Lilac Wine :: a warzone towards haiku

April 23, 2011

Destruction [i]

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

I memorized the Bene Gesserit litany against fear, starved for days, ran by the river each evening and gathered my strength. I went in without pride and on a plastic chair in the Armory basement thought, I must not fear. Fear is the little-death. Fear is the mind-killer that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear.

‘Hi Sister Hi Sister Hi Sister,’ says the chorus in robotic text-to-speech voice. The cameraman sets lights upon my cage.

They advance upon me; Sophie in black rubber, Brother in black leather, JP in black cloth. ‘You don’t need to look,’ Sophie says and pulls my gaze away. They hurt me.

I twist on basement-dusty feet at flicks of Brother’s singletail and JP’s dragonstail. There’s a moment when I understand I need everything within me to take the pain. It’s perfect. I’m at the full measure of my strength, focused and self-possessed. I growl feral against them. ‘That’s it, that’s the face,’ JP says.

February 12, 2011

Coiled rope

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 11:25 am

The most respectful way to tie up one’s dominant seems to be as Death, the best of tops; so I rent black feathered wings. Wings and boots and black, with my man in a smart grey suit. Aesthetic perfection.

I practice every day for a week. Tuesday, I fail to hoist my dead-man off the carpet and am dejected. I consider giving up, but Rain has given me a chance and I’d like to make the most of it. My brother says, How you do is up to you.

Friday evening I rig in blue lights and everything but the suspension goes away. Whether it’s absorption or the consequence of an uninteresting performance, I hear nothing from the spectators. It’s disappointing, though later compliments hearten me. My brother says, This is the first time I’ve felt like flying in suspension… and in pictures, the look on his face is blissful.

This rope tells a story of flight, by twists and knots, to a beautiful man’s body on stage. It is first satisfaction of a dream: to give others what I love.

January 11, 2011


Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 9:29 pm

My brother and I are offered a feature scene at The Upper Floor. We come hopeful and excited for a practiced finale – suspension with flaming rope. His suspension is faultless, but the fire he’d lit in practice doesn’t light now; it flickers and falters, and the alcohol rag catches fire on live webcast.

Amidst alarm there’s nothing I can do; able bodies smother the fire. I stay serene, closed-eyed, hung before the fireplace. I can guess at the disappointment my lover must feel, failing at the crux of a performance. I hurt for him, proud and talented as he is; and for us.

He takes me down. In this rich room where we’ve celebrated and laughed and he’s beaten me terribly, we’re humiliated. Come, and we’re an island of 2; his hand begging pleasure between my thighs. I’m too sad and embarassed to come. Come. I can’t. I feel that he needs this to restore himself to himself, his pride, our strength together. We’re a world of two. I come.

Five days later, we get it right: The Fire Lotus.

December 1, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 9:00 am

The woodsman suspends me at Von Gutenberg Fetish Ball. As guests enter I spin in crimson rope & drink the beauty of light through closed eyes.
Switchblade. Gasp; knit tights are sliced off my legs. Arch when the whip hits stomach. Fly.

He puts me up again, tracing my inverted body in a zipper of bright red clothespins. Hanging from the ceiling like a little bat, I’m aware my friends have walked in. It’s never really an awesome night, one says, until you see someone you know hanging from the ceiling.

He puts me up again, on a One Way sign at Folsom Street Fair. Sunshine and a thousand cameras surround me; the woodsman & I & my brother are the only ones who matter. I’m slack-jawed and gone, hanging by two ropes; later my brother shields me as I dress again. My worth does not decline with exposure of it.

Coming home I strip, gold sugar sprinkles laid along my skin, and am devoured in knee-socks.

September 12, 2010

Tan Jute

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 8:10 pm

This rope is a promise: to keep tying after I come off stage. Wonderful as it was this show wasn’t the apex of my life as a ropegirl, but an evening of it. Promise you this, jute, I’ll get tied again and keep tying. Lew Rubens says You guys are going to take this and run with it, aren’t you?

Yes, we are. This show was a glance given the audience into what I love, but so much else surrounded it; pre-show fear, buying nectarine perfume with my rigger, negotiating tortures, sushi with my lover afterwards. A promise: this show is not an oddity. This is what I love. I will keep tying, studying, learning. I will innovate and bring something new into the world, in nuance and performance (an the muses will it so).

August 13, 2010

Rope::Burn Preview Shoot

Filed under: Text — Tags: , , — Lilac @ 1:24 pm

I look down and see fat and bruises and weird curves; it isn’t artistic,  it’s hard, I’m being used. And eventually it’s hard when my hands numb and that’s somewhat disturbing though I’m getting used to it. When the mouse-traps clip over my pussy it’s degrading, and degradation changes in nature when there are photographers; implying others’ gaze when you’re not there to witness their reactions; so they can carve you up from scene and circumstance, and crop at will. A lover will know I’m a smart girl with degrees and a dayjob, and that I’ll think about the implications of this afterward. A stranger can crop at will, and I do not control the most striking elements of the picture. I am openly offering my nakedness and endurance, which I value; and the whole world has the jpg’s.

(Then again, strangers see each other in 2d every day. It’s common to be carved and abstracted. But this form I am in is especially ..gratifying? and why would a stranger deserve sexual or psychological gratification from me?
Or why not. Is it not good to be generous? If I can give yet continue to have, and give… and I am learning from having it taken… )

Why is it degrading? Is it that mousetraps inspire such visceral disgust & I’m taking them anyway? Is it that most girls wouldn’t do this, ’cause most girls would think it devalues their pussy? Or themselves? Do I think it’s devaluation? I think it’s my fucking pussy and I get to work with it at will. It’s kind of awesome that I’m strong, but I’m not sure why I’m using my strength this way; I’m okay serving art, but sexuality is harder, and serving others’ psyche when I’m not sure how they see me is weird, you know? What am I making of them? Can I make monsters?

I like bringing beauty. What else is there? What am I offering? Is this sex to you, or pain, or do you like when a girl’s helpless and ashamed, caving in but still naked, ready for the taking, if-she-will-do-this-she-must-do-anything?

Am i being used? The world’s not doing this for the sake of my pride and sexual liberation. There are currencies being traded, lust entertainment spectacle money opportunity friendship connection romance excitement sensation practice..

I’m here in suspension; which began as flight, an art and a pleasure; and it’s not that right now. It’s not even a good pain. It’s tough and I’m trying to please photographers, work well with my rigger, somehow react right. Please a handful of people in their various capacities (even when I try to honestly sink into the experience, I’m unsure whose benefit that’s for.)

What does that make me? An anguissette, a worked-upon canvas? Is the material my body or my head? How would my worth change if I liked it more, if I didn’t, if I was fatter or slenderer? Is it better if I’m smiling, if I’m ashamed, if I like it like sex or as novelty and should I fake any of these? This is work. This is meant to be real. This is meant to bring others pleasure. These photographs will advertise our show thus affecting the rigger, the others he ties, the regret or anticipation of those who have already bought tickets..

Does it matter what I’m thinking, does it show on my face, who’s looking at my face anyway, are they, is it distracting or better if i moan? Scream? I can’t help screaming.

What does this make me? I like giving pleasure, though this is so very indiscriminate; so am I okay making a currency of pleasure? You may have the spectacle; I have your attention. I get tied, which is a part I always love; and I enjoy pain. I get to see the underground close up. I get to participate in an exchange of genuine desire. I get to see lust. I get to see honest reaction. If I’m lucky I get to pull base, uncommon things from the minds and hearts of others. Or I get to inspire experimentation, wonder, curiosity in the audience. Or I’ll be just part of a novel evening and do poorly, in the real event; I don’t get to claim any reaction yet. I get $100; that’s of little relevance. It goes into schoolgirl knee-socks etc.

Afterwards I was quite disappointed in my performance. I let myself get thrown by the photographers and my disobedient schoolgirl-braids, which fell apart and obscured my face. My brother brought me scotch (which I sipped through a red liquorice straw, in a nod to perversity).

July 13, 2010

First you find the ends, then you find the center

Filed under: Text — Tags: , , , — Lilac @ 4:27 am

Switchblade ‘n calamari kind of night; so tender and then you’re not. Freckled with a devil’s aspect you eat me in the backseat. Pure as it’s ever been, a caught breath: I love you. Little sister swears fealty for a plate of squid in fresh blood orange juice.

22 gauge needle through the chest. Why? It’s illogical and it isn’t a sacrament like I thought my first play piercing would be. Your why is always control and by intuition I allow you.

I have longed for Daedalus & free to touch him, we’re naught but feathers on each other’s breath.

Love takes many forms, kittens. So does restraint.

There are many ways of love. Restraint is one. To come to the circus formidable in suit and dress, despite your chaos, is another. This girl sang wistful song to herself and thought you would not come in time; you came.

I kissed Hades for luck & finality, read Daedalus’ distance and did not. Love takes many forms. The announcer says We are down to the bottom of the rabbit hole and this metaphor of the hour comes full circle; I walk to the woodsman, and we are on.

He motions; strip shirt off. We dance in growing bonds; he throws one stripey-tight to the floor, and my knickers; quick rope winds, a stray spank, and in bright hot lights the woodsman hoists me high, naked but one black-and-white striped tight and lengths of jute rope. Hair falls over my eyes; I want to see my lovers’ expressions, but to try noticeably, for more than instants, would dishonor the tie. I catch Daedalus’ eyes in shining unreadable teal. You pulled shards of glass from my heart, said his rivet queen.

The woodsman lies back in his red satin vest, lazily whipping me as I swing by. Suspension is amazing; through the pain I drink it like a good dream which won’t last long. I am untied, hoisted down, and carried off overshoulder. Hug the woodsman. Kiss the woodsman. Scamper lazy for my clothing scraps. Still flying, overcome and wonderful, glad to be part of the circus. Glad to play ropegirl ambassador to 2 intrigued patrons. Glad beyond measure the 3 I wanted there are there.

Apple pie shots and cupcakes, trying to read lovers’ faces and do things correctly. A few dances, a few words.

There are many ways of love. To sit in pyjamas talking earnestly over white wine and pizza, hurt sad and worn, is one. The contrast of your private to your public face shows trust, and great measures of soul. The contrast of your public to your private face shows will, care, attention to detail. It all speaks very well of you.

Sleep in the warm, warm hollow between him and her. Drive sweet Adeline to Oakland.

Cool damp of the japanese garden, Buddha gazing with a satisfied cat’s smile. Your fingers twined in mine; we are precisely of a wavelength. Beauty alone remains, in the moss and rocks, and your spare words.
Riding the sinuous hills of San Francisco I collar myself.
My blonde hair sweeps her black hairs threaded in tangles through the carpet fiber.
The ringing of bells and a whipped guitar string. cut scene.

Drive sweet Adeline to Berkeley; Daedalus and his partner tuck me into bed. This is how my childhood stories ended: and they went to sleep.

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