writing

Mar. 12th, 2010 01:43 pm
Last night I was reading back through stories I've written... some quite old... i'm going to be uncharacteristically immodest here and just say Gosh but I can sometimes write good! Not always... some of it was quite bad... but some of it was good! Some of the pr0n made me all flushed and tingly... and admittedly that shouldn't be surprising given that I wrote it and it's therefore obviously ... concepts ... that make me flushed and tingly... but concepts that make me flushed and tingly, when badly written, have less of an impact. Anyhow... my point here is this, I suffer a lot of self-doubt quite often and it was nice to review my writing with the objectiveness of distance and find that I can see merit in it... and now I find myself wishing that my inclination and ability to write fiction was more consistent, or that I had more discipline about it... and i also find myself thinking that maybe it would be good to find an affordable short-story writing class to maybe get some skills and structure...
I'm not a poet. I'm really truly most definitely not a poet. But for some reason every now and then the rhyming fairy comes along and makes me write stuff that, well, rhymes. Like tonight.

inspired by a conversation last week with GET.

What I want

Tell me what you want she says
Between the tangling of our tongues
Tell me what you want she begs
Tracing patterns on my legs

I’m assuming, since you’re asking, that you really want to know
So fine, ok, no worries. I’ll tell you. Here we go:

World peas and corn for all, a slightly smaller nose
A house with rooms to wander through and one in which to fall
I want the bus to come on time, unless I’m running late
I want a boss who doesn’t feel like black ice under skates
I really want the ability to walk in 6 inch heels
And oh, while I’m at it, I want a boi who kneels
I want a motorbike, a fat hog painted pink
And when I take my shoes off, I want them not to stink
I want to write a book of smut (none of it in rhyme)
I want to know, since now you’ve asked, if you’re still having a good time
I want a plethora of custom drawn tattoos
And for more than rhyming reasons, I also want tutus
I want an antique armoire, filled with fetish wear
And when I’m masturbating, I want my cat not to stare
I want to be a kid again and recklessly climb a tree
I want a world where everyone is truly diverse and free
I want my rights to be equal nothing more and nothing less
I want a big queer wedding with lots of big queer guests
I want women to know they’re beautiful no matter what their size
I want that beauty to be easily seen, in everybody’s eyes
I want genuine respect for different points of view
And even if you don’t like my stance, I want respect from you
I want freedom of religion even though He’s not my God
I want sexual freedom too, even though some kinks are odd
I want children to grow up in a world that’s free of war
I want so very many things, all this and so much more.

But as for what I want when our clothes have all been shed?
What I really want when we’re writhing on the bed?
What I want most of all when I’m wet down to my knees?
Isn’t it obvious? Stop asking what I want and for pitys sake, fuck me please!
My other journal... the one where I put fiction, or fictionalised short stories, snippets etc, known as [livejournal.com profile] writing_whore is going public... I'm opening it up to anyone who might want to read it rather than just friends, because I want feedback that isn't just friends being nice (although i do love that feedback)... not sure how random strangers are likely to find it to read and give feedback, but.. yeah.. i don't know... I'm very very tired...

Rain

Jun. 30th, 2005 05:48 pm
What is it about rainy days that speaks to me so? I kept getting distracted today by the rain and wind rattling the windows of my office. A gust of wind would test the strength of glass, and I would glance up and become transfixed by the patterns of rain herded by wind, the trickle-spatter-thump of raindrops on the glass, the final brown leaves being stripped from trees by the grasping wind. Minutes later I would rouse my self from my reverie and try to concentrate on work again… but the wind and rain call to me…

I went outside in my lunch break to be in the weather… the whisper and howl of the wind, the susurration of tyres on slick roads, the gurgling of rivers in the gutters, the trickle of rain drops over my head and down my neck… these sounds and feelings carry with them a strange kind of silence and peace… in the middle of the rain, in the middle of traffic, in the middle of people scurrying hurrying to be inside, out of the cold, out of the wet, I walk slowly with my face to the rain and float to the sounds of a city awash…

There’s just something about a rainy day that touches the quiet part of my soul.
This is taken from an email I sent a friend some time ago...

I never cease to be surprised that people I think are incredibly beautiful don't see that about themselves, particularly when they are a more "socially acceptable" kind of beautiful than me, I figure if I can see the beauty I possess when I'm told daily by every image in every media that I should feel nothing but ashamed of how I look, then people who don't get told that should be able to see their own beauty that much clearer... You are beautiful because of the intelligence that makes your eyes shine, the sense of humour that makes you laugh and smile, the courage you have in facing life that makes you stand with your head high, the belief you have in your own value and potential, that makes you strive to be a better person and is the basis of the confidence you project, even when you don't always feel confident, the compassion and kindness you have towards others.... beauty is not about the shape of our bodies, it is the attitude we animate our bodies with, the way we stand head up and facing the world, it's in our smiles and our laughter and the way we treat other people.... the way we think and feel and act colours so effectively over the shape of our body that for anyone but the most superficial of people our physicality is but a small part of our attractiveness.... I have a postcard from the body shop with a picture of an alternative, realistically shaped plastic doll (in obvious challenge to Barbie), and the postcard says "There are 3 billion women who don't look like supermodels and only 8 who do" ... I love it :o) And I would bet that for most of those 3 billion other women, there is at least one person who thinks they are the most beautiful person in the world...

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April 2014

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