- worms, worms, worms, worms, worms"
it's my first time on my own in Canada. my mom is getting bigger and i need to get "show-shell-eyes" before i go to school after the summer. we came to Canada too late for me to go to school so i am going to daycamp.
i was happy to get out of the house and have my own life away from my boring tattletale sister. she's okay, she just started talking -- a lot; about what i do, what i say, what i eat, why she watches me all the time? especially since my mom tells me to watch her, but she doesn't ever do anything but look at me.
well, i'm free today. it will be fun to meet other people. i hope they are nice.
"be nice," my mom said to me after walking with my sister in her stroller and me to a big brick house with lots of cement stairs up to a porch with church glass above the door and window. "listen to mrs. marshall and don't play on the furniture. i will pick you up right here at 2 o'clock."
"today at 2?"
"have fun," my mom nodded as she handed me my lunch bag. "i love you."
a big white lady wearing a big red t-shirt and big red hair, bouncing down the steps towards us. she's nice. she smiles and laughs with my mom who shakes her hand. "you must be our new student?" she says to me as she puts her hand with red spots on my head.
"uh-huh."
"yes, mrs. marshall," my mom corrects for us. "thank you again for letting her come in so late notice."
"how far along are you?"
"five months. this one will be three next month."
"wow, you're tiny. you look like your first tricycle. and this is your daughter, too?"
my mom is so pretty. i look more like my mom than my sister does. and the lady reads my mind because she smiled at me when i thought that.
the lady holds my hand as we walk up the steps and inside the house.
it was full. so many fighting, smelly like rain and b.o., poo smell, crying, music playing and the tv on loud. i took off my jacket and put it on top of another jacket on the wall where the lady pointed. i saw all the shoes lined up along the wall so i took off my wet sneakers. i should have listened to my mom when she told me not to walk through the puddles. my socks were squishy and green from my sneakers. i sat on the end of the couch and waved at the kids.
"hey," they said as we made eye contact, waved back and we all watched tv. i opened the lunch bag and saw it was an albondigas sandwich and apple juice.
"why do you have a paper bag?" an old boy asked me. he was the biggest in the room with wet hair and a jeans jacket and skinny legs. he looked like he was ten years old!
"it's my lunch. am i allowed to eat here?"
"you have to share with everyone if you eat in the front room. or you can eat in the kitchen but only when they are not cooking, so you have to wait until lunch. so, are you going to share?"
i hand him my sandwich without opening the saran wrap.
"what is that smell? what kind of sandwich is that?"
"pork."
"gross. you're eating a pork sandwich for breakfast? i don't want any of that. anybody here want a pork sandwich?" we look around and the other kids are making faces at me and sticking their tongue out. "what else do you have?"
"apple juice."
"i'll take the apple juice."
i give him my paper bag with the apple juice in it. he takes the straw off the box with his mouth and stabs the box with it. after, he blows up the paper bag and then punches it, scaring everyone. the lady runs into the room, and the whole house is bouncing, and yells at my friend to go outside.
"she gave me the juice." he said to the lady when she made him give it to her.
"i gave him the juice. i didn't want it." i said.
he smiled at me and i smiled back, then he went outside and down the stairs with a bunch of younger boys. i watched them go outside the gate. i looked at the lady but she wasn't in the room anymore. when i looked back out the window from the couch, the boys were no longer in front of the house. i put my sandwich in my jacket pocket and put on my shoes and went down the stairs and out the gate.
i walked up the street until i reached an alley and heard the boys laugh, then i saw my friend as he stepped back from behind the garbage bin. he threw a cigeratte from his mouth and hit a box that was thrown away. he saw me looking at him and walked behind the garbage can again.
i went into the alley and held my nose as i smelled poo.
when i saw them, my friend had another cigarette and was passing it to his friends -- they were like my age, all boys.
"hi," i said and told them my name. my friend told me his name and the names of his friends who said hi. "can i play with you?"
"it depends. do you have a worm? we only play with kids who have worms?"
"worms?"
my friend opened up his jeans and showed me his worm. "do you have one?"
"no," i said.
"are you sure? let me see, sometimes it's small at your age and you can't see it but i know how to look for it." he points to one of his friends and says he has a small worm that's hard to see unless you really look. all the boys showed me their worms and i could see how some looked liked they didnt have worms at all.
"you know how you get a worm?" my friend asked.
i shrugged my shoulders.
"you have to eat another worm. when you eat enough worms, you grow your own worm. right guys?" they all agreed that is how you get a worm.
so i started to eat worms. and they were squishy and stinky and slimy and moved around in my mouth and made me cry a bit and snot a lot. afterwards, we checked to see if i grew a worm and i hadn't.
"i guess not today, but maybe tomorrow you can play with us. you can eat more worms later if you like."
"okay, thanks. bye." i said and went back to the house before someone tattletaled on us. i am so happy i saved my sandwich because i was so hungry. after eating all those worms, i just wanted to eat more!
later, we learned a song from a tv show that the lady put on and it made me laugh so much!
"nobody likes me, everybody hates me, going to the garbage can to eat some worms. big worms, fat worms, skinny worms, curly worms, worms, worms, worms, worms, worms."
we all laughed.
it's my first time on my own in Canada. my mom is getting bigger and i need to get "show-shell-eyes" before i go to school after the summer. we came to Canada too late for me to go to school so i am going to daycamp.
i was happy to get out of the house and have my own life away from my boring tattletale sister. she's okay, she just started talking -- a lot; about what i do, what i say, what i eat, why she watches me all the time? especially since my mom tells me to watch her, but she doesn't ever do anything but look at me.
well, i'm free today. it will be fun to meet other people. i hope they are nice.
"be nice," my mom said to me after walking with my sister in her stroller and me to a big brick house with lots of cement stairs up to a porch with church glass above the door and window. "listen to mrs. marshall and don't play on the furniture. i will pick you up right here at 2 o'clock."
"today at 2?"
"have fun," my mom nodded as she handed me my lunch bag. "i love you."
a big white lady wearing a big red t-shirt and big red hair, bouncing down the steps towards us. she's nice. she smiles and laughs with my mom who shakes her hand. "you must be our new student?" she says to me as she puts her hand with red spots on my head.
"uh-huh."
"yes, mrs. marshall," my mom corrects for us. "thank you again for letting her come in so late notice."
"how far along are you?"
"five months. this one will be three next month."
"wow, you're tiny. you look like your first tricycle. and this is your daughter, too?"
my mom is so pretty. i look more like my mom than my sister does. and the lady reads my mind because she smiled at me when i thought that.
the lady holds my hand as we walk up the steps and inside the house.
it was full. so many fighting, smelly like rain and b.o., poo smell, crying, music playing and the tv on loud. i took off my jacket and put it on top of another jacket on the wall where the lady pointed. i saw all the shoes lined up along the wall so i took off my wet sneakers. i should have listened to my mom when she told me not to walk through the puddles. my socks were squishy and green from my sneakers. i sat on the end of the couch and waved at the kids.
"hey," they said as we made eye contact, waved back and we all watched tv. i opened the lunch bag and saw it was an albondigas sandwich and apple juice.
"why do you have a paper bag?" an old boy asked me. he was the biggest in the room with wet hair and a jeans jacket and skinny legs. he looked like he was ten years old!
"it's my lunch. am i allowed to eat here?"
"you have to share with everyone if you eat in the front room. or you can eat in the kitchen but only when they are not cooking, so you have to wait until lunch. so, are you going to share?"
i hand him my sandwich without opening the saran wrap.
"what is that smell? what kind of sandwich is that?"
"pork."
"gross. you're eating a pork sandwich for breakfast? i don't want any of that. anybody here want a pork sandwich?" we look around and the other kids are making faces at me and sticking their tongue out. "what else do you have?"
"apple juice."
"i'll take the apple juice."
i give him my paper bag with the apple juice in it. he takes the straw off the box with his mouth and stabs the box with it. after, he blows up the paper bag and then punches it, scaring everyone. the lady runs into the room, and the whole house is bouncing, and yells at my friend to go outside.
"she gave me the juice." he said to the lady when she made him give it to her.
"i gave him the juice. i didn't want it." i said.
he smiled at me and i smiled back, then he went outside and down the stairs with a bunch of younger boys. i watched them go outside the gate. i looked at the lady but she wasn't in the room anymore. when i looked back out the window from the couch, the boys were no longer in front of the house. i put my sandwich in my jacket pocket and put on my shoes and went down the stairs and out the gate.
i walked up the street until i reached an alley and heard the boys laugh, then i saw my friend as he stepped back from behind the garbage bin. he threw a cigeratte from his mouth and hit a box that was thrown away. he saw me looking at him and walked behind the garbage can again.
i went into the alley and held my nose as i smelled poo.
when i saw them, my friend had another cigarette and was passing it to his friends -- they were like my age, all boys.
"hi," i said and told them my name. my friend told me his name and the names of his friends who said hi. "can i play with you?"
"it depends. do you have a worm? we only play with kids who have worms?"
"worms?"
my friend opened up his jeans and showed me his worm. "do you have one?"
"no," i said.
"are you sure? let me see, sometimes it's small at your age and you can't see it but i know how to look for it." he points to one of his friends and says he has a small worm that's hard to see unless you really look. all the boys showed me their worms and i could see how some looked liked they didnt have worms at all.
"you know how you get a worm?" my friend asked.
i shrugged my shoulders.
"you have to eat another worm. when you eat enough worms, you grow your own worm. right guys?" they all agreed that is how you get a worm.
so i started to eat worms. and they were squishy and stinky and slimy and moved around in my mouth and made me cry a bit and snot a lot. afterwards, we checked to see if i grew a worm and i hadn't.
"i guess not today, but maybe tomorrow you can play with us. you can eat more worms later if you like."
"okay, thanks. bye." i said and went back to the house before someone tattletaled on us. i am so happy i saved my sandwich because i was so hungry. after eating all those worms, i just wanted to eat more!
later, we learned a song from a tv show that the lady put on and it made me laugh so much!
"nobody likes me, everybody hates me, going to the garbage can to eat some worms. big worms, fat worms, skinny worms, curly worms, worms, worms, worms, worms, worms."
we all laughed.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Why The Fully Funded Push Towards DTTV
Millions, perhaps billions, of dollars have been spent to notice the American public that we must all comply with FCC regulations that analog tv will no longer be available for general media and that we must all convert to digital terrestrial television.
We've had DTT for a decade and, for the most recent years at least, the benefits of digital tv have truly improved the standard of tubing for many of us -- TiVO, HDTV, On-Demand programming and so on. So why are they spending so much money and using so many resources, both public and private, to ensure everyone is on board the DTT expressway?
Because corporations and commerial interests realize that much of their intended sales demographic watches free tv -- children.
Corporations know that it is not enough to pander to the working force, the taxpayer and the "tweens". Commercial interest reaches as far as toddlers and any mind that is set in front of a set that spoonfeeds them branding by animated fantastical spokescreatures. Get the 4-year old to recognize nike, Pepsi-Co or Ford Motors and you have a loyal consumer for life.
Free tv is full of kids-targeted marketing. Digital cable tv is where you will find artful, witty, cynical and ironic product placement, but on free tv, everything is vanilla bean. Free tv is for the masses who decide they are not interested in niche media.
If corporations and commercial interests LOSE this vast audience in 2009, they will suffer the bottom line in 2029 -- and i don't mean 8:30pm. The money invested in the public service announcements and news channel segments are long-term investments.
It's not at all benign, let alone generous. It is just another method corporations and commercial interest dictate how we receive content. They are not so much interested in our ability to receive digital content as much as they are hellbent on ensuring we continue to receive their commercials, product placement programs and betrothed news channels.
I love tv -- I just miss the days when television was innocent. Or rather, I miss the days when I thought tv was my friend. LOL!!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Digital_terrestrial_television
We've had DTT for a decade and, for the most recent years at least, the benefits of digital tv have truly improved the standard of tubing for many of us -- TiVO, HDTV, On-Demand programming and so on. So why are they spending so much money and using so many resources, both public and private, to ensure everyone is on board the DTT expressway?
Because corporations and commerial interests realize that much of their intended sales demographic watches free tv -- children.
Corporations know that it is not enough to pander to the working force, the taxpayer and the "tweens". Commercial interest reaches as far as toddlers and any mind that is set in front of a set that spoonfeeds them branding by animated fantastical spokescreatures. Get the 4-year old to recognize nike, Pepsi-Co or Ford Motors and you have a loyal consumer for life.
Free tv is full of kids-targeted marketing. Digital cable tv is where you will find artful, witty, cynical and ironic product placement, but on free tv, everything is vanilla bean. Free tv is for the masses who decide they are not interested in niche media.
If corporations and commercial interests LOSE this vast audience in 2009, they will suffer the bottom line in 2029 -- and i don't mean 8:30pm. The money invested in the public service announcements and news channel segments are long-term investments.
It's not at all benign, let alone generous. It is just another method corporations and commercial interest dictate how we receive content. They are not so much interested in our ability to receive digital content as much as they are hellbent on ensuring we continue to receive their commercials, product placement programs and betrothed news channels.
I love tv -- I just miss the days when television was innocent. Or rather, I miss the days when I thought tv was my friend. LOL!!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Digital_terrestrial_television
Thursday, November 20, 2008
A Well-Informed Society Spreads Neither Fear Nor Disease
This is an article from the Drug Policy Alliance (http://www.drugpolicy.org) which I am sharing with you to demonstrate the difference in attitude -- and real results -- when a society feels compelled and responsible for being informed, rather than demanding to be entertained and sensationalized to for receiving socio-political information. I accept that Americans want their media to be stimulating. I just hope that we as a collective audience initiate a shift towards responsible editorials, objective corporate influence and/or exposure in schools and government, and a return to trustworthy news reporting.
Canada's West Coast Leads the Americas in Drug Policy Reform
November 19, 2008
Special thanks to Gillian Maxwell, community activist and spokesperson for the Insite Community Safety Campaign in Vancouver, BC for her input on this article.
"British Columbia has been leading the hemisphere in drug policy reform for years. The most recent civic elections confirm this point, and demonstrate the power of effective policy advocacy and public education.
In 1998, there was an HIV epidemic declared and an urgent need for new drug policies based on harm reduction. Service organizers and public health officials did as much as they could. According to Vancouver community activist Gillian Maxwell, "the severity of the situation necessitated a lot of actions very quickly." She continued, noting, "a lot of education went on over an intense few years." Thanks to their education and advocacy efforts, the first safer injection facility in North America was opened in 2003 – and despite federal government pressure, Insite remains open. Elected officials in British Columbia are accountable to a well-informed public.
Gregor Robertson, mayor-elect of Vancouver, supports Insite and even wants to revamp the city's Four Pillars approach to drug policy – prevention, treatment, harm reduction and enforcement – with interactive, peer-led education programs that can help prevent future drug addictions. Robertson won by a landslide against his leading opponent who was running on a Law and Order platform that would have seen no further investment in safe injection facilities.
The new mayor-elect in nearby Victoria is also supportive of harm reduction efforts. Dean Fortin, who has served on the city council in Victoria, will work to find a permanent location for the city's syringe exchange program, and see that it has sufficient funding.
Joining the Victoria city council this year will be longtime medical cannabis activist Philippe Lucas, who wrote the British Columbia Green Party platform on substance abuse and marijuana. Elections in other parts of the province bode well for drug policy reform, too – like in Grand Forks, where former Marijuana Party leader Brian Taylor is the new mayor-elect."
Canada's West Coast Leads the Americas in Drug Policy Reform
November 19, 2008
Special thanks to Gillian Maxwell, community activist and spokesperson for the Insite Community Safety Campaign in Vancouver, BC for her input on this article.
"British Columbia has been leading the hemisphere in drug policy reform for years. The most recent civic elections confirm this point, and demonstrate the power of effective policy advocacy and public education.
In 1998, there was an HIV epidemic declared and an urgent need for new drug policies based on harm reduction. Service organizers and public health officials did as much as they could. According to Vancouver community activist Gillian Maxwell, "the severity of the situation necessitated a lot of actions very quickly." She continued, noting, "a lot of education went on over an intense few years." Thanks to their education and advocacy efforts, the first safer injection facility in North America was opened in 2003 – and despite federal government pressure, Insite remains open. Elected officials in British Columbia are accountable to a well-informed public.
Gregor Robertson, mayor-elect of Vancouver, supports Insite and even wants to revamp the city's Four Pillars approach to drug policy – prevention, treatment, harm reduction and enforcement – with interactive, peer-led education programs that can help prevent future drug addictions. Robertson won by a landslide against his leading opponent who was running on a Law and Order platform that would have seen no further investment in safe injection facilities.
The new mayor-elect in nearby Victoria is also supportive of harm reduction efforts. Dean Fortin, who has served on the city council in Victoria, will work to find a permanent location for the city's syringe exchange program, and see that it has sufficient funding.
Joining the Victoria city council this year will be longtime medical cannabis activist Philippe Lucas, who wrote the British Columbia Green Party platform on substance abuse and marijuana. Elections in other parts of the province bode well for drug policy reform, too – like in Grand Forks, where former Marijuana Party leader Brian Taylor is the new mayor-elect."
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Arctic Ghost Has Left The Building
I feel a three dog night chill under my skin as I bid "Adieu" to my most recent stray guest.
Where I live, I see a lot of stray dogs, some living off the rural streets while others are understimulated puppies running away for some heated adventures. The 55mph road that runs across my neighborhood is why I have invited so many strays into my back yard, feeding and blanketing them until Animal Control comes to collect. I have called on their services often over the past 4 years, even calling them for Col. Tishi Meizer before I adopted her off the street as my own pack diva. The Original.
And Col. Tishi Mei-Mei has seen these strays come and go. I have never had difficulty turning our guests over to the pound. I support their work by registering my pack members and spaying and neutering. But today, my heart wrenched as I said good-bye and good luck to Arctic Ghost, a female white husky puppy with igloo eyes.
Arctic Ghost came around my property yesterday. I first was notified of her presence by my pack as they barked and scratched at the front door and then raced to the back door where they can access the backyard from a tear in the screen compliments of The Colonel. My pack ran to the back gate and their barking stopped as they smelled the stray white dog with the bushy bushy tail on the other side. I watched the stray wander around the side dirt road for a few minutes, then I went back to doing the dishes.
My pack ran frantically back inside the house to the front door which was closed and they started barking and scratching at the front door. I shuushed them back and when I went outside in the front, the stray husky was smelling around my truck then went to my nextdoor neighbors' then made her way across the 55mph street avoiding honking, braking diesel trucks and black H3s. Still, I went back to my chores. Oftentimes, neighborhood dogs just go out for the day and return home before their people get home and realize otherwise.
Tishi and Bella Dora have gotten out their fair share of escapes and have always come home when I start shaking their walking collars and lead... sometimes bringing with them other wanderlusting canines. When I have recognized them from my walks, I have returned escaped dogs to their homes. When strays have collars, I call and coordinate pick-up. When dogs have no ID and look dirty, injured and/or hungry, I take them in, usually overnight, and notify Animal Control.
Arctic Ghost was dirty, hungry and looked like easy-pickings for unneutered studs, dominant bitches and inattentive dog-on-the-street-hit-n-running speeders. I put her in my locked back yard and called the pound for a pick-up. They said they will come out that afternoon which was good because with the husky puppy in heat, she was spotting and getting my pack all riled up, particularly Tishi Meizer. I had to keep them separate or one of them was going to get hurt. As much as I love Tishi, she tends to get herself into fights with dogs who kick her ass. A purebred husky pup in heat under my watch was not going to learn how to be insecure by my Lil Babette.
While I was in the backyard keeping the dogs calm and picking up their dogpiles, I noticed Tishi go to the door in attention. I figured it was Animal Control coming to pick-up Arctic Ghost. I went inside and when I got to the front door, I saw an official notice stating that the officer had been by a half hour ago and will return tomorrow for the stray. For some reason and predictably, I freaked out!
I called Animal Control back all angry and told them to cancel my call for pick-up as I have let the stray go. I was pissed that we were simply in the backyard and all the officer had to do was say "hello" or something to get my attention over the fence. It would have been so easy for them to do their job -- but instead, the officer wrote an earlier time on the notice than when she had actually come, and just took off! By the time I saw the notice and called Animal Control back, the officer had gone offshift. I was livid with the call center rep who responded when I told her I let the stray go with, "Why did you do that?" I yelled at her on my cf, "I did my job so you can do your job and then instead of doing her job, the officer just left for the day?!?!?!"
I think I smashed the cf on my desk before disconnecting -- I can still hang-up on someone in the digital age ;-p thankfully, blackberries are constructed sturdily. Still can make calls despite my overreacting.
Yes, I kicked the stray out of my backyard. I told her, "Go! Git!!"
For the next hour my dogs who were inside the house kept up their barking and running from the backyard to the front door. I was seething with bad attitude. Angry at all the commotion, I yelled at my pack to get back and then went outside the front. There, sitting under my truck bed like a black stray dog did four years ago, was Arctic Ghost. She wagged her magnificent tail and shot me a "Oh, c'mon" twinkle in her stare.
Of course, I took her back to the safety and comfort of my backyard. This time, I prepared dinner for all of the doggies: roast beef and brown rice with carrots. I serve myself a small plate before adding their doggy supplements and portioning out. I fed my pack inside my house first, then gave a bowl to Arctic Ghost in the back yard. She loved it and ate it all up. She made a friend for life that day! A friend that cooks for her!
I called Animal Control again and the patient call center rep took my information for the third time and spent a good minute apologizing for the inconvenience and thanking me for calling her back, also accepting my apologies for the way I took out my frustrations on her.
The thing is, this is what I do. I commit without discussion to helping others and doing what is required of the situation -- not what I need or even what is best for my loved ones, just, simply, what is required of the situation. Objectively. The good feelings I get from acting on my sense of altruism is addictive! And true to addictive personalities, the first obstacle that I hit or the first resistance I sense, however slight, I lose my marbles and behave embarrassingly.
Fortunately for me, Arctic Ghost would not allow me to pass up the opportunity to do good by her. She kept giving me another chance to do what was just. Right. When I took her back the second time, we looked eye to eye on the same level and I saw her relief. At the time, I figured it was because she was tired from running around on the streets, it was getting dark and colder now and she wanted a hot meal and a warm place to spend the night.
When my man returned home after dark, he informed me that one of our friends' dog was stabbed to death earlier in the afternoon. Around the same time I was going mental with Arctic Ghost, a post-partum depressed cokehead was stabbing a purebred boxer to death with a kitchen knife as my friend sustained slash wounds trying to keep his babymama off his puppy.
Imagine seeing the crime scene and then seeing the eyes of Arctic Ghost. My man did just that. And thank god I was able to recapitulate before he came home so that we could share a feeling of active participation. You see, two weeks ago, both my man and I asked our friend if he would like us to take his boxer for a while, at least until things worked out between him and his babymama. At the time, he turned us down because the boxer was the one energy that was pure love in their home -- attentive to the little children and to our friend. When my man visited yesterday just hours after the police hauled away the dog-killer for two years in prison (yes, two years -- i am psycho-crying again), our friend said to him sadly, "Maybe you shudda taken him for a bit."
As much good as I say I do with my experiences, I did not do good by our friend and his boxer. I did not do good with Arctic Ghost. But she gave me a chance to ressurect myself. Yes, she did.
I enjoyed my evening with my pack and with our guest. this morning when Animal Control returned to collect her, I had Arctic Ghost tethered in the front yard so she would not be missed again. With her gone, I finally bawled and wrote to my man:
"i am bawling my eyes out... i really got attached to her, to her lesson for me and to her stunning eyes. if only tishi weren't so insecure, it would have been great to spend more time with her, but they took her just now.
"i know it is best for everyone -- most of all her owners who i am sure are going crazy not knowing where she is. she looked like she knew her way home, but being a puppy on the loose in heat, i didnt think she would make it home before she got herself into trouble. lots of other dogs walking around may want to take her out or stud her, if a passing car doesn't inattentively run her over first.
"i felt her resist going into the pound truck -- i guess she felt the energy from the crates. i am just telling myself that it was the best thing to do. i appreciate you telling me about how you feel about the pound and still going with my actions of giving her care over to them. if it's okay with you, when we get our first check in a couple of weeks, can we call the pound to see if anyone has picked her up and if not, maybe we can go get her back? i am not asking for an answer now, we will feel for it when the time comes. i just wanted to share how much my experience with her energy means to me."
Where I live, I see a lot of stray dogs, some living off the rural streets while others are understimulated puppies running away for some heated adventures. The 55mph road that runs across my neighborhood is why I have invited so many strays into my back yard, feeding and blanketing them until Animal Control comes to collect. I have called on their services often over the past 4 years, even calling them for Col. Tishi Meizer before I adopted her off the street as my own pack diva. The Original.
And Col. Tishi Mei-Mei has seen these strays come and go. I have never had difficulty turning our guests over to the pound. I support their work by registering my pack members and spaying and neutering. But today, my heart wrenched as I said good-bye and good luck to Arctic Ghost, a female white husky puppy with igloo eyes.
Arctic Ghost came around my property yesterday. I first was notified of her presence by my pack as they barked and scratched at the front door and then raced to the back door where they can access the backyard from a tear in the screen compliments of The Colonel. My pack ran to the back gate and their barking stopped as they smelled the stray white dog with the bushy bushy tail on the other side. I watched the stray wander around the side dirt road for a few minutes, then I went back to doing the dishes.
My pack ran frantically back inside the house to the front door which was closed and they started barking and scratching at the front door. I shuushed them back and when I went outside in the front, the stray husky was smelling around my truck then went to my nextdoor neighbors' then made her way across the 55mph street avoiding honking, braking diesel trucks and black H3s. Still, I went back to my chores. Oftentimes, neighborhood dogs just go out for the day and return home before their people get home and realize otherwise.
Tishi and Bella Dora have gotten out their fair share of escapes and have always come home when I start shaking their walking collars and lead... sometimes bringing with them other wanderlusting canines. When I have recognized them from my walks, I have returned escaped dogs to their homes. When strays have collars, I call and coordinate pick-up. When dogs have no ID and look dirty, injured and/or hungry, I take them in, usually overnight, and notify Animal Control.
Arctic Ghost was dirty, hungry and looked like easy-pickings for unneutered studs, dominant bitches and inattentive dog-on-the-street-hit-n-running speeders. I put her in my locked back yard and called the pound for a pick-up. They said they will come out that afternoon which was good because with the husky puppy in heat, she was spotting and getting my pack all riled up, particularly Tishi Meizer. I had to keep them separate or one of them was going to get hurt. As much as I love Tishi, she tends to get herself into fights with dogs who kick her ass. A purebred husky pup in heat under my watch was not going to learn how to be insecure by my Lil Babette.
While I was in the backyard keeping the dogs calm and picking up their dogpiles, I noticed Tishi go to the door in attention. I figured it was Animal Control coming to pick-up Arctic Ghost. I went inside and when I got to the front door, I saw an official notice stating that the officer had been by a half hour ago and will return tomorrow for the stray. For some reason and predictably, I freaked out!
I called Animal Control back all angry and told them to cancel my call for pick-up as I have let the stray go. I was pissed that we were simply in the backyard and all the officer had to do was say "hello" or something to get my attention over the fence. It would have been so easy for them to do their job -- but instead, the officer wrote an earlier time on the notice than when she had actually come, and just took off! By the time I saw the notice and called Animal Control back, the officer had gone offshift. I was livid with the call center rep who responded when I told her I let the stray go with, "Why did you do that?" I yelled at her on my cf, "I did my job so you can do your job and then instead of doing her job, the officer just left for the day?!?!?!"
I think I smashed the cf on my desk before disconnecting -- I can still hang-up on someone in the digital age ;-p thankfully, blackberries are constructed sturdily. Still can make calls despite my overreacting.
Yes, I kicked the stray out of my backyard. I told her, "Go! Git!!"
For the next hour my dogs who were inside the house kept up their barking and running from the backyard to the front door. I was seething with bad attitude. Angry at all the commotion, I yelled at my pack to get back and then went outside the front. There, sitting under my truck bed like a black stray dog did four years ago, was Arctic Ghost. She wagged her magnificent tail and shot me a "Oh, c'mon" twinkle in her stare.
Of course, I took her back to the safety and comfort of my backyard. This time, I prepared dinner for all of the doggies: roast beef and brown rice with carrots. I serve myself a small plate before adding their doggy supplements and portioning out. I fed my pack inside my house first, then gave a bowl to Arctic Ghost in the back yard. She loved it and ate it all up. She made a friend for life that day! A friend that cooks for her!
I called Animal Control again and the patient call center rep took my information for the third time and spent a good minute apologizing for the inconvenience and thanking me for calling her back, also accepting my apologies for the way I took out my frustrations on her.
The thing is, this is what I do. I commit without discussion to helping others and doing what is required of the situation -- not what I need or even what is best for my loved ones, just, simply, what is required of the situation. Objectively. The good feelings I get from acting on my sense of altruism is addictive! And true to addictive personalities, the first obstacle that I hit or the first resistance I sense, however slight, I lose my marbles and behave embarrassingly.
Fortunately for me, Arctic Ghost would not allow me to pass up the opportunity to do good by her. She kept giving me another chance to do what was just. Right. When I took her back the second time, we looked eye to eye on the same level and I saw her relief. At the time, I figured it was because she was tired from running around on the streets, it was getting dark and colder now and she wanted a hot meal and a warm place to spend the night.
When my man returned home after dark, he informed me that one of our friends' dog was stabbed to death earlier in the afternoon. Around the same time I was going mental with Arctic Ghost, a post-partum depressed cokehead was stabbing a purebred boxer to death with a kitchen knife as my friend sustained slash wounds trying to keep his babymama off his puppy.
Imagine seeing the crime scene and then seeing the eyes of Arctic Ghost. My man did just that. And thank god I was able to recapitulate before he came home so that we could share a feeling of active participation. You see, two weeks ago, both my man and I asked our friend if he would like us to take his boxer for a while, at least until things worked out between him and his babymama. At the time, he turned us down because the boxer was the one energy that was pure love in their home -- attentive to the little children and to our friend. When my man visited yesterday just hours after the police hauled away the dog-killer for two years in prison (yes, two years -- i am psycho-crying again), our friend said to him sadly, "Maybe you shudda taken him for a bit."
As much good as I say I do with my experiences, I did not do good by our friend and his boxer. I did not do good with Arctic Ghost. But she gave me a chance to ressurect myself. Yes, she did.
I enjoyed my evening with my pack and with our guest. this morning when Animal Control returned to collect her, I had Arctic Ghost tethered in the front yard so she would not be missed again. With her gone, I finally bawled and wrote to my man:
"i am bawling my eyes out... i really got attached to her, to her lesson for me and to her stunning eyes. if only tishi weren't so insecure, it would have been great to spend more time with her, but they took her just now.
"i know it is best for everyone -- most of all her owners who i am sure are going crazy not knowing where she is. she looked like she knew her way home, but being a puppy on the loose in heat, i didnt think she would make it home before she got herself into trouble. lots of other dogs walking around may want to take her out or stud her, if a passing car doesn't inattentively run her over first.
"i felt her resist going into the pound truck -- i guess she felt the energy from the crates. i am just telling myself that it was the best thing to do. i appreciate you telling me about how you feel about the pound and still going with my actions of giving her care over to them. if it's okay with you, when we get our first check in a couple of weeks, can we call the pound to see if anyone has picked her up and if not, maybe we can go get her back? i am not asking for an answer now, we will feel for it when the time comes. i just wanted to share how much my experience with her energy means to me."
Monday, November 17, 2008
Sacred Whores and Trick Hos - Part 5
A question I get asked a lot is "What is the difference between Sacred Whores and Trick Hos?" and it seems self explanatory, doesn't it? Yet, I suppose if the question keeps coming up, the confusion is in the wording of the question.
Sacred. This is a loaded word these days; however, trace the entymology: sacrum.
Sacrum: "bone at the base of the spine," 1753, from L.L. os sacrum "sacred bone," from L. os "bone" + sacrum, neut. of sacer "sacred." Said to be so called because the bone was the part of animals that was offered in sacrifices.
As a Sacred Whore, I sacrifice something in every session, but never -- ever, bitches -- my soul. In fact, what I do sacrifice, nourishes my soul... nourishes my partners' souls... nourishes the Absolute. It is definitely a process that did not begin with me nor will it end with me, but I am most useful to the process as long as I adhere to the sacred aspects of sexual ritual. It is about being in the moment where one is free of analysis, free of judgment, free of design. The only standard is that of being present.
Trick. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/trick
I don't wish to insult ur intelligence with a verbose explanation of what a Trick is.
So, in practice, Trick Hos are all about getting as much money out of a trick as physically, mentally and emotionally possible. One pro I was talking to tonight explained it like this: "This job is 90% lies and the best liars know that a good lie is 2 parts Truth, 1 part Lie."
Imagine if you had that cocktail everytime you engaged sexually with someone -- sheeyat. Is there ANY confusion why Sacred Whores exhist BECAUSE of Trick Hos?!?!
Spiritually possible. That's what I get out of my sessions. Everything spiritually possible. And it's inexplicable. That's why when you look at the books and nothing else, you may come to the conclusion that I don't have a fucken clue as to what I'm doing. But you didn't look into my party's eyes. Truer, you didn't look through my party's eyes.
It's something I will have not only to tolerate, but also to incorporate in the way I project my art: the judgment of Trick Hos when I am incapable of judging them. It is the fulfillment of my childhood training that women will be my harshest critics. Bring it!
My conversation with aforementioned girl at the CR was very revealing. Well, she did all the talking... while I read her. It was just like at Madame Cleo's when I was working there to satiate my nymphomania and the other bitches be talking about what I do in my sessions behind my back and just always chiding about my game. Back then, I deserved it as I was fucked up, seriously. I was no where close to being Sacred. However, I behaved on a parallel pane.
It was my intense training with the guidance of Toltec Shaman Koyote and his community of sacred workers that began the refinement process from nymphomaniac to sacred sexual artist... from self-gratification to self-sacrifice.
Sacred. This is a loaded word these days; however, trace the entymology: sacrum.
Sacrum: "bone at the base of the spine," 1753, from L.L. os sacrum "sacred bone," from L. os "bone" + sacrum, neut. of sacer "sacred." Said to be so called because the bone was the part of animals that was offered in sacrifices.
As a Sacred Whore, I sacrifice something in every session, but never -- ever, bitches -- my soul. In fact, what I do sacrifice, nourishes my soul... nourishes my partners' souls... nourishes the Absolute. It is definitely a process that did not begin with me nor will it end with me, but I am most useful to the process as long as I adhere to the sacred aspects of sexual ritual. It is about being in the moment where one is free of analysis, free of judgment, free of design. The only standard is that of being present.
Trick. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/trick
I don't wish to insult ur intelligence with a verbose explanation of what a Trick is.
So, in practice, Trick Hos are all about getting as much money out of a trick as physically, mentally and emotionally possible. One pro I was talking to tonight explained it like this: "This job is 90% lies and the best liars know that a good lie is 2 parts Truth, 1 part Lie."
Imagine if you had that cocktail everytime you engaged sexually with someone -- sheeyat. Is there ANY confusion why Sacred Whores exhist BECAUSE of Trick Hos?!?!
Spiritually possible. That's what I get out of my sessions. Everything spiritually possible. And it's inexplicable. That's why when you look at the books and nothing else, you may come to the conclusion that I don't have a fucken clue as to what I'm doing. But you didn't look into my party's eyes. Truer, you didn't look through my party's eyes.
It's something I will have not only to tolerate, but also to incorporate in the way I project my art: the judgment of Trick Hos when I am incapable of judging them. It is the fulfillment of my childhood training that women will be my harshest critics. Bring it!
My conversation with aforementioned girl at the CR was very revealing. Well, she did all the talking... while I read her. It was just like at Madame Cleo's when I was working there to satiate my nymphomania and the other bitches be talking about what I do in my sessions behind my back and just always chiding about my game. Back then, I deserved it as I was fucked up, seriously. I was no where close to being Sacred. However, I behaved on a parallel pane.
It was my intense training with the guidance of Toltec Shaman Koyote and his community of sacred workers that began the refinement process from nymphomaniac to sacred sexual artist... from self-gratification to self-sacrifice.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Diamonds From The Rough
Alan blotted his upper lip with a pressed monogrammed handkerchief. His Gucci logo cufflink clicked on the wristband of his Bvlgari Steel Crono.
"May I offer you an evian, Mr. Mills?"
Before Alan could respond, the not-unattractive woman with the slick hair bun and gap-toothed smile was pressing on the teal "ICM" button.
"Yes, Ms. Guzman?" broadcasted over the speaker phone.
"Victor, two evians, please." Her gray flannel suit was tasteful in its classic lines but Alan considered the hemline a touch short for her age. She sat down opposite him at the glass desk. It reminded Alan of the transparent counter on Entertainment Tonight, except Ms. Guzman's desk was equipped with a functioning glass drawer. Neatly organized within transparent compartments were its contents: a leather portfolio with Memento Mortuary embossed in silver on the cover, a perfectly unused eraser, Waterford fountain pen and pencil, a silver-handled letter opener, and white vinyl-coated paper clips in three different sizes. Ms. Guzman crossed her legs under the desk. Her gray opaque tights with sheer pin-striping detail flattered her legs.
Alan tucked his handkerchief back in his inside jacket pocket and returned Ms. Guzman's smile as the lanky college student - who'd greeted him at the vestibule wearing a three-piece suit that was patently prêt à porter - entered the glass enclosed office with two bottles of evian on a serving tray.
The young man placed two silver plated coasters with the Memento Mortuary logo atop the desk. He uncapped the bottled waters and placed them on the coasters. Finally, a short stack of cocktail napkins, also with the Memento Mortuary logo. He left the room carrying the tray as if there were still items on it.
Alan reached for his water. Ms. Guzman placed a tri-fold glossy brochure in his outstretched palm. He held the brochure for a stunned moment, looked at Ms. Guzman who was leaning towards him - arms crossed but friendly on the desk - and brought the brochure in to read.
"As you know, Mr. Mills," nary a whistle from her gap, "cremation has been traditionally accepted in many cultures for millennia."
Alan looked at the colored photographs - gold and platinum accented against Caesar's Purple velvet. "Just not in our culture," he replied as he scanned the images of bejeweled plates, vases, lockets and other jewelry until he found the design he'd inquired about.
"There are no hard rules when it comes to celebrating the lives of those we love. The carbon pressing technology of today produces brilliant results that could not have been imagined before the 21st century," Ms. Guzman explained in a chest voice that amplified through the glass desk. "Ashes to ashes; dust to dust? Bethany, Conner, and Donny..." she paused.
Alan swallowed the tumbling knot climbing his throat as the three names lingered.
"What culture can prepare you for that?" Ms. Guzman suggested as she leaned closer. She pointed to a paragraph in the middle of the brochure. The paragraph title read Color - The Auras. "Mrs. Mills will never have to visit a grave site once, much less for three different birthdays, on Mother's Day, Fa-- I'm sorry, Mr. Mills," her neck reddening. "I don't know what came over me."
Alan grinned politely. Eerie, that a woman he met ten minutes ago would say the same thing his wife of ten years had said.
*
"Alan, my babies," she cried from the hospital bed where she lay in traction for six weeks after the Expedition had rolled over on the I-5 between picking up the twins from soccer practice and dropping off Bethany at her 4-H meeting. The coma had spared her sanity at the cost of her memories. When she had regained consciousness, Alan had to tell her that their 9-year old angel and 7-year old twin stars had gone to Heaven. "Three graves to dig, three birthdays to grieve, three lives to miss... Alan, I miss them already. They call this surviving? They say I am lucky to be alive? Tell them to leave at once! Tell them all to fucking leave me alone!"
*
"Where do you need me to sign?" Alan asked.
Ms. Guzman smiled again and wiped an evian bottle down with a napkin and handed it to Alan. "Please, refresh yourself while I complete the contract."
As Alan sipped, Ms. Guzman filled out one of the forms that was in the leather portfolio. She referred to his Lifestyle Editor, Vogue Magazine business card presented during introductions to complete his contact information. She made five X strokes where he needed to sign. Ms. Guzman flipped it around so the contract was rightside-up for Alan and said, "For this design, it will be $89,000 plus 8.5% sales tax for a total of $96,565. How would you like to settle the account, Mr. Mills?"
Alan thought about the life insurance money sitting in the checking account. "AmEx," he replied.
*
Zita woke to her husband's minty-fresh breath on her neck and tapwater-chilled lips on her shouder as Alan kissed her softly. She opened her eyes and stared blankly at red numbers on her alarm clock. 11:34 AM. He didn't even let her sleep in on their anniversary. "What's wrong?" Zita asked without turning to look at her husband of ten years. "Is company coming over?"
"No, honey," Alan said with a strange lift to his tone, just like the time he convinced her into cremating her children in an oven. "Happy Anniversary," he said in between soft kisses on her shoulder.
Zita recoiled from his lips, scrunching her face.
Alan put an arm around her shoulders and the other under her knees. He lifted her off the bed and carried her naked body to the living room where he had lit candles around the polar bear skin rug. He placed her gently on the floor, slightly concerned that his wife was so light.
For the first time since she broke her back, Zita allowed herself to feel the moment - she was blissfully alive. The thick, long fur pampered her skin. Goosebumps.
Alan knelt on one knee and held up a tiny leather box with "MM" embossed in silver on the flip top.
Zita's fashion model eyes widened on cue as she opened the box. Inside, the platinum ring with the three clear and different colored stones twinkled against Caesar's Purple velvet.
"Do you see their auras, Zita?" Alan asked, his tone lifting.
Zita did see. Bethany's yellow. Conner's indigo. And Donald's green - her little leprechaun.
###
"May I offer you an evian, Mr. Mills?"
Before Alan could respond, the not-unattractive woman with the slick hair bun and gap-toothed smile was pressing on the teal "ICM" button.
"Yes, Ms. Guzman?" broadcasted over the speaker phone.
"Victor, two evians, please." Her gray flannel suit was tasteful in its classic lines but Alan considered the hemline a touch short for her age. She sat down opposite him at the glass desk. It reminded Alan of the transparent counter on Entertainment Tonight, except Ms. Guzman's desk was equipped with a functioning glass drawer. Neatly organized within transparent compartments were its contents: a leather portfolio with Memento Mortuary embossed in silver on the cover, a perfectly unused eraser, Waterford fountain pen and pencil, a silver-handled letter opener, and white vinyl-coated paper clips in three different sizes. Ms. Guzman crossed her legs under the desk. Her gray opaque tights with sheer pin-striping detail flattered her legs.
Alan tucked his handkerchief back in his inside jacket pocket and returned Ms. Guzman's smile as the lanky college student - who'd greeted him at the vestibule wearing a three-piece suit that was patently prêt à porter - entered the glass enclosed office with two bottles of evian on a serving tray.
The young man placed two silver plated coasters with the Memento Mortuary logo atop the desk. He uncapped the bottled waters and placed them on the coasters. Finally, a short stack of cocktail napkins, also with the Memento Mortuary logo. He left the room carrying the tray as if there were still items on it.
Alan reached for his water. Ms. Guzman placed a tri-fold glossy brochure in his outstretched palm. He held the brochure for a stunned moment, looked at Ms. Guzman who was leaning towards him - arms crossed but friendly on the desk - and brought the brochure in to read.
"As you know, Mr. Mills," nary a whistle from her gap, "cremation has been traditionally accepted in many cultures for millennia."
Alan looked at the colored photographs - gold and platinum accented against Caesar's Purple velvet. "Just not in our culture," he replied as he scanned the images of bejeweled plates, vases, lockets and other jewelry until he found the design he'd inquired about.
"There are no hard rules when it comes to celebrating the lives of those we love. The carbon pressing technology of today produces brilliant results that could not have been imagined before the 21st century," Ms. Guzman explained in a chest voice that amplified through the glass desk. "Ashes to ashes; dust to dust? Bethany, Conner, and Donny..." she paused.
Alan swallowed the tumbling knot climbing his throat as the three names lingered.
"What culture can prepare you for that?" Ms. Guzman suggested as she leaned closer. She pointed to a paragraph in the middle of the brochure. The paragraph title read Color - The Auras. "Mrs. Mills will never have to visit a grave site once, much less for three different birthdays, on Mother's Day, Fa-- I'm sorry, Mr. Mills," her neck reddening. "I don't know what came over me."
Alan grinned politely. Eerie, that a woman he met ten minutes ago would say the same thing his wife of ten years had said.
*
"Alan, my babies," she cried from the hospital bed where she lay in traction for six weeks after the Expedition had rolled over on the I-5 between picking up the twins from soccer practice and dropping off Bethany at her 4-H meeting. The coma had spared her sanity at the cost of her memories. When she had regained consciousness, Alan had to tell her that their 9-year old angel and 7-year old twin stars had gone to Heaven. "Three graves to dig, three birthdays to grieve, three lives to miss... Alan, I miss them already. They call this surviving? They say I am lucky to be alive? Tell them to leave at once! Tell them all to fucking leave me alone!"
*
"Where do you need me to sign?" Alan asked.
Ms. Guzman smiled again and wiped an evian bottle down with a napkin and handed it to Alan. "Please, refresh yourself while I complete the contract."
As Alan sipped, Ms. Guzman filled out one of the forms that was in the leather portfolio. She referred to his Lifestyle Editor, Vogue Magazine business card presented during introductions to complete his contact information. She made five X strokes where he needed to sign. Ms. Guzman flipped it around so the contract was rightside-up for Alan and said, "For this design, it will be $89,000 plus 8.5% sales tax for a total of $96,565. How would you like to settle the account, Mr. Mills?"
Alan thought about the life insurance money sitting in the checking account. "AmEx," he replied.
*
Zita woke to her husband's minty-fresh breath on her neck and tapwater-chilled lips on her shouder as Alan kissed her softly. She opened her eyes and stared blankly at red numbers on her alarm clock. 11:34 AM. He didn't even let her sleep in on their anniversary. "What's wrong?" Zita asked without turning to look at her husband of ten years. "Is company coming over?"
"No, honey," Alan said with a strange lift to his tone, just like the time he convinced her into cremating her children in an oven. "Happy Anniversary," he said in between soft kisses on her shoulder.
Zita recoiled from his lips, scrunching her face.
Alan put an arm around her shoulders and the other under her knees. He lifted her off the bed and carried her naked body to the living room where he had lit candles around the polar bear skin rug. He placed her gently on the floor, slightly concerned that his wife was so light.
For the first time since she broke her back, Zita allowed herself to feel the moment - she was blissfully alive. The thick, long fur pampered her skin. Goosebumps.
Alan knelt on one knee and held up a tiny leather box with "MM" embossed in silver on the flip top.
Zita's fashion model eyes widened on cue as she opened the box. Inside, the platinum ring with the three clear and different colored stones twinkled against Caesar's Purple velvet.
"Do you see their auras, Zita?" Alan asked, his tone lifting.
Zita did see. Bethany's yellow. Conner's indigo. And Donald's green - her little leprechaun.
###
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Oh My Mother Fucken God
The Creator is Female-Eternal.
Having created a physical, sensual universe, God created a vessel to experience in full humanness God's glory. But this vessel, became bored and lonely.
So God creates a second vessel that physically embodies creation -- Lilith -- whose passions were rooted to The Absolute. Still, the first vessel complained, this time over his reluctance to be submissive in creation.
God honorably (and mercifully) discharges Lilith from forced companionship, freeing Her Passion to seek beings. God puts Adam into a deep sleep and recreates another vessel from his side, binding The Creator with the creation with recreation in Recreation.
God then plants two trees. The Trees of Life and of Knowledge.
As Adam discovered passion through Eve, God created fear in Adam to test his ability to remain aware, grateful and ecstatic. God told Adam, "Everything in my Garden is for you and yours. Do as you wish. You choose your freedoms. Except one, eat not from this tree, The Tree of Knowledge. It is not for you nor yours. Everything else, I have created for you to experience."
As Eve explored Eden's Garden, she reignited Adam's wonder for God's awesome Love. Predictibly, Adam's wonder waned faster than Eve's. Prepared to be submissive but not passive in creativity, Eve tended to Adam's complacency while simultaneously challenging her own.
When God felt inspired for a truly worthwhile exercise in The Absolute, God sent an agent in the form of a serpent to seduce the neglected Eve. By showing Eve the Tree of Knowledge, God accomplished with two bites what has taken human beings millennia to achieve: recreational creation of worlds simultaneous in every full and absolute moment... plus one thing human beings are still struggling with: Time.
With Eve tempting Adam to leave the monotony and complacency of a patriarchal garden, consciousness as The Universal Quest began. And is still being played for as long as the single eternal moment can be held, intentioned, reheld and manifested. Just so God can dance with us while we complain of being bored and lonely.... sheessh...
And God's name was Eden, in case ya dint know...
One none. No idea. Karma does not exist. Herein lies a piece of God.
Having created a physical, sensual universe, God created a vessel to experience in full humanness God's glory. But this vessel, became bored and lonely.
So God creates a second vessel that physically embodies creation -- Lilith -- whose passions were rooted to The Absolute. Still, the first vessel complained, this time over his reluctance to be submissive in creation.
God honorably (and mercifully) discharges Lilith from forced companionship, freeing Her Passion to seek beings. God puts Adam into a deep sleep and recreates another vessel from his side, binding The Creator with the creation with recreation in Recreation.
God then plants two trees. The Trees of Life and of Knowledge.
As Adam discovered passion through Eve, God created fear in Adam to test his ability to remain aware, grateful and ecstatic. God told Adam, "Everything in my Garden is for you and yours. Do as you wish. You choose your freedoms. Except one, eat not from this tree, The Tree of Knowledge. It is not for you nor yours. Everything else, I have created for you to experience."
As Eve explored Eden's Garden, she reignited Adam's wonder for God's awesome Love. Predictibly, Adam's wonder waned faster than Eve's. Prepared to be submissive but not passive in creativity, Eve tended to Adam's complacency while simultaneously challenging her own.
When God felt inspired for a truly worthwhile exercise in The Absolute, God sent an agent in the form of a serpent to seduce the neglected Eve. By showing Eve the Tree of Knowledge, God accomplished with two bites what has taken human beings millennia to achieve: recreational creation of worlds simultaneous in every full and absolute moment... plus one thing human beings are still struggling with: Time.
With Eve tempting Adam to leave the monotony and complacency of a patriarchal garden, consciousness as The Universal Quest began. And is still being played for as long as the single eternal moment can be held, intentioned, reheld and manifested. Just so God can dance with us while we complain of being bored and lonely.... sheessh...
And God's name was Eden, in case ya dint know...
One none. No idea. Karma does not exist. Herein lies a piece of God.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Are You A Frog?
It is no accident that the Frog figures prominently in all forms of shamanism. It is prehistoric and operates with one of the most evolved nervous systems on the planet. Even so, it has a weakness in its programming. The frog cannot detect gradual change. You put a live frog in a big pot of room temperature water and gradually heat the water to a slow boil, the frog will just swim around in the pot until it is cooked to death. However, put a live frog into a pot of boiling water and those legs will keep its chin from gettting wet.
This phenomenon is similar to the way some people achieve true self refinement. Some of us will spiral downward in tight concentric circles never seeming to hit the proverbial bottom, then suddenly, WHAM, we get T-Boned by a real shock to the system and then we see the light.
I discovered I had a Frog Totem when I went for a Guided Meditation session. Animal Totems represent energies that aid in our personal journeys. First Nations people erected totem poles to represent their success in completing the many rites of life. The higher the totem pole, the more challlenges and hardships overcome. However, it is the animal on the base of the totem pole that is the most important and represents the thematic struggle of its companion.
We started guided meditation just like you see in the movies: You're in a forest... you smell the grass, the moss, the bark of the trees, you feel the moist earth beneath your bare feet and you begin to walk in one direction... until you come into a clearing.
Three animals will approach. Let them come one by one and if you feel like interacting, interact... if you don't that's okay.
My first animal was a mountain lion. She paced around me a few times and then walked to the edge of the clearing and lay down.
Then, a Kodiak bear emerged from the forest and got up on her hind legs right in front of me. Must have been 12 feet tall. She sat on her butt and pawed the air a bit, sniffing, then went to the other edge of the clearing and began scratching her back on the trees.
Then a frog came hopping in -- crazy hops: 8 feet at a time. It was fluorescent orange with black and yellow markings. It hopped up my leg with a sticky pad grip and hopped right into my mouth. I started to trip out in my meditation, kaleidescope globs and glass shards into impressionist paintings then buffets of exotic food.
At the end of the meditation, our guide explained that since the frog made physical contact with me and further, I had ingested its substance, that was a clear indication that my totem animal was The Frog.
I say was, because I am no longer numb to the gradual. I've slowed down my perspective and because I am shooting more frames in my life with my attention, I can manage my self work even through gradual decay. Now, I am a Lynx.
What totem animal is the influencing force in your life? Below are some interesting sites.
http://www.animaltotem.com/ - classic site, easy to nav
http://www.totemanimals.com/ - modern site with dynamic features
http://www.geocities.com/RainForest/4076/index1.html - annoying site but wealth of info
This phenomenon is similar to the way some people achieve true self refinement. Some of us will spiral downward in tight concentric circles never seeming to hit the proverbial bottom, then suddenly, WHAM, we get T-Boned by a real shock to the system and then we see the light.
I discovered I had a Frog Totem when I went for a Guided Meditation session. Animal Totems represent energies that aid in our personal journeys. First Nations people erected totem poles to represent their success in completing the many rites of life. The higher the totem pole, the more challlenges and hardships overcome. However, it is the animal on the base of the totem pole that is the most important and represents the thematic struggle of its companion.
We started guided meditation just like you see in the movies: You're in a forest... you smell the grass, the moss, the bark of the trees, you feel the moist earth beneath your bare feet and you begin to walk in one direction... until you come into a clearing.
Three animals will approach. Let them come one by one and if you feel like interacting, interact... if you don't that's okay.
My first animal was a mountain lion. She paced around me a few times and then walked to the edge of the clearing and lay down.
Then, a Kodiak bear emerged from the forest and got up on her hind legs right in front of me. Must have been 12 feet tall. She sat on her butt and pawed the air a bit, sniffing, then went to the other edge of the clearing and began scratching her back on the trees.
Then a frog came hopping in -- crazy hops: 8 feet at a time. It was fluorescent orange with black and yellow markings. It hopped up my leg with a sticky pad grip and hopped right into my mouth. I started to trip out in my meditation, kaleidescope globs and glass shards into impressionist paintings then buffets of exotic food.
At the end of the meditation, our guide explained that since the frog made physical contact with me and further, I had ingested its substance, that was a clear indication that my totem animal was The Frog.
I say was, because I am no longer numb to the gradual. I've slowed down my perspective and because I am shooting more frames in my life with my attention, I can manage my self work even through gradual decay. Now, I am a Lynx.
What totem animal is the influencing force in your life? Below are some interesting sites.
http://www.animaltotem.com/ - classic site, easy to nav
http://www.totemanimals.com/ - modern site with dynamic features
http://www.geocities.com/RainForest/4076/index1.html - annoying site but wealth of info
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Raul: A Shaman Holding Steady Consciousness
thank you, raul, for how u worded your intention in your reply
u r a shaman walking in steady consciousness without pretence
when i asked you about "one none" i included the incantation to do with Toltecs for a reason
when you replied, my beautiful soul journeyour. you said UNO NADIE, no idea about the Toltecs
I read this, as it was my intention to receive the proper translation of my poem from you, as:
there is the direct translation - UNO NADIE; and the Toltec translation - no idea
no idea
that is the translation of
one none
in spanish. no idea. either there is a thought, which creates perception, which creates "reality" which creates worlds, blah(3) or you do not have idea
on or off
1 or 0
the binary denomination
it doesnt matter if its on or off, whatever, affects the system as a whole -- one none
pi to the nth power
my dear friend
your poem is better than mine
no idea
it works in english and spanish, but more beautiful in spanish. the engilsh translation of "no idea" is "one none". and the letters NO IDEA are actually included in the direct translation UNO NADIE -- u better tell sumduby!
i believe in you. please believe in urself, raul. i cannot have had the last 5 months without ur grace, beauty and inspiration as part of my world. i am so proud that you stayed true to your integrity. can you appreciate the magick you performed? can you see yourself truly in the moment? wow. i, and my blog readers, am blown away.
no idea,
pi
muwah-muwah-muwah
________________________________________
From: Raul
Sent: Wednesday, March 19, 2008 3:44 PM
To: Pi
Subject: Re: Lost in translation
the direct translation is UNO NADIE, no idea about Toltecs.
thanks.
--- Pi wrote:
> Hey, raul!
> Re my shortest poem, how would u translate into spanish:
>
> One None.
>
> Is there a spanish phrase that describes the Toltec concepts of
> dreaming in the second attention? I imagine there is, unless its in
> nagualese. I thought u might know.
>
> Great to feel ur new nrg, Raul.
> Namaste,
> Pi
>
u r a shaman walking in steady consciousness without pretence
when i asked you about "one none" i included the incantation to do with Toltecs for a reason
when you replied, my beautiful soul journeyour. you said UNO NADIE, no idea about the Toltecs
I read this, as it was my intention to receive the proper translation of my poem from you, as:
there is the direct translation - UNO NADIE; and the Toltec translation - no idea
no idea
that is the translation of
one none
in spanish. no idea. either there is a thought, which creates perception, which creates "reality" which creates worlds, blah(3) or you do not have idea
on or off
1 or 0
the binary denomination
it doesnt matter if its on or off, whatever, affects the system as a whole -- one none
pi to the nth power
my dear friend
your poem is better than mine
no idea
it works in english and spanish, but more beautiful in spanish. the engilsh translation of "no idea" is "one none". and the letters NO IDEA are actually included in the direct translation UNO NADIE -- u better tell sumduby!
i believe in you. please believe in urself, raul. i cannot have had the last 5 months without ur grace, beauty and inspiration as part of my world. i am so proud that you stayed true to your integrity. can you appreciate the magick you performed? can you see yourself truly in the moment? wow. i, and my blog readers, am blown away.
no idea,
pi
muwah-muwah-muwah
________________________________________
From: Raul
Sent: Wednesday, March 19, 2008 3:44 PM
To: Pi
Subject: Re: Lost in translation
the direct translation is UNO NADIE, no idea about Toltecs.
thanks.
--- Pi wrote:
> Hey, raul!
> Re my shortest poem, how would u translate into spanish:
>
> One None.
>
> Is there a spanish phrase that describes the Toltec concepts of
> dreaming in the second attention? I imagine there is, unless its in
> nagualese. I thought u might know.
>
> Great to feel ur new nrg, Raul.
> Namaste,
> Pi
>
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Same As Last Time
Everyone is having a challenging Year of The Rat -- I can feel it, so no need to argue... but c'mon!!
The Year of The Rat symbolically is a harbinger for resolution, for tying up loose ends or untangling crossed wires, as it is the first of twelve zodiac signs. It is imperative that we align ourselves with the purpose of this present Rat so that we are in proper position to align with the promise of 2012, The Year of The Dragon.
I felt you all shiver in anticipation. I am happy, as it was the intention.
On that note, since I have left the employ of the Chicken Ranch and the persistance of The Gantzes, I have not performed any performance rituals with former clients.
Until last night. He was a good client that partied with me for two nights for four-figures. He is being deployed overseas this week. We hadn't seen each other for a year since his last RnR but he exceeded as a client when I would receive 3-line emails from him during his missions which would say, "Not a lot of time to write, but I wanted to let you know I am safe, the food sucks, and I am looking forward to going on break." Not a lot of time to write, but enough time to write my email address. I was genuinely saved from loathing my sex work/art when he would message. Don't get it confused, I am not saying I loathed my work; that's obviously ridiculous; but rather at those rare times when I am wondering "is it worth it?" I would receive his emails from overseas and realize I AM and HAVE made a world of difference.
But last night, I was hurt. He had asked for the same as last time and I was so willing and eager to oblige and participate that I had neglected to tell him, I want the same as last time too. He came with nothing for me. Nothing.
SCE is threatening to discontinue power to my home by Monday; i've turned all my credit cards into fixed term loans to save on interest and penelty charges and I'm spending more on groceries for my doggies than for me. I haven't had a Josh Blank do in six months and my nails are ratfucked -- as in the year of the rat.
Everyone is going through this crazy year -- but please people, do not assume that working girls have it easy. And never ever presume that you can ever have the same as last time especially if you are unwilling to provide the same as last time yourself. I am truly at a loss.
Desperate for what is just,
chyna pi
The Year of The Rat symbolically is a harbinger for resolution, for tying up loose ends or untangling crossed wires, as it is the first of twelve zodiac signs. It is imperative that we align ourselves with the purpose of this present Rat so that we are in proper position to align with the promise of 2012, The Year of The Dragon.
I felt you all shiver in anticipation. I am happy, as it was the intention.
On that note, since I have left the employ of the Chicken Ranch and the persistance of The Gantzes, I have not performed any performance rituals with former clients.
Until last night. He was a good client that partied with me for two nights for four-figures. He is being deployed overseas this week. We hadn't seen each other for a year since his last RnR but he exceeded as a client when I would receive 3-line emails from him during his missions which would say, "Not a lot of time to write, but I wanted to let you know I am safe, the food sucks, and I am looking forward to going on break." Not a lot of time to write, but enough time to write my email address. I was genuinely saved from loathing my sex work/art when he would message. Don't get it confused, I am not saying I loathed my work; that's obviously ridiculous; but rather at those rare times when I am wondering "is it worth it?" I would receive his emails from overseas and realize I AM and HAVE made a world of difference.
But last night, I was hurt. He had asked for the same as last time and I was so willing and eager to oblige and participate that I had neglected to tell him, I want the same as last time too. He came with nothing for me. Nothing.
SCE is threatening to discontinue power to my home by Monday; i've turned all my credit cards into fixed term loans to save on interest and penelty charges and I'm spending more on groceries for my doggies than for me. I haven't had a Josh Blank do in six months and my nails are ratfucked -- as in the year of the rat.
Everyone is going through this crazy year -- but please people, do not assume that working girls have it easy. And never ever presume that you can ever have the same as last time especially if you are unwilling to provide the same as last time yourself. I am truly at a loss.
Desperate for what is just,
chyna pi
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Scar Tissue
One of the many things that turn me on about veterans is some of the ones I see were really messed up: missing fingers, 2-foot scar tissue, bullet wounds...
Hot.
I used to have this client who was a former Japanese soldier and he had whip marks all up and down his back. It was so beautiful.
Scar tissue feels soft and smooth and tells stories in silence. Heavy silence. The stories are as varied and vividly told as stories of losing ones virginity. The way the body heals is amazingly beautiful, stunningly aesthetic.
Do you know that Cronenberg movie, Crash -- omfg, I totally get it. Mmmmm. I'm still waiting for the right scarred up babe to take me through a carwash, hot damn.
Happy Rememberance Day to all veterans around the world. I am free to be me because of all you sacrifice and should I have the opportunity, I will let you know how grateful I am to you and kiss all your scar tissue.
Mad love long time,
Chyna Pi
Hot.
I used to have this client who was a former Japanese soldier and he had whip marks all up and down his back. It was so beautiful.
Scar tissue feels soft and smooth and tells stories in silence. Heavy silence. The stories are as varied and vividly told as stories of losing ones virginity. The way the body heals is amazingly beautiful, stunningly aesthetic.
Do you know that Cronenberg movie, Crash -- omfg, I totally get it. Mmmmm. I'm still waiting for the right scarred up babe to take me through a carwash, hot damn.
Happy Rememberance Day to all veterans around the world. I am free to be me because of all you sacrifice and should I have the opportunity, I will let you know how grateful I am to you and kiss all your scar tissue.
Mad love long time,
Chyna Pi
Monday, November 10, 2008
Pawn Spawn
I have been making monthly transactions at local gold and coin pawn shops. Over the decades, my grandma and grandaunts have given me an assortment of jewelry, rings and earrings sets mostly, emeralds, jades, pearls and diamonds. All gold. All garish :)
They've sat in my jewelry boxes until I needed funds fast, and then I easily let them go. It's the aftertaste that leaves me a touch bitter.
My grandaunt was married to a pawnbroker in the Philippines and it was through the family business that my grandmother and grandaunties came to possess an extensive collection. The thing is, my grandaunts live very modestly -- not exactly the word I would use, but it is a start. They are 3 sisters including my grandma and they are very, very proud senior matriarchs. Their husbands (my grandfather is the only one still living and healthfully kicking ass, may I add) squallored any profits their businesses sustained while they were alive, leaving my grandaunts with little to live by as widows. It was their daughters, my aunties, who take care of them in their senior years.
And when they can, my grandaunts send us jewelry. Some of these sets are appraised at over $10,000. I have pawned my sets for anywhere between $150 to $400. And I do not pawn for loan. I let them go.
I cannot afford to end up like my grandaunties, love them dearly as I do. I can now afford another month of SCE. Having my home powered allows me to myspace :) in my lingerie, among other things that fills me with gratitude.
Pawn Spawn.
My mother personally doesn't have any sets from her aunties' collections. She refuses them citing that they were gains from the misery of others. She also sees what I see, that they make her family miserable.
The thing about cheating others of their treasures at a time when they are in dire straits is that the buyers get an intense high from the great deal they just made, there is no high equivalent to the initial buy that would make selling the jewels worthwhile for them, other than giving them away as gifts to their loved ones.
Even though they live in relative squalor in the Philippines, my grandaunts will not sell nor allow their daughters to sell their jewelry so that they may improve their standards of living. They cannot bear to see all the implied profit that they made off of the sellers decades ago decrease because now they are "on the otherside of the counter." As long as they can look at tens of thousands of dollars in gemstones in their jewelry boxes (as rhumatoid arthritis has made it impossible to wear rings) they live richly. My aunts work their hearts out.
My mother says very little. I don't tell her anymore when I sell off a set. She would catch herself questioning why I would sell it for so much less than what they were worth and then purse her lips with acceptance, "At least you can use the money more than those big rings."
Pawn Spawn.
They've sat in my jewelry boxes until I needed funds fast, and then I easily let them go. It's the aftertaste that leaves me a touch bitter.
My grandaunt was married to a pawnbroker in the Philippines and it was through the family business that my grandmother and grandaunties came to possess an extensive collection. The thing is, my grandaunts live very modestly -- not exactly the word I would use, but it is a start. They are 3 sisters including my grandma and they are very, very proud senior matriarchs. Their husbands (my grandfather is the only one still living and healthfully kicking ass, may I add) squallored any profits their businesses sustained while they were alive, leaving my grandaunts with little to live by as widows. It was their daughters, my aunties, who take care of them in their senior years.
And when they can, my grandaunts send us jewelry. Some of these sets are appraised at over $10,000. I have pawned my sets for anywhere between $150 to $400. And I do not pawn for loan. I let them go.
I cannot afford to end up like my grandaunties, love them dearly as I do. I can now afford another month of SCE. Having my home powered allows me to myspace :) in my lingerie, among other things that fills me with gratitude.
Pawn Spawn.
My mother personally doesn't have any sets from her aunties' collections. She refuses them citing that they were gains from the misery of others. She also sees what I see, that they make her family miserable.
The thing about cheating others of their treasures at a time when they are in dire straits is that the buyers get an intense high from the great deal they just made, there is no high equivalent to the initial buy that would make selling the jewels worthwhile for them, other than giving them away as gifts to their loved ones.
Even though they live in relative squalor in the Philippines, my grandaunts will not sell nor allow their daughters to sell their jewelry so that they may improve their standards of living. They cannot bear to see all the implied profit that they made off of the sellers decades ago decrease because now they are "on the otherside of the counter." As long as they can look at tens of thousands of dollars in gemstones in their jewelry boxes (as rhumatoid arthritis has made it impossible to wear rings) they live richly. My aunts work their hearts out.
My mother says very little. I don't tell her anymore when I sell off a set. She would catch herself questioning why I would sell it for so much less than what they were worth and then purse her lips with acceptance, "At least you can use the money more than those big rings."
Pawn Spawn.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Pull In; Pull Out
"You pull into the motel parking lot, early afternoon -- the sun is high yet the air is seasonably cool. A semi barrels by, diesel engine whining. You go to the front office and the front desk clerk assumes ur there to pick up an envelope.
You head back towards ur car and open the envelope. The room number is on the motel keychain -- a 5 inch plank of wood chained to 2 keys. Room 137 is all the way in the back and u park in front of the door.
You enter the room without knocking and sense how quiet and still the room is... as if heavy with anticipation. You shut the door behind u and see me on my back, with my head at the foot of the bed.
I'm blindfolded. I bite my lip knowing my wait is over. My breasts heave more deeply, nipples hard even though the room feels cozy. I hear your belt unbuckle, ruffling, steps towards the edge of the bed, and then I feel your cock at my mouth. I spread my lips over my teeth, stick out my tonge and suck like an alpha lamb. My blindfold is made of rabbit fur and feels exquisite on your balls and gooch. My tongue is working magic, too. I start to moan and grind as you rub my tits with one hand -- rough like u know i love it, twisting my nipples and squeezing so I suck you off harder. Your other hand is working my crotch -- rubbing my clit, finger fucking, middle finger up my ass, then your thumb. My hips are completely off the bed now and you grab my ass with both hands, bringing me to your mouth.
I'm licking ur balls, jerking u off on my tits while ur playing with my asshole and eating me out. I taste like ginger. I feel myself coming and take u back in my mouth. No problem swallowing upside down with the force of ur orgasm.
You let me down slowly on the bed, kissing my inside thigh, and I spread my lips apart letting go of your cock. I play with myself, sucking my juice off my fingers, while u undress. An exquisite piece of glass stands upright on the end table looking like a stubby cone. It's base fits perfectly in the palm of your hand. You grab my hair tight to turn me on my front as you lie next to me.
I feel the cold firm glass on the soft part of my butt, and you make small circular motions with the tip of the plug towards my asshole. My toes curl and I bend my knees, arching my back. You lick my ass and when you know i'm ready, you insert the butt plug slowly first, waiting for me to respond and when I push closer to you, you let me have the full plug inside me. It's made of clear glass and you can see everything. You have three fingers up in my cunt and your other hand pulls the butt plug in and out.
I'm losing my mind and need to feel your delicious cock in me now. I straddle over your legs, your dripping wet hand comes out of my pussy and directs me over you. I lean forward now and ride you while you keep working my butt 'til you feel i'm just about ready to come again. You take me right to the edge of bliss and suddenly you pull the plug out and pull out yourself, your dick slick with jane juice. I momentarily turn around to suck our taste off you while u get out the condom and lube. You pull me closer to you, rabbit fur against your chin, and kiss my forehead. I put my hand around your neck and bring your lips to mine for some of ur amazing kisses. Then, you signal me to turn back around.
I slowly set my butt on the head of your cock. You stroke my back with your fingers while pulling me lower and lower towards you. My moans take on a jazz quality. Your hands move to my hair and my tits. I come fast, squeezing on your cock and dripping out my pussy. You take your time, grinding on me and sending me into other worlds of pleasure again and again.
Nicely tender, i come off you and lie on my back. Condom comes off and you pull my legs up so my calves rest on your shoulders. You thrust into my pussy hard and fast, harder and slow, harder still and fast...
You pull out just before coming and shoot your skeet on my belly, all over my breasts, dripping off my neck and face and hair... nice. You squeeze out the last of your cum onto my tongue before you get dressed, grab your car keys and leave me sticky in a dive motel without saying one word... until...
As you pass the front office, you overhear a man arguing with the clerk regarding a missing envelope. You hand him the room key and say, 'I think this is what you're looking for.'"
You head back towards ur car and open the envelope. The room number is on the motel keychain -- a 5 inch plank of wood chained to 2 keys. Room 137 is all the way in the back and u park in front of the door.
You enter the room without knocking and sense how quiet and still the room is... as if heavy with anticipation. You shut the door behind u and see me on my back, with my head at the foot of the bed.
I'm blindfolded. I bite my lip knowing my wait is over. My breasts heave more deeply, nipples hard even though the room feels cozy. I hear your belt unbuckle, ruffling, steps towards the edge of the bed, and then I feel your cock at my mouth. I spread my lips over my teeth, stick out my tonge and suck like an alpha lamb. My blindfold is made of rabbit fur and feels exquisite on your balls and gooch. My tongue is working magic, too. I start to moan and grind as you rub my tits with one hand -- rough like u know i love it, twisting my nipples and squeezing so I suck you off harder. Your other hand is working my crotch -- rubbing my clit, finger fucking, middle finger up my ass, then your thumb. My hips are completely off the bed now and you grab my ass with both hands, bringing me to your mouth.
I'm licking ur balls, jerking u off on my tits while ur playing with my asshole and eating me out. I taste like ginger. I feel myself coming and take u back in my mouth. No problem swallowing upside down with the force of ur orgasm.
You let me down slowly on the bed, kissing my inside thigh, and I spread my lips apart letting go of your cock. I play with myself, sucking my juice off my fingers, while u undress. An exquisite piece of glass stands upright on the end table looking like a stubby cone. It's base fits perfectly in the palm of your hand. You grab my hair tight to turn me on my front as you lie next to me.
I feel the cold firm glass on the soft part of my butt, and you make small circular motions with the tip of the plug towards my asshole. My toes curl and I bend my knees, arching my back. You lick my ass and when you know i'm ready, you insert the butt plug slowly first, waiting for me to respond and when I push closer to you, you let me have the full plug inside me. It's made of clear glass and you can see everything. You have three fingers up in my cunt and your other hand pulls the butt plug in and out.
I'm losing my mind and need to feel your delicious cock in me now. I straddle over your legs, your dripping wet hand comes out of my pussy and directs me over you. I lean forward now and ride you while you keep working my butt 'til you feel i'm just about ready to come again. You take me right to the edge of bliss and suddenly you pull the plug out and pull out yourself, your dick slick with jane juice. I momentarily turn around to suck our taste off you while u get out the condom and lube. You pull me closer to you, rabbit fur against your chin, and kiss my forehead. I put my hand around your neck and bring your lips to mine for some of ur amazing kisses. Then, you signal me to turn back around.
I slowly set my butt on the head of your cock. You stroke my back with your fingers while pulling me lower and lower towards you. My moans take on a jazz quality. Your hands move to my hair and my tits. I come fast, squeezing on your cock and dripping out my pussy. You take your time, grinding on me and sending me into other worlds of pleasure again and again.
Nicely tender, i come off you and lie on my back. Condom comes off and you pull my legs up so my calves rest on your shoulders. You thrust into my pussy hard and fast, harder and slow, harder still and fast...
You pull out just before coming and shoot your skeet on my belly, all over my breasts, dripping off my neck and face and hair... nice. You squeeze out the last of your cum onto my tongue before you get dressed, grab your car keys and leave me sticky in a dive motel without saying one word... until...
As you pass the front office, you overhear a man arguing with the clerk regarding a missing envelope. You hand him the room key and say, 'I think this is what you're looking for.'"
Saturday, November 8, 2008
A Legend Of The World Famous Chicken Ranch Brothel
A year ago this November 8th, I participated fully in activities that would lead to many lives changing forever. This story is about how I left the World Famous Chicken Ranch a Legend for All Time.
FOREWORD:
Every Tuesday at the CR is Doctor Day. Each and every girl working the floor the current week (including the girls who go off-shift on Wednesday) is required to have a standard PAP test at a County certified clinic. This is the one day on our shift that we are permitted to leave the ranch and go into town.
They split the appointments between Morning Doctor's and Afternoon Doctor's so there are girls available for line-ups and for appointments with their out-of-town regulars. The docuseries, Pleasure For Sale, had been on US cable for the past 5 weeks and the episode with my spanking party scenes had aired the previous night. I scheduled my shifts at the CR to coincide with my episodes on cable, anticipating an influx of quality clients interested in my story, but instead, the "depressing" editing of the Sundance Channel producers coupled with the absurd marketing campaign launched by Chicken Ranch management resulted in the worst February and March in CR history. Regular CR girls saw our weekly commission checks dwindling to three figures and new CR hires spent their 10-day shift doing nothing but bitching and paying room rent. The energy in the House that week felt viscous and combustible. No one opened a window for fear of backdraft.
But I was determined to create experiences for myself and for all my House-Sisters that will benefit us all in the long run. My participation in Pleasure For Sale had been a naive first stab at bettering the common perception of professional working girls. At my initial screening, I had realized that what Joe and Harry Gantz produced summed up to professional suicide for all of the girls who participated. Throughout February and into March, I was doing damage control. And with my personal life swirling currents, no money coming into the ranch and my dearest bitches quitting week after week, I had shut myself in my room Sunday night and took myself off the floor for 24hrs.
TUESDAY, MARCH 18, 2008:
I was awake and conscious of the heavy silence in the House, or was that the king comforter under which I remained fetal for a good twenty minutes before I needed a cigeratte and a glass of water?
My room was dark -- only a cheese slice glow coming from beneath my room door and the blinking red light of my cf (a gang of unread texts and a dozen missed calls... 02:42.)
I didn't want to run into anybody. I couldn't explain myself. It was an extraordinary off-run of my performance art at the Chicken Ranch. My energy felt scattered and I avoided relating with others to minimize the sensation -- or lack thereof, literally. It was the final week of the Sundance Channel's series, Pleasure For Sale, and the response generated a slew of issues for which I felt personally and professionally responsible. There had been no parlaying, "being discovered" or pay-off for any of us -- the only reward presented was that of further, diligent work. It's like my saying goes, when life hands you rape, make rape-ade.
Thirsty, I took a deep breath and opened my door letting in light from The Pit. A green shamrock bead necklace was on top of my "Privacy Please" leather doorknob hanger. The drowsy memory of someone (Marina?) knocking on my door sometime earlier as I willed my ears back to sleep reminded me that the next shift of girls had come in to the House and I could normally be counted on to come round rooms with a warm welcome back! (Some girls got it more warm than others ;-p) I had missed all the St. Paddy's Day tomfoolerey -- that's right, I said tomfoolery.
The Night Manager was vacuuming unseen in the parlor as I quickly poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and glass of water. Back in my room, I lit up a cigarette, sipped hot caffeinated sugar and called my man back home.
The conversation was short -- in length, long on love -- as he had just fallen asleep "but wasn't sleeping" so I didn't want the last thing he heard before he rested was my negativity and despair and "I don't know if there is anything else I can do here" attitude. Somehow, because of the long-on-love part I guess, I managed to get all of that across anyway. I assured my man that I would work out and get myself ready for a successful day. I had assumed I was on Morning Doctors like the previous 3 shifts so I had four hours to get ready. Then, I was coming home on Wednesday, so all I needed to do was give one great final show for the House and strike my stage. I leave in 38 hours.
The hour on the stairmaster was delicious. The window open at my back, the early-spring mountain air charging my breath and 80s music guiding my pace. My ass looked hot and my quads trembled as I dismounted. Lit up a cigarette on the way to the water cooler and a long shower.
Fresh-faced and denimed, I decided I was ready to speak to humans. I went to the Managers Office and was told that I was actually Afternoon Doctor's so I got ready to work the floor.
First, I checked my voxmail. One of the girls who had left the CR in February was coming back to LV from a shift at one of the brothels up north. She had been calling me all night on her roadtrip to ask if I was going to be on Morning or Afternoon Doctors so she can coordinate meeting up with me for lunch. I was absolutely not well suited to meet with her. I was focused on going home and I felt she would only pick my brain for "the scoop." She was negativity personified -- truly a tormented being of abscess from absenses.
My man called back.
"I know why my energy has been so scattered. Sadie's in town and's been calling me all night to meet up with her." I passed the buck.
"Guess who else is in town?" he responded with a question, a noticeable unknown quality in his voice.
I thought who else would be entering the picture now with all the challenges we've faced so far. "Your ex-wife?"
"What? No, what are you talking about? No, guess who's in town -- don't be silly."
"Just tell me already."
"Me."
"You? You're 'in town'? Huh?"
"I'm here! In Pahrump."
"Now! Shit, when -- why -- what? You're coming to Pahrump today?"
"I just got in. I'm outside the ranch."
I finally got excited and was scattered once again. "I am Afternoon Doctor's."
"I thought you said you were on Morning Doctor's. That's okay, I can get some sleep since I drove all night to get here to see you when you got out."
We talked about how much we missed one another and how incredible was his spontaneous road trip eastward across the canyons as the dawn broke and the radio queued one life soundtrack song after another. I talked him into coming into the Leghorn Bar as a visitor just picking up souvenirs for a friend so as not to cause a 7AM line-up of the girls who were sleeping until Afternoon Doctor's. That way, we can at least say hello and look into each other's eyes and smell each other's mutual lust until we met up against House Rules later that afternoon. It was a strictly enforced policy that girls on their "day out" were forbidden from fraternizing with anyone, most of all clients and boyfriends. Our need to be in the same room was a dangerous dance we indulged in.
I changed into my favorite outfit and went to the bar, sat at the back facing the door and lit up.
Enter The Stranger. His steady footsteps wake the lazy boardwalk of the patio to the entrance of the Leghorn Bar. He opens the door and his jacket hugs his torso as a burst of air escapes the morning cold into the heated 24-hour bar. The Shift Manager enters from her office, requests to see The Stranger's ID and points to the wall-mounted showcase of all the Chicken Ranch souvenirs -- from t-shirts to golf tees. The Stranger selects two crewneck designs and gives sizes to the shift manager who returns his driver's license then disappears to her office for the items.
I ash my cigeratte and slink to the bar, platformed stairmastered steps shaking the floor. "Hello, I'm Chyna," I said to The Stranger, extending my free hand.
We lock eyes and mirror one another's smile. I want to swallow his face. I drag on my Newports.
Ms. Judy returns with the requested gift items and receives cash from The Stranger.
"May I get a shot of Patron when you have a moment, please, Ms. Judy?"
"Sure, Chyna."
The Shift Manager pours my shot and writes up my chit for my bartab. I put out my cigeratte, exhale away from The Stranger and return his smiling glance before signing my chit. "Would you like to join me for a drink?"
"Sure," he said to me in a soft voice, certainly too soft to be heard by Ms. Judy.
"What can I get for you, dear," Ms. Judy asked The Stranger.
"Nothing, thanks." And then he gives me a look, turning his back to Ms. Judy.
"Another shot, Chyna?"
"Just a coke, thanks."
I take my cola back to a table with my man, I mean, The Stranger. We light cigarettes and wait for Ms. Judy to leave the bar.
"I can't believe you are here," I said to him. "And I can't believe you didn't buy me my drink!"
He grinned and shook his head. "It's too early for you to be drinking. I won't encourage that." He joked, a little.
He let my hand rub his knee and then his lap. I felt his jeans move and his eyes would not stop undressing me. He suggested he would find a place to park in town and get some sleep and we would catch up with one another when I am out of my doctor's appointment. That meant only an hour or two before I had to go back and he would what, go all the way back to Cali?? It sucked! I WANTED!
With the Morning Doctor girls checking out of the Manager's Office for their day in town, Ms. Judy was preoccupied and I took advantage of the bustling in the doorway to slither into the restrooms with my man following closely behind.
When I tell this story to my brothel sisters this is always the first time they stop me to ask a clarify question: "Which one, Men's or Women's?"
"Men's."
"OOOOOHHHHHH, GROOOOOSSSS! You so NASTY!!! You guys couldn't wait a few hours??? Why, Chyna? What were you thinking?"
Truth is, I was completely aware that I was performing a story so beyond my day-to-day thought -- thinking was not an artistic option... yes, it was a professional option that I probably should have weighed out with less recklessness, but that's not what I was about nor am... so instead...
I kiss my man messy on the lips, feeling his tongue, his chest, his throat. I unbuckle his belt, unbutton his 501s and go down on him til the taste of precum wakes my buds from their steady diet of mint flavored condoms. I stand up in my 7" chrome plats, my panties in hand and my dress pulled up past my hips, my tits pulled out by the nipples from the top of my bra. And my man loves me right fucken there. I am slipping in and around my orgasms as he puts his palm over my mouth. He still hasn't come when The Madame shouts at us from the other side of the men's room door.
"Chyna! Chyna!" Really sharp and short and pissed.
I put my leg down and adjust my breasts and dress. I pantomime to my man to flush the urinal which he does, saying out loud, "I'm the only one in here."
"Chyna! I know you are in there. Get out here right now. I mean it!"
I kiss my man once more on the lips and he shrugs at me with a smile that fills my chutzpa cup. I exit the mensroom to see The Madame and the Assistant Manager disappointed and furious looking back at me. The Madame points her upward finger at me and curls it to her wrist. "Come with me, Chyna."
I follow her march out of the bar to the Manager's Office where Ms. Judy was standing and sent me a shot of compassion as The Madame scoffed, "She was doing a guy in the mensroom!"
"I have to explain, please," I said. "He's My Man and I love him. I am so sorry to disrespect you and your rules, Ms. Debbie, I swear that was never what I wanted to do. I just missed him so much."
"You know you have to leave -- right now."
"I understand, Ms. Debbie. I am sorry that I did this. Thank you for everything you have done for me."
We had this entire conversation with my panties still in my hand.
I went back to my room where I "psycho-cried" that is when you are smiling, almost laughing, but your guts hurt and your eyes are turned down in tears. I paced back and forth in my room and realized, before I can pack anything, I had to call my man and tell him I love him and then I had to call Marina and tell her I love her and then I had to have a cigarette.
When I called Marina, she picked up -- I had expected her voxmail -- but while I was saying, "I got fired," she was throwing on her sweatsuit and coming across the House towards The Pit. "Open your door, woman." She said on the phone and from the otherside of my room.
I let her in and told her what's been happening to me and that my man came for me. She was so happy for me. She congratulated me for getting fired and for doing it for love -- so what if I did it in the men's room even though we both admitted it was quite nasty of me :-)
The rest of the day was a whore-going-to-Hollywood whirlwind. I had been discussing my media potential with business manager to models, Rick Roberts of Hot Girl Models. I had been inspired to expand my artistic vision for my character from one-on-one performance art to mass media performance art. It was an opportunity I could not nurture from within the confines of legal brothel work. Shit, it was a rare triumph when my cf signal would be strong enough to make a call let along allow me to set up appointments or discuss outside business with any measurable efficiency. I had to leave the ranch and stretch my artistic reach. Obscure cable tv and public radio had not achieved what I felt was necessary.
I spoke with my man and turns out, he had stayed in the bar and spoke with Ms. Debbie after she fired me. He asked her if there was anything he could do to help, and she permitted him access to the porch when I was finished packing to help me bring all my stuff to my truck. In the meantime, we coordinated our funds and he checked into the local Best Western for sleep and to prepare for our first night together in our newly expressed destiny.
Throughout the day, as girls returned from Morning Doctor's and wondered why I was packing my room instead of going to afternoon doctors, the story about my sexy meeting with The Stranger made the rounds and it was what everyone from staff to sex worker was talking about. My platinum bitches came up to me personally for the details.
"Chyna," they said as they pulled me into their rooms and shut the door. "What's going on? I heard you got fired because you did a client in the bar?"
Oh, it was like that!! We laughed as I discussed the true accounts and how I was leaving the CR but I will never be forgotten. For the first time during my art/Work at the World Famous Chicken Ranch, platinum bitches be giving me their personal phone numbers and telling me how they honestly felt about me and insisting that I keep in touch. I will. I have, I do and I will. One of the things I never took for granted working with the girls of the CR is that I successfully connected on many intimate levels with many different girls. This honed my ability to speak in different lingos, perspectives and from all my human machines. They respected me more than a saucy nasty story interested them. They cared to know the details from me personally, accepting that the rumors would fly and lore would be created to both hate and legendize my work.
The best response to my story that I received from my girls is from Ms. Sofia. She had recently retired from the CR in February and when I called her and told her the news, she laughed the hardest and said, "What a grey story! You left dema grey story, Chyna. How funny!!!"
I laughed hardest with her energy. Yes, a great story to leave them with. My run at the World Famous Chicken Ranch had come to a close. The first scene was my on-camera step onto center stage participating with the Gantzes on their international cable tv production, Pleasure For Sale. The final scene was a hip-roaringly hilarious unforgettable act that the management, staff, regular girls as well as new girls can all draw from for the rest of the days of the World Famous.
None of it was my story. The story of my entry belongs to Joe Gantz and is his professional accomplishment. The story of my exit belongs to the women of the Chicken Ranch and is theirs to do with however it gets them through another day in the life.
My story begins that night I spent with my man and a full moon and the manifestations of universal conductivity. For one night in Pahrump, I was not the artist. I was art in motion by the brushstrokes of my man. I surrendered to all that will be and let go of all that was imagined.
FOREWORD:
Every Tuesday at the CR is Doctor Day. Each and every girl working the floor the current week (including the girls who go off-shift on Wednesday) is required to have a standard PAP test at a County certified clinic. This is the one day on our shift that we are permitted to leave the ranch and go into town.
They split the appointments between Morning Doctor's and Afternoon Doctor's so there are girls available for line-ups and for appointments with their out-of-town regulars. The docuseries, Pleasure For Sale, had been on US cable for the past 5 weeks and the episode with my spanking party scenes had aired the previous night. I scheduled my shifts at the CR to coincide with my episodes on cable, anticipating an influx of quality clients interested in my story, but instead, the "depressing" editing of the Sundance Channel producers coupled with the absurd marketing campaign launched by Chicken Ranch management resulted in the worst February and March in CR history. Regular CR girls saw our weekly commission checks dwindling to three figures and new CR hires spent their 10-day shift doing nothing but bitching and paying room rent. The energy in the House that week felt viscous and combustible. No one opened a window for fear of backdraft.
But I was determined to create experiences for myself and for all my House-Sisters that will benefit us all in the long run. My participation in Pleasure For Sale had been a naive first stab at bettering the common perception of professional working girls. At my initial screening, I had realized that what Joe and Harry Gantz produced summed up to professional suicide for all of the girls who participated. Throughout February and into March, I was doing damage control. And with my personal life swirling currents, no money coming into the ranch and my dearest bitches quitting week after week, I had shut myself in my room Sunday night and took myself off the floor for 24hrs.
TUESDAY, MARCH 18, 2008:
I was awake and conscious of the heavy silence in the House, or was that the king comforter under which I remained fetal for a good twenty minutes before I needed a cigeratte and a glass of water?
My room was dark -- only a cheese slice glow coming from beneath my room door and the blinking red light of my cf (a gang of unread texts and a dozen missed calls... 02:42.)
I didn't want to run into anybody. I couldn't explain myself. It was an extraordinary off-run of my performance art at the Chicken Ranch. My energy felt scattered and I avoided relating with others to minimize the sensation -- or lack thereof, literally. It was the final week of the Sundance Channel's series, Pleasure For Sale, and the response generated a slew of issues for which I felt personally and professionally responsible. There had been no parlaying, "being discovered" or pay-off for any of us -- the only reward presented was that of further, diligent work. It's like my saying goes, when life hands you rape, make rape-ade.
Thirsty, I took a deep breath and opened my door letting in light from The Pit. A green shamrock bead necklace was on top of my "Privacy Please" leather doorknob hanger. The drowsy memory of someone (Marina?) knocking on my door sometime earlier as I willed my ears back to sleep reminded me that the next shift of girls had come in to the House and I could normally be counted on to come round rooms with a warm welcome back! (Some girls got it more warm than others ;-p) I had missed all the St. Paddy's Day tomfoolerey -- that's right, I said tomfoolery.
The Night Manager was vacuuming unseen in the parlor as I quickly poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and glass of water. Back in my room, I lit up a cigarette, sipped hot caffeinated sugar and called my man back home.
The conversation was short -- in length, long on love -- as he had just fallen asleep "but wasn't sleeping" so I didn't want the last thing he heard before he rested was my negativity and despair and "I don't know if there is anything else I can do here" attitude. Somehow, because of the long-on-love part I guess, I managed to get all of that across anyway. I assured my man that I would work out and get myself ready for a successful day. I had assumed I was on Morning Doctors like the previous 3 shifts so I had four hours to get ready. Then, I was coming home on Wednesday, so all I needed to do was give one great final show for the House and strike my stage. I leave in 38 hours.
The hour on the stairmaster was delicious. The window open at my back, the early-spring mountain air charging my breath and 80s music guiding my pace. My ass looked hot and my quads trembled as I dismounted. Lit up a cigarette on the way to the water cooler and a long shower.
Fresh-faced and denimed, I decided I was ready to speak to humans. I went to the Managers Office and was told that I was actually Afternoon Doctor's so I got ready to work the floor.
First, I checked my voxmail. One of the girls who had left the CR in February was coming back to LV from a shift at one of the brothels up north. She had been calling me all night on her roadtrip to ask if I was going to be on Morning or Afternoon Doctors so she can coordinate meeting up with me for lunch. I was absolutely not well suited to meet with her. I was focused on going home and I felt she would only pick my brain for "the scoop." She was negativity personified -- truly a tormented being of abscess from absenses.
My man called back.
"I know why my energy has been so scattered. Sadie's in town and's been calling me all night to meet up with her." I passed the buck.
"Guess who else is in town?" he responded with a question, a noticeable unknown quality in his voice.
I thought who else would be entering the picture now with all the challenges we've faced so far. "Your ex-wife?"
"What? No, what are you talking about? No, guess who's in town -- don't be silly."
"Just tell me already."
"Me."
"You? You're 'in town'? Huh?"
"I'm here! In Pahrump."
"Now! Shit, when -- why -- what? You're coming to Pahrump today?"
"I just got in. I'm outside the ranch."
I finally got excited and was scattered once again. "I am Afternoon Doctor's."
"I thought you said you were on Morning Doctor's. That's okay, I can get some sleep since I drove all night to get here to see you when you got out."
We talked about how much we missed one another and how incredible was his spontaneous road trip eastward across the canyons as the dawn broke and the radio queued one life soundtrack song after another. I talked him into coming into the Leghorn Bar as a visitor just picking up souvenirs for a friend so as not to cause a 7AM line-up of the girls who were sleeping until Afternoon Doctor's. That way, we can at least say hello and look into each other's eyes and smell each other's mutual lust until we met up against House Rules later that afternoon. It was a strictly enforced policy that girls on their "day out" were forbidden from fraternizing with anyone, most of all clients and boyfriends. Our need to be in the same room was a dangerous dance we indulged in.
I changed into my favorite outfit and went to the bar, sat at the back facing the door and lit up.
Enter The Stranger. His steady footsteps wake the lazy boardwalk of the patio to the entrance of the Leghorn Bar. He opens the door and his jacket hugs his torso as a burst of air escapes the morning cold into the heated 24-hour bar. The Shift Manager enters from her office, requests to see The Stranger's ID and points to the wall-mounted showcase of all the Chicken Ranch souvenirs -- from t-shirts to golf tees. The Stranger selects two crewneck designs and gives sizes to the shift manager who returns his driver's license then disappears to her office for the items.
I ash my cigeratte and slink to the bar, platformed stairmastered steps shaking the floor. "Hello, I'm Chyna," I said to The Stranger, extending my free hand.
We lock eyes and mirror one another's smile. I want to swallow his face. I drag on my Newports.
Ms. Judy returns with the requested gift items and receives cash from The Stranger.
"May I get a shot of Patron when you have a moment, please, Ms. Judy?"
"Sure, Chyna."
The Shift Manager pours my shot and writes up my chit for my bartab. I put out my cigeratte, exhale away from The Stranger and return his smiling glance before signing my chit. "Would you like to join me for a drink?"
"Sure," he said to me in a soft voice, certainly too soft to be heard by Ms. Judy.
"What can I get for you, dear," Ms. Judy asked The Stranger.
"Nothing, thanks." And then he gives me a look, turning his back to Ms. Judy.
"Another shot, Chyna?"
"Just a coke, thanks."
I take my cola back to a table with my man, I mean, The Stranger. We light cigarettes and wait for Ms. Judy to leave the bar.
"I can't believe you are here," I said to him. "And I can't believe you didn't buy me my drink!"
He grinned and shook his head. "It's too early for you to be drinking. I won't encourage that." He joked, a little.
He let my hand rub his knee and then his lap. I felt his jeans move and his eyes would not stop undressing me. He suggested he would find a place to park in town and get some sleep and we would catch up with one another when I am out of my doctor's appointment. That meant only an hour or two before I had to go back and he would what, go all the way back to Cali?? It sucked! I WANTED!
With the Morning Doctor girls checking out of the Manager's Office for their day in town, Ms. Judy was preoccupied and I took advantage of the bustling in the doorway to slither into the restrooms with my man following closely behind.
When I tell this story to my brothel sisters this is always the first time they stop me to ask a clarify question: "Which one, Men's or Women's?"
"Men's."
"OOOOOHHHHHH, GROOOOOSSSS! You so NASTY!!! You guys couldn't wait a few hours??? Why, Chyna? What were you thinking?"
Truth is, I was completely aware that I was performing a story so beyond my day-to-day thought -- thinking was not an artistic option... yes, it was a professional option that I probably should have weighed out with less recklessness, but that's not what I was about nor am... so instead...
I kiss my man messy on the lips, feeling his tongue, his chest, his throat. I unbuckle his belt, unbutton his 501s and go down on him til the taste of precum wakes my buds from their steady diet of mint flavored condoms. I stand up in my 7" chrome plats, my panties in hand and my dress pulled up past my hips, my tits pulled out by the nipples from the top of my bra. And my man loves me right fucken there. I am slipping in and around my orgasms as he puts his palm over my mouth. He still hasn't come when The Madame shouts at us from the other side of the men's room door.
"Chyna! Chyna!" Really sharp and short and pissed.
I put my leg down and adjust my breasts and dress. I pantomime to my man to flush the urinal which he does, saying out loud, "I'm the only one in here."
"Chyna! I know you are in there. Get out here right now. I mean it!"
I kiss my man once more on the lips and he shrugs at me with a smile that fills my chutzpa cup. I exit the mensroom to see The Madame and the Assistant Manager disappointed and furious looking back at me. The Madame points her upward finger at me and curls it to her wrist. "Come with me, Chyna."
I follow her march out of the bar to the Manager's Office where Ms. Judy was standing and sent me a shot of compassion as The Madame scoffed, "She was doing a guy in the mensroom!"
"I have to explain, please," I said. "He's My Man and I love him. I am so sorry to disrespect you and your rules, Ms. Debbie, I swear that was never what I wanted to do. I just missed him so much."
"You know you have to leave -- right now."
"I understand, Ms. Debbie. I am sorry that I did this. Thank you for everything you have done for me."
We had this entire conversation with my panties still in my hand.
I went back to my room where I "psycho-cried" that is when you are smiling, almost laughing, but your guts hurt and your eyes are turned down in tears. I paced back and forth in my room and realized, before I can pack anything, I had to call my man and tell him I love him and then I had to call Marina and tell her I love her and then I had to have a cigarette.
When I called Marina, she picked up -- I had expected her voxmail -- but while I was saying, "I got fired," she was throwing on her sweatsuit and coming across the House towards The Pit. "Open your door, woman." She said on the phone and from the otherside of my room.
I let her in and told her what's been happening to me and that my man came for me. She was so happy for me. She congratulated me for getting fired and for doing it for love -- so what if I did it in the men's room even though we both admitted it was quite nasty of me :-)
The rest of the day was a whore-going-to-Hollywood whirlwind. I had been discussing my media potential with business manager to models, Rick Roberts of Hot Girl Models. I had been inspired to expand my artistic vision for my character from one-on-one performance art to mass media performance art. It was an opportunity I could not nurture from within the confines of legal brothel work. Shit, it was a rare triumph when my cf signal would be strong enough to make a call let along allow me to set up appointments or discuss outside business with any measurable efficiency. I had to leave the ranch and stretch my artistic reach. Obscure cable tv and public radio had not achieved what I felt was necessary.
I spoke with my man and turns out, he had stayed in the bar and spoke with Ms. Debbie after she fired me. He asked her if there was anything he could do to help, and she permitted him access to the porch when I was finished packing to help me bring all my stuff to my truck. In the meantime, we coordinated our funds and he checked into the local Best Western for sleep and to prepare for our first night together in our newly expressed destiny.
Throughout the day, as girls returned from Morning Doctor's and wondered why I was packing my room instead of going to afternoon doctors, the story about my sexy meeting with The Stranger made the rounds and it was what everyone from staff to sex worker was talking about. My platinum bitches came up to me personally for the details.
"Chyna," they said as they pulled me into their rooms and shut the door. "What's going on? I heard you got fired because you did a client in the bar?"
Oh, it was like that!! We laughed as I discussed the true accounts and how I was leaving the CR but I will never be forgotten. For the first time during my art/Work at the World Famous Chicken Ranch, platinum bitches be giving me their personal phone numbers and telling me how they honestly felt about me and insisting that I keep in touch. I will. I have, I do and I will. One of the things I never took for granted working with the girls of the CR is that I successfully connected on many intimate levels with many different girls. This honed my ability to speak in different lingos, perspectives and from all my human machines. They respected me more than a saucy nasty story interested them. They cared to know the details from me personally, accepting that the rumors would fly and lore would be created to both hate and legendize my work.
The best response to my story that I received from my girls is from Ms. Sofia. She had recently retired from the CR in February and when I called her and told her the news, she laughed the hardest and said, "What a grey story! You left dema grey story, Chyna. How funny!!!"
I laughed hardest with her energy. Yes, a great story to leave them with. My run at the World Famous Chicken Ranch had come to a close. The first scene was my on-camera step onto center stage participating with the Gantzes on their international cable tv production, Pleasure For Sale. The final scene was a hip-roaringly hilarious unforgettable act that the management, staff, regular girls as well as new girls can all draw from for the rest of the days of the World Famous.
None of it was my story. The story of my entry belongs to Joe Gantz and is his professional accomplishment. The story of my exit belongs to the women of the Chicken Ranch and is theirs to do with however it gets them through another day in the life.
My story begins that night I spent with my man and a full moon and the manifestations of universal conductivity. For one night in Pahrump, I was not the artist. I was art in motion by the brushstrokes of my man. I surrendered to all that will be and let go of all that was imagined.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Sacred Whores and Trick Hos - Part 4
Yesterday, one of my clients asked, "Why are you doing this?" And before I can answer, said, "I guess that's a dumb question; of course, you're doing it for the money."
I didn't know whether I should laugh or cry. Truth is, had I stayed home for the holidays, I had plenty of work that would have earned me 5 TIMES what I've made the last week here at the CR. Further, had I gone back to my hometown of VanCity and worked at Madame Cleos, I would have earned more money there, too, because I would have been able to keep all of my tips instead of splitting it 50% with the House.
So why am I here? It's a simple question with a layered answer. I think for this kind of work, if you're in it for one thing and one thing only, this industry will use u up and spit u out fast.
My marriage at home is definitely non-conventional. Entering my sexual peak as a woman around the time I was 34, my husband and I were celebate. His choice. I really put in the effort to adapt to his lack of sexual interest in me, performing domestic and business functions as normally as I could. But, there came a distinct instance where I was given the opportunity to choose pleasure or pattern -- and I chose pleasure.
That choice, which included honest revelations with my husband as I do not keep anything from him, led to my swinging and seeing couples as well as individuals for sexual theater. After a few months, however, I became unfulfilled with the swinger lifestyle, because much of it was ordinary and superficial -- not at all the intense "Opening Night" experience that I so long for.
When I was being interviewed by the docu-series production crew, Joe Gantz, the head producer, made an interesting observation. I used to hitch-hike when I was a teen, relishing in the adventure of getting into someone's life and finding out where that energy takes me. My adrenalin pumped everytime I stuck my thumb out and a car slowed to the curb, brake lights and right turn signal glowing like dive-motel signage. Pavlovian, my mouth would salivate as I hopped into the front seat and looked into the eyes of my new adventure for the first -- and usually, only -- time.
This is the same sensation I get from hooking. Each "party" or "turn" is like me hitchhiking a ride with someone with whom I could explore new frontiers. And because they are paying -- with time, discretion and of course, dolla dolla bills yo -- the route is exact and direct and my sexual performance truly elevates to a surreal, present-time apparatus.
With my swinging with "squares" (people who don't pay for sex) there is ALWAYS issues over not getting it up because of the condom, or the wife, or whatever. There is a social polution that gets in the way of total attention.
Also, last night, early Christmas Day, I spent conversing with 2 pro-veterans of the biz and they were so loving, honest, sharing and REAL. It was a wonderful connection I felt to that which I love and women I have always admired and respected. I don't get this at home. I never got this in my childhood. I get this connection when I am around hookers.
One of the Brothel Rituals is that on Christmas Day, notoriously the SLOWEST day of the year in the industry, the girls of the House run out to the middle of the street (in CR case, Homestead) and pee as a group. We just did it 10 minutes ago and, no lie, 5 minutes later, three customers came in and selected girls to party. I wasn't one of them this time, but I ain't sweating it. I already "broke" today and I wanted to finish this blog.
So, no, I'm not doing this for money. I'm one of those hookers that trick hos refer to as psycho sick bitches because I actually hook for the sheer pleasure and personal exercise of attention and presence. So what if I don't make as much money on this trip as I would if I'd stayed home. The work at home will be there when I get back on the 4th and I'll finish it up and get that money anyway. It is these precious and positively creative experiences that I am so giddy over. 2006 Christmas ROCKS!
Hope your holidays are warm and full of frivolity -- save some fun for New Years!!
Merriest Ho,
Chyna_Pi
I didn't know whether I should laugh or cry. Truth is, had I stayed home for the holidays, I had plenty of work that would have earned me 5 TIMES what I've made the last week here at the CR. Further, had I gone back to my hometown of VanCity and worked at Madame Cleos, I would have earned more money there, too, because I would have been able to keep all of my tips instead of splitting it 50% with the House.
So why am I here? It's a simple question with a layered answer. I think for this kind of work, if you're in it for one thing and one thing only, this industry will use u up and spit u out fast.
My marriage at home is definitely non-conventional. Entering my sexual peak as a woman around the time I was 34, my husband and I were celebate. His choice. I really put in the effort to adapt to his lack of sexual interest in me, performing domestic and business functions as normally as I could. But, there came a distinct instance where I was given the opportunity to choose pleasure or pattern -- and I chose pleasure.
That choice, which included honest revelations with my husband as I do not keep anything from him, led to my swinging and seeing couples as well as individuals for sexual theater. After a few months, however, I became unfulfilled with the swinger lifestyle, because much of it was ordinary and superficial -- not at all the intense "Opening Night" experience that I so long for.
When I was being interviewed by the docu-series production crew, Joe Gantz, the head producer, made an interesting observation. I used to hitch-hike when I was a teen, relishing in the adventure of getting into someone's life and finding out where that energy takes me. My adrenalin pumped everytime I stuck my thumb out and a car slowed to the curb, brake lights and right turn signal glowing like dive-motel signage. Pavlovian, my mouth would salivate as I hopped into the front seat and looked into the eyes of my new adventure for the first -- and usually, only -- time.
This is the same sensation I get from hooking. Each "party" or "turn" is like me hitchhiking a ride with someone with whom I could explore new frontiers. And because they are paying -- with time, discretion and of course, dolla dolla bills yo -- the route is exact and direct and my sexual performance truly elevates to a surreal, present-time apparatus.
With my swinging with "squares" (people who don't pay for sex) there is ALWAYS issues over not getting it up because of the condom, or the wife, or whatever. There is a social polution that gets in the way of total attention.
Also, last night, early Christmas Day, I spent conversing with 2 pro-veterans of the biz and they were so loving, honest, sharing and REAL. It was a wonderful connection I felt to that which I love and women I have always admired and respected. I don't get this at home. I never got this in my childhood. I get this connection when I am around hookers.
One of the Brothel Rituals is that on Christmas Day, notoriously the SLOWEST day of the year in the industry, the girls of the House run out to the middle of the street (in CR case, Homestead) and pee as a group. We just did it 10 minutes ago and, no lie, 5 minutes later, three customers came in and selected girls to party. I wasn't one of them this time, but I ain't sweating it. I already "broke" today and I wanted to finish this blog.
So, no, I'm not doing this for money. I'm one of those hookers that trick hos refer to as psycho sick bitches because I actually hook for the sheer pleasure and personal exercise of attention and presence. So what if I don't make as much money on this trip as I would if I'd stayed home. The work at home will be there when I get back on the 4th and I'll finish it up and get that money anyway. It is these precious and positively creative experiences that I am so giddy over. 2006 Christmas ROCKS!
Hope your holidays are warm and full of frivolity -- save some fun for New Years!!
Merriest Ho,
Chyna_Pi
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Creating A New
My shamanic partner said to me, in a game of perspective, today, "It was a mistake. That is why we will destroy it. Must. Then you can create whatever you want however you want it as what you want is so beautiful.
"What will you create?"
"Animals will be made of chocolate. And you can eat them and they would be happy."
"What is an animal? What is chocolate? When all is destroyed, what is it truly you will create?"
"Well, I guess what I will create is love in a form that you can melt it and shape it with your hands, with your mouth..."
"What is 'hands', what is 'mouth'?"
"I mean, I would create love that you can savor, ingest, sculpt with and affect the sculptor, then I would create a frisbee -- I mean, I would create an extension of my appreciation for the way that love plays, sending love as far away as I can just to feel love running back again to me..."
"What will you create?"
"Animals will be made of chocolate. And you can eat them and they would be happy."
"What is an animal? What is chocolate? When all is destroyed, what is it truly you will create?"
"Well, I guess what I will create is love in a form that you can melt it and shape it with your hands, with your mouth..."
"What is 'hands', what is 'mouth'?"
"I mean, I would create love that you can savor, ingest, sculpt with and affect the sculptor, then I would create a frisbee -- I mean, I would create an extension of my appreciation for the way that love plays, sending love as far away as I can just to feel love running back again to me..."
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