HughRistik of Feminist Critics left these comments on Saturday:

“Auster also seems to have forgotten God’s curse on Eve: “your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you.” Far from enjoying a higher position in the world, women enjoy one of subordination to men. The very reason why game works on women is because God ordained that part of the curse on the entire gender through Eve would be domination by men.”

Interesting perspective, but does this quote bother anyone else?

I want to sleep with attractive women, connect with women, and have relationships with some of those women. Dominance in the bedroom is all well and good, but don’t want to rule women outside the bedroom. That sounds like far too much work, and I have better things to do with my time and energy.

Furthermore, for an actual relationship partner, I do NOT want someone to rule over. I’m very individualistic and I admire women who are, also. I want a woman who is her own person.

In terms of practicality, leading is virtually always required, and often some level of sexual dominance in the bedroom. Yet I don’t consider a relationship characterized as me “ruling over” a woman in general as either necessary or desirable. I do grant that due to the nature of some women’s desires, a relationship of equality might not be possible with them, but I don’t know how typical that tendency is.

When I was growing up, the message drummed into my head was that men and women should be “equal” in relationships. Of course, the feminist notion of equality (where women are liberated from their gender roles and leverage sexual power over men, but men are not and must repress their sexuality), turned out to be bunk. Yet I still like the idea of a relationship with a woman who is my equal (in a general sense of the distribution of power and respect).

Perhaps I’m just projecting from my personality, but I’m skeptical that men in general particularly want to dominate women, contrary to what feminists claim. Men want women who are hot and have pleasant personalities, but ruling women? I’m not convinced.

I’m suspicious of expectations that men “rule” over women, whether they come from religious sources, or from women themselves, and I wonder whether such expectations are really in men’s best interests.

Oh, and one more thing: One reason that I like what is called “game” here is not that it gives me dominance over women, but because it is the way (at least, the way I practice it) to get the best approximation of equality in sexual interactions between men and women.

This gets to something I’ve wanted to discuss: the role of dominance in game and relations with women. I’ve held that dominance is the natural outcome of good game, the result of taking its principles to heart. People frequently confuse being dominant with being controlling – the two are not the same in my opinion. Being controlling is an active process, and is the tool of a weak man. Dominant individuals don’t consciously act to control others – people are drawn to them by the force of their personalities.

I’m not the only one who holds that women want dominant men. Roissy took his pseudonym from the chateau in Story of O, which he explained as follows:

but roissy is not about torture or sadomasochism, except inasmuch as it serves the metaphorical purpose to illuminate how even outwardly successful, powerful, intelligent women yearn to be dominated by strong men. and that this dominance, personified by the classic jerk sir stephen, is the key to unlocking a woman’s uncompromised love.

a peek behind the crimson curtains at roissy is a peek inside a woman’s head and what truly turns her on.

Additionally, Aoefe argued at Girl Game that women are naturally submissive:

I believe the desire for a woman to be submissive to her man is innate, plus I believe women are wired to be submissive to proper authority in general.    Submissive, as I see it, is described as agreement, respect, duty, or deference.  I don’t personally view it as meek, passive or tameness.   I believe submissiveness is a feminine trait and I believe women have lost touch with this inborn need.

I’d like to get the commentariat’s view on this. Are men supposed to dominate women? Do women want to be dominated? What constitutes dominance in regards to game? The floor is yours once more.

PROGRAMMING NOTE: I have a report that will be published this afternoon at The Spearhead. Stay tuned.

Since childhood I was a book addict.  I would go on reading binges from which I’d emerge, unshaven, bleary eyed, with fiction-withdrawal.  Why, then, do I not get off on erotic books?

The first erotic novel I read was The Story of O, in college, and I got a terrific boner when I read about O’s initial whipping and humiliation at the Chateau,  LOL.

Confronted with the evidence of my extremely hard cock, there was no denying the reality of my inner sadist.  But, from there on the book went downhill, except perhaps when O gets branded near the end of the novel.

There are only so many combinations of words one can use to evoke erotic scenes.  And my brain can only muster  so many variations on the same old internal imagery.  But when it comes to photos and video — there are so many subtle nuances that prose is not precise enough to capture.  The particular look on a submissive’s face, or in her eyes.  The little flinching movements, the cries of surprise, the deep grunts of satisfaction.  The various intonations of pleas and cries and whimpering.  No two of these scenes are exactly alike, visually and emotionally. There are always slight variations, just like a fingerprint. The chemistry between the participants in the photographed or videotaped scenes are palpable — palpably genuine, or palpably fake — in a way that written scenes can rarely be.

Descriptions of kinky scenes in words  get stale.  Images tend to stay fresh.  The real thing is even better.

Yum! Let the whippings begin!

twitter.com/playswithbarbie

This is a journey I am about to go on, ordering from amazon, anyone read this book?  HIGHLY recommended by Lady “S”….

If you haven’t read the reviews on amazon.com….I CAN’T WAIT!  Perfect summer read.

Find here:

Story of O at Amazon

There had been eight months of build-up by this point.  For the first month since learning of his existence I’d thought I may be in love with him, for several more I’d felt abandoned and bewildered, and for the others he was a curious ellipsis in my dating trials.  And now he would finally become a reality.

He told me to give him time to shower and change before I arrived at the hotel, so it was already past eight when I arrived at the Sheraton on Garden Street.  I warned him against the blown-up doll house ambiance, but he was insistent on a Sheraton due to a discount he received at the branch of hotels.

Ooh, sexy, I love dollhouses

I wore black pants under my knee-length black halter wrap dress.  My crimson wool coat, instead of drawing their attention, allowed me to pass the front desk without asking for his room to be rung.  I’d been disproportionately worried about this happening, lest it signify they thought me a hooker or one-night stand.

I looked for the public restroom on the ground floor and went in to remove my pad.  I still hadn’t decided what was worse, to have an accident without any leak protection or not to have an accident but be caught wearing a foot-long pad by a man eager to undress me.  I prayed to whatever good spirits floated about that my pelvic muscle would behave.

I’d called him on his cell phone in advance to find out what room he was in and followed his instructions on leaving the elevator, paused a few seconds before ringing the door bell and turned my back to the door.  This could be interpreted as rude perhaps, but I was instinctively afraid to see him, well-aware I knew him in one sense yet unable to say how this would translate in person. The door didn’t open immediately because I hadn’t called from below, but when it did open, I closed my eyes, wanting to return to the safety of phone land.

“Well hello, baby girl.”  It was the same voice I’d heard countless times, minus the static and phone to my ear.  Reassured by this, I finally let myself turn my body towards his, though I made sure to look to the floor.

“Look at me.”

“Okay, I can do this,” I told myself, and suddenly there he was and I understood, the bastard had directed me to an outdated photo.  With more than twenty pounds added since that time, he was puffy, fleshy, and very pink, like sensitive new skin, the tone his penis might take on when filled with blood.  Eeks.  He’d warned me that his favorite dish to prepare was ham wrapped in bacon, but it seems he had adopted the color of this beloved meal.  Hidden by flesh were beady eyes that seemed too small for his face.  His long nose remained unmasked by flesh but looked too narrow next to his full cheeks and bore a distinct knob at its end I hadn’t caught in the photo.  Beneath this rested the pouty, sullen mouth of a child; even as it curled into a smile, it puckered as if tasting something sharp.  And atop the pink and the pout sprouted an unexpected cluster of grey and white, which didn’t bother me in itself but did make obvious the passage of time since the photo I’d been shown.  No, this information didn’t strike me all at once: my vision was not so quick, nor had it ever been, I imagine.  My memory now pieces together the fragmented features like a jigsaw, marveling over the outcome.

What took no time to process, however, was that he repulsed me.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he wasn’t supposed to look like this.  I felt queasy.  But what did I expect?  Even in that first wave of shock, I resisted my reaction by chiding myself: Whose fault was it but my own that I was in this situation?

As if there were still a question which direction I should turn, he gathered me up, leading me into the room and closing the door behind us.  A few feet from the door, I crumbled onto the floor, exhausted already by disappointment, and hid my face in the folds of my coat.  He walked over to my bundle of red and black and enveloped me.  “It’s all right, baby girl.  It’s just me.”  And as long as I kept my eyes closed, it was all right; it was the voice I had known all those months before.  He pulled my coat off and set it on the bed.  He returned and kissed me on the forehead, then lifted my chin to kiss my cheeks and mouth.  He led me to the bed, where I untied my dress and slipped it off, as if on auto-pilot.  He pulled down my pants and then my underwear, free of its pad.  He lay back on the bed and I unzipped his pants and took his penis in my mouth, which he accepted for several moments before pushing me away.

“Kneel facing the wall and don’t make a sound,” he said.  I did as I was told, relieved my face would be hidden.  I heard him walk to his bag, unzip it, and take something out.  A moment later, he held my loose hair in a tight knot by my neck.  He grazed the leather riding crop across my back and my hairs tingled.  Then I received a sharp slap from the riding crop.  It was my first experience with such utensils or accessories, but I’d been struck with rattan canes as a child and had bawled each time from the swelling welts.  This sting was nothing compared to what I’d remembered; my eyes weren’t even watering.  Either the rattan was more effective at delivering blows or my mother was fiercer than Jeff or the MS had dulled my ability to feel the smack.  How silly, to be disappointed it didn’t hurt more, but that’s what I felt.  It felt like a game suddenly.  Pretend pain.  Was this a toy riding crop or the real thing?  Hadn’t there been broken skin and blood let in the Story of O?

I spoke up, “I can handle more, you know,” but he told me to shut up.  Was I meant to feign agony or was it really going to get worse?  Didn’t he know I wasn’t an actress and couldn’t be relied on to make a scene when I wasn’t provoked to make one?

He must have sensed my waning interest in the crop because he twisted my shoulders with both hands and smacked my face.  Yes, that was more like it.  That hurt.  He pulled me by the hair onto my feet and down again onto the bed, the silly blown-up dollhouse bed with its wallpaper sheets and lace canopy.  But at least I knew he could hurt me.  It was nothing to be truly afraid of; we had a safe word.  He’d chosen it: “Oakland,” where he lived.  I would have preferred to have just had “no” as our safe word, but it seems that he wanted me to say no even when I didn’t quite mean it yet.  No didn’t actually mean no in some circles.

My introduction to BDSM wasn’t a complete failure.  I did fear his touching me, that was true, but not because I was afraid he would hurt me, only because I wasn’t attracted to him.  And I could rationalize to myself that being with this man who repulsed me was against my will, hence he was in control, I had no choice.  Or if this wasn’t quite true, at least my cringing was real.  The slaps and the pathetic nature of our interaction did make me doubt my worth just long enough for me to wonder if I should feel grateful this man was letting me be with him, if I was the one who wasn’t good enough.

I was clearly thinking too much, but then it was necessary under the circumstances to manufacture arousal.  As it was, the evening would have been an interesting, if awkward, charade, if only I had the courage to accept failure.  But accepting failure and admitting it were quite different.

P.S. “Hit me baby one more time.” (Britney Spears, by old Russian women)

[Continued here]

I never feared Jeff in the way he wanted me to.  I did often feel uncomfortable in his presence and frustrated with the interaction, but my only fear was being identified by others as his girlfriend.  Well, what else could I have been?  No, the alternatives weren’t pleasant— an escort or even a daughter tolerating the desire of her father.  Still, I didn’t want others to assume complete willingness on my part.

Our interaction began one early afternoon in February during my third year in college, when he responded to a profile I had posted online, in which I’d mentioned that I went by “o” to friends (to give voice to the last letter of my last name which the college had hacked off to create my email address), but that I did not identify with the character O in Story of O, which I found too dull to even finish.  The man who would be Jeff inquired by IM if I’d seen the film based on the book, and I asked why, was it better?  No, not in particular, but it was worth watching.  Did the idea of the book turn me on?  He reassured me he had experience.  I may have explained then that, no, I didn’t have experience with S&M, though I had been looking for some time for a guy to hit me, but the people I’d dated thus far had been too disturbed by my request.  He said it didn’t disturb him; he wanted to know where I wanted to be hit.  My legs certainly and my back and I supposed my arms and chest weren’t off-limits.  I often got angry with my legs, I explained, and hit them out of frustration, but I had reduced sensation and it made me feel for a change.  He could make me feel, he said.  Theoretically, perhaps, but the man lived in California according to his profile.  Had I ever used a riding crop or a cat-o’-nine tails?  Had he?  How did I feel about being slapped or handcuffed?  I said I was open to anything.

He gave me his phone number and I called a minute later knowing, if I didn’t call then, I would never bother.  I could tell he hadn’t expected it because, instead of being at his BDSM-best, sounding confident and in control, he was out of breath and his voice revealed itself as high and nasal.  No, he wasn’t at all as threatening as he’d wished to seem.  I imagined him rooting his kids on from the side of a baseball field.

“I’m the girl from the IMs.”

He adjusted his voice.  “Oh, hello, baby girl.”

“Hello.”

“Say ‘hello, daddy.’”

“You know, I’ve never called my father anything but dad.”

He chuckled, but said, “Behave, baby girl.”

“Sorry.”

“‘Sorry, daddy.’”

“Sorry . . . Sorry, daddy.”  I winced, closing my ears to the last syllable I spoke.

But by the end of our conversation an hour later, I was decidedly under his control.  I don’t think he was ever conscious I didn’t take him seriously at first so it’s unlikely he knew when and how I reconsidered his effect on me.  Or perhaps he was more strategic out than I had thought.  But whether or not he meant to find my Achilles heel, I do know that my mistake was in letting him present me with enough imagined scenarios until I became aware of my own vulnerability.

“You know what I want, baby girl?  I want you to wear a short skirt without your panties and sit on my lap in the subway and let me enter you.”

“But that’s unhygienic.”

“You’ll do what I tell you to do, baby girl.”

“But I don’t wear short skirts.”

“But I like girls in short skirts.”

“But it’s not me.”

“I think we can find a skirt you’d like to wear that’s short enough.”

“Isn’t it inconsiderate to have sex in a public place?”

“We can fuck when the subway is empty, I promise, baby girl.”

“Hmm, okay.’

“Thank you, baby girl.”

Though I was honest about my not wearing short skirts (my aesthetic sense told me to balance my skimpy tops with knee-length skirts), what I couldn’t say was what was going through my mind, that I was terrified of going outside without underwear.  No, it was more than that: I needed more than underwear.  I would surely have a panic attack if I didn’t feel a pad held securely between my legs.  But what was the point of really my most shameful fear?  He was across the country and I would never meet him.  I could be completely honest with this stranger about my idiosyncrasies, but there was no point in risking embarrassing myself before him.

When this stranger then threatened to tie me to his iron-post bed and leave me in his bedroom for a full day without checking in on me, I knew that, however nasal his voice and however unintimidating the notion of consensual forced sex was, he could make me short of breath just by concocting scenarios in which my most traumatizing secret would be aroused.  “What if I had to pee?” I thought.  “Did he have wood floors or carpeting?  Wouldn’t I become dehydrated?  What would happen if I had an accident?  Could other people control their bladder for a full day?”  It didn’t occur to me that this was the point, my losing control of my functions, that my humiliating myself wouldn’t irritate him but turn him on.  Instead, my heart raced, senseless with panic, and I was unexpectedly, illogically, under his control.

[Continued here]

This story came about through a challenge from one of my regular readers. The parts in red are what were given as a prompt to the rest of the story. I took the liberty of changing from second person to first person as I found this easier to work with as well as writing it all in the present tense, something I do not often do. I had fun writing it though it is perhaps a little predictable. Still I hope you enjoy and if anyone ever wishes to do this experiment in real life let me know the outcome as it would be an interesting one indeed…

____________________________________________________________________

THE STORY OF YOU

You checked yourself in the mirror one last time. A pastel sundress. Flip-flops and a floppy hat. Red lipstick, arterial red. Largish rhinestone catseye sunglasses. You grabbed your oversized bag, bounded down the stairs and hailed a cab. “Fifth and Madison.” A street of bookstores, boutiques and coffee houses, where the campus and the business district meet.

You got your bearings on the unfamiliar street. Luck smiled on you: the ideal spot was just across the street, and an umbrella-ed table was vacant just at the corner. You jaywalked to the café, then languidly took your seat.

The wait staff was either busy or inattentive. Or maybe you were supposed to check in with the receptionist. So much the better. You settled in, placing your bag on the seat beside you. And from it you removed the book. Placed it face up on the round table. Its white cover contrasted nicely with the red checked cloth. You positioned it just so, at an angle across from you, the bold lettering readable to passers-by and fellow café patrons:

THE STORY OF O

by Pauline Reage

12:45 p.m. You promised yourself to let the experiment run for at least an hour. Or was that enough? Ninety minutes, then. Not a second less.

Already several sidewalk strollers had passed your table. One of them paused, then walked on. Or did he pause? Was that your imagination? Did he shake his head slightly just now? Did he hesitate, begin to look back? No, you thought, as he crossed the street.

An Experiment. An Adventure. No one put you up to it. You put yourself up to it. No one knew. (Who could you tell? And why would you?) Anonymity IS possible in the great city. Buying this naughty book was an anonymous act, and an uncharacteristically daring one, six months ago. Even so, you felt keen embarrassment placing the book on the counter, face down. Bravely, you deliberately met the eyes of the cashier … who registered no recognition, and handed your change without comment.

12: 51. Six minutes, a tenth of an hour, and nothing. The waitress finally brought tepid water and a menu. “Sorry, I didn’t see you here.” “No problem.” Standing over you, she could not – COULD NOT – help but see the book, so casually prominent. “Do you know what you want?” “Pot of tea.”

Do you know what you want? Yes and no. But a pot of tea is not it. You slide the book ever so slightly toward the edge, as if making room for the tea…

12:57. Another six minutes and the pot of tea is deposited on the table. Nothing, no comment, not a glance – or wait the man two tables over, yes he is looking. That look, what did it mean? Disapproval, he was frowning, why disapprove if you knew what the book was about? Self-righteous busy body, but still someone had seen . I pour the tea, a little shaky, pick the cup up and sip. Glancing at the man again I see he is gone and sigh.

It was not going as I hoped it would. Nervously sipping tea, adjusting my hat or rearranging my skirt meant I was constantly fidgeting. Sit still; I ordered myself to just relax.

“Is this seat taken?”

“Ah, no.” Had he seen?

“May I take the seat then?”

Looking around I notice the cafe is now full. I shrug ’sure’ but before the man left he looked pointedly at my book then at me and with a slight smile took the chair to his table.

1:15. Perhaps it was not to be, the only person to take even a mild interest only wanted the spare chair from my table. What was I thinking, this is going nowhere. Catching the waitress’s eye I order a grilled chicken salad. The butterflies were still flying around my tummy, food might help calm me. Nervous, excited, silly, thoughtful were the various feelings running through me. What was I going to say if someone did stop? I hadn’t really thought this all the way through. Never mind, I could wing it. Picking up the book so the front cover was still easily seen I began reading.

1:25. A different waitress brings my chicken salad, I put the book down, on display as before.

“Oh, I’ve read this. Fascinating read,” the waitress comments.

“Yes, it is,” I smile at her.

Smiling back she looks like she might say more. “Well, enjoy your lunch.”

I sigh, three possible I guess that is not so bad. Heck, you hear of people falling over on the street and no one stops to help or ask if they are all right so why should they care about a book. I eagerly tuck into my salad as my stomach growls loudly. Should have ordered some wine this would be really nice with a crisp white. I go back to reading in between bites of chicken and salad.

1:45. “Do you mind?”

I look up and see the man who had borrowed the seat earlier and looking over to his table I see his party has left. Thinking he is only returning the chair I shrug ’sure’ once again.

“Thanks,” he says and then sits on the seat and makes himself comfortable.

“Oh,” I say.

“Yes indeed, that was what I was going to ask you about,” he says in reply.

I blink a couple of times hardly believing my luck then blush ten shades of red. I sip my water trying to act nonchalant though my heart is pounding loud enough to wake the dead.

“Come on, why so shy? Surely this is some sort of declaration,” he says tapping the book.

“I was just out enjoying myself and reading an interesting book,” I stumble over my words.

He leans over the table and extends his hand. “My name is Jason.”

I shake his hand. “I am Amelie.”

“Amelie, are you enjoying your book?”

“Yes and no. Have you read it?”

“Yes a number of times. What about it are you enjoying?”

“I…well,” I hesitate. Is it proper to be having such a candid conversation with a perfect stranger? Well I did start it, sort of, and we are only discussing a book after all.

“I find O, as a character, intriguing, fascinating. Part of me is drawn to that and can understand how one might want to give up control in life and just be there for others. I mean be used in such a way.” I was blushing again, I had never spoken so openly to someone I didn’t know. In act hardly ever to people I did know.

“And what is it you don’t enjoy?”

“The male characters, I don’t like them, any of them. I find them cruel and they do not seem to care for her at all. I’m sure that’s part of the story but they don’t engage me in any way. O, she is the real star.”

“Do you find it erotic?”

“Well yes, I do. And you, did you enjoy it?” I say quickly to divert his attention a little.

“Very much. It helped me many years ago. I find all of it fascinating, O, the men, the other women. What they want, what they need. O’s choices and where they take her.”

“You make it sound almost real, it is just a story after all.”

“You don’t think some people live that way?”

“Possibly, but I like to think things are a little more, uh mutual perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” he smiled, “so, you are a curious soul and this is not for comparison?”

“Ha! Goodness no, but yes I am a curious type.”

“How curious?”

“I’m not sure what you are asking?”

“You know exactly what I am asking.”

“Are you some sort of pervert?”

“Yes, it seems I am…”

I laughed. “You aren’t supposed to just blurt it out like that!”

He grinned which had the affect of putting me at ease. “I decided honesty was the best policy under the circumstances.”

“You said it helped you. How?”

“I’ll answer that if you answer my question first. How curious are you?”

“Very…but,” trying desperately to control my blushing, “I’ve never done anything like this.”

“I thought not. This book helped me to realise I wasn’t the only one with odd…needs and I wasn’t quite the freak I thought myself to be.”

“That’s a pretty big statement to make from reading one book.”

“Well the book lead me to…research, if you like. Much, I think, as you are now.”

“Your ‘research’ it worked out for you?”

“It was what I was looking for without realising it. Look, I have to get going but would very much like to meet again, over coffee or lunch, whatever you are comfortable with and we can discuss this further. Interested?”

“Yes…yes I am.”

He grabs a napkin and scribbles on it and hands it to me. “My number, call me. The ball, to start with, is in your court. A pleasure to meet you Amelie and I look forward to the next.”

“A pleasure to meet you as well Jason and thanks.”

I watch him leave feeling overwhelmed and thrilled at the same time. Who would have thought my experiment could have lead anywhere. Picking up my book and leaving some folded notes to take care of the meal I head home with a delicious anticipation sitting snugly inside me.

Yesterday since I was so distraught over my Pete book I decided that I must get a different book. See I have a love of paper products. Books, Stationary, Magazines!!!! I cannot get enough of these precious paper products. I honestly spent 35.00 on stationary last week, luckily my work has a meter machine so I get free postage!!!  So with the loss of The Books of Albion I sat trying to think of a book to cheer me up. Earlier in the day I had been salivating over the Agent Provocateur website and the hordes of gorgeous amazing lingerie. Realizing that I had put all the books from there on my wish-list ( I have no idea who is going to go about buying my 90.00 underwear but I still made one) I went back to check on the prices. Brilliantly they are very reasonably priced and now am awaiting a book of the best sort. SEX!!!

Erotic books are by far the best to read whilst in public. Whenever someone peers over at what you are reading you feel a thrill that the cover looks so innocent and yet the words are not. The Story of O is the best example of this. The cover is just plain white with black writing and yet inside is filled with all sorts of sexual mischief.

To want to write: what an absurdity. Writing is the decay of the will, just as it is the loss of power, and the fall of the regular fall of the beat, the disaster again.

Not to write: negligence, carelessness do not suffice; the intensity of a desire beyond sovereignty, perhaps–a relation of submersion with the outside, passivity which permits one to keep in the disaster’s fellowship.

He devotes all his energy to not writing, so that, writing, he should write out of failure, in failure’s intensity.

decoding forms/deforming codes was almost called bondage.

finally, a return (one of the four winds of spirit’s absence, breath from nowhere) — to bondage. originally, thru craig, a bondage of form: literary restraint, self-imposed rules-for-writing, systematic text generators, the increasingly popular oulipian spiritus.

&now: i’ve finally new words on bondage, or the beginnings of some writing, as eventually they too must fall to the beat.

the year is 1957. there are many triangles.

an isometric sephiroth of relations:

triangle 1: the image
a: claire
b: anne
c: jean

triangle 2: jealousy
a: A…
b:
c: Franck

triangle 3: marriage
a: jean de berg
b: catherine rstakian
c: alain robbe-grillet

constraint. L. constringere ‘bind tightly together.’
binding, binding, writing on bondage, a bondage of writing

what consititutes a literary constraint? isn’t all writing al-al ways-ready? then, tighter, R-G’s new novel? sans physical presence of narrator near as possible (not very), duct-tape over mouth–never speaking–tho wide-eyed terrified, then, at base, relentlessly, there is the time-honored constraint of the novel–narrative, semantic, temporal, metaphorical, character’d–&on…

but then, furrow, is this really that interesting? another anecdotal trap! another read thru those tired blinds. perhaps another? la maison beckons, the golden triangle is glaring blaring, & there’s djinn, djinn, jean, jeanne, jean…

or OuLiProper? the tactics, pleasure, procedure–not entierly unlike the games of the chateau, the gothic chamber, the castle of communions : : language finally bearing its hand, displaying the roissy ring–always ready for submission to constraints, at the pleasure of the writing, the reading, the text, the…

There can be this point, at least, to writing: to wear out errors. Speaking propagates, disseminates them by fostering belief in some truth.

To read: not to write; to write what one is forbidden to read.
To write: to refuse to write–to write by way of this refusal. So it is that when he is asked for a few words, this alone suffices for a kind of exclusion to be decreed, as though he were obliged to survive, to lend himself to life in order to continue dying.
To write–for lack of the wherewithal to do so.

that’s the first fashion spread i’ve ever done. pretty much soon after i’ve picked up drawing again after a 10 year break or so. it is a humorous and surreal take on PAULINE REAGE’s cult erotic novel THE STORY OF O.

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