astrea super nova

2003-01-29T19:14:00.000-08:00

masturbate daily.

2003-01-16T15:47:00.000-08:00

a gentle explosion, though, a soft introspective one which feeds and nourishes, accomplishes in the quiet, longs and does and waits for a fever so that when it comes I can be all that I want, not making the fever happen !NOW!, exactly when I say, exactly how I want! No. I can't falsely reproduce an extactic moment. So I choose the glide, the subterranean currents, the seed.

2003-01-04T08:42:00.000-08:00

I think a gift has been given to each of us. I believe that these next ten years will be whatever we envision them to be.This is not to ssay that there wont be obstacles to that fear or goal,but that the more clear we are with good intentions, the more we can directly manifest. The oppurtunity is here -- can you encouragingly kick yourself in the ass enough?

2003-01-03T16:40:00.000-08:00

raising energy, winding thought with spirit, working the two together with breath and making it intention, loving every moment of life, hollering at the sun when it peeks over the horizon, laughing, calling everyone you meet for a week 'spirit guide,' loving deeply, dancing, worshipping and being worshipped, whipping ten flames in front of thousands of people, holding a NO WAR! sign up for three minutes with a mighty fist raised and my legs howard roarke-style and platformed in front of more thousands of people, feeling freedom and possibility, starting something I have always dreamed of having, getting things done, feeling the naked body move, singing to the pine trees and their spirits, thinking about moving to costa rica, being satisfied with fasting, learning not to take anything personally, kundalini rising while working, waiting for the fox, dreaming of happy people and the thing I want to create, being happy, laughing out loud, belly dancing in the car,

2002-12-17T18:44:00.000-08:00

kiss the flame again

2002-12-17T18:42:00.000-08:00

again and again and again.....

2002-12-15T14:14:00.000-08:00

It must be said that the cunnilingus orgasm is every woman's greatest fantasy.

2002-12-07T16:55:00.000-08:00

how is your fire burning?

2002-12-07T10:19:00.000-08:00

lovely how dizzy gillespie was a mood

2002-11-25T19:53:00.000-08:00

enter love and truly abound
within the ever-fragrant sound
of feet turning naked and open
I enter love and speak the spoken.

How is it now with vague delights
misty with the feel of flight
lovely with the sight of laughs
stirred by faeries' mischief staffs.

happy is the tribe that flows
knowing worth real knower's knows
greatness fires up and glowes
for all who open up for so

come ready yourself for raging wilde
come unto others as little childes
for the kinddom is ever at the moment's call
you spirit is running And standing tall.

enter unto the gates and see
there is a bit of setting free
going on and on
and on
and on and on and on.

2002-11-16T13:50:00.000-08:00

Precipice.

There is a moment which makes me lose,
and looking in the precipice
I see that which mirrors, congrues
the loss of present circumstance.

Either by choice or by cruel fate,
my feet choose not to cross the gap
but wither into small decay
and put up with this fucking crap.

so should I wait for the floor to crumble
or hope that patience makes it strong?
should I run for nearest shelter
even though it may feel wrong?

The one pluck on my heart string plays
and whets my face like rainsheet sways
when I think that it might be
illusion known to all but me.

Precipice beckoning there again
and so I look, and strength begins
and call upon my brightest friends
to remind me where the suffering ends.

I am especially thankful to inhaesio, thalia, and seraphina, for showing me what unconditional love can be. I wish there were more people like you in the world.

2002-11-11T09:23:00.000-08:00

I have been studying lately, diligently, daily, both in preoccupied and direct manners. I am getting over a block, a hump, a stagnation like flegm in the throat, the kind with blood in it and thick yellow nasty, the seed of all the other flegm, all of which you desperately want to get rid of, get it out, exodus of the bile.... so if you're just tuning in or if you have been waiting for me to write for EVER, then you might witness me breaking the wall down. Understand that I'm just a normal person, just like you. I have never written a novel before. Fuck, even my short stories are never finished, and I have written ONE since high school, one which sucked so badly but carried with it an essence of meaning and hope and desperately trying to make the emotion pour into word molds.
Well, now I am passionate again, and I have a message that is beyond worldly matters. So right now, I will list a few of my fav authors....

I WAS going to list a few, but I realized that I don't like anyone anymore, not anyone commercially at least. I like myself, my own writing style. I did a fiction fast for so many years to get in touch with myself and I have not found a book in the bookstore that I couldn't put down. This is sad.
This said, I am going to scour for more inspiration now.

2002-11-06T20:19:00.000-08:00

I saw Carrie just tonight and it reminded me of Tatiara's grandmother.

2002-10-23T18:38:00.000-07:00

I saw Rasputen for the first time the other day. It reminded me of Zochae.

2002-10-21T15:55:00.000-07:00

I killed the bitch and have taken over her web site.

2002-04-23T13:09:00.000-07:00

I threw piles of clothing into the suitcase. I was done. I was over. Sweat crept down my back and I took another swig of scotch. Fuck this. Fuck it all. Fuck it fuckit fuckit. I was going on the road. I know this has always been a fantasy of mine.... and at least I could still use all those corsets and period dresses.... I was joining the renaissance festivals to live with a guy named Thor. How could I say no? How could I say yes? Maybe it's just that I need a change so badly that my ENTIRE SOUL hurts. I am laughing and crying at the same time. I am going to be the most divine Queen from France and there is no question about it. I love it. Fuck it all. Fuck it. I'm going.

2002-04-08T21:06:00.000-07:00

He was a gentleman. His lips brushed mine as I departed, taking only one look back to see that he wasn't looking back. I suspect he looked too, when I was pounding my feet toward my car, dimly lit in the orange haze of Gem City Records. Once inside, I revved my car, doors locked and cool air blowing into my pores. I raised my arms onto the steering wheel and let the swamp in my armpits dry up in an arctic moment.
I was satisfied. His scent was on my hand and I inhaled the secret secretly. Driving home, I threw in an old rockin pixies cd. The Deal sisters lived around here. Music is such a revivifying experience. I can recall exactly every crucial moment that this cd was playing in the formation of myself. First heard it at a party in high school. Smoked pot but didn't get high. Now here I am, knowing this, and indeed, experiencing it, but with my attitude adjusted to the present, critically so. Took a drag off a cigarette. I should quit smoking again. I should call Betty up and apologize. I should... the image of the last guy I slept with started making love to me in slow motion, torso convorting and face dripping with sweat. I should get my brains fucked out. I should, I should, I should.

2002-03-28T20:39:00.000-08:00

There we were in Cafe Boulevard, drinking glenfarkles scotch neat, my heart beating at the quivering of his lips, at his obvious discomfort, yet desire to stay. He glanced around nervously from time to time and ran his fingers through his hair.
Just breathe, I say.
He smiles and acknowledges this with a nod. He seems to grow a little calmer, like a bromeliad sending roots down to the earth in slow motion, sucking nourishment from the ground. The appetizer comes. We eat.

Eating is such a sensual experience, don't you think? The whole idea of a particle of food entering the mouth, being torn apart by teeth and thoroughly degraded, and then pushed into the pink stomach only to be fried by acids, moved around and eventually released from the warm pink body into a pool of water totally abused and wretched.

I suppose you think taking a shit is sexy too.

No. I'm not as kinky as my clients.

SO do you feel there is a dichotomy of experiences? Good and bad?

No. It's much more complex than that. And I don't think experiences can be delegated into two categories. That's linear. I'm all over the fucking dimensions. I think there is a flow to those things, too... if only I could figure it out....

What about the middle path that Buddah advocates? Experiences are neither pleasurable nor miserable, but are seen as untruth -- the mood resides in balance and everything on earth is an illusion to make you forget god, which is hidden in everything anyway.

That's like saying at Baskin Robbin's 31 Flavors Ice cream, there is really only one flavor and it doesn't taste either good or bad. In fact, it doesn't even exist.... This calamari god stuff is good, isn't it?

It's not good or bad. It's all perception.

SO If you really believed all this dictative crap, you would find me neither attractive nor repulsive.

Well, there is human nature, which yearns for happiness. Unhappiness inevitably follows. Yin and yang, you know?

Are they fucking? They always seem like they're going 69 at each other. Wouldn't you get tired of that?

Interrupted. Michael Cordell, the wax chest freak, slides up to the table elegantly holding a glass of champagne. I almost jumped out of my seat except that I have had this kind of encounter before. Even still, my pulse throttled in my veins like racecars.
Hello, I said politely.
Good evening, he said even more politely. Nikoli, I see you finally have good taste in cusine. Do you owe it all to this lady here?
Nik wiped his mouth and introduced us to each other. It was all very clever. Two more glasses of champagne arrived at our table, and then Michael was off again, darting to his table like a little rabbit. The curvacious blond smiled in our direction and then at him. Scorpio.
He's a friend of mine from way back, says Nikoli.

He seems like a kinky one, I say in a whisper.

Do you think so? Do you have an S & M intuition? Hm. Wouldn't surprise me.

2002-03-20T12:33:00.000-08:00

So listen, I don't know if this therapy stuff is working. I think you're just in it for the confessions. Tell the truth. You're going to write a book about all your clients, aren't you?

Why would I do that?

I know how fucked up you educated people can get sometimes. Absolute knowledge corrupts absolutely.

Or it can be a liberating expereince, to realize where you fit into society and take pride in your morals.

That sounds depressing.

To some, perhaps. But you really aren't a contributing member of society --

You mean not in the pre-post-modern sense of the word.

He blushed.
That's not ... I mean... you have an underground career...

It's alright. We're not here to sugar-coat what I do.

It's great. I almost envy you....

Well don't you think what you do is a little bit sadomasochistic?

I continued. We have similiar virtues. We are both working for ourselves, for the benefit of others, for ridiculous amounts of money which people pay simply because they have psychological fetishes.

Would you like to go out to dinner tonight, Mr. Wells?

2002-03-05T13:37:00.000-08:00

I rented Happiness and the House of Yes the other day and fell off my chair laughing so hard. Both movies have dark humour and cast my heart into the joys of sorrow. I ride the waves of inner strength and intensity, turmoil and patience. And then I am reborn into my body.

My period of solitude ended yesterday when I took an appointment. It was the sterile Ms. Comely. I enjoy her because she is one of my few female clients. A closet bi-sexual, she now lives in the corporate 9 to 5 world, managing some coca-cola accounts. She is proud only of the money, and never drinks the stuff. I am proud to report that lately she has been asking for it harder, has been moaning louder, and had been dropping bigger chunks of cash. This is what I love about the job -- when someone actually brings something to the meeting. I can't stand the passive exchangers who need to break out of their routine but cannot even in their own secret pleasures. I might as well be making coffee for them for as bland as they seem about their supposed passions. Dr. Lovejoy used to be like that until he trusted me. He is still growing and still has a way to go before he totally releases the stranglehold he has on reality and himself, poor guy. That is why I push him a little, within his own confines, to go harder, deeper, telling him I want him to fuck himself, that I want to see him cum..... when really I am pleading with him to be animalistic, to be crazed and wild, to break the confines. I like my clients..... not necessarily what they get off on.

I used to be a dancer at a nightclub, and would talk dirty in guys ears while I took my clothes off. Everyone wanted to see me afterwards. Everyone but me. I don't have sex with my clients, and the few times I did because I was interested in a relationship, I regretted it. They were usually bad in bed and more fucked up than I am. Not a good combination. Dancing, I liked, though. I was 18 years old when I started and got used to the money very quickly, making from $200 - $800 a night while my friends were working for $4.25 an hour in a fast-food joint. I got regulars; a guy named Todd who was sexy as hell and would drop $250 without batting an eyelash. Just to see. He inspired a lot of what I am now, by his passion, his intensity, his eyes.... he is the one who gave me the business advice and how to set it all up. He was also my first client. I would berate him with short whips and tell him he has been bad and done wrong. Then he would switch - hit and call me a slut while he whipped my ass. The sexual tension always grew to a demanding magnetic pull between us and eventually we ended up fucking (a trancendent experience.) Well, I was still dancing at the club, passing out business cards to my regulars, when the club manager noticed Todd wasn't around lately when he used to be a regular. After two months of my growing business and the club's growing emptiness of my clients, my boss caught on and I had to quit before he did something horrible. That man was capable of evil. He would have the cracked-out dancers in his office, half-naked, sucking him off, and more than once they came back with a blackened eye for refusing him. Money corrupts. So when I started taking clients to a more fulfilling arena of one-on-one with privacy for them, he came after me like a bomb. I regret nothing, except the three outfits I left in the dressing room, fleeing half-clothed from his fast-moving bulk, getting in my car and ripping out of the parking lot. I know I had done him wrong, but by my calculations, I had given him thousands of dollars in the years I worked there and was entitled to my own smart business plan. Fuck him. By then I was 22. I didn't start out doing dom work except with Todd. It was more like show and tell between two people. My parlour was always stocked with whiskey, velvet chairs, fine chaise lounges, and props. Those were the days, when men worshipped me for my ingenuity, cleverness, and body. Their stares were like warm sunshine, innocent, happy. One by one, though, they wanted more. And since I wouldn't fuck them, they wanted something more hardcore. The money rolled in, and for a while I was happy being Mistress Fiona for some of them. I went on vacations all over the world. I bought fabulous clothes, ate haute food, mingled with fucked-up models, fell in love with a few who happened to be gay but couldn't disclose it for their career (this was a long time ago)..... And after a few broken hearts, I didn't want to work as much, and people naturally dropped out of my clientel..... and then I got old. Not OLD but older, the buoyancy of youth falling like a helium balloon the day after. I stopped having so much fun. I started getting more freaks. I'm still addicted to the money, even though my house is paid off and I have a great lump of money stashed away.

I still like what I do.

What?

Why are you staring at me like that?

2002-02-28T22:50:00.000-08:00

No.
Not at all?
Not anymore. I cringed. Shopping hadn't given me a high since the bomb fell. It was inevitable, some say, that the country would eventually get involved in vendetta. The conspiracy freaks who used to be my friends, boyfriends, even, would say that. Time would run out, like a movie from decades previous, ending suddenly in a whirlwind of blacks-and-whites. All the shades of blacks and whites, spinning on a screen, like paper confetti circling in the air, or like ashes and smoke and darkness. I took a heavy drag. Smoke filled the cavaties of my lungs and ran from my nostrils.
What gives you pleasure?
I don't particularly enjoy what I do, I say. Christ, the man's a perv.
That's not what I'm asking you. What gives you pleasure, the kind of feeling which makes you truly shine from the inside?

A fogginess crept into my brain suddenly and invaded my thought process.

I like a lot of things.
Like what?

Like wine. Like chocolate. (Like masturbation, I thought.) A good meal, a well-planned trip, laughter.

Laughter.

Doctor, I say coyly, who does not enjoy laughter. He aquiesed and smiled killer beautiful.

When was the last time you laughed so hard it hurt? You know, belly laughter. The kind from the primordial within.

I laughed.

2002-02-19T11:43:00.000-08:00

MY SEX LIFE SUCKS by Fiona Stratton

what more is there to say? Every day I watch other people get off on twisted shit, see their faces contorting with angst, their bodies (some of them extremely overburdened with excess fat) writhing.... do you know what that does to a person? Every time my hand brushes the linens, my mind replays the ugly fuck I saw get off yesterday, three weeks ago, three years ago. A big fat face all screwed up and howling, or the dirty perverted look of "I know you hate me but I'm paying to be in your presence." Twisted sons of bitches. They are the ones torturing me sometimes... sometimes when I can't stand to see them, can't stand to hear, or worse, to do to them what they want done. Maybe I just aint cut out for this business any more. Maybe some young bitch will take up all my clients and give them the full throttle spanking they really need, the kind that I just can't dish out anymore. I need a break.

That's it. I'm going on vacation.

Yes. A head full of Milan will make it all better.

Fuck. Betty's still mad at me. I'm still mad at Betty. And all my other friends I haven't seen in years since they started convalesing into rednecks or mystical freaks. Neither of which am I. Oh, I feel alone. Lost and alone, and still searching. Lost and alone.

That's it. I'm going shopping.

2002-02-16T22:37:00.000-08:00

It has been weeks since then.

I have been doing alright.

But I feel like there has been too much slapping, whipping, demeaning, and fake sensuality. There is an inherent emptimess which encompasses me now that my rage is gone. I never tried calling him.

Him.

You know who. Patrick.

Well, anyway, I haven't quit smoking like I said I was. I haven't quit worrying or....

What?

...you want to know what my sex life is like?

I swear, psychologists are all the same. All eyes and quiet spongessence. I don't care if they care. I don't care if you care. Fuck, why am I even writing this? It's not like I have a fucking story to tell. It's not like anyone outside of my three friends give a fuck about whether I live or get hit by a truck around the next corner. It's not like I like this lifestyle, this rubber hitting the ass all the time, these gasps of pleasure which are not mine, are NOT a part of me, yet I produce this sound for money, for the pleasure and pain of others, for what? to fill up my house with stupid fucking shit, shit I love and hate because I can see through it?

Yes, I can see throught it. Why are you so fucking surprised?

Anyway, I met a guy yesterday. His name is Joe. I'm optimistic about it. I even flat-out asked him if he was gay, and he smiled, brushing a lock of blonde hair away from his face. Joe.

2002-01-15T16:28:00.000-08:00

This madness must go on. I can't stop it. It bubbles up from inside me like lava, maing me laugh, making me violent. I feel evil and just wonderful-terrible. I cancelled all my appointments for the next few days and walked around my house barefoot, walking in circles around the altars and tables. I am discontent with sitting. The quiet slap of my feet on the wood floor. It is almost enough. Inside, I am raging. I am loving it, and I am unsatiable. I am looking for the invisible knife or crown or something. I am looking for it inside the labrynth of my soul and looking for its reflection in my house. I cannot find it. It is not sanity. It is a method to this drive, a rhythm to regulate and direct this fire in my head. I am still looking.

2002-01-10T15:49:00.000-08:00

I woke up late the next morning with a hangover and a man in my bed, snoring softly. I silently slipped out of bed and got in the shower. When I made up and came back into the boudoir, Patrick was dressing. I watched for a moment as he slid his tight black shirt over his chest and long torso, and waited to see what he would say. I expected his to run out of here and never even ask for my number, much less my last name. I didn't have much time before my noon appointment -- not enough to go out for breakfast, but enough for one last rendez-vous.....
He grinned like a boy and said he had to go. Kissing me on the cheek, he handed me a card with his cell phone number. And then he said this.

"Fiona, love, I wish it wasn't this way, but I usually charge $300 a night."

My jaw dropped. I heard it hit the ground and shatter.

"I won't charge you for the first time. I know you didn't know." He hesitated for a second before "I hope this doesn't confuse things too much...." from whence he turned his back and left.

I didn't even break out of my stony amazement / disgust / what?!-ness until I heard my front door slam. And then I got pissed.

At noon today Dr. Lovejoy was in for his sphincter exam. The man was a well-respected surgeon at St. Elizabeth's, but he enjoyed showing off his mastubatory skills with a 10 inch black cock while dressed in a patient's gown. I had nothing to do with this. I couldn't even watch it it was so disgusting. I was to instruct him on how to use it and question him about his feelings until he came. But today I threw in a different suit. I wanted him degraded, not evaluated. I made him suction the thing to my desk and give himself full penetration while I whipped him with braided cords. He grovelled at my feet and I pulled his hair with my black latex gloves. He left $200 more than usual, which gave me a cool $600.

At three today, Michael Cordell walked into my office. He loosened his tie and said he got off work early today, and would I like to go out to dinner with him? I said no. He proceeded to partially undress in front of me, and lied with his back on the newly-sterilized black bench. The candles had been burning for two hours. I loved watching his face when the wax hit his chest. He talked about his girlfriend and how sexy she was, and said that she and I wouldn't get along because we're both scorpios.

I was almost drunk already, almost laughing at the seriousness with which he said that.

All the good men are taken, gay, or prostitutes.

Shit.

2002-01-09T12:10:00.000-08:00

We lied in bed together.

In the aftermath afterward, this statement held much ground.

"wanna cigarette?" I asked dreamily.
"Oh you are so bad for me." He took one and I lit it for him. I got out of bed and walked toward my wardrobe, selected a mauve and cream lace robe, and wrapped it around my naked body.

"Que dommage," he whispered. Too bad.
"Tu parles?"
"Un peu. Mon pere est francise. Ma mere Italianne."
"Que interresente. Je visite au Paris souvent."
"Certiment?!"
"Certa."

"So what do you do?" he asked.
"I invest. What do you do?"
"You weren't hurt by the fall?"
"I got out in time. It didn't hurt the smart ones." I curled up next to him, kitty-cat style.

"You'll have to forgive me -- I have forgotten your name," I said.
"I never told you."
"Are you going to now?"
"Hmmm... well... maybe...." he was pushing a few buttons there "... if you tell me yours."

"My name is Fiona."
"Fiona, my name is Patrick."
"Patrick, you are a very talented boy," I said, grasping his package and tonguing his neck. He shuddered and we fell asleep entwined.

2002-01-02T13:36:00.000-08:00

" I AM SO SORRY!"
My gay-dar went off again, as he whipped a towel from the kitchen and cleaned the entire drink from the carpet, leaving no trace. My suspicion was peaked again when he sat back down next to me and proceeded to kiss me like I had never been kissed before. Who was this guy? Confused? How did he learn to kiss like that? Why was I attracted to him? Why did I want him like a fever? Is this a good idea, spreading my legs open to meet his torso? In the end, I let my desires take control and shut down my noisy mind, instead preying on the tactile and visual delights. Yes , I thought. Fucking beautiful. So fucking beautiful. He fucked me like he was losing his religion.

2001-12-29T23:38:00.000-08:00

at the parlour......

I made him a drink and he spilled it on my carpet. It was an accident.

All my ex relationships had been accidents. I never meant to go out with losers in the first place, but I always ended up with some guy who pees loudly or breaks wind during sex or develops a chronic zit on his ballsack or who wanted to pretend (latin; root word pretorectus, also related to words pretense, predilection, rectum) to be naughty, fucking terrific at playing the role of a submissive indecisive shy pervert. And the three-and-a-half-minute-cummers. Those drove me FUCKING NUTS. Shit, it goes deeper than that, though. A sex relationship like that can only go downhill. Let them get away with it once and they want to have three and a half minute sex all the time. Communication is futile. Communication is the last jab at their ego and they always scowl the same ugly face like it isn't a blessing to be in the bed of a love goddess. Take your phone number out of his pants pocket, honey, and throw those clothes out the door. Along with his sorry ass. It goes deeper than that, too, but I don't want to think about shit. Right now all I want to think about is the line of air between his two lips and the way it changes shape. Right now, green eyes are hunting me down, making me feel like a lioness. Who cares about the fucking carpet.

2001-12-18T12:15:00.000-08:00

Going OUT

Gay bars are the best thing on a thursday night in Dayton, Ohio. Best music, best cheap drinks, best clothing, and most importantly, no frat boys. The little shits are scared by anything even a tiny bit open minded. Including women and gay men. And they dance with their skunk beer bottles in hand in a monotonous dance which looks like they're smashing beer cans by stepping on them one foot at a time. Monsters, all of them.

I was having a few drinks by myself at the bar -- rusty nails -- admiring my kitten-like reflection behind the bar and watching the bartender's behind when I felt someone lift my feather boa.
"Oooooooo what's this?" says a beautiful blonde fashion elite boi.
My gay-dar went off. Queer as a mule. But then, there was something in his eyes -- a not straight but not narrow look.
"My, don't you look fetching tonight. Are you just hanging out here by yourself?" He plopped his little booty down on the stool beside mine. As to this point, I had not spoken a word. He ordered a drink. Then he waited for it to come. In the thickness of silence which alcohol makes more potent, more virile, I penetrated him with my eyes and said...
"You must be from out of town. I thought I knew all the good-looking fags around here."
"Oh, no. You've got me wrong."
I stared, incredulous.
He raised his eyebrows.
"I'm not one of those guys," he said, laughing under his breath, looking away uneasily.
"It's alright. I don't mind."
"Ya, but I'm not."
"Seriously. I love gay men," I said flatly.
"But...."

This conversation was ended at this point when he kissed me gently on the neck. And so strong was my buzz that instantly I was entranced. I imagined him tasting the salt from my skin, and drinking my sweat. I saw colors of scarlet and violet flash before my eyes, waving like silk in the wind, rippling and pooling, and I felt my body react like a battery in a charger. He was on me like a hawk on a mouse.

I had been dancing all night long, and my feet would not stand in my shoes for another song if I made them. I suggested we go back to my house.

2001-12-16T21:18:00.000-08:00

Betty called later to apologize. I was on a rampage after that lunch -- tearing through a whole mall and Nordstroms, wearing out the tiny strip of chrome on the back of my American Express. As I stuffed the clothing deeper and deeper into the giant GAP bag, I felt the wave of anxiety leave. And it aint cause I'm shopping to save the economy. Fuck saving. Fuck the economy, fuck the environment, fuck yo mama and yo bitch ass too. Fuck Betty. I let the machine catch his sorry-ass falseto.

I picked up the phone and spun the rotary in the combination of Michael Cordell to cancel our appointment tonight. His secretary answered. After a surly moment, he came on.
"Your dry-cleaning won't be ready today," I said slowly, the scotch drawing my words out longer.
"Really? That's too bad," his voice said, audibly smiling once he caught the code.
"When will it be ready? Tomorrow, I hope?"
"Oh yes," I said, "after 3." I smiled in return, thinking of the charming riduculousness of a grown man enjoying my pouring wax on his half-naked body.

And then I got dressed to go out.

2001-10-20T20:28:00.000-07:00

Something strange happened today. Both of my appointments were cancelled. Which was just as well. I was tired of spanking and slapping and wearing those stupid stockings which cut off the blood at the thigh. So I called Betty and she came over, after three hours of getting ready, and we went out for dinner at Cafe Boulevard.
Let me tell you one thing -- I fucking hate it when couture is confused with prostitute. While I admit there is such a thing as prostitute chic, there is a discernable difference between the quality and cut of the cloth, the way it lays, et. fucking cetera. Betty got hell today for her Prada gown, very revealing, making her rectangular body and muscular arms conspicuous. But she pulled it off well, keeping her shoulders low and her wrists crossed. But she still embarrassed the hell out of me.
The problem was the waiter. He was hot: hot in a Linda Evangelista way. Gay as Capitol Hill. And Betty made a comment every time he flashed his ass at us when he walked away. Well, the kid knew he was going to get tipped fat, and he was showing it off. A wiggle in the walk, a giggle in the talk. After our third glasses of wine, she made comments about said ass rather loudly in her deep manly voice, just as the dessert of creme brulee and white and dark chocolate tart were being served.
"What nice mangoes you have," she insinuated, slurring just a little, demurely lifting one corner of her mouth. She was on the prowl, and I was on the out. She shouldn't have done that in front of me.
"Ah... we don't have any mangoes here." Stupid. Exactly her type.
"Oh, but you do, you do, Luke."
"Wha...?"
"You do." She winked. He walked away uncomfortably, unsalivicatorily.
I slapped her arm with my hand.
"He wasn't gay."
"How would you know?"
"Well, for one thing, he looked at my tits when he was telling us the dinner specials."
"You're lying to me!" Exasperation.
"And I don't see much of the man-eater look in his eyes, either."
"How would you know whether he's a darling plug or not?"
"I fall in love with them all the time. And this punk is no wet dream for me, Betty."
"Did you ever get divorced?"
That's another story.
"Do you never tire of reminding me of my miseries?"

2001-10-12T15:34:00.000-07:00

Oh god, another day of crazed fetish-seekers. They have levelled off lately due to the war and the recession, but some have die-hard money and die-hard fetishes which must be punished, exploited, carried out like the selfish brats who believe they must, simply MUST get off this way for their week to run smoothly. Today I whipped a rich lawer, Todd, who always comes to see me on his lunch break. Always wearing suits and ties. He comes in the back door and slipps out of his clothing into a leather frock, and fastens the ball into his mouth and everything, lying there on the matress with his butt in the air, one hand handcuffed to the wooden bedframe, the other limply consenting to the five metal clicks which imprison him willingly. He likes it when I dress in the boustier, and I select the whips for his ass (separated by a black leather thong) pleasurefully. He is a man of class. He is a man who controls every word he utters, and he is a man who relinqueshes this control to me.

I start with a small many-fingered leather whip; dusting his bare body with it, warming him up for the bigger, harder ones. I move on to longer and thicker fringe, pausing every so often to reflect on my class hatred before delivering a harder blow. I smirk as his ass reddens. I get out my long whip, the one used just for sound effect. I crack it three times before flattening his back with my palm and using a long-fringed leather corded whip, smacking it satisfyingly across his buttocks. And when the half hour is over, I simply take the cash left by the night stand, and unlock his handcuffs.

"Mmmmm, Mmmmm!" he is saying.

I wait until he uncovers his mouth, spitting the stupid red ball out, and then he says,

"Thank you Mistress Fiona." I turn to leave.

"I'm ready for the next level." He adds. I nod solemnly.

He dresses alone. I am upstairs, counting the twenties. $350. He has paid me more than usual. For which he will be rewarded.

I never ask myself why I do this thing -- every day is the same to me -- wake, read the Satanic Bible or a fashion magazine, drink, shower, look at the calendar, and perform. It is all an act, and none of it has anything to do with who I really am. I keep those things separate from each other quite distinctly. If asked what I do, I tell people it's none of their fucking business but if they really want to know, I invest. Beautiful lie. It seems like everything was so much simpler when I was just a dancer, but then again, it was hard seeing all my friends getting fucked up and prostituting. There were a few guys who liked me to slap them instead of strutting around naked in front of them, and eventually, this idea kind of sucked me in. I suppose I was into it in the beginning, when it was new to me and I took the reigns of power forcefully. But some days, I am too tired, too bored of the same old shit over and over again. Like today, for example. Not like Todd wants me to talk to him, but I am expected to perform a role. And even though I don't take my clothes off and they never see so much as a nipple, it still makes me feel like a slut. But the money is good.

2001-10-08T11:02:00.000-07:00

Meeting with Betty is always like seeing my own face in the mirror, if I was ten times uglier and looked like a man trying to look like a woman. But all said, I love meeting with Betty. It is not just that she fawns over me and buys me expensive presents, but around her there is very little charades. Basically, she just wants me to be myself so she can "study being a woman." She watches the way I sit, the way I walk, the inflection of my talking, the way I draw out the vowels and chop the consonants. She watches what I wear, adores seeing me in new or old clothes, and begs me to go shopping with her. Which I do sometimes. We were drinking coffee with Amaretto and Kahlua and cream last time we met, talking about men. Her long black hair, cut Betty Page style, is draped over her shoulders gracefully, and nothing is out of place on her sleek, muscled body and face. She was talking about Jeremy, her latest conquest.
"He doesn't know who I am. I feel like he just wants me to be a... a.... an object! Like my feelings don't matter to him. All I am to him is a freaky date with a pretty head and a pricetag."
"Know what I say? Fuck 'im. Forget that motherfucker ever stepped on the goddam earth. If he can't APPRECIATE who you are, he doesn't exist." I take a long drag on my ciggarette and expel it out my nose vehemently. "Fuckers don't know class until its gone."
Betty looks up surprisedly, her one eyebrow flaring high on her forehead, questioning my class. We both laugh drunkenly, and I can tell she feels better.
"I think you're right," she says, her head cocking in tiny jerks.
"After all," Betty says as she pins me with her eyes, "You sure fall in love with a lot of gay men -- there must be more out there."
My eyes burn, and I slide into a sultry smirk. It is true, I thought. It has happened too often in my lifetime -- meeting a perfect man, falling in love, recieving their fawning attention, working my hopes up, only to have them tell me they are gay. The first time it happened, I was 18. This guy Terrence was HOT -- anyone who came within five feet of him started burning from the inside out. I had already had many lovers at that young age, and wanted him to be my next. I saved it for him for four weeks, not even seeing anyone else, working up the nerve.... and when I leaned over the table at a five star restaurant to lick his lips, he left me there hanging, like an idiot slut. I can still hear his laughter slapping me, and his petty apology... something like if I couldn't tell he was gay by now.... something....
And then the latest episode was falling in love with Jack Heffernan, the actor.
And before that, Francisco Delamueroto.
And before that, Nicholas Wells, the photographer.

"Fuck 'im. True beauty knows no assholes." Betty laughed and covered her mouth with her man-hand. Some things will never go away.

2001-10-04T19:02:00.000-07:00

It is Thursday. Thursday.

I look on my calendar.

Ron, the perverted anestesiologist will be begging for it at noon,
and then there will be Dave the ignorant and wide of ass at two.
"Betty;" the transvestive prostitute will come over later.
Fucking piece of cake. I notice the moon is in Aries and I laugh.
There will be some red asses today, I think.

I rummage through the chocolate box and eat ten while reading
"The Hapless Child," by Edward Gorey. It is fucking hilarious, and I wash all the nasty chocolate down with a wine glass filled with rum. After my head is spinning a little bit, I walk into the bathroom.

My face is run with black make-up. It has streaked my face and makes me look fifty. It is rather amusing, like the boys who sang for Kiss and a death mask combined. I never wash my face before sleep -- fuck convention. "Fuck CONVENTION," I shout as I wade into the tub to shower.
................................................

"Good morning Miss Fiona," says Ron. Ron the pervert. Ron the sunshiney molesty bacteria boy. Ron who puts people under and pinches their nipples. Ron the asexual pervert with those rat-like blue eyes.

" You are not to address me unless you are spoken to, do you understand, you stupid, insipid, desparate dumbass?"
"Yes, Miss Fiona." Sweet as apple fucking pie. I circle him in my leather strappy corset, whip in hand, testing him for loyalty. I grab him by the hair, his ear folding in my hand.
"How many men did you suck off this week?"
"Oh, many. Lots of big guys."
"How many?"
"Five or six, really well-hung--"
"how many?" I asked, ripping his ear.
"Ow, ow!" Stupid whimpering. "Five! Five!"

Now the reason why I don't like this guy, if it is not apparent already is because he wants me to bully him into having oral sex with men. Then it is confession time, where he tells me how long or thick they were, how much they came, always in his mouth, et cetera, et fucking cetera. It is contrite and boring, but he is paying me two hundred dollars a meeting.

Let me tell you it's a good thing I'm drunk because if I wan't I would feel like a counsellor.

He rambles on while I ask for more details -- names, places, and sizes, and then he tells me he didn't make his quota.

"I'm sorry, but I didn't get up to six guys last week like you said I have to, Madam."

Madam is code for beat me.

And he is so disgusting to me that I actually love it.

2001-09-29T14:00:00.000-07:00

"Open your legs wider, bitch!"
"You fucking whore," I yell, kicking her legs apart. She can feel the tip of the 8-inch strapon cock touch her vulva for a moment before I sweep away from her in disgust.
"Please," she whispers, "please."
I lean close to her ear and touch it with my thumb and forefinger.
"You're not worth my time, you pathetic piece of shit." The knuckles of my other hand graze her open cunt. She is gasping and quivering. It is almost more than I can stand. She would fuck anyone who came into my dungeon right now. If Jim happened to show up way early for his 12:30 lunchnpunch, for example. I stand up in front of her and pretend I am jacking the dildo off, really getting into it even though I don't feel a thing. She is watching me with furious eyebrows dancing, me riduculously with my face contorted and pretending to cum. I spit twice on her belly, and she breathes relief. I can't believe I am doing this.
"Oh thank you, thank you---"
"shut up," I say, my voice thick with resent.

And just in time, the bell rings. I dissapear behind the japanese curtain to disrobe and rerobe, and walk upstairs to the red room. A few moments later, I see her leave in her rich car, her hair newly brushed and glasses intact, her conservative trench coat flapping in the wind. Leaving behind a dirty strap-on and a check for three hundred dollars.
"Fuck almighty," I say to myself.

I was and I was not always like this.

2001-09-25T12:55:00.000-07:00

I wrote three pages, on the equinox, which is more than I have written in total for a month. I find it odd to expereince life and the similarities and beautiful differences in every person, and then turn to friends who do not exist, and tell them how they feel and what they are doing. Right now, I think my charactors are wanting some action, and I have been building up some particular events for a while, like the lover part at the waterfall, the hallucinations at the rituals, the bonfire movement of bodies in thick shadows and hot rhythms, the time of war and the deep emotions carried in that decision.

However, as I am a multi-tasker at heart, and usually read two or five books at a time, I have been thinking about writing a completely different story, one more suited for you, the reader, which will be updated whenever I decide to write more on it, here on this page. Old chap-book style.

Oh yeah, and it will be about a satanic goth dominatrix living in Ohio, explicit as hell. Does that idea sound good to you? Write me and tell me.

2001-09-22T11:41:00.000-07:00

Enough of this lack-willed sentimentality which inhibits the starts of new growth. I'm so bored of being news-bound, so tired of being bomb-paranoid. If it happens, it does, but there is nothing I can do at this moment to prevent or provoke it. There is so much world around me I have not experienced in the past two weeks. And it is high time we turned off those TVs if only for a little while and do something.

When Nik's friend Allura came over to visit a couple of months ago, there were hundreds of people jogging and running throughout my neighborhood, and she said, "there's a whole lot of exercise going on here." No shit. Today I saw more, huffing, their faces scrunched up as if in indeterminable pain, their bodies jolting and lurching almost automaticly, and I wonder what makes these people go? I have experienced the runner's high -- the rush of endorphins that makes you dizzy and gives a great head rush for a while.... The funny/strange/sad thing is that these people do not look like they are thinking when they are huffing away, as if some force greater than they swept them up and makes them pound their feet onto the earth, running from or to something unknown. It is as if instinct alone was propelling them wildly to go, to keep going, and not stop anytime soon. These are the monsters which roam the streets of Queen Anne, the fast zombies, or more likely, the living dead. But who am I to judge?

I have been having a queer time with writing lately. It is almost as if I have needed a break from writing the story.... I want it to be fresh constantly, but now that my plot has thickened a little bit, my charactors a little bit more helpless or strong, I lack the compassion needed to tell their stories. My work is fragmented into tiny parts of stories, all in the way begninning. Today, on the equinox, I will try to string these together somehow, or just write more in general.

2001-09-19T15:23:00.000-07:00

What a weird time this is. My creativity has wilted lately, as my mind has been occupying other, worldly events. No longer does an addiction to coffee or personal dramas matter much.

Nik is home and we are still soooooo in love. I am amazed and happy at how much we truly love and understand each other. He arrived home sunday morning 4:30 after driving 36 hours straight.

Playing right now: "It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine."

It is definitely a time for strength and for moving with purpose. We can deal with whatever happens. WE CAN. Say it, say it out loud to yourself. I got your back. And as Mischevious Malachai says, remember; this too, shall pass soon.

In the meantime, please confront any rascist statements you encounter, peacefully and truthfully. Many people are confused right now and will act confusedly. The way I usually confront a rascist statement is by saying that the people they are degrading are my friends, and that they have nothing to do with the handful of people who organize crime. Combine that with an act of kindness toward the person, such as offering to buy a cup of coffee for them, and they may break down into the petty little fears, and hopefully overcome them willfully. I know it will do no good to write here and urge you, the reader not to be rascist, since none of my friends are that stupid and shallow, but I promise you we will encounter those kinds of people. Any ideas on what a white honky like me can do to combat rascism? Write me: astrealove@hotmail.com.

2001-09-14T15:41:00.000-07:00

The airports are retraining all personnel in security and caught seven more terrorists before they did their act. The airports will be shut down for a long while.

Nik is driving home to me right now, as I write this.
I am so grateful to have my best friend be the same person as the one I am deeply in love with.

If you know how to connect with a higher source, send good wishes with him because it will take him from a couple of hours ago until sunday night to get here.
Thanks.

2001-09-11T12:03:00.000-07:00

Nik's plane was scheduled to leave today. He was going to come home to Seattle, but he's in Ohio right now, thankfully not in one of the terrorist kidnapped planes. I am truly glad, and will wait as long as it takes before he can come to me safely. I can't help thinking about the others, though, who were flying in the air toward a destination which happened to be the world trade center or the pentagon or camp david.
This morning I awoke with the Pixies song, "This monkey's gone to heaven."
I believe in divine order -- that things happen for reasons far unseen by mortal eyes. This does not make me unsympathetic, but lets me deal with things as if there were a lesson to be learned by all affected. Maybe it is to live more, or to reprioritize values. Maybe it is to love more. But for many, many people, it is to question themselves and think more.
I know that the apocolyptics are predicting that the whole west coast will sink by 2013, and I want you to know that I know this as well. I moved to Seattle not because I disbelieved this information (I am neutral on it), but for love. And you must know that if I go down, some part of me wanted to because it would further my own soul's evolution. And if I do go down, I want to go down with Nik, because he is truly my soul's twin, my equal, my love, my best friend, my mirror. This is no mere mortal love. This is one worth going down for.

2001-09-10T22:33:00.000-07:00

I am done with art modeling unless it is for friends. I have made this decision with Nik's help, and I feel better about the issues which surround it. My exhibitionism, for one, is priceless, and this I know. At first, it was just a well-paying job, but now I see that the stuff I was doing was just plain boring. Those students would sketch anyone who came before them, and the things I did were not overly artistic, due to the limits placed on me. Secondly, I have come to view my body as sacred, and reserve it for true artists with true intentions. The work I have done with Zha, Zochae, Dana, and David Sorcher are illustrations of true artists at work.

I am, however, committing myself to truer art -- one in which my lover Nikoli will be capturing my photograhic essence in varieties. It is something we probably both had wanted, but never took the time for it. It feels more real this way, and it is how true artists who are lovers can work together, fusing the beauty and moment into a complete art which has feeling and emotion. For a painter, it is painting one's body and moving or dancing. For a dancer, it is many synchronized in a choreograph of flight and balance. For a musician, it is a concert with other musicians accompanying their own music. For a poet, is is passionate music and colors and scents within the words made real and tanglible. And for a photographer, it is many rolls of film of the thing you love best in the world, who happens to love you best in the world also, with the play between strikingly visible. For a model, it is to be loved by the camera and also loved by the one behind the camera; to be honest at last and to give this honesty to the virtues of truth, beauty, and love.

I love you, Nik Wells.

2001-09-09T20:29:00.000-07:00

The nature of this webpage is random, but I want you to know to not worry too much about me. I am over-analytical by nature and I am amused generally more easily than I am perturbed.

I am still getting over a cold / sinus infection (?). The funny thing is that I have never had a sinus infection in my life and I didn't really know what was happening until Dave Flowers told me what was up. No, I know that's not funny yet. Perhaps a better word for the phenomenon is eerie...... Nik has also had his first ever sinus cold, and it started about a month and a half ago. Up until a couple of days ago, when he was here, I would cheer him up and make soup and stand in front of him when he would get a debilitating cough and have to spit up. But a couple of days ago, I tried to take the sickness away any way possible. I remember I even said that it could infect me and I would fight it off. Well, guess what?

Times are getting better in general. I will never have to work over 35 hours now. My schedule at work is changed and this is for the better. I have been letting my writing sleep for a short while, but I will wake it up again soon when it feels right.

I am going to the grocery store now to buy soup, chocolate, cat food, and good tea. The sun is setting, but I have just woken up.

2001-09-07T12:03:00.000-07:00

I got one of Pablo Neruda's collections -- one called "Five Decades" translated by Bill B. -something. I was excited to read it, but I returned it the next day because the translation was so bad (the spanish was on the left side, english on the right). It's not that I'm proficient in speaking spanish, but all of the cadence (natural beats, emphasis and pauses in sentences) was lost. The possessiveness of words was confused. The masculine and feminine were lost or perverted, and the plural and non-plural were messed up almost every time.... for xample....

pablo neruda: amor es un viage con agua e con estrellas

bill's translation: love is a voyage with water and a star.

my translation: love is a voyage with water and with stars.

There were also many other faulty translations, like the phrase, "the feminine nipples shining like eyes" butchered to "a feminine nipple blazing like an eye," and the inherent tragedy when bill called scarlet red, although old neruda used the word scarlet and not rojo. I got so mad I shut the book more than once with a loud grrrr escaping my lips, much to the surprise of the bus passengers around.

But bill's greatest flaw was trying to make neruda a boring white modern poet, by confusing the language and using "electric words" -- words almost too harsh for neruda to consider. The language was also masculinafied by his alienation of the female body. I do not think bill is a lover, but it is obvious that pablo was in the extreme sense -- so much so that he would probably prefer to die making love or exist in an afterlife of warm, wet women.

I had a hard time explaining to the bookstore lady why I wanted to return it. I felt as if my heart was broken, and I couldn't talk. "The translation....," I whispered, shaking my head, eyes feverent, "is horrible.... horrible...." I ordered another book of his which should be in in about a week, and I am excited again to learn spanish through the master of the language and meaning. And I will tell you how it is, of course.

2001-09-06T12:10:00.000-07:00

"A blow job is a blow job is a blow job."

Last night I went out with an aquaintance of mine who is a player in the most distinct meaning. There is nothing out of the usual in his charactor -- a little bit of g dog, a little bit of intellectualism, a lot of drugs and no work at this moment due to an accident. I do not even consider this man to be sexy in particular, yet when we hung out last night, he was the mack daddy pimper of gay men.

"I told them I don't take it up the ass, but...."

It's about the money and the drugs. He is a material boy. He describes himself as straight, but he fakes affection when it is necessary to the men who buy him coke and weed. And he gets his dick sucked pretty often, too. He plays about two or three guys at a time, looking out for new conquests, hoping to make them jealous.

"I used to play women, and they would buy me tons of shit, but it got to be too emotional, like I would get emotionally attached and shit. But with men, it's different. I don't give a fuck about their ugly asses -- no attachment, so it's easy to leave them."

We went out to a club last night with one of his emploits, who promptly brought us drinks two or three times. When we went to his apartment to pick up my friends car so he could take me home, the playee whined, "I want to go with you [to drop Astrea off]... so I know you'll come back home with me afterwards."

"I'll come back." But as we rode in the car away, he then said to me "Shit, I ain't going back there tonight. He don't got nothing for me -- he waited too long to get coke."

That was sad.
Then he turned to me and said, "Girl, you could be such a player, so pretty. You could have guys buying you shit all the time. Aw, but that's right, you're in love."

And oh, I am so glad.

2001-09-02T22:09:00.000-07:00

I miss Nik.

Happy Birthday Adrienne.

2001-09-02T13:52:00.000-07:00

Apathy bit me on the ass after I tried to ditch it.
How do I know this? Imagine, if you will....
You are me.
You have been in your 44 and 3/4 hour of work.
You cannot stand retail or waitressing because of the high contact of people, yet,
You are working at a usually great and fantastic place to be, but it is a coffeehouse.
You have worked almost 7 hours without a break, on your feet, mostly by yourself, and there has been a constant line of people.
You have worked the four days preceeding.
You feel insane, even though you love your job.
Someone asks if they can start working fifteen minutes early. You say yes.
You say that you feel like you're about to lose it and you're really stressed out.
And you just can't deal.

You get off work, your friends happen to be there, they cheer you up, and you feel like the world is livable again, like it is easy to be genuine again.

The next morning, your manager calls, a little upset that someone told her that you were complaining about working there.

One man's apathy almost would have cost me my job if I didn't have the best manager in the world. His lack of understanding toward a human being is completely unbelievable.

The thing is -- nobody should work more than they have to, to the point of tears and frustration. This was mirrorred in the guy's reaction to me. Maybe he himself had been working too much. Maybe he was a rich snob with no sympathy for the serving / working class. Sure, people come to a coffeehouse when they want to have a nice time, but coffee girls can get stressed out too.

I love my job. I love the people who come in, whose names I know, whose drinks I know. Fucking fabulous, interesting people. Where else can I talk to Cuban, German, Argentinian, Chilean, Honduran, and Brit people all in the same day?

I'm dropping a day so that I will only work 32 hours a week (the original plan when I was hired), and four days a week. I may suffer financially, but my sanity and peace means more to me than a bigger paycheck. I will also reccomend that there be one more person on the Saturday day shift.

Fuck you, apathy. I'm tired of the drama game. I make good coffee.
The end.

2001-08-31T15:32:00.000-07:00

I have come to the conclusion that people are always constant with their nature, no matter if it is good or bad -- people are always the same person as they were when they were children, a little more complex. The bitches on the playground who used to cheat and do little power trips are now the same ugly ass bitches, with a more complex head trip. Zha is still a ninja clown. I am still an exhibitionist carnival performer. My sister Joanna is still the sensitive cozy peacemaker. Nik is still in montessouri school, creatively. No one changes that much.

To quote a gender bender movie, the Crying Game,
"Why did you sting me, scorpion?"
"It's my nature."

Have I stopped giving people second chances? No. But third, fourth, fifth chances? Another bite out of my aura? No fucking way. I will fight. I will fight them to the death if I must. My instincts are finally intact.

2001-08-29T15:42:00.000-07:00

Today I tried to spend money on myself. I couldn't do it. Almost couldn't do it, because I was super hungry and needed to break a $20. I went to six different clothing places and felt like an imposter -- a non-consumer in dangerous ground. I was sure that the guys in the Gap (yep, I didn't find anything there, either) were going to ask me to leave.

Noone had the right shade of red. I can't stand the orange-red color (it makes me extremely violent and edgy), nor pastel red. I wanted a red shirt or dress so badly, with the only qualifications of: sexy, nice material, RED color, kinda low price, not a t-shirt, and no cute shit or logos. My desires are left unfulfilled. Two thrift stores, two outrageously expensive clothing malls, two trendy yuppie and young yuppie stories, and no red shirt of my dreams.

Today I wore the sheet that Nik and I sleep in draped across my body. That was nice. Sometimes I only want to wear Nik, draped lovingly across my body, his strong arms.... my subconscious cravings confuse him and my animus sometimes.

love,
astrea

p.s. -- another post sent sans clothing.

2001-08-26T13:12:00.000-07:00

These are a few of my favorite things

2001-08-26T13:02:00.000-07:00

I dropped Nik off at the Airport...
and I am missing the devil. However, I do believe that understood, intentional space in a relationship gives innumerable benefits, such as time to miss him and think about something special for when he returns, time for myself -- getting to the raw lines of my thinking and being, and a new perspective on life and my current living situation. I have been reading Women who Run With the Wolves over the past half- year (it takes that long to read it), and I came to the part about rage. I thought about skipping it, but decided to read it just in case. The next chapter was about living with emotional scars. Ms. Estes said that she tells her workshop attendees to bring in photos of mothers, aunts, grandmothers, and other female figures who were instrumental in bringing them up. And then they tell the stories of all the women. I thought of my grandmother, the poor old lady, who moved to Kentucky with my grandpa despite her want to stay in Ohio with friends and grandkids. I thought of my mother, betrayed deeply by my father when I was a young child, and her determination to rise up from the money-less situation as a 60 hr. a week working single parent with three kids. Then I thought of myself -- I am on a better track than my predecessors, but it is true that at times I do not feel whole, which have manifested from one major problem in my life. I have never had unconditional emotional and spiritual support from a man until I met Nik. It is true that some of my friends like Zha and Zochae came close, but our close periods were never long enough to establish a true foundation for it, in our widely social group, though I do appreciate the times they were there for me, truly. With Nik, it is entirely so very good that sometimes I don't know how to handle it. I am still learning this game called life. Some of my fears revolve around dissapointing him, as I must have felt when my father took off at such a young age. But I know that this is illusion -- that as long as I remain true to myself and honest to him there is nothing bad that can really happen, even if our relationship dissolves one day.
My father has made an effort to resume contact with me in the past 8 years, and he has good intentions, but it still doesn't flow completely the way I want it to. I wrote hima letter telling him how much I appreciated him trying to come back after all those years, and he said he really appreciated it.
I guess my point is that the sources of our dramas usually lie in a deep-rooted secret hurt which will not readily admit itself to us. But the spirit, wanting liberation, causes the dramas and conflicts to come up. Your old ghost wants to meet you. Wants to be out of the basement of your mind.

2001-08-23T23:35:00.000-07:00

Ganesh's Day (or the Hindu Elephant God who Removes Obstacles) is Today

O Ganesh, O one of large and heavy feet, O one of thick trunk and mighty heft, I give to you my prayers that you will REMOVE MY APATHY. It is stuck in my right eye and sometimes I cannot see that everyone in the world really is unique and beautiful in their own way. Sometimes I don't give a shit about anyone or their stupid hopes and despairings. I think everyone is lost in their own way, and that is what alienates people. I can't justify spending money on food. There is dirt all over the place. Ganesh, wash me clean in the waters of your nose-hose. Flay your boogers on me and let them eat my own hatred and dis-complacency. Apathy is so boring. Flood the city with tides of love and wash that stupid snob-punk girl out with it, would you, Ganesh? So I can take myself seriously again? So I can buy an eggplant from the grocery without crying about the $1.87-ness of it all? And while you are at it, Ganesh, could you also give me a heart big enough to fit myself and the rest of the world?

2001-08-22T13:22:00.000-07:00

Music for a spider to die to...

The phone rang this morning and I lept out of bed to get it. But it was a dead line, and I walked the one step in my tiny apartment to go back to bed when I noticed a spider twitching, right where I had put the heel of my foot to get out of bed. A rather large spider. (Don't freak out, ac.) It curled into a little ball and twitched some more. I could almost hear it thinking "That foot came out of nowhere! Why me? This can't be happening to me!" And I felt so completely sorry. I told it so several times. Then I told it to relax its body (just like when I used to teach yoga classes) and "go toward the spider light. And the Spider God/Goddess will hold you tightly, Arachne will weave you closer to her heart, the Spiderwoman (native amer) will take you into her den and teach you things. You will play with Spiderman, swinging from buildings and rescuing the city from villans." And then I remembered that spiders have a great vibratory sense, and I got close to it and sang a few low-toned Ommms. It was still twitching. So I turned on Dead Can Dance, and let it die to the cathedral/exotic sounds of Lisa Gerrard's etherial voice.

2001-08-21T12:47:00.000-07:00

Like, Oh My Goddess! My web page is a Valley Girl?

Like, Astrea on Fire? Like, really?

This was not supposed to happen. There are no question marks in the template, but my web page seems to have its own characteristics, namely ending sentences in questions. Up-talk. La-la land. Know what I'm talking about? In example: "I went to the mall the other day? And there were all these cute boys? And they saw me spending all my money on clothing? And I was, like, oh my god!" ...We can only presume there is a shopping god, though I have not heard of him. The only one that comes close is L.A.mazon, Barbie, the plastic west coast reincarnation of Venus / Aphrodite.

Oh, but this hurts my self-image so. I read that most women, even feminists still fall into the body-image trap. Even some lesbians. And I must say it is true as far as I can see. There is such disgruntledness with the modern sexy body we see everywhere, which only one percent of women have. While talking with Jamie at El Diablo's, she casually mentioned how every woman could have Britney Spear's body if they worked out for six hours a day like she does, but who wants to do that?

Here we are at the crossroads again. Why is this so important? Why is my self-image so dependent on the way my body looks to me? The reason is this -- my animus (that's right, the jungian version of the active, go-getter, do-doer, the part of my soul which DOES STUFF, as in Artemis, the huntress -- my animus) feels stronger when I am more active and when I see results. My animus, when I am feeling strong, can accomplish anything. Excersize your animus. You will have better sex, a better libido, and get more done. When I used to have a car, I would drive all over town one day a week, just running errands, just getting stuff done, and it feels fucking good. Bills paid, products bought, food in the fridge, new clothes from the thrift store, a walk in the park, work in the garden...

But getting to that point is a different issue. Today, for instance, my animus needs a break from running around Portland yesterday, needs a break from taking care of Nik, whose cough and sinus infection have not dissapeared. Plus, it is raining outside. Or at least it was an hour ago. Soon, though, I know I will need a break from the bed-lying, hot chocolate drinking, excuse-making lazy child inside me which balances the animus out. Who wants to have the pressures Barbie has anyway? It feels much better just sitting here, relaxed, listening to the rain, feeding my creativity.

None of this is supposed to make sense.

2001-08-19T11:21:00.000-07:00

Last night, I had the overwhelming sensation to cleanse myself.

Maybe I am just working too much (45 hrs a week). Perhaps I am overly social at my job. But I was not genuine at work yesterday, and I feel like I truly needed to express myself as something other than a go between for a consumer and their craving. It hurt to be so sensitive, to know that I was working too much, yet, there I was, at work, working overmuch.

I love the job -- the atmosphere is good natured and the people who work there are fabulous. The only dissonance is when I need time for myself yet cannot take it. It will be alright. Colleen is working for me next week one day.

But someone did piss me off there, some masochistic guy who is in there all the time -- wearing a shirt that said "Pin down girls." I was infuriated, and refused to make his drink, even though I see him all the time. Asked me to smile, and I told him that I didn't feel like smiling. Punch your card, motherfucker.

I went home to Nik and he made me dinner while I tried to figure out how my web page was crashed. Then we talked and some fears of money came up. He talked me out of being down and negative... It wasn't the money (not really, even though I still can't pay the $1300 DP&L bill from my house last winter) -- I was just stressed out about working so much. But he kept reminding me about everything I love which is good, which is happening. That night we ate chocolate and saw a fucked up movie called Sexy Beast.

then we went home and I took a shower. I scrubbed clay and flax seed oil all over my body. We made love, then, me clearer and cleaner and very, very happy about things.

There are a lot of people losing their souls to the machine, but I refuse to be one of them. I believe we find our sanity when we are doing the right things, and lose it when we are delusional. And I have come to the conclusion that I prefer sanity.

2001-08-19T00:03:00.000-07:00

This is a test.
This is only a test.
Had this been a real emergency, you would have been given proper instructins on what to do if this were a real test.
This is only a test.

2001-08-17T12:29:00.000-07:00

I wore white sneakers for the first time in ten years...
and I felt like Jerry Seinfeld. I never want to wear them again, unless they serve a certain function like saving my life. They were free, though, and fairly new (still smelling of sweat shops), and recently discarded by a wealthy size 9 1/2 woman of Queen Anne Hill. But I can not bring myself to wear them.
See, I have a prejudice against white articles of clothing. I can't wear them (not even white socks) or this hatred will start to burble up inside me -- it is the same thing whenever I smell chamomile. It makes me want to poison the massa's soup, and I think back to when I was a big fat black lady, back in Louisiana, and dis rich ole white missus always be wearing dat white clothes and sipping dat chamomile tea, all its little white flowers dat I picked, all de white cotton my family be pickin. An dats what made me want to poison theys soup.
It's funny how things are connected. I still, to this very day, cannot wear white, cannot smell chamomile without wanting to kill (funny -- it's supposed to calm nerves), still have a burning class hatred for the rich white racist southerners.... some things never change.

2001-08-15T14:05:00.000-07:00

I cried while watching the Cirque du Soleil's Journey of Man exhibit on the IMAX screen in 3D.

I am in love with the cirkus.
When I was a girl, I would stand on the kitchen counter by myself, present myself to crowds of invisible people, and do daring acts for a five-year old.
I have dreams that I have run away with the Cirkus and we are practicing trapeeze, tight-rope walking, and bodily contortions. In my dreams, I wake up in busses packed with triple bunk beds, I practice yoga for hours daily, I lift myself on one hand in several positions with three other people doing the same thing. I have a freaking cirkus that only exists in my head. I was so moved by the beauty and art of the Cirque du Soleil that I sat in a theatre full of people and let fat salty tears slide down my face. When I saw the people on the bungee trapeeze, I felt as if I was one of them, flying through the forest air, dressed like a strange bird. The strange thing is that the feeling I got from watching the movie was not one of joy or happiness or even creative inspiration or appreciation. Instead, I felt a bereft sadness and deep longing in my heart. I cried becasue I was not there, not living those dreams. I was even bitter in my thinking, crying that "they left me here," repeating over and over in my head. They left me here. They left me here. Alone.

2001-08-12T11:50:00.000-07:00

Queen of Caffeine

I work at a coffeehouse in the Queen Anne neighborhood of Seattle, at El Diablo Coffee co., and I believe it is my birthright to drink fine coffee. The best thing about it is that I get all the free coffee I want to drink. I don't know what I would do if I didn't get that perk. I don't know if I could stay awake long enough to hear the long orders, like double split shot tall whole-milk mexican chocolate mocha with whip to go. Fortunately, coffee appears to increase not only energy but also memory.
I have been called many things by the people in Queen Anne, many of whom worship me as the Cubano Goddess, but I prefer the title Queen of Caffiene. My addiction started when I started working at the espresso bar, where WE SERVE NO DRIP COFFEE, halleluliah. But my love affair with coffee started long ago.
There is a photo of me drinking coffee when I was in fourth grade, reading the stock exchange papers. In the church I went to, I discovered the pleasures of mixing coffee and hot chocolate packets together, which I affecionately called "Cofflate." As a teen and while in my first years at college, I would alternately smoke, drink coffee, and eat chocolate. The Three C's.
My love for coffee peaked with a supreme building of decadence that accumulated in the finest coffee ever. It started long before I moved out to Seattle with the rest of the herds of people. The story of the quest for excellent coffee began in Dayton, Ohio, where my beautiful friend Tatiara and I would make coffee good enough for the fucking Ladeda Bourgeoise to sip. (Now I make it for them at the coffeehouse and they leave their tired dishes laying around for me as if I was their maid. These are the people who leave the worst tips, too.)
But back to the most beautiful coffee in the world....
* you take the finest grinding of organic espresso beans (bulk frontier is good),
* orange zest (the orange stuff in the peel, not the inside yellow pasty gunk),
* organic glycerine vanilla extract,
* fine cinnamon, clove, nutmeg spice, ground with a mortle and pestle,
* one inch long ginger root, sliced finely,
* one half bar of gournmet dark chocolate
pour boiling hot water over the mess of stuff sitting in a big bowl. Cover to not let essential oils escape. After steeping for at least ten minutes, remove cover, drain off coffee, and add maple syrup and quality vanilla soymilk, and sip and make fun of rich people, talking like the Thurstons on Gilligan's Island (where my class angst started, as a child).

2001-08-09T14:41:00.000-07:00

I was awoken this morning by my lover's kisses, his arms reaching around me, arousing me tenderly.
We made love for a while, all the while kissing and biting. We are very wet lovers.
I love it when he talks dirty to me. He turns me on with his passion, but when words slip out of his lips in the midst of love, I feel everything rupturing inside of me. It is beautiful and sensual, the way he worships me.
He heard a radio program the yesterday on NPR, though, that something like 75% of hetero women don't like to hear their men talk dirty or (goddess bless) swear before they cum. I can imagine disdain if your lover was screaming "Shitfuckfuckmotherfuckerbitch!", but sadly, I do not think this is the case.
Perhaps the real evil lies in their own sexual dissatisfaction.
So ladies, I will now start you off in a COURSE OF SEXUAL SATISFACTION, or how to get the loving you deserve.
First things first -- communication with your lover. Tell him you aren't getting off and maybe things the two of you could do more. Tell him your favorite position, what turns you on, etc.
Second -- practice on your own. Buy the dildo, see what feels good to you.
Third -- work the muscles. That's right -- the muscles inside your vagina. Clench, flutter, and hold. BELIEVE ME. IT WORKS WONDERS.
Fourth -- Go on a quest to find things to turn you on. If your current beau doesn't, dump him. Play with the things that turn you on.
Fifth -- Love yourself for who you are. At this moment. Behold yourself in sexy awe of your prowess and beauty. You sexy beast.

Now you are ready for some real action. Use each orgasm to further your self-love and personal satisfaction. Yummy questing.

2001-08-08T14:49:00.000-07:00

Elevation of inside depth,
reverse submersion, like backwards-falling.
This immaterial body alights,
drawn like a moth-child over the trees –
bare white skin shining luminescent,
eyes wide and moon-ward, embracing her from this distance.
blue eyes blink suddenly, like lightning
and spirit returns from play
into the body shell again,
to get where I’ve been
more of the garden of earthly beauty
to be discovered with love and without.
Sometimes I feel the rise again
like yeast in warm dough,
and aura stretches about the body
until there is no place I have not touched with this passionate energy,
like brilliant head-fire.

2001-08-07T14:58:00.000-07:00

In fantasy, I find an open space
for my heart to give a face
to these unraveling yearnings
and delicious gestures that sing in their depth,
gushing forth from passion’s ultimate source.
Sway and array fantastical human display,
while soul remembers and forth it comes,
to carry above waters which want to drown.
This remembering and forgetting game is so close to my heart
and a soul so resonant must wait.
My heart keeps your name a secret still,
but my gaze will kiss you soon.
Believe your lover – believe.
This is the knowledge of centuries –
your fate, but wait.

I look for you when skies are dusk pink
And shadowed trees puppet their leaves
like feathered ink.
I look for you when the night turns cool,
and we would dance until charged distance
held no resistance.
I come to you when the moon is growing
with love intact and intentions squared forward.
I come to you with all my knowing
of your extraordinary soul and love expression.

I will pull you from those places
where you find you cannot breathe.
You will be lifted over mountains of earth,
my love, higher still,
while I feel this ecstasy, this dance brings us closer.
I wear your love like a smile,
and smile at this growing feeling.
Outside of thought, I hold my spirit against yours.
When earth calls you back,
and you leave the places you know
to wander among the dark wood again,
when you have forgotten yourself,
I will remember,
And I will come find you.

2001-08-06T21:57:00.000-07:00

Astrea on Fire

Born from goddess heat and belly of fire,
rising like smoke, floating like feather,
falling like ash and when we collide
there is a subtle flash:
we are more than the reasons why.