Lilac Wine :: a warzone towards haiku

October 4, 2013


Filed under: Text — Lilac @ 10:00 am

Memory lives in the highway like record grooves. I don’t want to scratch the disc by playing it like this, repeatedly. Echoes of joy in every turn, rise, ivy, iceplant; left along the roads cast from cloves’ sparking flame and the impressions of each heart-beat. When raced to the city to unbutton my shirts, to knot hemp, to join a community.

Desire looks, by proxy, like nebulae and alternating pine ridges over lighted candles.

Outside the moon jets through clouds and light spills from a homely house. Sing quietly to the night. This is the familiar edge of the blade of time; it scratches the record.

September 28, 2013


Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 6:00 pm

Led underground by a (statuesque & smiling) white rabbit; my favorite metaphor recurrent. It is a happy omen.

August 24, 2013

Extreme juniper bondage action

Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 6:41 pm

Today I wandered through a bonsai exhibit and it seemed like D/s with shears and a little tree. The metaphor extended as I watched a gardener wind raffia and tie juniper branches into desired position; from cultivation to bondage and then to an entire parallel of attitudes towards nature and the natural. Hades and I have discussed how our inclinations are echoed in our driving styles and sundry other actions. Is there a basic root sourcing both submission as an appreciation of another’s nature, and liking the wilds where nature is mostly undisturbed? I like seeing the essence of things.

There is something like an art of bonsai in training another person to be small, cutting away their inclinations and keeping them a manageable size for miniature perfection. One masters the little tree.

Or perhaps one tends their garden so plants grow full and green; the metaphor shouldn’t be solely of miniaturization, only of tending. Sometimes it is nice to be watered and weeded. Other times it is best to seek the sun by your leaves alone.

August 9, 2013

Three keys to the city

Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 1:42 pm

Navigating the highways towards San Francisco. My heart-beat hastens as I draw along the road, running along isofrequencies then suddenly beginning to cross them at a great rate as the white city comes into view. I think improbably that if Eden is defined by nakedness without shame then San Francisco has similarity to Eden. I imagine a map laid out in isofrequencies, lines of constant heart-rate like a sort of topo-map. The centers, the great peaks, are those spaces where magic has been made of the interconnects. It would be a particularly honest sort of geography.
Here is the first key; fear no data.

While data may be bits of truth, the trick is in the interpretation. A read of the news will tell you that. In representing a city and illuminating what is critical within it, it is important to note that one (paradoxically) cannot live on heartbeat alone. It is not enough to look at a map and go there; how you take these trips across the iso-lines matters. How you understand and communicate them is essential to the sorts of interconnects you make. But even a reckless trip may become meaningful upon reflection. Narrative is magic.

The space within the greatest iso-frequencies may be very perilous, doubly for a young woman who can easily and for arguably admirable reasons submit into her surroundings. If the apex is oblivion, to be unable to return is annihilation. There must be a road back – or onwards – down the mountain. There may eventually be a framework of morning alarms, of bread and butter and strawberries, of cars and maps and schedules which acts to guide one down the mountain. There may be also framework to guide one back up. With a strong framework comes a well-bounded space of liberty, rife with options; logistics for the sake of anarchy.

July 14, 2013

ritual for a quarry

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 11:35 am

someone at pantheacon said,
‘you wouldn’t have a ritual in a quarry’
but i know a ritual
for a quarry.
as at least a quarter of women

a place plundered and turned
from place to thing.
genius loci quantified in pounds and spatial measurements
dug up, hollowed and claimed
by men in cars.

stones taken. fine marble, rough and right in the earth, now taken
on a countertop. i mean, for a countertop.

the ritual says, you are not hollow.
your stone was stripped off
leaving not emptiness but
air. light. space. dust.
the stone beneath.
these are your tools now
if you will claim them.

bring a stone. when you leave, leave it behind.

December 22, 2012


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 6:45 pm

One junior high teacher assigned us a pie chart to divide according to the prevalence of our intelligences: interpersonal, mathematical, kinaesthetic & so on. My kinaesthetic slice was a zero-degree sliver. The worlds I moved confidently in were of mathematics and language; though I was a good runner, my legs existed more or less to take me to school and the public library. Dragged into sports I would crumble in confusion, able to comprehend but not to move right.

In college, two beloved friends took me dancing in San Francisco’s gothic scene. She tried to teach me pretty, infinitely swirling hand motions which to her amusement I echoed with hopeless clumsiness. He moved with androgynous elegance through the club maze. I danced hesitantly in pinned-up skirts and black lipstick, and left my heart somewhere in the city. Later I kept dancing at the goth & bdsm clubs and found a deep peace in the kinaesthetics of it.

As I’ve flogged laughing boys and cut metal on the mill, the intuitive motions have become a source of pleasure. Learning physical skills is pretty hard for me, but once I’ve got it and can work with it great peace comes over me. I am reminded of Oliver Sacks’ Surgeon’s Life, his sensitive recounting of a skilled surgeon with Tourette’s who moved between ‘kinetic melody’ and a disorganization of tics. Of course I haven’t nearly what he has to contend with, but I can identify slightly. Always considering and hesitating, when I find threads of kinetic melody through machining or song or sadomasochism my mind quiets and focuses and I am at peace.

November 11, 2012

Elementary Mechanics

Filed under: Text — Lilac @ 12:07 pm

I am learning to use the mill; it is satisfyingly kinaesthetic. We have an old, heavy model which was built for men larger than I. Moving about it, pulling levers, is like a dance. Simple cues move it and direct its power as if it were a strong and very adept follower. With machines, it is easy. You move, slowly then more surely, and learn how your motions correspond to its response. You learn how to understand it by sound, by gauging its resistance, by watching it and knowing the trajectory of its familiar actions.

I like machines. They can be broken down into components; you can get a sense of their rules so that to control them is like moving your own body. They become an extension of self – but to create what you want with them requires that you make certain motions to cue and direct them. It is almost an exchange of power.

I like power exchange. Certain manifestations of D/s make the kinetics of interaction almost mechanical. The dominant a machinist, using voice and hands and rules just so to control the submissive. The machine is (one hopes) oiled and well-maintained, given aftercare and care. And the submissive a machine, turning now, sitting now, opening their mouth now. There is something a little bleak in this perspective, as it erases the beautiful human interactions that power D/s, but there is something also beautiful in this stark dynamic. One becomes a machine, one studies and operates that machine. It is not as simple as this, but in dynamic it can be reduced to this simplicity.

I have an aesthetic appreciation of machines, so perhaps it makes sense that at times I appreciate becoming one.

September 6, 2012


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 3:42 pm

I’m not able to reach the state of trust which once opened the door to oblivion. So good at silently taking in pain that it’s become second nature, I choke on months of unspoken words and restrained cries.

February 12, 2012


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 12:05 pm

Kol ha’olam kulo gesher tzar m’od: The whole world is a very narrow bridge and the most important thing is not to be afraid. We sang this at Jew Camp when I was 12 and it has stuck with me.

We build delicate layers of bridges, singing songs and building societies to put space between our lives and the concrete inevitability of death, a void which we are bridging for an indeterminate time. All of these bridges fall apart with a few twists; destitution and obstacle turn a little house on the prairie into a haunt for the lord of the flies. I have seen big brother Death sit with mad eyes, pale blue and cold as ice, and have been afraid. I have seen the fetishized weapons of BDSM, gun and knife, turned back to their original intent in preparation for violence. And the darkness of a blindfold has nothing on the dark of a country night, when you are alone and cold and have scraped your knees.

I miss inhabiting the casual spaces people interact within. I am trying to build them around myself again, cooking meals and lighting candles and calling friends, keeping the dark out and the wolves away.

January 14, 2012


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 10:45 pm

I arrayed candles in the Chanukah menorah; twenty years later my man lights candles upon our table. We are always seeking light and song and company. We rival gravity and scarcity to pull this warmth into ourselves, and to send our own lights into the vast night.

Six months we spent taking a bare plot of land to a semi-habitable space. The country was as dark and quiet as I’d once imagined death to be. Orion rose over the hills to guard our truck, later our tent, later our 10′ x 10′ shed. The kitten hunted lizards and learned to kill. We planted trees and installed propane, a well pump, a barn, a driveway. I worked ’til I was pouring sweat and ravenous for meat. Many days I cried with loneliness, missing the soundscape of the city. Many moments were made simply of magic, my man’s arms about me as we stood in a meadow dizzy with yellow madia and yawning wheat. Wildflowers bloomed and died in succession as summer passed; the oaks lost their crowns of jagged leaves and became witchy silhouettes before the winter sky.

I feel a caveman wonder at civilization now. Six months without an indoor water tap, most of it without electricity: now I have an apartment with dozens of outlets, all able to thread electrons through our wires, inexhaustible. The taps offer water instantaneously. In the stores nearby I can find anything. I spent the first day back gaping, giddy, reverse culture-shocked. I think I know what wealth we have now.

There have been hard times. Desperate, painful times that cut me down to nothing; I’ve written of finding oblivion in BDSM, but that is a darkness laid upon a safety, and this was a darkness laid upon nothing. I gazed into the abyss and cannot forget it. That abyss lurks now behind everything I hear and do, but I am hopeful that that haunt will recede and let me wholeheartedly re-join society. I have a new job I’m very excited about. I can buy guava nectar and take baths and coordinate blue-koi pillows with blue-coral pillows. Our new apartment is simply arranged, but it’s so much contrasted with the bare land it once was; such an intensive gathering of resources. I’ve always known that academically, but now I know it.

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