Bad Girl Blog

Life, my love, true life, lies between stasis and motion. It lies in the moment you are about to fall, as you walk, and catch your step and draw a breath. It is in the period of uncertainty, when you’re about to crash, but yet you have that chance to save yourself.

I love my fictions, my romances. No, I do not lack sex, sex is just as it is. What I desire is a whirlwind like a crazy love that will slap me in the face and come onto me, onto my collar bones, that I can straddle and fuck, your hands on my breasts as you whisper dirty, dirty things and I ride you. Buckle you.

Phil invited me to the Russian National Orchestra, we had 5th row seats. I nearly came in my pants listening to Beethoven’s symphony No. 7 in A, op 92. I swear to god I was fucking shivering through it. I really was. Music, good, pure, visceral music has that effect beyond anything. More than any drug, any substance. Oh my god, it hurts. It hurts. It’s so fleeting. It’s like this fucking fiction that passes, you experience if for a moment, and it’s gone. If you listen to it too many times, that feeling dies. That’s all of life, it sucks. You cannot be in mid-step, but that is the loveliest, most bittersweet moment. Just before you fall, or just before you catch yourself. All else is shit.

I met my sister’s ex-classmate today. She’s such a beautiful, amazing girl. She sings so brilliantly. Please see us on Tuesday at the Velvet underground, we will make it worth your while. There is talent in the town. She told me how she scored a shit grade in a lit paper sometime back because she had this great line Miss. Prim couldn’t understand.

Happily Ever after is when the prince knows Snow White (who was 14) has been with seven men and can still take her in. Happily Ever After is when the prince can dance with Cinderella all night and not notice her callous hands.

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Says very well how I feel right now. 

Transience.

These notes are raining over me,
A million pins that sear,
Cuts and grazes on my skin,
Each wound another tear.

These tastes shall melt upon my tongue,
A bittersweet bouquet,
Poison deep into my lungs,
Love, my life, betray.

I grasp my flaying, fragile faith,
She seeks her next desire,
If she so much as even waits,
My self and sense retire.

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I have a new love.

Oh my god. He’s writing is so good. So sparse, every word is pure pleasure. The spaces, the empty paragraphs beneath the words are pleasure. So many novels lack that. The space for the reader to stop and gasp and let her catch her breath and sear the images into her mind.

Spaces to buy her time to slip her hands down her panties. Oh wait, that was the Anatomist. Yes, I just had to touch myself to see if my clitoris was exactly where he’d described it, although I bloody well know where she is as well as I know where my lips are and my eyes, although they cannot see themselves.

You know what I want? I think you do. Let me tell you something ridiculous that happened on Saturday after the concert.

So they played Beethoven’s 7th, and I was going to come in my pants. And after that, I waited down at the lounge outside the dressing rooms. The second cellist. Don’t ask. I must have be crazy. Which was what I thought. I couldn’t have been there more than 20 minutes before I gave up. But how crazy is that? I just thought it’d be like, life experience to make love to a Russian cellist who probably can only speak just enough English to get by. I wish I did. Fuck.

Anyway, I’m in love with fucking fictions, my best bet for finding true love is to carry on writing and hopefully, sometime, some one will be crazy enough to turn them into films.

Desire by design my love, Desire by design.

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Stunted

A girl is walking towards her room, out from underneath her skirt, a foetus falls from her, landing between her feet.

She picks it up and strokes it. She takes it to her room, and carefully, she places it on the window sill, beside the flower pot.

She pats it, and tells it she will come back for it later.

She leaves.

A wasp comes by and strokes the foetus with the antennae on her head. It is still warm and it is pulsating.

She injects her eggs into the foetus. She strokes it with the antennae on her head and then she leaves.

The sun is slowly drying out the foetus, it is slowly dying.

The girl is returning from her errands.

She enters the room, to see her foetus dried out, like a straw doll.

It is twilight.

The wasp returns to check on her nest, only to find out that it is dried out, like a straw doll.

The girl, the wasp, they catch each other’s eye.

“I’m sorry.” Said the girl. “I misplaced a life, but you murdered many more.”

“It wasn’t to be.” Said the wasp. And she flies away.

The girl takes the foetus, and throws it out the window, into the garden.

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I wrote this while listening to Joseph Brook’s Blue Balloon.

The song of songs he sang to me,
My master’s breath he took,
No passion comes without a fee,
No love is ever free.

All the maidens from which to choose,
He took my soul to keep,
My flesh, dictated he, his muse,
My sanity for his abuse.

He holds my mind in his confine,
My flame between his teeth,
My tongue, his trunk, on which I dine,
I kneel beneath his shrine.

These silken cords they have no force,
What for? I’m on all fours,
And kingdom come, I’ve no remorse,
Seek sacrilege to its source.

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Some days, I cannot feel anything. Some days, there is only the longing. Only the need for desire and nothing else. There is no object to be desired, nobody I want enough.

Men are intoxicating. I love them intellectual, contemplative, I love them tall, a little older, a decade or two, or more, perhaps, and I love them in nice clothes. And I love it when I am everything to them.

Tell me I am the most beautiful, the most wonderful. Even if it is untrue. Just tell me, just believe it for the moment we are together, and it will be all worth it. The time, the money, the effort. It will be worth it.

The things in your soul speak to me, I want to open you up like I would open a new book, freshly bought. Filled with passions, and ideas, and aspirations. With moments of calm and periods of pain. All novel, all original, yet filled with some universal truth that is also in me, also in all the other books I’ve read.

I can only speak in poetry, I can only think of the present. Believe me when I say this is me. Let me live out this fiction. I am acting, but I am acting my own story. But art is evermore eternal than life.

I will love you, and you will know, it is true.

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I find certain kinds of men intoxicating, and I like sex, and I’m not difficult to figure out. Either I want to fuck someone, or I don’t. However, I never want to have sex based on how a guy looks, or how smart he is. But definitely if he is… thoughtful. Artsy. Introspective. Kind. And especially if he doesn’t expect to be fucked. There is nothing more unattractive than someone that simply assumes you will wanna fuck them just because they’re kinda cute and you (or I) seem quite slutty.

As a rule, I never assume anyone would find me particularly attractive enough to just want to jump into bed with immediately. Although it is generally true; but I’ve had a couple of experiences which have proven me wrong, which is fine, because it’s not what reality is most of the time, it’s what you assume it to be. Basically, some healthy cynicism about ourselves is good. Although the word cynicism necessarily assumes that you know you have a view of things, or yourself, that is necessarily more negative then it is in reality.

People feel good when they find someone attractive, and that other person seems like she’s so grateful you find her attractive. It’s just not as fun with someone that thinks they’re god’s gift to the opposite sex. You feel shortchanged you know. Like, at least let me feel I’m doing something good for you beyond just fucking. I mean, sex is about self indemnification for both, right?

God, I don’t know what this post really is about. I guess I’ve met many guys I find incredibly attractive, but the moment they simply assume I would sleep with them, then they become much less so. I mean, it is their right to assume, and of course it makes sense to, we all do it. But for Christ’s sakes, don’t say it.

It’s like… you know how in some movies, the stupid characters say exactly how they feel? Like Anakin in Star Wars or something. “That kiss torments me, Your skin is so soft” blah, blah. People hate that shit. But when it’s implied, you know, it’s the SAME THING, the guy is telling the girl he really wants to sleep with her, but he’s wrapping it around different subjects. Sex is a sort of art, and all art has to have it’s ambiguities.

I’m really not prescribing anything. I’m just saying what I feel. And on retrospect, the times when I actually got the most satisfaction out of fucking someone new was when we were talking about completely non-sex related things. And then I feel like comming in my pants because they’re so smart and sensitive, and then it just… … happens.

I started on this because a few guys in the last few weeks have said things to me like they’d want to confirm their standing that I would do them. Which immediately triggers my fuck off response. Of course girls are not stupid. They know it when a guy knows she like them, just… oh god. Don’t try and make her feel like it’s a done deal. Just… don’t!

However, different strokes for different folks, and we all have different chemistries with different people. See, if I really, really want to sleep with someone. I find them unbelievably attractive, and really sweet, and totally hot, then I don’t mind. Totally don’t mind them assuming anything.

Oh my god. I had this strange thing while I was in California this year. It was the first time I felt so uncontrollably attracted to someone. Like, it was just, oh my god. Uncontrollable. Thinking about the attraction still sends shivers down my whole being. Like, the entire world simply shut out, there was nothing else, just a singular desire. I Want You. I’ve never, ever felt anything like it before. It was even more insane than the previous insane one. It’s a totally crazy feeling. It’s like being on coke. It’s even better than being on coke. Oh my god. I can’t even begin to describe it. It was purely, purely sex. There was no sex, but still it felt stronger than anything I’d ever felt. Standing one foot away from him was sex. And I was talking and saying all these ridiculous things that were really funny and witty, and they felt like someone else’s words. Like some muse had come to play along and help me out and dug out all that rubbish in my head… …

Jesus. If I don’t stop now… … I’ll stop now.

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Sex and pain are two completely interchangeable things for me. Sex is always better, but when you’re alone, the pain can also be… … nice. I feel immediately better when the adrenaline hits, but it’s a fine line between too much and too little. The thing that works best for me is wax. Just, plain, regular melting wax. It makes me feel sane. The same goes for my two hours, four times a week at the gym. All pain and all gain. Really works out well for me, doesn’t it.

Some days, I feel like I’m falling into a haunting melody. But what are haunting melodies made of? I never studied enough musical theory as a girl to know. Is it the minor key? The chromatic scales? I can’t remember any of it. Milan Kundera has something about it somewhere. I didn’t understand why he went into that strange digression into Moravian folk music in The Joke when I first read it. But now I think I do. If only they’d taught me all those interesting things when I still played the piano regularly.

I tried to learn the Croatian Rhapsody today (which is not a very difficult piece, I know, I know), it was relatively satisfying. But music has never been a strength. I can do it, and I can play it with feeling, but just like math, (and we all know how entwined they are) it’s not as intuitive. I appreciate it, it kills me that I will never be able to get past the learning barrier to the point where I can actually create my own pieces. Of course we can all make up tunes, but that’s not good enough. I like knowing the rules well enough first. Otherwise I’m too afraid. I get extremely irritated at shit created by people that seem to have made no attempt to educate themselves about anything. Either their obsession, or the draftsmanship required to execute the art. As if pure feeling were sufficient. All the best artists do both.

But I digress. The question is… …
Why are some pieces capable of eliciting that sensation of spurned love, of the sort of fear you can only feel when you are exiled, from a place, from all you know. Why is it, even if we have never been disowned, never been banished from anywhere, by any one, we can still comprehend that sensation when we see it in a film. When we listen to it in a piece of music. When we hear it in the words and the beats of a poem. In the lyrical prose of a novel. In the description of some amazing truth about the universe, about life. And it is strong and it is real.

It is real for me anyway. But perhaps somewhere deep in our subconscious, we all feel like we’ve been exiled by someone, something, dear to us. A person, an idea, life in general. Perhaps that’s why religion works. Come. Come into the delusion that there is always someone there to love you. Most of modern Christian music is awful. Especially the born again stuff. Good dog.

I started working on the idea for my second novel now. It will be stranger, longer. It is about a house that exists in 3.5 dimensions. So, you know how a sphere is a three dimensional object and when you hold it in your hand, you can feel all of it. But if you want to paint onto it, or sculpt detail, you can only work on the surface that is visible to you. That’s working in 2.5 D. (think, Zbrush)

(I think there is a story about a house that is made of tetra-sects stacked atop each other in this anthology called Fantasia Mathematica. I read the story somewhere else)

In this house, when you move from room to room, you always get where you want to go. Sometimes, the characters in the story get where the house wants them to go. Sometimes where they think they want to go is not where they want to go.

There are three characters in the story. Alan, an architect, around 54 years of age, just dying to have a child. Justine, around 30, beautiful, frustrated. One of those creatures that are usually simple minded but occasionally lapse into anger fits against themselves and how powerless they feel about their lives. (Which I often feel is due to ignorance. I think a mind that seeks to understand, and can understand is a healthy mind. And we are our minds). And Rachel. 19, Free spirited, intellectually aggressive, and pregnant.

In the house, the future is revealed occasionally by items that are a product of the character’s consciousness. Now the future doesn’t really exists until it exists. There is no such thing as fate. It’s all built upon the past, and it’s usually a combination of what we predict it to be, the actions we take to move it into the direction we hope it will take, and chance, and everything else. But in this house, there are relics from the future, milk bottles, nappies (because the girl is pregnant) books no one has ever bought. Letters that seem quite familiar, yet tempered by time.

And in the house there is a memory of the past. Not like, things. Because obviously, things from the past can be in the present and the future. But like. Sounds. Sensations. Emotions.

So it goes on. I’ve got pages of shit. It’s all really rough and jumbled up now, but it’s moved a long way since i thought of it 1 month ago. It occurred to me while waiting for the bus.

An architect and his wife are driving along the highway, and they pick up a pregnant girl. And it went from there. I got too excited thinking up fictional nonsense so I had to pause and put some wax on myself and blog. I get too excited sometimes. It’s a strange feeling. Like I’m waiting for a long lost lover to come and make love to me, only it’s more exhilaratingly, because this story, whatever story it is, I have not known before. Yet it is familiar because it is from my mind. And it’s just… bizzare.

I’ve gone on now, haven’t I.

Oh, and this made me laugh. I like it because it’s like. Double irony.

Poem, by Piet Hein.

“Lines that are Parellel
meet at Infinity!”

Euclid repeatedly,
heatedly,
urged.

Until he died.

And so reached that vicinity:
in it he
found the damned things

diverged.

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My fingernails plunge into his flesh, my fingers through skin and muscle. I grab him. I grab him, his skin like laces, like the laces on my corset that can be tugged, and pulled and undone. I pull him to me. I smash onto his body, the hard, taunt, beautiful, beautiful creature he is. I want to kill myself on on him, crash onto him. Splatter all over, his collarbones, his nipples, his jaw, his lips.

And then he will love me no more. A woman is a bag of guts with no soul, or so it is during the world before Columbus.

I had that image walking back from the train station today. The image will not leave my mind. The thought of skin shredded into laces so I can grab.

Partial monogamy. Or was it selective monogamy. There are certain things for me and me only. Long ago, someone said, do not do this with anyone else. I didn’t. And then I did. And that was the end of that. But it was my choice.

I met Mark today. How strange it is. After niceties were exchanged, the first line he said was, “Not all guys are as jealous as I am.” Indeed. I am just getting over it. I’m just realizing it. It drives me nuts. 2 years of a completely insular existence has made me incapable of realizing that most couples are free to do as they please. That men can actually be reasonable. But jealousy. Oh we need that don’t we. We like it and we hate it. If I love you I love you, why is that hard to understand. Is that not enough.
Chemical, cheating scum bags we are. It takes two hands to clap. How does this work? Can I stand it if you slept with someone else? I probably could. Tell me, but don’t rub it in. It would make me feel better about my sins.

Oh my GOD. I used to have it all down.  It used to be simple. I was protected. I fucked around. I felt no guilt. He (not Mark) fucked another girl, I entered the room, I was heartbroken, and I crashed onto the bed and fell asleep. And he carried on fucking her. I liked him, I was crazy about him. But he dated a chaste thing a decade older than me. I was like, the crazy chick he fucked. He read me poetry, and bad science fiction he’d written and gave me massages and pills. And he’d talk about the crazy chicks that hit on him, who always wrote him bad poetry, which he then read to me. And I felt sorry for all those silly girls.

I had no concept of jealousy, no concept of possession. It seemed perfectly normal to me that I could sleep with someone at dawn, another at noon, and then the same one at dawn, at dusk. But dawn and dusk was like a brother to me, and lunch was a lover who spurned me. And I thought it was perfectly… … normal.

On retrospect, they hated it. None of them could have dated me, for all sorts of stupid reasons. Oh there was him, that one boy that actually didn’t care. He just said, don’t tell me yours, and I won’t tell you mine. But the rest, it is only on retrospect I realized why they didn’t take me seriously. But there was only ever two, really. I was a kid then. That was probably the reason. More than anything else.

Ah. Bedtime. Good night, good night.

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Someone mentioned to me today that I only ever talk about sex. I thought about it over dinner, it is true. Obviously I can talk about plenty of other things, but unless the person is a very good explainer of something I’m actually interested in, I’d rather have those dialogues with my books. Usually I would go into some subject or other, or he would, whoever he is, and all these glaring holes would show up, because how likely is it that the book you read last week was something he’d read in the last month at least?Okay, my conversations are usually rather versatile, but I realized that the bigger the group gets, or the more unfamiliar with the person you are, the harder it is to talk about things that are not absolutely universal. Like the spastic behavior of people (gossip) or sex. I hate gossiping. It’s boring. So I end up talking about sex. Sometimes I also talk about evolution, which is also about sex.

Right now I can also make small talk about parallel universes and how human thinking is different from artificial intelligence. But like I said, unless I was familiar with the person, and we’ve been friends for awhile, and the reason you’re still friends is because you’re interested in the same things (in this category, I have about 3 people, all guys), than why would I want to talk about any of those things? And why would you want to listen?

On the other hand, The sex lives of people are infinitely interesting. The things they like in bed, what they find taboo, if they find anything taboo at all. But most of all, what they think and feel about themselves in relation to the rest of the world. I can tell the intellectual sophistication of someone just by the way they talk about sex. They don’t have to practice what they preach, they just have to understand themselves well enough to talk about it. When people talk about sex, they also talk about romance, and they’re hopes for life and their goals. A question like “what are you looking for in a woman” can speak fucking volumes. It’s great. It’s like everything flows from there.

And then when you sleep with some of them, the ones you’ve decided are intellectual sophisticated enough to bother with, you discover all these things about that beyond anything they tell you. You really can. Oh I’m getting terribly excited thinking about it. It’s the little things. Is he a slightly nervous, is he rough, is he feeling guilt, is he trying too hard, is he just fucking me, is he pretending to care? You can tell all these things about people with sex. Or the sexual dynamic that exists between the both of you over time. The way people feel about the sex they are having with you or anyone else is interesting in a way that how they feel about most other people and things isn’t. Given they are self-aware individuals.

The other interesting thing about talking about sex is that it’s never just one person talking about say, an ex-girlfriend. If they were talking about their boss, that would be it. They would be talking about their boss. But if they were talking about the kinky sex they had with an ex lover, they’d also be implying the kinky sex they’d like to have with you. Which also then leads on to future possibilities of romance and such, and such.

So that is the reason why I talk about sex so much. It’s because it’s the only thing out there you can have a real conversation about. Everything else is either instruction or complain. A lecture or critique.

***

On another note..I want to learn to play the cello. It’ll probably be a worthwhile pursuit, and might lend itself to some interesting performances. I’ve always been more of a visual, verbal person, but you know. Why not. Cellos aren’t that expensive, and when I want to I can actually play the piano and actually feel inspired. Also, maybe musical instruments are like the different ways you can create an image. You just have to find the thing that works for you. I tried the bass for a bit, but my hands were too small and really the main problem was I was more interested in fucking the tutor. Which I did. Which fucked everything over (I was 16).

I’ll come back to it (the cello playing, not the fucking of musicians) in December. If I still want to play it then, I think I will. I don’t lack discipline when it comes to things I want to do, so that’s not a problem.

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