I Would Rather Be Ashes than Dust

Jack London (1876-1916)

While he is probably best known for The Call of the Wild and White Fang, Jack London had some other memorable quotes. One of my favorites is, "Life’s not a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes playing a poor hand well." His all time best though, I was reminded of today;

I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.

The thing I remember about the last time I used this quote was I used it to support an argument with my ex about why I did't bother taking pictures at get-togethers, birthdays, vacations, etc. I would take 1 or 2, or sometimes forget altogether. She was the opposite and I wish I had seen it earlier and recognized it for what it was: vanity combined with perfectionism

Pictures consumed her. even before Facebook. A birthday party meant having the birthday person pose for a picture with every individual gift, one with the cake, the cake by itself, the cake with unlit candles, the cake with lit candles, the person blowing them out, the people cheering the blowing out, the video on a separate camcorder capturing the whole thing...you get the idea. And if they involved her, even more so, as she had to look perfect in every shot; 5-10 pictures worth, just to keep 1.

It was a chore to have any kind of activity. Hockey games, take picture after picture from the stands. Christmas? Spent every one in an argument as we had to do a family picture that had to be P-E-R-F-E=C-T. Oops. see that = sign there insead of the -? I would have to fix that. Did you notice I forgot the t in instead 2 sentences ago? She would have, and insisted to do it again until its perfect. Perfectionism: It sucks the fun out of everything. So the Christmas family picture would involve the four of us sitting in front of the tree, with the boys in front. I would set the camera on self timer burst mode so it would take 5 pictures at a time. We would then take about 200 pictures that would take about 90 minutes until she was happy with one. The boys patience was worn through after about 5 tries while she would complain about the picture being off center (never mind that i explained i could crop it), or that someone wasn't looking, or their smile was crooked, or looked fake or innumerable other reasons as to why we had to do it again. The session would end with the boys crying and her screaming at everyone every year.

So, the argument was over why I didn't take pictures, and I quoted her the line, "I would rather be ashes than dust", hoping to convey to her that I would rather live the moment than record the moment. She didn't get it. So I asked her when the last time she had pulled out the photo album and gone through it, or pulled up her picture file on her camera roll. She still looked at me with that same dull, blank look, not comprehending my meaning. I explained it to her, that life is to be lived, not spent trying to capture it on film. I want the freedom to sit and enjoy the concert I'm attending and not try to capture it for other people to comment on. When there's a party, I want to spend it talking with my friends and having fun, not doing selfies to convince myself how much fun I'm having. Her not understanding this was a huge factor in my recognizing the gulf between us; that we could be so fundamentally different in the priorities we set for ourselves.

And so, I shall use my time.

What's right and wrong

Is it wrong to not remember the first time you had sex? I have no recollection of when it started for me, just that it's always been there. I remember my first day of school, and I can say with certainty that it had started before that age. It wasn't an everyday thing, and I don't remember everything. I guess your mind is pretty good at selectively picking the things you remember and forgetting the things that hurt you.

Is it wrong to say that in some ways, you kind of enjoyed the attention you received during the molestation; that there was finally someone there in a world of absentee parents and the empty void of older siblings?

Is it wrong to say that it was pleasurable in some ways to know that somebody liked you, and that the naughty feeling you had in the pit of your stomach was being shared by someone else on a deep physical level in a world that was empty of contact.

For me, that was my childhood, and graduating to the adult world came at an early age as well. I was in grade 9 when I was assaulted and raped.

She was a cute girl in my class - dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, innocent smile. She had been kept back a few times as she seemed to miss school more than she was there. We had a very flirtatious relationship where I sat behind her in class and her best friend sat across from me, so I was generally privy to their whispered conversations during class. Sometimes, she would bring up details of her sex life to her friend and I'm sure it was just to get my attention and perhaps a rise from me. Needless to  say, I had a huge crush on her. I was sure that with her open sexuality that I admired, that she would end up in the sex industry in some way. I told her that like the song "Centerfold", when she posed naked for Playboy, she would have to come sleep with me. She laughingly agreed, but it didn't take her anywhere near that long.

It was a surprise party at her place where there were supposed to be plenty of people, but her older boyfriend and I were the only guests when I arrived. It didn't seem suspicious to me at all. I'd never been to a high school party before, and arrived early as she suggested. I expected other people to show up, and she had said she might need a few chairs moved beforehand, so there I was. There was some music on, and I was given a drink that I know was spiked with something, because even at fourteen, I'd drank alcohol before, and one drink would not affect me the way this drink did. I remember her boyfriend saying he had to leave to get something, and her flirting with me.

My next memory is waking up naked in her bed, with her on top of me, also naked, and feeling extremely embarrassed. I can't remember the words I said, as everything is fuzzy around this memory, but I know I tried to extracate myself from the situation and leave, only to find the boyfriend watching us as I reached for my clothes. He hit me, choked me, threatened me with a weapon, and forced me back on the bed, telling her what to do to make me hard and then had her have her way with me.

I guess things didn't go as they planned; maybe they thought I would be a more willing participant? - but I remember crying when she stopped, and the guy telling me I could do to her what she had done to me. Even though the incident is fuzzy from whatever was in the drink, his words from that night would guide my sex life for the rest of mine. "She took the power from you. You just need to take it back."

He was bigger than me, and much older, so I did as instructed, working my cock until it was hard, and climbing on her to fuck her. He encouraged me to hit her as I did so, and I struck her, tentatively at first, and with increasing vigour, feeling myself get harder and closer with every blow until I finished, and collapsed dazed across her. She looked at me with fear and respect in her wide eyes, and even though I didn't realize it at the time, my kink was born.

We never spoke of the incident after that. I eventually dated her a few times, a few years further down the road. He moved to Toronto and was killed by a jealous husband while I was still in high school. I wondered for a long time how much of that night was her idea and how much his. Sex with her was always intense, and in the same manner as the rape, so he may have formulated or nurtured her kink as well.

For me, I felt shameful for a long time about the incident. Hated the humiliation I felt; being beaten in front of her by someone physically stronger. Being used as a fuck toy. Hated how confused I felt about hitting her and how it could make me feel so good. Hated and loved getting off to the memory for a long time after - even to this day.

Everything that downs me...

Everything that downs me makes me want to fly.
                       -Ryan Tedder

I have times like the last post where everything seems hopeless to me and the darkness consumes me, tearing away at my being and assaulting my soul. Now it's not true everytime, but quite often, new moons wreck me. Full dark means darkness for my mood. I know it's a depressive state; and that the xanax and welbutrin and the like are what so-called normal people take to get them evened out again, but I've seen too many walking horror stories on that stuff. I don't believe that modern pharmaceutical medication is any better than weed.

When the moon is full, it's exhilarating. I swear I can feel it in my bones. I can tell it's full right now without even checking. Overcoming the depressive state and moving on to the manic one makes you feel like you can leap tall buildings. All those things that downed you seem so unimportant. If anything, they reinforce how strong you are, to  have overcome the  depression. Like the song says, "Everything that kills me, makes me feel alive."

I have several tattoos, but one is more special to me than the rest. I use it to focus myself during the bad spells like I was going through in my last post. It's a peacock on my left wrist with a small Semicolon worked in there. I get asked about it occasionally and I explain what it means in general terms. The peacock is a reminder to not be too proud. The semicolon has another meaning

If you haven't heard of  the Semicolon project, it's a movement presenting hope, love, and solidarity between those struggling with mental illness, suicide, addiction, and self injury. The semicolon is used in punctuation where an author could have ended a sentence, but chose not to, because there was something important to add; sometimes something important that changes what went before to give it new meaning. Thus the story continues instead of ending.

The project, hopefully, encourages mental-illness sufferers to go on with their lives during those dark moments; a reminder that there is more to the story, so don't let it end there. People who support this cause have a tattoo of a semicolon (;) somewhere on their body.

I got the tattoo after my ex-wife was hospitalized and checked herself into a mental health facility after a breakdown. I told her the tattoo was for her. I didn't tell her of my own issues ever. I didn't tell her how close I had come to ending it several times already. And I didn't tell her I had the tattoo on my left wrist because I wanted to see the scar on my right from an earlier suicide attempt at age 12.

It was a bad cut that ended just before the artery. In those days, there was no internet to show you the proper way, and I chickened out before completing it, as I had not fully prepared for it, did it on the spur of the moment, and freaked out at how much blood there was. I told my parents I had fallen on a broken bottle. I didn't tell them I broke it and used it on myself. Just smashed it down on the river's edge and pushed my wrist down on it.

So on those bad days, I look at my right wrist and think about it, and then my left wrist to focus and reconnect, and I remind myself not to be too proud to ask for help should I get so deep that I can't see any way out.

The right scarred side:
Old scar https://imgur.com/gallery/KuzE1

The left tattoed side:
#semicolon project Proud peacock https://imgur.com/gallery/WxFYN

The little voice

Well, I did it. I managed to get through another day while the little voice inside my head whispered at me all day that I might as well end it. It told me that I was a failure at life, love, and marriage, and that I would never amount to anything. From the time I woke up, all though the day and even now, I feel the dark cloud over me, trying to put a little doom and gloom into my life. It's a voice I'm very familiar with as I've heard it from my earliest memory, nagging at me, breaking my spirit, knocking me back down when I get too high or proud.

I woke up this morning determined to make it a great day. Took out my motorcycle, picked up a hot date, and spent the day driving, chatting, shopping, and walking before dropping her off and heading home to get ready for work. And all the while, I feel the despair creeping up on me, smothering me, making me feel like the tears will never stop trying to spill out. So, I turn my head, wipe my eyes, and try to push them back down. Try to think of anything else but my thoughts so I can laugh and feel good...but my thoughts keep returning to the blackness seeping out of my soul, and there's so much of it that it's overwhelming.

And the worst part is I can't explain it. I know I shouldn't dwell on it, and that I should focus my thoughts and energies elsewhere, but that's the problem - the little voice refuses to be quiet. Even when I am laughing at a joke or comment that someone else makes, it's there mocking me, whispering that it knows that I'm not really happy, that I don't deserve to be happy, that this is temporary, and I'll be sad soon enough, and that thought alone is enough to suck the fun away, make the breath catch in my throat and make tears well up in my eyes.

So, I go to work, and put on my happy face, do my job, and spend my breaks crying silently to myself in the washroom like the pathetic loser I am, wondering when I'll not feel like this anymore and scared that the answer is never; that the little voice will always be there to mock me and my life. I tell myself to hold on until I get home, and then I can deal with it better. Cry all you want when you get home, or worse if thats what you really want, but not here, and not now. That gets me through the night without openly crying on the floor.

But now I am home, and I need to get this voice to shut up. Because if I can't then I really don't see the point in going on. I told my doctor that I wasn't sleeping well, so he put me on medical marijuana to help relax me before bed. That is one of the only things that has ever worked for me to silence the nagging voice in my head that berates me constantly. So I smoke, and I cry, and wait for the first lift to hit so I can at least believe that my fucked-up emotions will be more manageable in the morning. I just don't want to listen to the little voice anymore.
So, Goodnight.

Sometimes you get lucky, and the voice is down to a dull murmur when you wake up; like waves on the beach, not the big crashing ones that inspire awe and make you pay attention, but the quiet calm ones that lap at the shore and barely register, so your attention can go elsewhere, and soon you're feeling good about the future and life in general. Maybe there can be some semblance of a normal life where things work out in the end and everyone lives happily ever after. Maybe?

Except the voice is still there today. And it's as loud as ever.

The first night

When Belle and I separated from that first kiss in the parking lot, I had a really good feeling about the rest of the night. My tension relaxed and I knew that we were going to have a good time exploring each other's world. We held each other's hand as we walked through the lobby to the elevator to take us upstairs, and nothing had ever felt so right. I was sure there would be no regrets.

Being with a new lover for the first time is the best feeling in the world. The Foo Fighters put it best in their song Everlong with the lyrics:
"And I wonder
When I sing along with you
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again
The only thing I'll ever ask of you
You gotta promise not to stop when I say when"

That first time is glorious. It's Christmas for grown-ups. You get to open that package and see what's underneath the wrapping. Unfortunately, she was wearing a god-awful habs jersey that I insisted she remove as soon as we entered the room. From there on, I don't remember the clothes being removed. I am not bashful, and I'm sure they weren't on for longer than 30 seconds after we closed and locked the door, paying careful attention to putting out the do not disturb sign on the outer handle.

What I do remember is like a sweet sensual collage in my head of the various sights sounds and smells from that night all run together like a glorious tapestry of love and sex. I remember tasting her and thinking how good and pure and natural it was and how her taste reminded me of my own. I remember her mouth on me, and the different way that she slid her lips along my shaft sideways that I've never encountered before; it was like a wet handjob only with her mouth, and I knew I was going to explode soon if she kept doing it. I remember holding her arms down tight while I entered her and feeling her thrust against me with the same fevered intensity that comes from years of anticipation. I remember trying different positions and finding that she was enjoying them as much as I was. I remember her thrusting against me getting closer and closer to the edge and feeling a need to push her over it to feel her convulsing on me while she reached climax and picking up the pace feeling my own balls swelling and throbbing, getting closer and closer as I fucked her harder and harder until I was ready to come and then allowing myself to go over the edge as well and join her emptying my load deep inside her and collapsing on top of her to catch my breath

I remember being covered in sweat exhausted and feeling the need rising within me again. I needed to have more more of her; to be inside her again. I had asked her what her favorite position was and she didn't want to answer me but I assumed from that that it meant she liked anal play so this time when I worked her close to the edge I told her to make sure she let me know when she was getting close so I could drive her over the edge in the way that she wanted. And when she said she was close I pulled my cock from her pussy pushed up against the entrance to her ass, put lube all over the head of my cock and then slowly whispered in her ear, "I know what you want", as I pushed my cock inside her ass, all the while using my fingers to stimulate her clit until she was crying out in pleasure and once again I could feel my balls swelling ready to empty and when she told me she was coming I did the same, deep in her ass while crying out in pleasure..

It was a special night of lovemaking, hours and hours of exploring each other, finding out what we liked and there wasn't much that we didn't like. Nothing that I can think of actually; she seemed to be my twin sexually, echoing my likes being open to anything. We made the comment then that we were both pretty messed up for the things that we were into and I kind of laughed it off, thinking,"You have no idea how messed up I am." And I was right in that regard, but what I didn't realize was that I also had no idea how messed up she was.. It really was a night of shared experience and experiences

Feels Like The First Time

When people talk or write about a newly rediscovered hobby or passion, they use the phrase "feels like the first time", and in referring to sex, that's strange to me. I don't remember a first time for sexual contact, but only a first time with partners as I grew older. So for me to say that that first night I spent with Belle "felt like the first time" would be an injustice. It felt like the only time.

My mind racing, I arrive at the hotel at 8 pm. I know she won't be there until at least 10:30, so I had a few hours to kill. I checked the place out. I had brought wine, she had brought beer - a six-pack of Corona (my favorite); a good sign to be sure. I'd already had a few beers, so I didn't want to risk having any more and going down that slippery slope of being drunk when she arrived, so I decided to smoke a little weed instead. So outside I went, feeling the warm late-spring air and peacefully inhaling my preferred drug of choice, feeling it calming me and stilling my racing mind. Back inside I go and start some music on my phone, adding and removing songs from my "Fucktunes©" playlist, intent on setting a fun, playful mood if things didn't go well so we could laugh it off (hopefully). I knew that we'd both texted briefly about there being no pressure, just a night to get together, smoke and drink a little, and see where things ended up.

She texted me around 10 to say she was on her way and to meet her in the parking lot to help bring up some stuff. I met her there and pulled her into my arms after no more than a  cursory "Hi" for that first kiss.

I love getting lost in a kiss. The earliest kiss I remember is actually getting kissed by my older sister very innocently for some reason or other- a holiday peck, perhaps? And her saying "Ewww, You give very wet kisses" How was I to know? I don't think I kissed much after that until almost the end of high school, when I began to find that the kiss did more to turn me on than the actual sex did. Morality means no sex growing up as a teenager, and rough sex would lead to ostracization or jail if things went wrong. However, kissing is acceptable and even encouraged among your peers. Having already done the intercourse act long before my teens, it was the forbidden act of kissing that I took extreme pleasure in. I always loved the scene in The Princess Bride where they mention the ultimate kiss: to quote the narrator, "Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind."

Kissing is one of the most intense acts of coupling for me because it involves all 5 or the senses, each combination unique. I remember planning to give her a quick peck on the lips; a "Hey, how ya doin'?" kind of kiss, and then feeling sledgehammered by my senses: smoky cinnamon taste, soft firm inviting lips, scent of fragrant perfume that has been driving me wild for years, beautiful blue/green eyes with long red black tresses, soft throaty moaning as the kiss deepens and expands, feeling her mouth open to me, her tongue reaching out to meet mine and going beyond it. Then I was lost in it and I am exploring her universe, lost among the stars and black holes into cosmic nothingness. When the kiss is perfect, that's how it feels for me. I lose myself in time and space. And this kiss was exquisite.

Statues

While waiting at a red light today, on my travels, I happened to see a statue just inside the graveyard fence, and it made me think that we are all statues in a way; born fresh-faced and newly-carved, brought forth in love and with caring attention, with doting parents, fawning friends, and celebrations. As we grow older, the erosion begins, features grow less sharp with rounder corners, pock-marked and discolored. Sounds depressing, but it's important to remember that even as we erode, fucking amazing things still happen that make life worth hanging on to.

Sex in my marriage went as the seasons went. Hot and passionate once woken, as if we could not get enough of each other, steamy and intense through its maturity, and tapering as it ages, eventually withering and dying as you wonder where the time went. I'd learned early in my marriage not to ask for what I really wanted. Talk of sex outside the ordinary was all met with negatives, and after a while, you fuck harder just to hear her whimper in order to get off. The last year, I could count on one hand the number of times we had sex. We stopped communicating except to say what needed to be done around the house; what mundane chores were required to be completed and by when, what the kids needed, upcoming appointments, and such, so when the day came that she told me she wanted out. I wasn't surprised. I had heard only criticisms over the past year, and had not been hugged or kissed in forever. I could tell she hated me. So we separated, bedrooms at first, and then houses.

A month later, I was texting with a female friend. The same one I had exchanged flirtatious text messages with at the end of my marriage. The same one that I had very nearly cheated with. And the same one who was now in a committed relationship ; such is my luck. The texts were blunt and to the point: Fucking tinder won't send me a code that works. I need to get laid. The texts back were equally as blunt: Belle X is single and horny as a rabbit. I wasn't sure. She was a coworker, a hot coworker, but still a coworker. The potential for disaster was there if things went wrong. She was the shy, demure, sexy, sultry type that wears her red hair down and messy. Petite, mature, gorgeous, with flawless skin and the greenest eyes: A fucking smoke show.

My friend assured me that she was into me. Told me that Belle had confided to her that she had had quality alone time with me in her fantasies. Enough information to make me feel comfortable in approaching her to see if there was something we could do for each other.

So, a day or two later, there I stood, a month after my moving out, next to my coworker but scared to death to make a move on her because of the possible repercussions. Technically, I was her boss. Sexual harassment could lead to my being fired or worse. So, I stood there and made some small talk about our lives. I forget what was actually said. I remember the blood rushing in my ears as I thought of how to word it, and I finally blurted out that I had split from my marriage and hadn't been laid in over a year. And yet, I still couldn't get up the nerve to ask if she might be into some casual sex out of fear of offending her. So the night passed, and I walked to my car alone to drive home, all the while kicking myself for my cowardice. But fate was to intervene this night, for no sooner had I entered the house when my phone buzzed with a Facebook message from her; "I wasn't going to go there, but you did, so *phone number* just say when and where. I immediately texted back "Now" but it had to wait one night.  I was expecting to be given an address to meet her at and I knew she was working the next night, so I was shocked when she directed me to a location to find something. It was a hotel key with the room number on it. Her instructions were to be there at 10 pm, as she could get out early that night.

That day took forever. I woke up that morning with delicious anticipation; hit the gym to pump up a little, showered and shaved, and was still hours away from meeting her. Nervousness  was setting in and all the doubts started creeping in. What if she was a prude in bed? What if we didnt click? What if I couldn't get it up for some reason, or even worse, lost it as she lay there like a cold fish?. On top of that, I hadn't been with any woman but my wife in 25 years. Fuck, I was nervous. One of my friends played in a band that had a gig that afternoon, so I made the short trip to see him, hang out and kill a few hours. I met up with two other friends there, and drank a little, just enough to take the edge off, but my mind was racing in anticipation. I realized that I had never made an appointment for sex before. I was no novice in bed, as I burned through women in my University years, but that was always after a bar scene, where you have a few drinks, make some conversation, and steer her back to your bedroom or hers. This was cold. So, with mixed feelings I left the bar after my friend was done and headed to the hotel room.