In the Space Between

There in that space

between words

between what is meant

and what is said.

There in that silence 

between breaths

when the heartbeat thunders in your ears

a silence so vast as to be

deafeningly loud.

There in that moment

between when eyes meet

and voices speak their mediocrity.

There in that place

between heaven and hell

between the sheets of defeat

that place where the silence speaks

and the sky falls to its knees.

There

in that emptiness on the page

between joy and incoherent rage

hidden within the slip of a pen

behind the silence of men.

There

in the space between everything that was and will be

in the silence of infinity

as life screams loudly at quiet death

and birth is reborn on the the earth's last breath.

There

in the space between stars

written in vivid scars across universal sands

traced in dangerous glory across time

there you are

there I am.

There

in all that ever was or could be

there

is where I find you

where you find me

where we are and will just

be

with nothing in between.

Submission as a Gift

I got such a great series of ideas in the comments on my last post, I now think that I have inspiration enough to pull me through for a while.
*Kicks at the quiet muse. So there!

Anyways...A heartfelt thanks to tori for this one:
"Is submission a gift? If yes, why? If no, why?" I have to say...I love this one.

This is one of those rare concepts which I miraculously never struggled with, or changed my mind about. I believe, unequivocally, that submission is not a gift. And if it is, it shouldn't be.
I know, I know--that last sentence didn't make sense, but if you have lots of coffee and make it to the end of this post without kicking your computer, I might clarify the issue. Maybe.

Alpha, by the way, disagrees with me on this particular subject, but that's okay--somehow we manage to reconcile such grave differences. Probably because I'm right, and he's in charge. But I digress.

On to the question at hand!

Submission is not a gift.

To see submission as a gift would be...Selfish of me. And not in the, "It's good to know what you want" kind of way.
Submission fills a need within me. It is part of who I am, an expression of myself, and an integral part of our relationship. Submitting to him completes me, without it I am...A shell of who I could be. Perhaps...

So then, how could submission be a gift...? For me, to see submission as a gift, would be contrary to the concept of D/s on my side of the slash. As a slave, it strikes me as extremely egotistical to adopt the view that submission is a gift.
Maybe if it was not something we lived...Perhaps then I could see it as a gift. Even then though...I dunno.

To say that my life with him was a gift to him would be ludicrous, to tell him that my unwilling descent into whatever twisted thing he wants in the moment is a gift, would be an outright lie.
To say that submission is a gift, would be like saying, "I married you. You're welcome!"

Seriously...When we love someone, while me may see love itself as a gift, a blessing if you will, we do not see our love as a gift to that person. And submission, while distinctly different from love, is quite comparable in that the depth and scope of the experience can be quite consuming and intense to everyone involved.
It is an experience. A state of being wherein we exist and connect with another person.

Gifts are given willingly--I am not always willing.
A gift is something given out of the kindness of your heart. It exists within the idea of coming from the goodness of your heart purely in order to benefit another person.
A gift lives on the surface of things. There is no soul inherent within a gift, no matter how lovely it is.
The notion of a gift also implies something that is without any payment given in return.
That is not the submission I know.
There is much that I get in return for my submission. From the feelings inside myself, to the validation from him. Experiences which, incidentally, often combine so as to be indistinguishable in my mind.
Submission is raw
an expression of self that one cannot keep to themselves
sometimes submission is angry, unwilling, resentful
sometimes it's beautiful, glorious, fulfilling, and transcendent.
Submission is an expression of who one is as a human being, and how we interact with the balance of power within our relationships.

Personally, I feel that it would be ridiculous for me, as a slave, to adopt the view that my submission is a gift to him. To view it like that challenges my belief in the foundation of power exchange.
Ego is an expression of self. It is a firmly held view and expression of self as one defines themselves to be. And sometimes that gets in the way of submission because it is about our ideas of ourselves. Ego does not crawl, does not beg, does not allow the perspectives of another human being to define who and what it is. Submission requires setting ego far enough aside that someone else can walk inside your mind.

Since you made it this far, I feel like I should do what I promised in the beginning and explain why I feel that submission should not be a gift. The reason I think that I, as a slave, shouldn't view submission as a gift, is that I find it to be quite egotistical to see oneself as a gift. Having a good sense of self-esteem is not the same as being self-inflated.

For me to say that submission is a gift, would be an oversimplification of the human process and imply a level of self centered behavior that just does not mesh well with my ideas of submission.

I think that it's fair to take a moment and address the mention of Alpha's disagreement with my somewhat heated feelings about this particular subject.
He doesn't take issue with my views, and I don't have a problem with his belief that submission is a gift. Indeed, perhaps he is a better Dominant for that belief. I don't know.
I suppose that, ultimately, my disagreement lies within the concept of me thinking of myself as a gift. That, I think, creates barriers to truly exploring the depths of submission to their full potential.

Can't Even Think of Titles Anymore...

Note to self:
It is entirely unwise, and completely unacceptable to hit the hand that slaps you.

*Nods wisely*

There might be a few issues around here lately. Happens every year for the month before my birthday. I just can't help it.
The complete lack of exercise in my life isn't helping much. As he put it, "What did you expect would happen when you got your body all addicted to those lovely endorphins and then took them away?" All I can say is that being unable to breathe puts a real damper on downward dog and activities which increase one's rate of respiration.

It's never going to snow again. Uh huh, really--never going to see that glorious stuff again. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, to be sure.

Sometimes I think that, if he wanted to live with a happy-go-lucky-ray-of-fucking-sunshine, he should have married one.
*Nods wisely again*

In a complete contradiction of Murphy's Law, he did not read the last post. I may begin to go mad with uncensored power quite soon.

I am once again on the search for writing topics, so....Hint hint. Surely someone has something...? Questions, ideas, arguments, disagreements, agreements, theoretical philosophical concepts...Anything...?

And just because I'm pretty sure this is what a certain slave who shall remain unnamed, (ahem) looked like after hitting the hand that slapped her...

Dear Universe, and Where Writer's Block Begins

In his usually bossy manner, he "suggested" that I write a post about writing opportunity as it correlates to my current inability to put words to page.
Ooh, that almost sounded smart! And I even spelled smart right on the first try. Ha!

I would just like to take this moment to say that my kids got me sick again, and I am filing an official complaint with the universe regarding sick time:

Dear Universe,
I truly do feel, with all of my dark cold little heart, that there should be an official limit to how long a person can be sick with plague-like forms of the common cold in any given period of time. I also feel quite strongly that there should be at least 1 month between occurrences, because 1 week simply is not a long enough period of time during which to get and maintain a life.
I would also like to address the small issue of sick leave. Specifically, umm, the fact that there isn't any. At all. If anything, there appears to be more laundry, bigger bills, dirtier floors, hungrier children, and less reliable vehicles. I realize that you are quite busy, and the little detail regarding sick leave may have slipped past you, but I find the current policy to be completely inadequate. Perhaps your definition needs could use an adjustment?
Thank you for your time, Universe.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Leavemealoneoriwillbreatheonyou
P.S I don't suppose that you have any time to address the soaring cost of meat, by any chance? Maybe I'm pushing my luck...

Where was I? Oh, opportunities and constipated writing inability writer's block.

So anyways, back in January, there was this chance
a conversation with someone
an idea
that perhaps
just maybe
if I could string together a coherent story with all of those things a real story needs,
it would be something that left my desktop
that was submitted
and edited
and read
and
gasp
maybe even
published.
Not paper, but I have gotten over my e-book snobbery--words are just plain cool. Especially if they're good.

Within a day of that of conversation, I had nothing to say. Anywhere that had anything to do with printed words.
I could barely string together a sentence about what I ate for breakfast (because what I ate for breakfast is really so exciting). Ideas that had been floating around in my mind for a year just drifted off like puffs of smoke, and the ability to use the printed word as a vehicle to describe even my personal thoughts and feelings (as I have been doing for some time now) became suddenly elusive.

The Big Meanie Alpha felt unreasonably strongly suggested that the best way to get over writer's block was to write about where it began. So there. Said with all the grace of a snotty hyena prancing fawn.
I'm tempted to add that he wouldn't know if I had written it or not, since he doesn't read my drivel anymore,  (I suppose that one can hardly blame the man, I dunno what the rest of you are doing here) but saying that might be a touch too unreasonably pouty cheeky. So I won't.

Rules Abound, or, Little Black Book Redundancies

So rules abound here. Well, that's not quite right...There's technically only one rule which transposes into two, and lots of expectations along the way.
The one rule is obey, which translates into, "Please me", then everything that encompasses. Seriously, that one rule encompasses everything about being alive. It is...Excessively simple on its surface.
That said, I still have the punishment book. Every day, (okay, sometimes I slip. Fine, lately, it's a lot of times) I put an x by the the things I did or didn't do that I am supposed to, or not supposed to, do. The list is by no means all-inclusive.
In a way, it's kind of silly because to make a complete list would take miles of paper, and then one would be sure to miss something because there's only one rule and it encompasses everything! But...It's things that I need to work on, struggle with, or reflect past mistakes that were big enough for him to want me to remember, which go into the book. Still with me?

During our last night alone, I asked if we could sit down and review/revise the things which are written in the book. I feel like some have become redundant, some could be tweaked, and others perhaps added to. He agreed that we could look it over. And proceeded to not look at it once.

I had asked this same question last year. He said the same thing. Everything in the book is exactly as it was when I first started writing in it. Except, of course, the number of pages and little x's. Last year I just quit writing in it. For months. Until I got in trouble. Apparently, he likes to wait long enough for me to really hang myself before pointing out that he's been paying attention all along. Hmph.
Anyways, I had a hissy and quit doing what I was supposed to because I felt like it didn't matter to him since he didn't sit down with me and do what I wanted.

Over the years, I have discovered that it's really hard to place importance on things that he doesn't seem to find important. It just is. I quit writing in the book because I felt like it wasn't important to him. I started again because he (not so kindly) pointed out that he shouldn't need to constantly validate the importance of something--saying that is what he wants and leaving it at that should be enough.

Do I wish that he would sit down with me and revise the damn book that I'm supposed to write in every day? Well yes, I do. I want to know that me doing what he wants matters to him, or, more accurately, I want validation that it matters. I already know that it does, I just like acknowledgement or something...
I also feel like I have grown, and some of them are unnecessary, and I would like to know that he feels the same. I also happen to hate activities which I find redundant.
Of course, taking things out of the book wouldn't mean that those requirements no longer exist, it just means that I no longer need constant daily reminders of them.

The book makes me mindful of my behavior. It keeps my focus on pleasing him. It is a good thing. Some of it is redundant, and some of it needs expansion. Will I quit writing in it again simply because he's ignoring my desire to revise it, after agreeing to revise it? No. Because, while I find the point of the book to be largely about focusing on improving areas the need improving, it's also about submitting and pleasing him.
Writing in the book and presenting it every night pleases him.

Hmmm, perhaps I'll add a note to the page. Just this once. Or maybe not this time...I've been slacking, which is never the best time to suggest that he might be doing so himself.

And after all, there is a concept that I have been working on quite a bit, which fits quite well into this whole thing:

Coming Back...

It's odd sometimes...When I write regularly, it feels like an extension of me. It is, after all, an extension of my thoughts, feelings, and experiences. However, coming back to it is a bit like putting on a pair of pants that are too tight--it's not an entirely comfortable feeling.

So yeah...This post ends, what I believe to be, my longest posting hiatus since this blog began. Apparently, I am addicted the the phrase, "I have nothing to say". And I don't, really. He doesn't read here anymore, which isn't a big deal, but...Dunno...I said that maybe blogs have an expiration date, and he suggested that maybe I was just being lazy. I haven't made up my mind about his being wrong yet--such statements are best pondered before blurting out.

It has been said that my normally malfunctioning brain to mouth filter will ensure that I'll be talking until hell freezes over though...
Perhaps I just need to break these particular pants back in...? Then again...

Whatdya know...At least it's snowing somewhere.

February...

While I am pleased that January is over, its bad luck seems to be attempting to creep into February.

Alpha's truck broke down. Not the easy fix broke either. There's a tournament every other weekend until hell freezes over forever. And Kiddo's chess coach is stressing me out because he keeps talking about nationals and it looks like that just isn't going to be in the budget.
The real stresses of my day though (hang onto your hats, this one's a doozy), are chocolate molds.

Kiddo wants a chess cake for his birthday, you see. And while I was able to experiment and create a cake that is checkered inside, I wasn't able to try the board and pieces because I didn't have the molds.
The molds arrived yesterday, and I have serious doubts about the squares--they aren't separate! It's like one big huge square with lines, which simply won't work for a chessboard! Alpha seems to think that we will be able to cut them out, but I have my doubts...
Did I mention that my kid is a pain in the ass and not only does he want 12 points worth of pieces on the cake, he wants it set up in checkmate! I'm too busy obsessing about whether the board itself will actually work or not to be overly concerned with that at the moment...If I can't set up a checkmate with that many pieces, I shouldn't be playing the game.
The chocolate experimentation begins today.

My hormones are doing what they do best--reminding me that, while they consistently try to ruin my life get out of whack, they will be as unpredictable as possible. This month I find myself feeling consistently pissed off unpleasant, but with a functioning sex drive that I am somewhat unfamiliar with.
It's not helping my general confusion.
Owned, what's that? Seriously, he's going to beat the snot out of me if I don't get a handle on my attitude soon...

But wait! February is a new month, and I still sound suspiciously like it is January. I don't know why I get like this for the entire month before my birthday. Every. Single. Year.

Problems With Men...

I would say that I have had problems with men for my entire adult life, but that would be a slightly erroneous statement, given that my issues began to arise before adulthood. In my defense, I was not the person who cultivated those issues.

Making BDSM part of our relationship has changed so much for me...

There is a certain unclean feeling that certain life events leave one with. It's something that no amount of scrubbing seems to clean, no amount of tears seems to wash away, sometimes you feel like you could scrub your own skin off, and that filthy feeling would stay there just under the surface of your being.

Our relationship and the context in which we have chosen to develop it, has eradicated that sense of being unclean. Words cannot properly express the magnitude that statement holds for me.

BDSM has changed my relationship with sex, with Him, with myself.

But I think that...I wonder that some things are, or become, inherent...

I like attention from men. I like it a lot. I am a habitual flirt, I like to feel sexy, and did I mention that I'm an attention whore?
It has taken me a very long time to be able to admit and accept this about myself. And some days, the accepting doesn't go so well.

At the same time though...

Often, men scare the shit out of me, and at times, I find their attentions to be extremely disturbing.

And yet...That's part of my twists too--fear gets me off. In a big way.

Dunno...Why this, why now, why does it matter...?
Recent circumstances have brought these issues back into the light for me.

I'm not sure why I have so much appreciation for the attentions of the opposite sex, or maybe if it's just because they are the opposite sex.
The fear though...I have a very good idea of where it came from. It is that idea which makes my sexual attraction to fear somewhat disturbing to me.

I find these extremes within myself annoying--the habitual attention loving flirt who has bouts of extreme and disturbing fear and then gets off on fear?
You deserve a cookie if that made any sense...

My...Distance(?) from sex has a lot to do with denying that flirtatious easy part of me. The more I accept and enjoy my sexuality, the more I see these things in myself.
I spent a long time denying one in order to control the other. I think though, that this...This being his, and not having the control to make the decisions about who touches me, or who I do what with...I have found it oddly liberating.
That's not something one figures their man will love about them though, right? I mean, the flirtatious wife is rarely appreciated...And rightfully so.
I think that the power structure of our relationship eliminates those issues too though--what happens to my body is his choice. And lets be honest, he appreciates a dirty mind, being overwhelmingly blessed with one of his own.

I have a salacious mind an occasionally lascivious character, and am not well known for my ability to exercise self control. Those can be such bad traits when you put them all together.
The decision about what to do with those traits isn't mine anymore though. And that has given me the ability to just be...Me.

It's not always easy though, this accepting that perhaps there are some issues which will always stand, that perhaps the sense of irrational fear and further irrationality which follows it, may never fade....To know that I will, perhaps forever, adore the attentions of which I find myself most uncomfortable with...

Don't even get me going on the hypocrisy of my jealous streak--that's far too much introspection for one day.