Category Archives: Payne Hawthorne

Author, writer, storyteller. Erotic romances, BDSM/bondage/SM themes. Supernatural/paranormal characters. Highly graphic and emotionally charged stories. Blog on self discoveries and introspection. Life, love, sex, humor. Shame-free living. Spiritual journey.

New Release May 31st!

This is the first book I wrote, over four years ago. It’s since been changed, revised, and edited many times in the last few years. I think/hope its fantastic now!

Its up on Kindle for Pre-order http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UNRHEKY

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UNRHEKY
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UNRHEKY
Teaser from Remnant
Teaser from Remnant

 

AdventuresinPayne, REMNANT
AdventuresinPayne, REMNANT
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UNRHEKY
Teaser from Remnant
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UNRHEKY
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UNRHEKY

Revealed from Stone

 

carvedfrommarble

REVEALED FROM STONE

Yet Another Year.

It’s been an odd year. Few ups, few downs, nothing new really. Apart from the broken, (severely broken), ankle, which is healing, there is nothing momentous about the year I just burned away like it was only a few weeks. Yet, here I sit, again wondering about the year behind me and my growth during that time.

To understand me better in the now, I must digress and tell you a bit about who I am, and what got me to here. I’ve spent my entire life, from as far back as my earliest memories, wanting, craving, searching and wishing for—love. And as a sidebar, I’ve found little bits and pieces of—love—throughout my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve looked for and attracted it everywhere I can find it. Mostly I’ve sated my craving to love, through my animals, (motherly), since I never had kids, (I didn’t want to be weighed down with children when my great love appeared).

What’s eluded me, and what I will go to my grave aching to feel, is that all encompassing—bordering on insane—kind of love where I can devote and submit all of myself to one other person. Only one! To belong to them and them to me—yes I used that word—BELONG! I know what you’re thinking—don’t categorize me as a bunny boiler just yet.  What I want—but refuse to fabricate or force—is to find and be permitted to dwell with the one meant for me.  The one who wishes to consume all of me—I’m willing to give that much—I’m capable of giving that much!

Funny thing is, in my search for—the one—I’ve tried on a few; more than a few. None were quite right. I even married, and we are great/best friends to this day, but even he will admit we never had that kind of love.  I’ve seen others find that kind of love—first hand! It wasn’t always a Disney movie either—lots of hard times and angst along the way—but the love, the relationship and the other person were always the most important ingredients. That is what I want! (Please note I used WANT, not, NEED. I’ve made it this far and I can finish just fine without.)

When I was seven I walked forward at a tent revival and gave my heart to Jesus. I was born again before I was ten. I reconfirmed that faith again in my twenties when I was baptized in the ocean by a traveling preacher. I walked forward again in my mid-thirties at a huge convention with Joyce Meyers. My faith has been tested, but I’ve never once faltered in my devotion and submission to, THEIR, will in my life. Here is where I must clarify that I am not a church going, pew sitting–Christian. In fact, I’ve only been in a church a handful of times.

I am my own minister, believer, and the most spiritual Jesus freak you will ever meet.  Although, if you meet me, you would never know this fact because I don’t talk about it. The reason I don’t talk about it has nothing to do with shame or embarrassment. Neither of which I hardly ever feel—in any situation. The reason I don’t talk about it is because most of the people I am around, vehemently hate Christians. The reason they do, is because other Christians fervently judge, shame and then try and save the ones that are a bit different—like me—I don’t need to be turned or saved from their perception of my sinful ways.

I also have no agenda to save another’s soul. It’s theirs, not mine, and I don’t care if they go to the same heaven I do, or not. I guess that is where I diverge from the flock of do-gooders. There are very few do-good-anything, bones in my body.  This life is for me to learn whatever the fuck I need to learn, and move on. Get out of the cyclical, program ruled, breeders and workers, universal mindset of this planet—I call them the, Blue Pills. I want out and off. My goal this lifetime is to fastrack this process and get these lessons learned post haste.

Of course, by declaring that agenda to my helpers and angels, I’ve set out the gauntlet, and it isn’t always pretty rainbows and blessings.  Often it is painfully learned lessons, or numerous heartbreaks that never quite heal. I struggle with coldness, numbness, apathy, dullness, depression and cynicism. None of which would be welcomed in the heaven I seek to enter. Sometimes the breaking and wrenching needed for me to feel anything deeply, is exactly—breaking and wrenching—and it fucking hurts throughout my mind, body and soul.

It often feels as if who I am—who I am becoming—is being revealed and carved from solid marble. I need to soften. I need to have less brace. I need to be open and grateful.

So, back to this quest to find love. Which, sadly I’ve about given up on. At least to the capacity I’d once hoped for. Maybe it wasn’t meant for me this lifetime, or maybe I screwed up somewhere along the line and totally blew it.  But it’s never been gifted to me. I do have some wonderful people in my life at present, one man I adore, but only from afar, and I’ve come to realize it might be too late for us.  By my age everyone has lives, families, kids, jobs, careers, duties. They are entrenched in their life. I am the odd one out. I am free at present—free, but alone. So, whatever I get, I get it in a limited capacity, and that will not change. I often wonder if I should settle, and be happy for part of the dream, or do I dare still hope for that one elusive person to whom I could submit to as fully as I have to Jesus?

Since I write about, and am drawn to the world of Dominants and Submissives—BDSM—and I am a bit of a masochist who craves her dominant, I’ve done quite a bit of research. And I’ve learned a lot about myself in the process.  Turns out, what I crave isn’t unheard of in that world, and often, it is more the norm. It’s an obsessive kind of love that I suppose some would call co-dependent.  For me, it is finding someone worthy of not only my complete and utter devotion, but also my submission and ache to be the only one to sate their every crave and need. I would go so far as to say I wished to be their every crave and need!

So far, none are worthy. I have a big personality, and most would never think of me as a, quote-unquote, submissive. I’m a bit of an oddity—can I call myself an, Alpha-submissive? The ineffable sub? Even throughout my long years as a horse trainer and professional, I was always Alpha mare. Always! I’ve often thought that a man who was—more—than me, probably didn’t exist. Add in the fact–I am a woman of God–and I desire to belong to a man of God? Well that list just got even smaller. Perhaps non-existent. But, in all reality, I’ve practiced submitting to God and His will in my life—my entire life.

I suppose you could say–I’ve become my own dominant.

On the bright side, this never filled ache of mine is great fodder for my work and my stories.  I write from a place of fantasy and hope that maybe, just maybe, HE does exist and, maybe, just maybe, HE might find me. I’m not looking.  I’ve actually always thought—HE would find me. HE would know I was meant to belong to him, and in turn, HE would make sure I knew.  He would gather me, woe me, and eventually OWN me—mind, heart, and body. Fantasy? Sure, why not. But don’t forget I believe in a God and His son, (my soul is theirs already), and that whole bible malarkey thing too.  I also believe in multiple lifetimes and honestly, I seriously doubt—Every. Single. Lifetime. We are allowed to find the kind of bliss I’ve always sought. This just might be an off-lifetime for me.

Patience grasshoppah—paint the fence—learn your lessons. The next chapter will come soon enough.

I’m an oddity to be sure. My goal in my writing is to let this foreign, alien, love-driven, will-surrendering mindset, filter through into my work. I’m going to use every moment of angst and longing to fuel my words and drive my characters. Maybe this is supposed to be my great love? The writing? It saved me during my darkest hour when I felt truly anointed to write my first book—AdventuresinPayne. (It’s being edited right this second by a professional and will be re-released in the spring of 2015). I do know I have a talent for it, and I am trying my darndest to impart the messages I’ve learned, or am being taught as I move along. Trying to tell the story the way they’ve told me. In writing this, I realize I already belong to a benevolent Father who’s taken great care of me.  I’ve never worked in the traditional sense, but everything I’ve ever wanted, (apart from that elusive relationship), has been provided to me.

The way I see it, THEY, want us to have overflowing desires. Without those, how can they, teach, train and mold us into the kind of evolved souls who would welcome more evolved souls into a paradise universe? Fear of hell isn’t going to work. Let’s be honest, hell is all around us, in us, part of us. We can’t do much worse than this treadmill existence. But! And there is a big BUTT! The promise of everlasting peace, contentment, saturation and satisfaction—not to mention unending LOVE and protection! All of those things will surely motivate me.

So, going into yet another year, think about your own spirit’s evolution. Don’t get sidetracked with the myriad distractions of life and family and others. Duties will always be there and nobody else’s path is as important as your own.  Change destructive patterns as quickly as you see them. If you don’t, if you linger and wallow, you will only stay here, there, in those patterns. If you do what you’ve always done—you will always get the same results.

I for one, want MORE and BETTER and all the rewards that I know come from being self-aware and on this path of learning and soul-improvement. It’s simple, just not easy. And most of all, there is no pride over here. Give in, give up the illusion you have a say in any of this—your will—your rightness—your marble hard veneer–soften your heart. When you do, I swear it is a miraculous awakening.

Remember–Relax, nothing is under control!

That at least is what I am doing on a minute by minute basis, and I like the person I am becoming. Onto 2015 people! Are you with me?

~Payne

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Black Goo

aipcoverideas

The Black Goo

That’s what I call my pit of depression, the black goo. It’s as if tendrils of black, viscous material were always pulling on me, holding my legs, my feet, sometimes just the tips of my toes.  I struggle upwards, always fighting the pull.  It is always there, always tugging. Sometimes the grasp is tight, other times, not so much, but it is always there, reminding me all I need to do is let go, stop trying, sink down; give in.

It often starts as a physical thing. Weariness sets in and my strength wanes; the goo creeps ever higher, convincing in its argument that I need to disappear.  It’s a ravenous entity and soon what little I had, now belongs to the goo.

Yes, there is the half full; yes there are mantras of gratitude worth repeating. Yes, there are just as many reasons to fight ever upwards, as there are to give up, give in and sink down. And of course, it could always be worse.  It’s a choice until you choose to give in, give up and sink down.  Then, climbing back out is darn near impossible.

The thought process behind; it could always be worse, baffles me.  As does the statement; you have nothing to be depressed about. Seriously? What part of that declaration would make me seek the escape of my comforting, dull, dead, pit of goo?  If I had nothing to be depressed about, then I would have the energy to argue my point, but alas, I don’t have the energy, nor do I care enough to debate the subject.  I am depressed. Period. Leave me alone and let me be.  Sometimes it’s the only available escape, and there is comfort to be found in being numb.

The thing about the black goo is that it is also a buoy of sorts, a safe place to float and dwell, it is a comforting presence; inside the black goo it doesn’t matter you are alone, it is your friend. It is the one holding your hand in the middle of the night when you need to cry and you are glad you are not inflicting your sorry self on another.  The black goo won’t judge you or preach to you to be a different way, and tears are always allowed, even welcomed.

As a writer, I can find words aplenty down in the goo, and often my best work is birthed from my darkest moments spent alone, depressed. There is a brutal honesty that happens when the goo dominates your thoughts, it is a great mirror, and the fatigue it induces gives the truth of the situation more meaning.  Even in the depths of numbness, emotions will arise and burst to life on the page.

Historically, I know the goo will eventually recede and I will resurface, it’s inevitable. Just like a good rainstorm, it isn’t permanent, the sun will shine again.  No stress, enjoy the soft confines of stasis.  Enjoy the numbness, it isn’t a chronic situation, only an acute moment in time.  Relax, sink, dwell, rest.  Shut it all down and recharge.  Life will beckon you soon enough.  Like quicksand, the harder you fight it, the deeper you go.

Float and go weightless, rise to the top without forcing it. Be real, be honest, and be real honest.  Acting, pretending, and society’s need for you to, fake it till you make it, only feeds the goo and deepens the pit; adding a layer of contempt and loathing.  Don’t play a part, don’t pretend; don’t feed the goo with others perceptions.  This is your time to learn; be introspective; use the shiny surface of the goo as a mirror; consider that perhaps, it is you.  There are big lessons to be learned during a term of imprisonment inside the goo. Give up your perceptions and pre-programmed responses.  Give in, give up; submit.

EVOLVING

meticulousanarchyxlarge

Evolving

On the third day of workshops, I was asked to come up with one single word about me and my journey as a writer. My word is, EVOLVING, and yes, I used all caps there. I don’t feel discouraged, although I think a lot would after attending a writers conference comprised mostly of older, incredibly literate types. I am not that literate, even my writings are mostly fantasy, and mostly sex, and on the whole I tend to write about love in all its myriad forms, more than I ever write something intellectually stimulating. My quest this lifetime is to become as emotionally intelligent as they all are academically.

I am about as uneducated as they all are –educated –academic –I am neither. Even using the F-bomb as someone scolded me for, is not really allowed. I’d like to put the word, allowed, between quotes, because I realize even though someone might tell me otherwise, their offense to my way of writing and speaking is none of my concern. Who is “Allowing” or disavowing me to use expletives? Certainly none of those people.

They all read the “GREATS,” yes, again I used all capitols, and even put that word in quotations, cliché as they might be, it gets my point across. I could have just as easily said, “They all read.” Period. When do any of them have time to read? I spend every second I can, writing, and when I am finished with my hours of writing, the last thing I want to do is look at more words. But again, that is just me.

I realized almost immediately that this group of writers, were not my audience. In fact, I knew well before I was given a partial scholarship and then subsequent monetary gifts that enabled me to attend. That’s fine, I’ve spent my life gleaning what I could from various teachers and trainers and others that really weren’t people I would later call friends. I can learn something from everyone –IF I can focus long enough to hear them.

I did focus, I tuned in, I gleaned, and I filtered what I needed and what I figured I could apply to where I am now. I stored the rest of it, and I know my powerful brain will have it on hand, and ready to deploy when I get to a place where I might need that information. That is part of my evolution, and it has been how I’ve driven all this way, through thick fog, only able to see a few feet in front of me.

Of course I have self-doubt, tons upon gallons, upon acres, upon fucking butt loads of freaking self-doubt. My mantra however, ever since I can remember, and what has driven me all these years is simply, “No regrets.” By saying this to myself, and picturing myself on my death bed, wondering if I missed something, I’ve traveled through my life, living and learning and making a fucking butt load of mistakes along the way, but I have NO REGRETS! Sigh, yes, there are those all caps yet again, and yes, butt load is a standard unit of measure.

I’ve not yet used a semi-colon; oops, there I just added one. I know that Teri is looking for them and if she finds one, that will stall her, and she will disengage immediately from the story –keep looking Teri, I’m sure there will be another one soon. I love semi-colons and I love commas and I love long sentences that flow like a stream of conscious thought –that was for you Notty! I’m probably also using these dash things incorrectly as well –sigh. I did figure out what it means to add, tags, to your dialog –whew, that stalled me for a second, but I am so good at learning from extrapolation I got it –I think.

I took a three morning, three hour workshop, with 12 other students. I loved our teacher, but I was not excited about being critiqued by my fellow workshop attendees. I think a couple might be my audience –hi Paula and hi Donna; you guys gave me great critiques. Donna said something that really made me smile, and I will quote from her comments: “The author seamlessly drops the reader, (I gave them a chopped up chapter 11/12 from The Elysian), into a fantasy world without an excess of tiresome explanations. The writing is descriptive and employs all 5 senses…The lead up to the sex scene is just the right length—any shorter and it would have made the encounter seem too casual, any longer and it might have been tedious. The love-making scene, while satisfying, also leaves the reader aching for the heroine to find her true love—which in the end, she appears to set out to do. Great excerpt that runs circles around Fifty Shades…”

So, I quoted her only because she so eloquently put into words exactly how I try and write, and for whom I am targeting with my stories. I was last to get critiqued by the group, the last of 13 stories to be read and discussed. By the time my turn came, I knew it wasn’t going to be all praise and bouquets; that’s okay, I sat and I listened during the three days prior, and I offered what little I could while all of them talked on and on about how much they knew, all I kept wanting was for someone to say how much they felt. I didn’t feel much, if anything from what I read of their stories. Although well executed; I wished to be by the end. It was mundane, trivial minutia, totally devoid of feelings. Shown or even told, there just wasn’t any.

There was tragedy and heartache and death, there were juvenile, undeveloped characters and much about past family baggage or indoctrination on how to be proper, but if that is the only way one is able to feel, or impart emotions through their work; sorry, but that isn’t enough for me. I want to build desire, and love, and joy, and I want to feel that when I write and tell my stories. I think that grief is for the dead. I don’t do tragedy –I do love. I felt very little love from anything that I read or was read aloud. This made me sad.

I already know that if you read my work from an emotional place, and not from a place of finding errors, ever the critic, you will feel my words. I know this, and I am unconcerned if sometimes my first person telling, morphs into a very close third person. I find it works, and I don’t get hung up on it, and neither do the people that are my audience, I also find it makes my writing unique; isn’t that what we all want? That isn’t to say, I won’t work on this, which I will –I am forever of the mindset; good-better-best-never-let it rest. Yes, I used more than one semi-colon in that paragraph, and no, I am not sorry!

So, that morning workshop will probably help me later, maybe when I write my memoir, after I’m a famous author, but for now, it won’t. If I add more texture, and much deeper descriptions, I know it will become tedious. Part of writing this craptastic romance stuff is in the tease and the anticipation, the foreplay and the building of desire. I now know better what to submit if I ever take another workshop like this one, and I know I apparently really need to spell it out for the readers in said workshop; but for now, in this moment, I’m still unclear what, if anything I gleaned from those three mornings.

I got one comment, “The dialog for the man seemed as if written by someone else.” I blink and tilt my head to the side in confusion. Aren’t the various characters supposed to sound unique and different and unto themselves? And, if you write that way; as in the various characters sound unique and as if written by different authors; there is very little need to add tags, those pesky identifiers that are later edited out anyway. After thinking about it, I decided to take that intended criticism as a compliment.

There was also a lot of talk about getting “Published.” After intently listening, I decided I don’t care if I ever get “Published.” It sounds like hell! I want to keep my work as my work, and I want to show my evolution as I go along, I don’t want it cluttered with perfect writing and edited, watered-down versions of someone else’s reality. What I write is ME! What I write is what I like to read. In fact, when I go back through my work, I often can’t wait to turn the page because I want to know what happens. Yeah, I wrote it, but that doesn’t mean I remember what I wrote or where the time line ends up taking us, or the emotions I will once again feel. Like I said in one class; “My stories always write me.”

If it weren’t for all the available self-publishing options, I don’t think I would write. I have never sent out a query or a proposal, and I don’t intend to. My work is selling and I am getting decent enough reviews to carry on as I’ve been doing.

I’m also very proud of my erotica, and I suppose I should go to a romance convention, or a porn writers convention, or just somewhere else where they might appreciate what I do as art, because I feel as if it is. I said in one class that when I get stuck or blocked in my writing, I write a sex scene. Isn’t feeling something inside our bodies the greatest gift of all? Isn’t that very desire to feel what motivates us to write in the first place?

Only once was I close to insult, but I got over it quickly. I wanted to know who beat me in the writing competition that was open to only conference participants. My entry is the blog post just after this one; Meticulous Anarchy. I still think that short piece is some of my best non-fiction, observational writing I’ve ever done. I am still immensely proud of it, and it’s what I heard the instructors and other professional writers saying continuously throughout the conference. I didn’t hear it from the participants though, no, what I heard from the crowd of students, and the contest winners, was pretty much the opposite.

So I went to the readings and I only stayed to hear the second place winners in each category, the ones that had beaten me; I didn’t even get an honorable mention. I was so highly –unimpressed, I was close to true insult. Again it was minutia, details and descriptions of nothing important. No feelings. No emotions. No introspection whatsoever. It was polished down to a dull nub of perfect writing, but it left me cold. It was then that I realized this might not be my profession –or career –or whatever it is, it isn’t going to win contests or get noticed as real and truthful writing. It was then that I realized none of those people were my people. The sad truth is, very few are; my people.

I was one of only a few I noticed that even tried to look nice. I think it’s all in the try, and not so much the execution, I didn’t see try in but a few participants; I did from the instructors, and I found them all memorable. One day I wore a tee shirt that opens in the back; it shows pretty much my entire back, although in the front, it covers me to mid-hip. Its red. It’s loud, but if you only saw me from the front, you’d think I was covered from head to toe, (I wore it with cargo pants). The next day, I wore a dressy tee shirt that covered all of me. No skin showed. I got a random comment from someone I didn’t know, but they’d obviously noticed me the day before; “Well, at least you dressed today.”

I laughed and nodded and said something about, at least they noticed me. This I like. I want to be memorable, even if it’s a negative comment, which tells me I wasn’t invisible; although I felt invisible through most of this conference. This is not really a complaint, more an observation, invisible is great when you are a student and trying to learn. It’s also fabulous if you are an introvert, which I think most writers are. I am not, but that is another entirely different blog.

When I spoke up or I offered to read my writing prompts aloud, I was heard by a few, I knew this because I heard their whispered reactions to my words. I think I look superficial and like a “Pretty girl –a shallow and vain girl,” and they all immediately put me in the fluff-idiot box. This is a mistake when it comes to me. I am oddly deep and introspective, and also incredibly spiritual and emotional; under my well groomed exterior there are layers of texture. From looking at me, few would guess those facts.

Why is it bad to want to look good? To wear nice clothes and wear makeup and do your hair? Why do they all look as if they just walked out of a thrift store and put on the oldest, worst looking clothes they could find? Yeah, it takes a bit of effort to look good, and maybe a bit of money, but with modern shopping experiences it’s entirely possible to dress well on a non-existent budget –I know because I do! Come on people, beauty draws attention, beauty feeds a parched place in all of us. Just because for most of our lives as writers, we live in dingy sweatpants and are never seen, when we are seen, shouldn’t we look fucking fabulous?

Which brings me to the end of this blog; they all talked about feeling the words and imparting of emotions through show, don’t tell; but I never felt any of them. They all seemed rather monochrome and mechanical and all were living in the grey scale. There are a handful of locals I know personally, and they appreciate me as the loud one, the unpredictable one, the one that will guarantee to shock and make you blush and laugh –and yes FEEL! And I love those friends, I see those friends in living color. The rest of them however, where is their light? And, how dare they try and exterminate mine just because they’ve lost theirs.

I am incredibly proud of two writing prompts I did on the spot, in less than 5 minutes and are completely unedited. These are straight from me, all me, who I am to a tee, and I read these aloud in each of the classes. I am incredibly pleased with my insides, who I am, and how well I am able to let that flow when called upon. I am self-aware, shame-free and fine with it –sorry to a few of you that I am not more shame-based, but I am not. As per my evolution as a writer, I put up everything I write. I always have, even from my delusional days before I knew I wanted to write, back when I was blogging my journal entries. Back when it was stupid and miserable and depressing, and the most poorly executed crap nobody ever read. That was where I was dwelling, but I put it up for any that wanted, none did, thankfully –sigh. I never file or store anything. You could say; I am an, open book.

Here they are:
Prompt one: (Thank you Elizabeth Rosner, you are magical and your light shined brilliantly!) This prompt was simply this; I come from, I come from, once I was, now I am.

I come from many past lives. I come from the beginning. I once was a new creation, now I am very old. I come from dysfunction turned to function, I come from love and validation, I come from different. I once was energy, now I am lethargy. I come from devotion. I once was belief, now I am faith. I come from the dessert, I come from dry, parched, cracked ground where only cactus grow. I once floated on the surface, now I am the depths. I come from breakdown and break open, I come from depression and desolation. I once was alpha, now I am omega. I come from belief and doctrine, now I am feelings and emotions. I come from a cauldron of energy, now I am sentient and evolving.

I come from rules, I come from structure, I come from instructions and learning, I come from, do as I say. I once was rigid, now I am as fluid as liquid rubber. I once was contained, now I am free. I come from predator, I come from direct line. Once I was this, now I am not.

Prompt Two: (Thank you Charlotte Gullick. Even though you claim to not understand being “Girly,” you are gorgeous and your light shines brightly!) This prompt was to write to ourselves from our history, and an ancestor that wished for us to remember something. I chose to write as if my mom were still with me and reminding me.

   If you can, make –the love, the most important thing, always, forever, it has to be about the love first and foremost. Take the red pill. Go against the flow. Don’t listen to the herd. Be the lion. Make love the most important thing. Don’t wait for anyone, don’t stall yourself for someone else’s development. Take the leap, grow your wings on the way down, have faith that you are loved and cared about. Nothing you do or produce is as important as being true to yourself. Two days from now, two months from now, two years from now, the only thing you will remember is the love.

We were given picture prompts by Natalie Serber, which I adored doing! I love writing prompts! I’ve never had any lessons on writing, or prompts, so I ate up these assignments like candy!

Natalie, I thought you were beautiful and shiny and I loved when you read your story a loud, and The Socks, and all the little things you said. You did well considering some of the people in the class were strong and loud and overpowering at times –bravo, I found it an impossibly diverse group. When I taught and gave clinics, I grouped my people together in comparable levels, so everyone was on the same page. That of course is impossible with writers, and also the platform you were given to work within. I don’t know how you did it.

So, that is me and how I spent the last three days. It was intensive and oddly, not. I was not overwhelmed with information. Or maybe I was and I just don’t know it yet. Strangely, my internet has been down for a solid 36 hours since returning from the conference. I can’t distract myself with my myriad little online things. So, I’ve been able to concentrate and really write. I wrote this piece over the span of a couple hours. I felt encouraged to start the story of ME, so I did, and by the time the day was over I not only wrote this blog, which is 3500 words, but I also got in another 8K on the beginning of my story; All Roads Lead to Payne, (Payne Hawthorne is my author name). It was one of those moments when it literally poured out of me. I love it when that happens and then I re-read it and it’s fabulous. I know it’s fabulous too, I don’t need another to tell me or validate that it is. It made me feel, I am naked in it; emotionally naked.

One speaker, Kevin Fisher-Paulson, (A song for lost Angels), whom I loved and found hilarious and inspiring said, “Be famous! Be naked and open and willing to share the worst of you.” He might not have said it exactly that way, but that is what I took away. He is a gay, Irish, Sherriff. His husband is a dancer, and they have two black children. His book is a rather hideous story about fostering very ill infant triplets that were taken away because of a faulty social system. I suppose no-one on the planet could be that unique and that naked. He was inspiring to me! He was the outcast that turned his perceived dysfunction into function, and made his own evolution the story.

This is me –naked, honest, real. I write in a fluff filled genre, but I am unfathomably deep. I like to be seen as beautiful, but also emotional and introspective. I enjoy being naked, in all definitions of that word. I also enjoy being seen. This is me –writer, storyteller, terrible with grammar and punctuation, barely literate, selectively energetic, always searching for the love. I am meticulous anarchy.

Here are links to my author pages:

on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/paynehawthorne

Goodreads:   https://www.goodreads.com/Adventuresinpayne

 

 

Meticulous Anarchy (Revisted/Expanded)

meticulousanarchy

Meticulous Anarchy (Revisited/Expanded)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a writer.  How insane it is and how painful it is.  Sometimes there is pleasure, or even moments of quiet peaceful content when you’ve used up all the words that had been bouncing around in your head. On the whole though, it is an endeavor that never truly culminates, a journey that never ends, an impossible task set before you that you unconsciously know you can never fully accomplish.  It is cliché, but I suppose apt to say, the destination is the journey. Purposeful voyage?

I was just outside and got distracted with a climbing vine I’m training over an archway.  It is still fetal, small, its tentacles are soft and young and unruly.  It hasn’t learned how to really climb upwards, it keeps getting confused and going back in on itself.  I talk to it as I try to carefully extricate itself, from itself.  Then I prudently wrap that arm up and in the direction I want it to go.  It’s still a rowdy mess, but now it’s contained and traveling in the same direction.  Controlled abandon?

As I was helping with the shoots that were splayed out into nowhere, searching for something to grab onto, I thought about myself and all my little parts; the tentacles of my personality and intellect and also my emotions.  Rarely do my emotions get the best of me, rarely do I succumb to their nagging.  I am a girl though, and sometimes, rarely, but sometimes I feel something much stronger than I think I should.  Or my body reacts without any forewarning from my brain, and I start to cry. 

This sucks by the way. It is embarrassing and seems weak.  I am anything but weak.  I am strong, and self-aware and sure, and in general, I am the one doing to others or ‘happening,’ to others and rarely is the converse true.

This week for me has been strange.  I have writers block.  I suddenly have ADD too, something I’ve never experienced before.  I am the queen of focus.  Not this week.  This week has tumbled me this way and that, and I am still feeling as if it isn’t quite over.  I feel as if I need to protect and go fetal.  I don’t want too, I haven’t done that in years; but still, that is where I am right now. 

My tentacles need help, I need to tuck them back in, unwind the ones that went the wrong way and get them going the right way, but what is the right way?

When my mind does this to me, I am always in an existential crisis.  It happened to me over and over when I was on my horsemanship journey of good-better-best-never-let-it-rest.  I would reach a new level of competence and suddenly think I had no business teaching others and I probably shouldn’t even have horses.  It was an, oh shit, moment. It was the discovery that I’d been doing it wrong, and just now, all of a sudden, in that moment, I got it, and I understood all the, why’s, how’s, when’s and what’s.

I would beat myself up for days, reliving all the times I’d screwed up or even worse, taught it incorrectly.  I knew I would forever do it correctly from then on, but there was nothing I could do about my past years of doing it wrong.  Problem is, how do you say sorry to those you’ve taught, if you taught them wrong? It’s a tuff one for a teacher, and I am sure I am not the only one who’s taught others, that’s gone through this exact thing. 

I definitely need some gardeners tape wrapped around a few stray limbs just to help me stay on track.  Unfortunately, I am my own keeper, and I don’t know quite how to apply.

The good thing about horses is that they forgive and forget.  They are in their moments, always will be, always are.  It’s over, it’s done, let’s move on.  It is so much harder when our big brains fire off random memories of past wrong doings, errors and mistakes we’ve made along the way, or have been inflicted upon us.  So much harder to un-do, and then re-do.  If I let this vine do whatever it wanted, and a year from now I went and tried to untangle and re-train it, I couldn’t.  It would be set, it would be rigid and firm, and its soft delicate little tendrils would be hard and woody, unwieldy. 

I don’t want my heart to be this way, I don’t want my soul to be hard, woody and unwieldy.  So, I’ve allowed myself to open up and be honest and real, raw, truthful.  The problem is that others are still responding to me like they do to all around them, as if we all lie about ourselves and we are never truly honest.  I am not like that, I am not lying at all, and I am trying my darndest to be transparent, although I hate that word.  I think the word naked, is better.  My heart is undressed, my heart is open, my soul is exposed? I feel naked and exposed, all the time. 

I said something to a writer friend.  A young writer friend who is having a difficult time putting emotion into his work.  I told him something interesting, and it really hit home for me as well.  I said that emotions come from a place of experience.  The good and the bad, they are all slowly uncovered and exposed over time.  Then, after they are uncovered, after we feel them and experience them, and whatever trigger that happened for us to see them, we either embrace them, and begin to strive to feel them again, or we start to cover them back up, push them back down, bury them, go numb.

Then they turn into this raw place, a slightly callused place that gets rubbed once in a while, and re-exposed; disturbed enough to crack open and bleed or weep. It is from there that we find depth for our words, and it is from there that we must learn to live if we want to be good writers.

The problem however is this, not only does it require we have some life that we’ve left behind us; mistakes make for better stories, and playing it safe makes for a better nap than it does a tale. It also means that we must experience emotions; dwell in them, soak in them, marinate in them and find that elusive emotional and spiritual intelligence if we wish to impart all of this through our words.  To live this way means we dwell in a place of angsty upheaval, controlled abandon, governed chaos, meticulous anarchy.  Plain and simple, it’s a very uncomfortable place to live.  It’s your softest parts being unwound and then redirected, all without breaking, all without pruning.

I feel as if the first part of my life involved a lot of pruning.  Now though? Now is so much different.  I can’t just discard parts that are unpleasant, I can’t chop them off and walk away like I did before.  I don’t know why I can’t, but I just can’t.  So I am trying to train all these parts of myself into some sort of coherent clutter of personality, and at the same time, I am attempting to put all of that into words, to create a visual so others might feel and understand what is happening inside themselves. 

For me, writing is the most insane therapy I can imagine.  I am everyone, I feel everything, I say all the lines, and I live all these lives.  There is tremendous pleasure, caverns of pain, hilarity, surreality, fantasy, passion and validation. There is also so much crippling doubt that I often delay getting out of bed just so I don’t have to start. I live in a mental state of numerous conversations that I insist must sound real for the characters portrayed.  I also insist that my characters be multiple note, and not all read the same. 

I have no idea what I am doing.  I am barely literate, selectively energetic, spiritually seeking, and constantly curious, and I often feel straight jacket, padded cell, insane.  Writing is both my doctor, and my crazy escape from reality.  I care that the execution make sense, but not too much sense.  I want the reader to ask questions and to wonder about my characters.  I strive to show, not tell, although I struggle with the fact I just want to fucking tell it!

When I get a passionate review that someone hates one of my characters, I dance with glee.  Yay! I made them feel something, even if it’s detest; I love it that they felt something because of me.  That is what I want, and even though I write in a fluff filled genre, I am really trying to add in some grit and reality.  Authentic Fantasy?

I am a mass of contradictions, as I think most women are, most writers are.  To be a writer is even worse because we are curious and open, or at least we should be.  I feel as if I should be as green and tender as possible.  Still not clinging to the trellis, but so deeply rooted I am confident in my voice.  My emotional fitness, or lack there-of, is what I call, meticulous anarchy.  I tend that garden with intimate care, never resting on my laurels when it comes to my spiritual, and emotional evolution and intelligence.  This is the ultimate in meticulous anarchy –this is empathy not only for others, but for myself.  This is sentient identity.

If I feel a brace in my spine, or a set in my jaw, I will worry my way through hours and days of contemplation.  I don’t feel as if I should ever, make something happen.  If it doesn’t flow, if it doesn’t come to me in the right timing, then it isn’t meant to be.  That goes not only for the people in my life, but also my past or current careers, my stories and my characters.  I should in other words never force the chaos to organize, I need to learn to ride it and be part of it, merge with it and embrace it.  Flexible disarray?

I love being a mature child, but I detest childish, juvenile behavior.  I’ve found a chasm of difference between childlike and childish.  I ache for deep, spirit driven conversations where we can laugh at our own inconsistencies and obvious hypocrisy.  I desire to grow and change and never be stagnant or boring.  I am driven by a fear of mediocrity –to be average is an insult to me –to be called normal, even worse. 

Balance in all things is the key to happiness, and happiness is a choice.  Being a writer is the most unbalanced of endeavors, although I often find stability or impart it through my characters.  When I go so deeply into a story that I don’t sleep or eat, and I spend hours upon days not only dwelling in that world, but also living with those imaginary friends, I am far from living a balanced existence –I’ve escaped and I can hardly carry on a normal conversation.  I however find peace in that place, and a kind of sating of craves that everyday life can rarely offer. Chaotic equilibrium?

Meticulous anarchy, purposeful voyage, controlled abandon, authentic fantasy, flexible disarray, sentient identity, chaotic equilibrium.  Fourteen words that carry a multitude of implications.  Seven combined meanings that if accomplished, would make the author in question a divine being.  It’s not possible to achieve all of these things in one short lifetime.  It is possible to try, to aspire towards, to forgive ourselves when we ultimately fail, and to be happy when we achieve even a modicum of success.  Sometimes giving up isn’t such a bad thing, sometimes breaking down isn’t so much a defeat as it is an opportunity to break open and become larger in spirit, heart and soul; and sometimes, not always, but sometimes, the best we can do is wrangle the chaos into a coherent mess of promise, and then put that into words.

 

 

 

Meticulous Anarchy, Part Two

magicinherfire

Meticulous Anarchy, Part Two

This is me, unfiltered, uncensored, raw and real.  I suppose this is my last blog/journal for 2013, and I suppose it is apt that I continue my thread of meticulous anarchy in reference to my own inner, spiritual growth. Yes, it’s still a mess in here, still a bunch of rebellious, intertwined vines of mutiny. They are however all going in the same direction, and this topiary of a human that I am becoming, is finally taking shape. 

The consistent thread in all my work is that love is the ONLY important thing.  However and from whomever that love can be felt, we must embrace it when it is given.  We should never call our need—love, and we should never extract or coheres our version of love from another.  We must allow them to love us the way they can, or know how too, and for some, it doesn’t always feel like love because they do it differently than we do.  Nevertheless, its love, and if we focus on that, and that alone, our hearts will fill up and all the negative eventually evaporates.

The words, can’t and no and impossible, also disappear, and all of a sudden you are in your moment, and at peace.  Peace offers its own level of anarchy, it’s a strange place to dwell, and unless you’ve experienced it, for a long duration of time, and grown accustomed to it—peace in itself can often feel almost as if you are empty. There is no angst, drama, turmoil, and no tragedy when you are dwelling within peace.  Conversely there are no mountain top highs of joy and abandon, no incredibly happy moments, no gasps of ecstasy and no big climaxes.  Trust me, living in your moment and being peaceful in it, takes some real getting use too.  It takes practice, even now, after years of working on this very thing, I often squirm and feel as if I just have to do something. 

I don’t.  I don’t have to do anything.  I guess that is my biggest lesson this year, I’ve learned how to dwell within my allow, I’m still learning how to rebalance quickly after strong emotional ups and downs, loss and acquisition, all of those things I have under my belt, and now at this age I am finding great freedom in having lived through it all, and even after all that, I think I am better for having lived through it all. I’m even incredibly happy just being with myself.  I feel fairly completed.  I do not need another to finish me.  That isn’t to say I’m done, I’m not, not by a long shot, I just don’t need another to the extent that my completion depends on them.

I don’t play fiction in my real life, I don’t play games, I don’t sugar coat or lie.  I am honest to a fault.  Open, unashamed, real, I say what I mean, mean what I say. I have few boundaries, less rules, I don’t care a hoot about what anyone else thinks of me, and I am not searching for approval from anyone.  I am not even that attention hungry.  I am a bit of an exhibitionist, but that is another whole story, and don’t confuse the fact I like being seen, as me seeking approval or validation from anyone. I don’t even seek fame for the sake of fame, but rather for the sake of financial independence, (something I’ve never had).

I know how to dedicate myself to a discipline, how to focus and be entirely self-contained for years and years on end!  I don’t need another human in my life, I never call my need—love.  I actually have very little need in me—at this age, it’s more a slight crave, but need is nothing more than a useless emotion as far as I’m concerned, and if I ever tell someone I need them, that means way more to me than saying I love them.

It is from this place that I am now looking for a different kind of love. I am calling it definition.  Not completion.  I’ve allowed parts of myself to emerge from the shadows, and it is these parts that complete the puzzle of who I am, the completed me.  It is these parts that seek definition and validation and fulfillment.  It’s not the entire me, just a part, a part that seeks cohesion with another, definition from another, awakenings only another, living, breathing, real life person can offer me.  I am finally ready!

My most recent tendril to get back under control was the revelation that I am no longer afraid of another broken heart.  I’m not sure if it means I’m just overly jaded, and cold, but I don’t feel I am.  Instead I think perhaps I’ve been practicing this shit and maybe I’ve learned it’s not going to kill me, and even better, if I can intelligently let myself feel it, the love, the loss and the inevitability of another broken heart, then I can use all of that as wonderful fodder for my writing. There is no better writing than the really raw, truthful emotional kind of writing I crave to do.  I don’t think I can write about it if I’ve not felt it.  So now, I am looking that fear in the eye and I’m saying, “Bring It! Break my fucking heart!” It won’t kill me and I will turn all of that angst into gold!

The best side effect of this new freedom is that I can allow myself to love at a level I’ve never before allowed.  I can dive in, I can wallow around in that pool of endorphins, write about the great side of being in love, and I can love for real, without fear or assumptions or expectations, and I do believe that is what they mean by unconditional love.  Big deep exhale, wow, this feels good.   

2013 was a huge year for me.  I traveled internationally, all by myself, for over a month.  I made new friends and new enemies, don’t forget you either love me or you hate me, I am rarely met with indifference, and this is all well and good with me.  My main goal is to be memorable, and I don’t mind being laughed at, I prefer you laugh with me, but if you have to laugh at me, that’s fine too, at least you will remember me.

Within 2013 I produced thousands and thousands of words.  I’ve lost track of how many short stories, short novellas and even a few pretty large books I’ve written, but it was lots! Some have my name on them, some don’t, but in the process I’ve focused on my skills, my execution and most of all, finding my voice.  It’s still not as defined as I would like, but it’s getting there, and I’m pleased with my progress. 

I started out not knowing a thing, and now I think I can compose and execute a pretty darn good story.  So, yay me! I guess I can finally say I am a writer, although the financial rewards are still not there, and right now I think I earn about two dollars per hour, and I work fucking hard!  So yeah, I’m not getting rich anytime soon.  Oh well, what else is new? I’ve never had money, and I probably never will.  I do wish I could find a sponsor, someone to help me so I could write what I want to write, my stories, my series, my voice, but for now, I am once again trying to please he who has the gold, and I’m trying to think of it as getting paid to learn.

I am going into 2014 feeling as if I’ve graduated from a major phase of my life, and now it’s time for real life to begin. All of my softest parts, my tendrils and new shoots, the vine of who I am has taken shape, and I am good.  It is a pleasing riot of beauty and depth. All the stems are in agreement and traveling in the same direction, a cohesive mess of promise, and I have this feeling that all that came before now, was a dress rehearsal, and now, the curtain is swinging open on the beginning of an entirely new ME, new life, new outlook, new inner revelations, a new more powerful me capable of great love, epic—life changing love.  Look out world, I’ve been learning, developing and growing, ripening, maturing, and I am finally ready—I am here and I am ON.  There is no lie in my fire.

You can find me on almost all the social networking sites under my name Payne Hawthorne. <3

Forty Days, (fiction).

whensoulsmeet

Forty Days: (fiction from new book I am working on, working title is HIM)

My heart was just ripped from my chest.  Both my hearts, the one I was born with and the one I grew when I fell in love, both have been jerked out from under my ribcage.  Why am I still alive? How am I still here? I can’t see for the tears and I can’t breathe for the racking sobs.  I hurt. My entire body hurts.  It’s intensely physical, mental and emotional all at once.  What happened?

I knew this was going to be hard, another big test, I felt ready, jaw was set, shoulders squared.  They never give us more than we can handle.  Really? This feels more than I can stand. So much more. What choice do I have though? I must bear it, I must practice what I preach, and I’ve been preaching give up, let go, open your claws, give in and let go, just let go, stay in your moment.  Control is nothing but an illusion.

I wanted to feel this kind of love my entire life.  This soul shattering, I will never be the same again, ever, ever again will I be the same.  My blood has been replaced with another’s, the transfusion was complete, and then poof, he was gone.  Just gone.  There is not much hope for recovery, maybe a little, maybe if I persist by staying in each and every second of the moment, I might heal in time.  Ah, more time spent waiting.  Sigh.  

I just dragged my aching body from bed.  I fled there and curled into a fetal ball, and I cried for two hours.  I am still baffled at how an emotional upheaval can fully impact my physical so completely. How can I go from pain free to barely able to walk within the span of seconds? And here I thought I was emotionally intelligent.  Ha! I’m a fucking emotional cripple now.  This life is truly turning out to be adventures in pain.

I’ve spent my life somewhat tired, weary perhaps the better word.  I think I came through this way.  The illusion of this matrix never affected me.  I saw the sleight of hand and I understood that life, the people in it, the swirl of life and death was nothing more than a fabrication and one of the greatest of deceptions.  Despite all of that knowledge and the fatigue that came from being worn out spiritually, I was a naturally happy person, very little got to me, like water on a duck, rolls right off. So, I was happy enough as I trudged through my life, dragging my body around as if it were a much too heavy suit. 

Then he wrote me one line of words.  Not much more than ten in that first introduction, and my once cold, dead embers, flared to life and I burst into a conflagration of flames.  I suddenly wasn’t tired, even with scant amount of sleep, and much earlier mornings than I’ve ever, ever participated in before, I was full of life and energy and I was literally on fire! Bright and shiny doesn’t even begin to describe it. 

Today was our fortieth day.  Our last day. Tonight will be the worst night of my life. I do not understand the significance of numbers or spans of time, certain segmented moments, none of that makes sense to me, other than I know there is a sense to it. It’s not my place to question, just my place to wait, and the answer will be given when the time is right.  All I know is that there is some sort of significance in forty days.  Shrug. So the fuck what? All I know is that he is gone, and I am alone, again, alone again.

He never manifested in a physical form, and I always thought I needed the physicality to fall.  Guess I was wrong again, because all I had were his words.  No sound, no scent, no visuals, no taste, no feel—just words.  Words are impactful and powerful and he picked me up and swept me along on his swift flow of language.  It was the most stimulating affair I’ve ever had! Hands down more arousing than anything physical, sexual, I have ever tried, and I have tried a lot! His words were better than any drugs I’ve ever done, far more powerful and erotic than any narcotic known to mankind.  I was walking around in a constant state of arousal just from his fucking words.  How in the world does that happen?

I find it ironic that for the past few years I have been attempting to describe this most powerful of loves, the stuff we tend to call true love or soul mates love, of course I couldn’t describe it because I’d never felt it.  Then, once I felt it, I was at an even greater loss because it is a kind of love that transcends all the words available in our language.  Nothing is powerful enough to impart what that kind of love feels like.  Nothing except feeling it and knowing it and getting that transfusion.  It’s pure, clean, divine indescribable bliss. It is more than epic, more than colossal, it’s just more, and it hits you in your mind, your heart, your body and your soul. It has nothing to do with the physical bodies we are trapped within.  It has everything to do with our souls and an unfathomable quenching that comes from no other source.

It is the most insane sanity I have ever been privilege to experience.

The ironic part is that writing about the loss of it is easier, than the acquisition.  We all know that letting our hearts open, letting ourselves love, invariably means we are setting ourselves up for terrible pain when it ends.  It always ends.  It’s never a matter of if, but when, and when the when happens, we break and our souls bleed out and it’s far worse than any imaginable physical death. Actual death would be easy in comparison.

I thought I had control over when or if I would love again.  I was wrong.  This one hit me hard and fast, it spun me around and left me reeling.  By the time I popped my head up out of the hole I’d fallen into, it was far too late.  I was there, entrenched so deeply they might as well bury me here.  The hole is deep enough, the pit wide enough for two of me.  I knew that if I ever really fell, it would be the end of me.  Forty days ago I died and I started a new life, it was a short life.  Blissful and agonizing all at the same time.  I knew I would lose it, him, I knew I had to lose it, him, so I could show that my claws weren’t closed, I wasn’t grasping or needy, I wasn’t making it happen. I was letting it happen and I was dwelling within the allow. 

Dwelling in the allow is a wonderful place to dwell, and I will continue to search for my personal allow so that I can re-find my balance.  New life, new me, new world, and yay, I felt it! Even if it was short and fast, it was sweet beyond words, beyond anything I could describe, and way more than I ever imagined.  So yay me, yay him, we felt it. All I know is that I will never go back, I am still alive, still burning, smoldering along. I might not be bright and shiny in this moment, but I am on, the switch was flipped and I am here.  Look out world, I am here and now I know!

When You Dream

hand

From a story I am working on: (its all fiction, NOT real life!)

When you dream, I feel it. If you dream of me, I feel it.  If your thoughts turn in my direction, and you focus, I feel it.  Today, I leaned back, closed my laptop and I too took a nap.  The night before really wore me out.  Lots of emotions, too many, not enough, all wanting, no quenching.  I suppose I will grow accustomed to this feeling.  I will miss it when I do though.  It is a great feeling. I’ve gone a very long time and wanted nothing. 

I cried myself asleep.  I actually sobbed and let it all out, it hurt.  A lot! I won’t allow myself to tap into that place again.  There is no need to wallow.  It is what it is and there isn’t a thing in the world I can do about it.  I realize you think you are somehow motivating me, and I realize that everyone else you’ve ever met needs a motivator.  It’s kind of funny really, I am the developer for others, or at least I used to be, and I have always been my own best trainer and motivator, hard to believe, but I seriously push myself harder than anyone else ever has.  I know I can always do better.

I also know that doing better requires effort.  I am tired.  Life holds very little interest for me.  I am poor, and stuck in circumstance.  Anything that might interests me costs money, which is not going to happen for me.  And so I sit. I write to kill time.  I like writing, it’s a great outlet.  Fuck load of work, long, long hours and often its crap and wasted time, but heck, at least I burned that puppy and now am one day closer to this lifetime being over.

I know, it sounds so fatalistic.  I am not at all a fatalist.  I am just not that attached to living.  I seriously feel it is a bit of an exercise in futility, but heck, killing myself didn’t pan out, and so here I sit.

Anyway, I digress, today, after I sobbed myself into a partial sleep, I began to feel you.  New visuals, images I’d never before manifested sprang up into my mind, unbidden they barged in and demanded I notice.  I looked, I noticed, I liked.  My body immediately reacted, which it has been doing now since you started talking to me.  Two weeks you said, well for two weeks, my body has been in the highest state of arousal I’ve ever experienced.  It takes all my will power to not stare at my phone, waiting to see your name.  I even woke up incredibly early just to see if your name was there.  Sigh.

So here were these new visuals.  Something about me; I truly believe our brains are incredible communication devices and if one has a powerful enough need to reach another, they can achieve it.  With the horses, they send visuals constantly.  It’s the horses that whisper and us that needs to learn how to hear them, see them, communicate with them on their level. 

So, today I got your visuals.  I guess you were sleeping, it was intense.  There was so much need, I about melted on the spot. I love how powerful you are, you don’t frighten me, you mirror me, you are the first to be such a force that I must reckon with you and not vice a versa.  We were sleeping together, naked, sleeping.  You pulled me to you, wrapped your arm over my waist and palmed my stomach, dragging me to your front.  You got hard so fast you still hadn’t fully awakened, but you were hard as granite. 

I gave to you instantly, wanting to be pressed as close to you as possible, always.  In real time my body was a wreck at this point.  My heart was stuttering along, not so much hammering as it was literally doing some erratic, irregular stall and restart shit, and it was a bit painful.  My pussy was soaking wet, and I could feel my pulse deep inside my core.  My ultra-sensitive nipples were jutting and hard as erasers.  My mouth was watering too. 

You pushed me onto my belly and you mounted my ass, sliding your cock up between my legs.  I spread for you, opening my apex, your hands came around and found each tit.  You smothered me with your body and buried your face in the back of my neck, and within seconds you were deep inside my body. Sliding in and letting my heat sheathe all of your incredibly heavy length. 

You stopped and we just languished there, in the land of synchronized breaths and thudding hearts.  We felt each other.  It was the most delicious moment of my life, you kissed my neck and then you bit me.  You fucked me hard for long breath holding minutes and I came so quickly it startled both of us.  You were soon to follow, and it took all your air, it was heated and copious and it made me cum again. 

It was a blip in time, quick and fast and the most feeling I have had in this body in so long I can’t really remember.  It made me ache to be in bed next to you.  I want to wallow with you, I want to belong to you so you can access me at a moment’s notice and use me to satisfy your every need.  I want to be your every need.     

Meticulous Anarchy

arianhelpme

I was just outside and got distracted with a climbing vine that I am training over an archway.  It is still fetal, small, its tentacles are soft and young and very unruly.  It hasn’t learned how to really climb upwards, it keeps getting confused and going back in on itself.  I talk to it as I try to carefully extricate itself, from itself.  Then I carefully wrap that arm up and in the direction I want it to go.  It’s still an unruly mess, but now it is all contained and traveling in the same direction.  Controlled abandon?

As I was helping with the shoots that were splayed out into nowhere, searching for something to grab onto, I thought about myself and all my little parts, the tentacles of my personality and intellect and also my emotions.  Rarely do my emotions get the best of me, rarely do I succumb to their nagging.  I am a girl though, and sometimes, rarely, but sometimes I feel something much stronger than I think I should.  Or my body reacts without any forewarning from my brain, and I start to cry. 

This sucks by the way. It is embarrassing and seems weak.  I am anything but weak.  I am strong, and self-aware and sure of myself, and in general, I am the one doing to others or ‘happening,’ to others and rarely is the converse true.

This week for me has been strange.  I have writers block.  I suddenly have ADD too, something I’ve never experienced before.  I am the queen of focus.  Not this week.  This week has tumbled me this way and that, and I am still feeling as if it isn’t quite over.  I feel as if I need to protect and go fetal.  I don’t want too, I haven’t done that in years.  But still, that is where I am right now. 

My tentacles need help, I need to tuck them back in, unwind the ones that went the wrong way and get them going the right way.  But what is the right way?

When my mind does this to me, I am always in an existential crisis.  It happened to me over and over when I was on my horsemanship journey of good-better-best-never-let-it-rest.  I would reach a new level of competence and suddenly think I had no business teaching others and I probably shouldn’t even have horses.  It was a moment of oh shit, I’d been doing it wrong all that time before, and just now, all of a sudden, in that moment, I got it and I would forever do it correctly. 

Problem is, how do you say sorry to those you’ve taught, if you taught them wrong? It’s a tuff one for a teacher, and I am sure I am not the only one who’s taught others, that has gone through this exact thing. 

I definitely need some gardeners tape wrapped around a few stray limbs just to help me stay on track.  Unfortunately, I am my own keeper, and I don’t know quite how to apply.

The good thing about horses is that they forgive and forget.  They are in their moments, always will be, always are.  It’s over, it’s done, let’s move on.  It is so much harder when our big brains fire off random memories of past wrong doings, errors and mistakes we’ve made along the way.  So much harder to un-do, and then re-do.  If I let this vine do whatever it wanted, and a year from now I went and tried to untangle and re-train it, I couldn’t.  It would be set, it would be rigid and firm, and its soft delicate little tendrils would be hard and woody, unwieldy. 

I don’t want my heart to be this way, I don’t want my soul to be hard, woody and unwieldy.  So, I’ve allowed myself to open up and be honest and real, raw, truthful.  The problem is that others are still responding to me like they do to all around them, as if we all lie about ourselves and we are never truly honest. 

I am not like that, I am not lying at all, I am trying my darndest to be transparent, although I hate that word.  I think the word naked, is better.  My heart is undressed, my heart is open, my soul is exposed? I feel naked and exposed, all the time. 

I said something to a writer friend.  A young writer friend who is having a difficult time putting emotion into his work.  I told him something interesting, and it really hit home for me as well.  I said that emotions come from a place of experience.  The good and the bad, they are all slowly uncovered and exposed over time, after living for a span and duration.  Then, after they are uncovered, after we feel them and experience them, and whatever trigger that happened for us to see them, we either embrace them, and begin to strive to feel them again, or we start to cover them back up, push them back down, bury them, go numb.

Then they turn into this raw place, a slightly callused place that gets rubbed once in a while, and re-exposed, disturbed enough to crack open and bleed or weep. It is from there that we find depth for our words, and it is from there that we must learn to live if we want to be good writers.

The problem however is this, it’s a place of angsty upheaval, controlled abandon, governed chaos, meticulous anarchy.  Plain and simple, it’s a very uncomfortable place to live.  It’s your softest parts being unwound and then redirected, all without breaking, all without pruning.

I feel as if the first part of my life involved a lot of pruning.  Now though? Now is so much different.  I can’t just discard parts that are unpleasant, I can’t chop them off and walk away like I did before.  I don’t know why I can’t, but I just can’t.  So I am trying to train all these parts of myself into some sort of coherent clutter of personality, and at the same time, I am attempting to put all of that into words, to create a visual so others might feel and understand what is happening inside themselves. 

That’s all.  For now. In this moment.  Feeling deep, too fucking deep.  Sigh.