Monday, August 30, 2010
It was probably a small thing, totally forgettable. I know it had everything to do with Master... he had exerted some level of control that had gone beyond the realm of reasonable or rational (as far as I understand reasonable and rational) and I had boggled and blinked, I had choked down the "you can't be fucking serious". It is like when you get a swallow of something just not quite right in your throat. A large chunk of something not quite adequately chewed. You have some choices, you can gag and vomit, you can choke and die or you can just force it down... exert mind over convulsing throat muscles and swallow... it hurts all the way down... it feels like you have swallowed a Rubiks Cube and even after it gets to your guts you can sense the angular lump in your digestive system. Sometimes accepting Master's control can be like that... swallowing a Rubiks Cube.
Once a lonnnngggg time ago I knew someone who when they wanted to change the subject, when whim or thought takes an abrupt left turn... they would say this thing. They would say, "Speaking of cheese." Now you must realize no one had been discussing dairy products or this person really had anything to say about cheese. It was just a way of announcing that this person was well aware that the next thing they were going to talk about had absolutely nothing to do with anything mentioned up to that time.
So... speaking of cheese... During our weekly... yes you perves... us old people have sex once a week. ONCE A FUCKING WEEK. Master's choice... if it was up to me I would have probably fucked him to death years ago. Swallowing that Rubik's Cube was and continues to be extremely difficult. Back on track...
So... speaking of cheese and back door shenanigans... During our weekly shower sex this Saturday Master's fascination with spelunking... prising open my bung with both thumbs... (I have no idea what he is looking for.) ...stretched me a bit further than reasonable or rational. I think the tones of my squawks changed from enthusiasm to a "What the fuck chuck!" howl of outrage. Master instantly got the message and lightened up a notch.
Master says it makes my pussy tighten up on his cock while he does that. And he also admits it is a turn on to mess around with my ass while he has me bent over in the shower and without a question his messing about with my ass turns me on. It is all good... very, very good... but now, my poor ass does not so much hurt as much as itch. I am going crazy, I want to scratch... scratch hard... scratch deep... I have fantasies about bottle brushes. It gets so bad that not scratching my ass is just not an option... I squirm, clench, grind my teeth... and finally give in. I sneak off to indulge this urge (just scratch, you perves... Master would never allow me to soil a good bottle brush and one just cannot really root around in their butt around other people so I sneak off to hide in the bathroom or bedroom) it feels sooooo good that it is hard to stop. I am just a little worried that I may be at risk of literally scratching my ass off... rubbing my little butthole right off and leaving a crater behind. But the multiple buttgasms are irresistible.
Okay... that was cheesy.
Master and I actually went out around other people this weekend. We got all duded up and went to a wedding of one of his coworkers. People seemed happy to see him, strangers calling his name, approaching him, introductions, names I will not remember, hands shaking. People like him. (well of course... I like him too.) He must talk with them when he is at work. We sat through the ceremony and then he hustled me off like a thief in the night before the reception even started. It kind of made me sad... this is the closest he comes to having any kind of social circle.
He had said to me... "Well, pretty girl" (yes, that is what he calls me... and he can say "pretty girl" in a tone that makes your heart sing or sink... he can use it like a whip or a goad, like a warm soothing caress.) "well, Pretty Girl, I really did not want to stay very long. Do you want to go?"
I answered a good slave answer... which was... "You are my Master... if you want to go, I want to go." (and honestly... I am not totally comfortable with strangers but I could have done it... and if we had found a table and sat down, I could have had a witty, entertaining conversation with just about anyone.) But with that we were gone... before the hand shaking, before the cake and toasts and good wishes. He asked me later if I had "really" wanted to go and I answered again... "that I don't have wants beyond wanting to please him"... he called bullshit... he insisted that when he asks what I want I am required to really have wants... my own wants... I do know I want him to have friends... to get out more... to be less isolated. I worry that he spends so much time with only me.
Chapter 20 of Demon Child just posted on Literotica. I have put up the first couple thousand words of Chapter 21 on the "What's she writing now?" page of this blog.
Have a nice day... x
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I just put up the rough draft of chapter 20 of Demon Child on my "What is she writing now?" page, if anyone is too impatient to wait for it to show up on Literotica.
I am off to do some editing and then I am going to start the epilogue. Woot... another 400 page novel under my belt. I am AWESOME!!!!!
Monday, August 23, 2010
They gave me the "Girl With the Dragon Tattoo", "The Girl That Played With Fire", and "The Girl That Kicked the Hornets Nest" for my birthday present. I am already done with the first two and half way through the third. They are good mystery thrillers.
Master has left with the 'struction to "finish that book" so I won't be sneaking off to read alla the time and he can give me longer lists of things to do. But to tell you the truth he was so happy to get me home that I have been totally spoiled since I have gotten here. Direction to "take nap now" twice a day. Order out Mexican put down in front of me when I rouse and blink bleary eyed. And he was right... I was pretty drained when I got home. Both physically and mentally exhausted. And lets not forget the amazing sex. I really needed the rest.
Here are some pictures of my Alaska trip.
If you get up very early in the morning...
... and you keep a sharp eye out, you will sometimes see the caribou as he swims across. He is the little black thing in the water.
And you will have a better chance of actually catching a salmon to eat.
Here is a picture of that unfortunate rainbow trout with the terrible facial scars from being caught and released so many times. He was big and strong and healthy... if a bit battered and having an ugly mug.
And here is that lonely Stellar Sea Lion at the Seward Sea Life Center.
So I guess I better get to reading if I am going to obey the 'structions and finish that book.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
We did catch a three silver salmon (Coho Salmon to some) and have filleted and frozen one and smoked two more. My daughter-in-law calls smoked salmon candy, and while the intellectual part of me agrees… it does taste good… the little girl that had few snack options other than pungent salty smokey “Squaw Candy”… (apologies for the culturally insensitive word… but that IS what it is called here in Alaska… even the native people call it that.)… anyway… just the smell of smoked salmon evokes too many visceral memories. I just don’t like it that much anymore.
We took a road trip to Seward and went to the sea life center there, a nice if somewhat smallish aquarium that shows the undersea Alaskan stuff. I think that the high point was the giant Stellar Sea Lion bull… but I felt a bit sad about how small his tank was in comparison to him. And he was alone… I think he looked lonely.
We have had endless good meals… I made “Hook Point Humpy”… deep fried breaded bites of fresh pink salmon that melted in our mouths. I could have cooked three times as much and still not gotten all I wanted… it was a marvelous thing to watch those delectable bites disappear into Livie’s stomach almost as fast as we dished up her plate. We’ve eaten tons of fresh vegetables from the garden… broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, turnips, carrots… fresh new potatoes stolen from under the still producing tops… it is a treasure hunt each trip into the garden.
Today has dawned bright and sunny… the first beautiful day here in these parts in over a month. My father, known to all as Grampa has orchestrated a coupe… he has decided to send my son, daughter-in-law and Livie off on another scenic road trip, handing over a C-note to insure dining and shopping fun… and I am slated to another docket. Assisting with taking Gramma out on the river for a fishing trip. This is a role my father loves to put me in… the first mate to his captain, the step and fetch’it, the go’fer, the legs and arms and eyes to keep his memories alive. Making the fishing trips of today carry just enough of the hint of those of yesteryear to feed the memories. It will be nostalgic and today I am brimming over with deep thoughts, nostalgia and tears. It won’t be exactly the same, nothing ever is, but I will sit and listen as they relive each memory, the fish caught here, the time they got tangled up there, each experience reviewed, savored, refreshed and relived … and I will be the witness to these stories and hearing them, commit them to memory… and remembering insure that they will live on, archived for another thirty years until I can pass them on to sons and granddaughters and great grandchildren…
There I go again, starting to overflow with tears… somehow, in this place mortality and eternity swirl about me… touch me more often… force me to stop and contemplate… and I had every good intention of making this post lighter, more palatable, easier to swallow… and there I go again… with a lump stuck in my throat… blinking, swallowing down unshed tears.
And now that I am here I am going through the same little spasms of sadness and apprehension I do every time I visit. Each time I come here… I see how my parents are just a little older than they were last time I saw them. Aging is like that, an imperceptible fade, the gradual erosion of time wearing us away, changing us…
I very much believe it is nature in its most gentle and merciful persona that does this, slowly steals away the person that once was so that when the inevitable occurs… the thing you lose is not your mommy or daddy… it has become a husk, a shadow, and echo of what was and perhaps… maybe, just maybe… it won’t hurt so much when they go. And I am realistic enough to see that freight train coming right at me. I cannot keep them forever… that is an impossibility… and it would be a cruelty for them and all the rest of us. And yet as I write these words, my eyes are brimming with little girl tears. I cannot imagine a world without my mommy and daddy in it. And no matter how much I know I am strong enough, that freight train is going to crush me.
I can’t see my mother in there very often now. She looks different, she sounds different, she even smells different. She forgets things, little things and big things. She has asked me if I had read the book, “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo” the second time, and it was funny. The third time was an exercise in patience but the fourth time was heartbreaking. And when she overheard us talking about my daughter-in-law’s pregnancy, she clearly had no memory of being told that there was a fourth great grandchild in the making. I can understand the book thing, but great grandchildren, they are kind’a important.
Add to her forgetfulness, her severe hearing loss that forces me to yell at her to get my words inside her head. And you know… it is fucking nearly impossible to yell and yell at someone without some kind of irritation starting to show through. It is the flip side of “fake it ‘til you make it”. I have always found it true that if I am tired or down I can “fake” being energetic and/or cheerful and eventually, most times it will come true. Now, when I raise my voice… I feel the rage leaking in and as much as I try to control it… I see her flinch and look wounded. And I feel like shit.
Because, the one part of her that has faded the most is that part of her… the angry part. She no longer is irritable or impatient. She seems to have left all expectations and even a sense of the passage of time behind.
Dad does most of the cooking now… mom just sits with a book in her lap and dozes most of the time. The part of me that needs to laugh instead of cry wonders if perhaps that the book is not “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo”… (though actually that book has been loaned out to some friend they talk about as if I somehow know him just as intimately as they do.) My father is just as irascible and funny and inflexible as he has been his entire life. He takes care of her and worries what will happen if he predeceases her. And men in my family generally do. His mind is pretty good, but his body is rapidly failing him. I carefully reassure him that I will be here, that I will make sure she will be safe and happy. And perhaps that is another merciful nature thing, if the dementia has progressed far enough, she may not remember so acutely his absence. I know if she were to go before him, he would nearly die of the agony.
So there it is… I know I am going to have to face this freight train, let it crush me and stand back up and try to hold the shattered bits of the surviving parent together. If it is my father, I will just help with the physical things, and defer to his wishes. He says he would not want to stay here in this house without her. And if it is her, I need to do it all… decide all. So that means, either way, 80 years of memories to sort, share, gift, sell or throw away. No matter how you look at it… it will be a herculean task. An almost literal Aegean Stable of stuff. Treasures to the people who loved them, objects to the rest of us.
I wander through this Alaskan museum of a house. Priceless Eskimo artifacts careless looted from a hundred walks on a hundred beaches gathering dust next to cheap souvenirs gifted to them from people long dead, reminders of places and experiences that are eloquent in their irrelevance. Furniture and art, tools and toys, stuffed salmon and bearskin rugs, frying pans I remember using 40 years ago when I was just learning to cook… the same old school house clock that my great grandfather looted from a school house after the San Francisco Earthquake and ticked and ticked through every night of my growing up life or the ancient rocking chair I determinedly scratched “Daddy” deep into the finish of when I was just barely older than Livie is now. It is archeology of their lives and because I was a part of that life, so much of it is my life too… so much is wrapped up and weighed down by my memory of it. How can I just let go of that rocking chair that still says “Daddy”?
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The same old, same old... but little things stand out. Us walking through the grocery store. Him asking me what's next, me looking at the list and announcing, "Meat". Him saying, "I know you are, but what's next on the list?" Picture me humping his leg in a busy grocery store. Picture an old man teasing us with a "Hold it down, there." Me deliberately misunderstanding and shooting back, "You have no idea how hard it is to hold me down!"
A few days later after a long chatty email exchange with one of my virtual friends, the topic wound round to verbal humiliation, how he sometimes will say the words but it rings hollow because I can tell he really doesn't "feel" it. He doesn't think of me of me as even a bitch, much less meat and I am not so sure he wants to believe those words are true. He doesn't want a bitch or meat. But still, even when they ring hollow, they trigger something in me, a thrill of fear... a rush of heat.
I am getting ready for my annual pilgrimage to the land of my genesis. Every August I go to Alaska to visit my aging parents and engage in the yearly ritual of fish sacrifice. Yes, I kill fish. I like to kill fish... no... I LOVE to kill fish. This year, Master is not going. Instead I am taking oldest son, my enigma of a daughter-in-law and the miracle that is my five year old granddaughter with me. It ought to be fun... and exhausting. My very wise Master decided to opt out of the circus.
Last night Master mentioned he was going to miss me. He said that he is going to totally fuck my brains out before I go... and then went on to describe all the depraved and disgusting things he is going to do. (More leg humping...) He even mentioned bondage and name calling... maybe the conversation about verbal humiliation is going to pay off?
Already my ass is decorated with a lovely constellation of little marks, bruises, speckles of little red marks, lines, dots.He beat me into a limp pile of whimpering "meat"... and when he asked me if I had had enough... for the first time in a very long time I nodded and sort of groaned out an mmmm, hmmm... and you know what... that reluctant sadist kept right on... clearly he needed more. And he is talking about another session soon... so he is planning on getting in some extra licks to tide me (and him?) over until my return in 9 days.
My yard is sort of getting away from me again... too many afternoons and weekends just sitting on my ass... I know I could beat it back to the place I had it before in just a few hours of easy hoeing and chopping. Just getting the "round-to-it" to come up to the top of the pile. But Livie's pumpkin plant is growing into the monster I knew it would and we already have a couple of pumpkins.
Yesterday I came home from work extra drained... I think it was the realization that today will most likely (99% sure) be the last day that my best ever, most awesome, (and secretly... don't tell him... sexiest) principal EVAR will be there. When I return to work this September for the new school year, he will be gone. I will miss him so much. He sings, he laughs, when he yells good morning down the hall you know he is happy to see you there at work. He does not hesitate even for a second to step in and deal with the shit that comes raining down every day. He can just walk into a room and the kids behave better... not because they are afraid... but because they just want to more when he is around. And he has such an amazing smile... like a light house. The hallways will be just a little darker next September. I told him I would not hate him for leaving... that I will reserve that for who ever they find to try and replace him.
Today there is no kids at work... just a day for teachers to do end of year grades and it is my day to do all the last bits of filing and enter the last data and print out my end of the year reports. And then I get to do my favorite thing... I get to put away all of the last years files... I get to put it all to bed... finally finished, neat, organized, done... finis... I look forward to doing this all year long.
And then I will celebrate by going and getting my nails done. I am thinking about blue sparkly.
And answer me this, why, oh why are my bowels in some kind of an uproar... why did my insides insist on complete evacuation... three times... count them THREE times this morning??? My poor bung hole is sorer this morning than it is after Master uses me unlubed in the shower. Pooping: the last forbidden subject. Why is it somehow more permissible to talk about someone sticking their dick up there than it is to talk about what comes out of it??? ...go figure.
Well I guess I should pack it up and finish getting ready for work.
Friday, August 6, 2010
It was loud enough to be a door opening or closing... or someone walking in the empty bedrooms upstairs. I would listen carefully but it would be quiet again. Nothing... but then a few minutes later... there is would be again. I even walked around the house, looked in every room... the noise was loud enough to make me nervous. I grabbed the hammer that was sitting on my leather working bench... telling myself I needed it for a little repair job on the main floor, but I found myself gripping it firmly and finding a small amount of security to have a weapon in my hand. But again there was nothing, nothing out of place. The house eerily silent as I patrolled.
Then the more easily identified sound of the screen door and I found myself hurrying to greet Master, my tension making me babble... "Finally, it is you, really you?" (Another release the squirrels moment.) I knelt at his feet, my forehead firmly placed between his feet, so happy he was home. Something creepy was going on in my world and I wanted him here with me... here with me now.
When he lifted my up and wrapped his arms around me, I asked him, "Do you sometimes hear things in this house? Like doors opening and closing or people walking around?" He responded all the time, saying that it must be a ghost. (I know he does not believe in ghosts but it is also true he hears the same things sometimes.) Most of the time it is squirrels dancing on the roof but this was closer, more mysterious, stranger.
Then as we walked together to through the house, I found a clue. A black sooty, ominous clue. In front of the fireplace was a smooth black layer of pitch black soot with the tracks of bare feet going back and forth, my bare feet from each trip I had made through the house. I freeze and point, whispering in pent up excitement... "Look!"
Master's voice was confident, "Something is in the chimney. Sometimes birds fall in and get stuck because they can't fly straight up." We stand still listening but the house is silent for the moment. I vacuum up the mess and run a duster to get up the last of micro fine particles. I open and shut the flue violently a few times... BANG! BANG! BANG! I stick a poker up the chimney and rattle it around but there is not a sound. Maybe it was gone? Master tells me to close the flue tight and go wash off all the soot I had gotten all over me, before I sit on any furniture.
Then later, an hour later, Master calls me into the front room. "Listen." But it was quiet, he says he had heard it, that it sounded exactly like a bird, maybe a jay or a pigeon. Several times through the evening, it would tap, thump and flutter and I would envision that poor thing caught, covered in fine soot, choking on the dust it was kicking up. The practical part of me thinking that nothing could live long in such conditions and hoping it would hurry up and die. The worry wart part of me wondering if this thing would stink or clog up my chimney, vaguely pissed about having one more household thing to put on the list that makes me question and nag my Master.
And now this morning, my precious Friday morning, my one day a week I am not working and Master is. The one day I have to myself to get those extra chores done, to work on special projects like writing, crafts and reading. After Master leaves for work I am sitting in my special place on the couch... there it is... thump, tap, rustle...
Shudder... that thing is still in there, still struggling, slowly dieing. Part of me wonders about going and opening the flue and seeing if it will finally fall out... but enough of me is terrified of what it might be, some kind of black monster that once freed will flutter and flap all around my house, spreading germs and soot. Or worse grow to unrealistic proportions and come after me in some kind of vengeance for my callous wish that it would just hurry up and die.
One of the tasks Master has left me with is to clean all the ashes out of the fireplace. He says that we should try and get the corpse out.
I am reluctant to approach the fireplace... creeped out to being even that close to horror. I think this is far worse than ghosts.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
This morning was one of those mornings, where I could see it sooo clearly. The bedraggled form of my heroine sprawled across the comatose king... And the words were flying from my finger tips onto the screen and I kept eying the little clock in the corner... the deadline for me to put it down and get ready for work ticking closer and closer.
I love the way it feels when I write, the pictures in my head, the words bringing it to life, the click and hum of my finger tips on the keys... It is addictive and so hard to stop. As the last minute fades away, I slam the top of my keyboard down, almost manic with caffeine and creativity. I lunge up from the couch propelled by the knowledge that I have left too many things to the last minute.
I am talking to myself (hey, if you can't talk to yourself, who can you talk to). I ask the air... "I wonder if you can call in "creative"? And laugh at my own joke. I verbally go over the list of things I need to do and what I need to take to work and what I think I want for lunch... jibber jabbering to myself a mile a minute.
And Master calls from the bathroom, "RELEASE THE SQUIRRELS!!!!!"
He is used to this, all stillness and focus nothing but the rattle of fingernails on keys, then boom... yammer yammer blah blah blah... giggle... yammer some more. He is very amused by it. So there it is... "RELEASE THE SQUIRRELS!"
I wonder why when I get home I am drained... I cannot see the pictures so clearly in my head... can't find the words to describe them. Maybe it was the hours spent wiping butts, holding sticky hands, explaining to people the best way to get a nonverbal autistic kid from point A to point B without him imploding or worse exploding. When to push, when not to. It is a delicate dance. I love my job, but it does take a lot out of me.
And now I must gather the last shred of my energy and go make the dinner... Ling Cod fillets grilled outside with Mojo Sauce, grilled corn on the cob, pearl barley salad... maybe cantaloupe for dessert. Yum... just saying it has my creative juices flowing again... maybe I will write something after dinner.