Cinderella is a stalker.

The human condition is chock full of wiring problems.

Jealousy can make you lose your loved one.

My live in lover of two years is stalking me tonight. I guess my penis and attentions are her property. ?

Nope.

I had to run to a new internet cafe.

Honesty doesn’t work for women. Tell them straight up from day one that you are not monogamous and will put your holy place into other holy places, and she will look deep down into her well of hopefull ignorance, and say, sure, of course you will, darling. Just let me love you now.

As soon as she fears the end of special attention, she will demand either severe severance pay, or severe repurcussions.

Women are hard wired to demand severance pay.

You don’t pay a woman for sex, you pay her to leave.

—

I don’t pay taxes, and I damn sure don’t pay alimony.

Worth a re-read.

Infatuation is a madness, it’s true.  I saw a girl at the internet café whose cute looks and ways compelled me to get up, walk over, smile like an idiot and drool out a lascivious hello, gleam lit up like a hundred watt light bulb, shake fingernail forward fists side to side like Wallace looking at cheese, and bounce up and down and saying “you’re so cute!”

One date later, and I’m all buzzed, not eating or sleeping right, and can’t relax.  I have to distract myself with other dates until I can see her again.

Two dates later and my whole world is glowing and more colorful. My face has a healthier glow. She doesn’t seem to mind that I’m crazy about her, and often says that I say those things to all the girls, but sometimes my gaze and comments are near lecherous – she’s just so fantastic I could eat her like a steak. I can’t stop staring at her.

Oh – more more more. Let’s start with her fingernails. They are painted as a ten year old might – with a light pink background and yellow flowers. It fits. She is as girly girl as all that. She’s 22 but her naked little body could be that of a blossoming fourteen year old, and the face that melts me could be that of a sixteen year old.  All the proportions are feminine – small hands and feet, daintiness without fragility. As feminine and young as feminine and young can be when combined.

Aie Bibir is unusually cute, but also beautiful and warm and tender and sharp eyed, but

mostly of all so playful and cheerful. A smile and a laugh is natural to her face. Definitely, again, one of the cutest girls in a large city. Not as sexy as volcano Sarah, because Sarah is a freak of nature – the sex of 10,000 people packed into one, but wonderful eye candy and we will take pictures and do porn and sell it and it will sell well. It’s so fun to look at her, taking pictures will be a treat.

It’s all of a perfect piece – the ambivalent age, the girly girliness, the full sensual sexy lips, the penetrating eyes, and her bright cheer that animates her presence as a force. All of that just sends shakes of joy up my spine – I’m enthralled – totally hypnotized and nearly shaking with infatuation. And her smell soothes me so I can sleep. I haven’t breathed in a woman like that for ages.

I think the intensity of my interest in her is seducing her. Aie sees my eyes on fire for her, and I just won’t shut up about how much she turns me on. I’m just eating her all up. And she’s squirmy delicious.

I nearly asked her to marry me during sex – but I know those strong feeling bubble out of the belly then. I just relaxed and enjoyed the mixing and pleasure, and forgot about totally owning just yet.

Later she said that she felt good, but it’s just fun and not serious.  She just wants a man to take care of her, financially, and if I do, she’ll be monogamously mine.  I keep thinking that over time she’ll become mine in a deeper way, as lovers usually bond – but it’s not a certainty.  She’s a party lovin girl, 173 platonic contacts on her cell phone, and not as easy to ensnare with sex as some are.  My looks won’t do it.  I’m guessing she’ll avoid romantic entanglements if she can, and just hang out and get taken care of.  And as that feeling settles in, so does an emptiness, and then, thankfully, the obsessive thoughts about her diminish.  Time still to butterfly and date as much as possible, so as to avoid unrequited love.

But though the infatuation is a delicious madness, it is, I think, an inspired one.  Not everyone gets as infected by love rabies, but the swoon isn’t the whole thing anyway. There is also the fire and the passion and the tender sharing and care.  Temporary or not, that addiction opens to an essential essence.  And it’s pragmatic to have that entwined an ally.  Married people are overall happier and live longer.

And more than pragmatism and happiness, there is a magic to the fire of love.  The gaze of a passionate lover can burn into the loved and awaken, deepen experience, consolidate all the hidden parts into one glowing loving whole.  Being loved is to be transformed, and to love is to have power.

But there aren’t that many fire people, people who naturally understand the intense emotions of love, attachment and sex, hold nothing at all back - throw themselves full force into a bigger force.  It is more than a madness, screaming for all the neighbors to hear, hour after hour, day after day, month after month. Displaying love bonds hand in hand at the mall, or with sneaky and not so sneaky public sex, in the restroom, in the ocean, on the rocks at a public beach, in the taxi, in the middle of the street in daytime. It is more than a madness to leave ownership markings as hickeys and bruises. Because there is life in it.  A glow palpable, a shared fire in the belly, a baby of energy called a couple.  Sex in the morning isn’t just for kicks and release, it’s food and nourishment without which the baby hasn’t been fed, the day not inflated enough with warmth to start.  It’s an addiction to more than dopamine, it is an addiction to a force like breath. It fills spaces and is shared and we burn it and it makes our eyes bright.

Speaking of how love transforms, I’m reminded of virgins.  A girl who dances floppy and fun and discombobulated will become an earth volcano after orgasms and passion consume her and connect her to a deeper source.  Her pelvis will sway side to side and down in a squat that reaches all the way into the sex of the planet.  Her forehead, heart, eyes, will all glow together in a fire inviting and consuming.  She’ll have the power to gaze with her belly at you.  She’ll be more of a piece, and what was latent will course as force.

I danced with Ai yesterday, and you can teach an old dog new tricks.  She’s young. Entering her world is like staring into the eyes of a baby.  It all gets fresh, you open up and let go, and the next thing you know, you are outside of habit, dancing at forty in a nightclub gazing into a fresh faced beauty, laughing and bobbing up and down.  It’s good to be an idiot.  Music about, pretty girls and boys about, and the social mind is stretched from solitary habits into a social milieu, people mixing and looking and bobbing and checking and leering, then later, fucking.  A lot of new stuff happens – these girls keep us young too.

Ya, it comes with prices – frustration, infidelities, crazy fucked up useless shit, the break up.  A few months later and you’re good to go, no worse for wear, more informed, better able to see and therefore love truly, hoover more of her into your passionate lecherous being and let her cook in your womb of love.  After all is done, she’ll come out roasted to perfection, more of a woman, more ready for the next round with the next man, and I’ll be older and contain more too.

There are special joys of dating the young and innocent.  The freshness they give, the life and life force, the newness, and also in giving to them, piecing them together and awakening.  It is like parenting and loving and love making mixed.  They do become as daughters and child brides – intimately connected by all the firsts in their life that they had with you.  Even an older woman can have firsts, too.  Lighting a deep fire will change a person, and if she’s young and there are many firsts, she’ll be inextricably bound to you as if you created much of what she is, showed her herself, awakened her up.  She’ll never forget you, and that’s family.  And I’ve been changed – I’m not just an

experienced male, I have been experienced.  Going into a woman, deeply and mixing in that mutual space, is meeting the muse head on, and resting there.  An old dog isn’t old in love in a young woman – he is as fresh as the next breath.

For us divorced men in Asia, falling for opportunistic cuties, viva la difference.  Young and old, flint and stone.  Out of all the painful cultural frictions comes a better understanding of how to see people and what to put up with or avoid or change.  We are forced into fresh perspective after fresh perspective.  The bubbling mess isn’t a cauldron of mud, it’s a stew of human liquids.  I don’t know about you, but I still have sex during mense time.  A little bloody mess is welcome in my life.  Bloody bloody mess, better for the vitality than a rainwater bath and organic carrot juice – it sticks to the soul and makes a man out of you.

Elements of style

An element of style that I’ve become aware of in the last few years is rhythm. It’s an undercurrent with impact, like the background music of a movie.

Rhythm and syncopation. Alliteration and rhyme. Beat and backbeat. It drives your point home.

I’ve also been learning about propaganda. Getting a message across emotionally. We have many channels to receive in, and sending messages across them all is effective.

My Dad can recall to you thousands of limerics. Rhythm and rhyme, with a lemon twist.

Words are a hobby to me, and I try to make them prose poetry. Or at least interesting. It’s an engaging hobby.

Do you ever think about elements of style? I shouldn’t say think - much of our process is unconscious. What are your interests and influences as you choose your words?

—

That’s why I go for that that rock and roll music
Any old way you choose it
It’s got a back beat, you can’t lose it,
Any old time you use it

—

Another element of style I’ve picked up on is Neuro Linguistic Programming. One word that sounds like another can cue our expectations and bring in associations. The schmuck that drove a much truck liked to (?). And one word placed in a sentence will set up the mind to receive that meaning as if it were also in other parts of the sentence.

Rhythm combined with pace with skill is what makes the written word fun to read, keeps the reader engaged, and allows certain points to be driven home.

For example:”… Or at least interesting. It’s an engaging hobby.” led BK to say “… is what makes the written word fun to read, keeps the reader engaged, “

In my sentence engaging has two meanings - the literal one is constrained by the words location in relation to other words. The NLP one is the background of expectations it sets up. Words set up our mind to be ready to perceive associations. We get cued. So we can say things without literally saying them.

This is subliminal, but as powerful as perfume. We can use the echo of words as well as their meaning.

—

Another element of style that I use inadvertantly and not always to good effect is to use a difficult to decipher wildly poetic sentence, and then follow it up later with easily understood graphic metaphors. I forgive myself the sloppiness of the poorly constructed sentences if they eventually set the reader up for an aha moment.

—

Another favorite trick is to use words with multiple meanings. In the phrase “we get cued”, cued has several similar and relevant meanings (and sounds like queued), and so makes the sentence rich with hidden associations.

If you consider them your peers, they won’t respect you.

If you want to study basic human behaviour, you have to acknowledge base human behaviour. Tabloids and the group-think of big buckled Repugnicans relate not just to our primate ancestry, as we tend to think, but to our primate nature.

In Thailand if you say hello to the doorman, he will think you weak and below him. In Europe, it is unQueenly to be folksy and look normal people in they eye while you wave to them. Models are aloof; they are looked at.  They don’t look.

If a man wants to regularly put his penis into new vaginas, he must learn to feel looked at more than he feels like looking. Think George Cloony. Quietly looked at, as if no one is looking. Lazer beam eyes reserved for whom he is interested in.

No one can sign signatures all day long or loan out all their power. Status requires aloofness, and without aloofness, there is no status.

The Onion’s humor formula.

http://www.theonion.com/content/opinion/im_training_to_ruin_a_marathon

A standard and effective humor formula. If it doesn’t make you laugh, or smirk, it at least makes you follow along appreciatively.

Pick a group-think mode of expression. State a theme at odds with the standards of that community. Repeat the theme with absurd and graphic examples, but be careful to stick to the communities speech habits. Be a newspaper reporter, or a housewife, or angry teenage anorexic. Each time you stress the tension with some wild counter culture idea, it’s a “call-back” to your theme.   A call-back is humorist speak for relating back to a previous idea. The tension must be unexpected - even if it is absurd.  The unexpected badaboom to the setup of the badabing. Frame absurdity up in convention so that people can follow along a normal path of expectations. Follow along a path like following a thread. And when they are led to slide off threads into an unexpected train accident, derailed from expectation, at the point of re-orientation you get the chortle.

That is what the callback is for. To re-orient after the slide off the track.

Orient, disorient, reorient. Mode of expression coupled with offbeat theme, absurd image, aha yes I get it how it all strangely fits. Repeat with absurd callbacks that somehow still fit, and you get a beat. A resonant and captivating beat.

Status is best relative to happiness.

Simians are emotional about in-group and out-group intrigues. We fight for top status, and fight other groups for resources. As long as we remain encultured by nature, born into our urges, our social endeavors will fit into historical patterns. Humans would need to change their biology to radically change human culture.

That is why I suggest that out groups are not so important. The Soviet Union was not quite so important during the cold war. Jews were not quite so important to 1930s Germany. Skinheads get overwrought and misdirect their angst. Forum trolls are not worth many minutes of attention.

When we do figure out who is wrong, and then when we do learn that the wrong choose to be wrong and do not want to be confronted because it causes them emotional angst, then that is that. Idiots will be. Our duty and responsibility, our care and our hate have not enough traction. It isn’t about us. The out groups are not that important to us, and we have not much to do about them.

I have no apologies for speaking plainly about the dumb. The dumb are dumb. But neither is it my profession to be more than dumb. I’m not better because I’m not dumb. I’m better because I am more of what I am, more authentically, more presently, more enjoyably.

My life is not defined in comparison to the dumb. It’s defined in comparison to how happy I can be and how I can affect others.

I don’t care that you are stupid, just please, shut up.

I’m old enough that my vision is inevitably broader than yours.  I’ve earned my irrascibility.  Shut the fuck up, you empty headed nothing.  You have no soul, you vacuous attention vampire.
I appreciate that you earn heaps of pleasure from pleasuring me, that you yearn to see the look on my face as I eat your breakfast offering.  But please shut the fuck up.  You have nothing to say.  So don’t.
There is no need to ask me inane questions.  We don’t have to commune through re-constituting memories.  Don’t ask me questions that you know the answer to.  That’s not fun communion.
Just please shut the fuck up.  You are boring and dull and empty headed.  That’s fine.  Just shut up.

Shifting writing style

I have no long term memory, so it’s always a fresh and surprising pleasure to re-read my blog. In todays re-read I noticed that my style is shifting. I’ve given in lazily to not being cohesive in thought. To letting train of thought associations lie loose on the page. To not wrap things up cogently.

I suppose it’s a lazy disservice to the reader to not congeal from chaos coherence for them to enjoy. Isn’t that the writers duty?

Or is chaos in itself something that can be included and pointed to and celebrated?

Train of loose thoughts. Tangles and bundles. Concerts and organizations and life in the city, touching and engaged, but not one thing. A writer tries to capture, to distill, to make the patterns our shared social fun. But in the end, things hang loosely.

(I was inspired by todays re-read to write, and so drank my usual liquid inspiration. It’s fun to see my writing style change, depending on alcohol - the more inspired and far out thoughts are less comprehensible, the more cogent and sober thoughts are more dull)

I think it’s that lately I’m not writing to an identifiable audience that I’m tending to be vague and loose. I’m writing to myself, and that is not conducive to explanation.

Blogging slowdown

I’ve often wondered if there is a correlation between libido and creative urges. I’m lately recovering from a bout of malaria, and have peripheral neuropathy, or numb lips and extremities, from the remaining anemia.

Or maybe it is being sober for a few weeks that has diminished the creative juices.

The responsibility that comes with subjectivity

The tennis ball is spinning at your ready racket, and you are in your body and being as YOU jump and swing.

Being embodied is no more philosophical than a toothache.

When you were a teen, having sex those first few times, was your mind racing? For me it was, and it took me years of sitting still on pillows and living in meditation centers or forests to move my subjective concerns out of thoughts and into senses.

I like a good caffeine buzz and a ready challenge, yet when I finally settle down and let the sound of the fan hold steady my attention, let the feelings of my body bubble up above awareness into consciousness, and let it all cohere as a chosen lived moment, then it’s a Flow moment. Then, it seems, I’m not merely playing a game, earning credits and winning prizes and competing, then, it seems, I’m alive.

–

Rights and responsibilities. If you have a right not to be tortured, what is your responsibility?

Choose your enemies

I find that choosing weak enemies as a nemesis makes a person weak.

It’s good to sharpen your knife on any dull rock, but it won’t make you a swordsman.

All of us have looked back on that time in our life when we were shamefully stubborn and wrong. Most people are, right now, shamefully stubborn and wrong. Pointing that out is easy. Being a critic does not make you an artist. Distilling out real talking points in the fashion of John Stewarts crew in a way that enervates people becomes more than being pissy. Being pissy isn’t spectacular, or difficult, and what does it rise you up to, anyway? Above a frey that you disdain. Relatively then, it’s no real elevation.

There is more unknown beauty in encountering enemies that can raise you up. Argue with people you can learn from.

There can be an art to anger. If comedians are angrier than most, they are scientifically angry. They found a way to make anger seduce other people. Fundamentalists are too dumb to be seduced by logic, so if you are so stubborn to avoid embracing propoganda as part of your media message, then you have to face that your audience is the converted.

You can’t learn anything from people dumber than you or who agree with you. Unless you are a politician satisfied with appearance and power, look for worthy adversaries.

Now

Zen mind, beginners mind.  Eyeball on eyeball might spark novelty, if you forget yourself.

Ohhh, yes! You!

Were you ever in the throes and had trouble remembering whose name to call out?

People vary

Measurable statistical differences, of any kind, and by anyone, between any groups, are emotionally difficult to accept. Maybe there are hidden agendas. Maybe some group is oppressed or disadvantaged.

Personally, I am happy to see any individual rise to whatever position she wants and is suitable to. The majority of my mentors were women. I value middle class black culture for reasons that I don’t value middle class white culture. I see advantages in the East, and disadvantages too. Differences, for whatever varied reasons, are.

No matter where you want to go, you can’t get there, if you don’t start here. You can’t start by theorizing about Utopia in order to actually get there. No matter where you want to go, you’ve got to get there from here. Here, there are differences.

I’m not trying to put anyone into their place - choose your own, and rise to your own level. I salute and congratulate you.

I doubt you truly need self-esteem crutches of no-difference to empower yourself.

Sexual compatibility, sexual frustration.

My girlfriend rarely comes, and it’s starting to drive me batty.

Yes, this is that kind of post, so if you get offended by frank sex talk, take your eyes away from what disgusts you, don’t slow down, don’t stare, and move along.

It’s driving me batty, and it doesn’t help that she is an excellent girlfriend in most other ways. She dotes, she loves enthusiastically, she’s romantic, I matter to her each second, and she tries, really really hard, every day, to make me happy.

She still doesn’t come, and what’s worse is our discrepancy in staying power. I’m above average in my staying power and needs for minutes or hours per day of sex. She tends to tire after ten or twenty minutes.

Ok, but she makes up for that by pleasuring me when she has no more oomph for receiving pleasure. The problem sometimes then happens that we lose sync and disconnect about what it means to be having sex. She’ll change position or ask me questions or stop a strong tempo, taking breaks in the middle of ecstasy. Can you imagine at the climax of Stairway To Heaven if someone kept fussing with the radio dial?

I’ve made it clear from day one that I’m not offering monogamy, and it’s my fault for not finding sexual compatibility. But we live together. I am just satisfied enough to not have the oomph to go out and work at setting up other situations. And if I did? I’d need hotel rooms, and a certain kind of girl.

I really don’t need to hear from people who have some deep seated need to play down the importance of sex. You are welcome to your own values. I have mine, and sex is HUGELY important to me. I’m not 80 years old. I can’t be satisfied with twenty minutes. I’m just getting warmed up in the first thirty. And I need to hear the loud screams and feel the contractions and feel hugely powerful with a woman of power. That’s as factual as my need for oxygen and meat.

I understand that some women will come only under a limited set of circumstances. I’ve some experience in awakening deep sexual feelings in women who thought they couldn’t have vaginal orgasms. I’m also aware that men and women have innate sex drives. Some of us have an ever present and powerful fire in the belly, some of us have other priorities. People vary widely.

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I know many people tend to see all issues filtered through the gossip angles of self-esteem and blame. Blunt descriptions harm the sensibilities of such folk. It isn’t necessary to change the subject or downplay the importance of it as soon as variance is mentioned. People vary, and it isn’t about blame. Not every conversation boils down to whose fault it is.