Romance and Sensuality

To be romantic is to blind yourself.
To be sensual is to touch yourself.
To be blind is the only way to be happy.
To be touched is the only way to feel.

Some of you may dissent with the way I plan to twist these words to suit my purposes. Too bad.

Sensual is more raw, more about arousal and bliss. Romance is about the other person. Romance, as commonly understood, is about trying to make your entire existence together like a dream or a poem, or a cloud. Sensual is about wringing pleasure from whatever your existence throws at you. Romance has little to do with sex when it comes to it (and although sex can be involved, it is never as satisfying as the sensual, because sensual is the expert in those matters).

Romance is either an innocence or a lie. You cannot be romantic unless your heart is unspoiled, you can only fake it.
Sensual cannot be ignorant. You cannot be sensual unless something in you is aware, has been awakened, although some people have been known to possess a pre-awakening spark. These people are usually quickly awakened by the nearest bidder.

Romance is candlelight or sunlight. Sensual is pitch black and soaked. Romance is a feather. Sensual is a red scratch blossoming down your chest, across your stomach.

And I read this somewhere. Paraphrased:
Romance is your eyes meeting across a crowded room.
Sensuality is your tongues meeting across a crowded room.

Sorry this isn't longer. You know it very well could be. It was the best I could muster up under the circumstances.

Joe.

Such A Numb Word

I screamed in silence under stained eyes today.

He hit her again as she fell.

I think we covered everything...

We must have covered everything...

Elevator Entertainment

This was sent a while back by someone who knew me well. Snicker. The biggest mall in the city is a five minute walk away, and I have practiced a number of these in their glass backed elevators, while friends watched on the bottom floor. Some of you will be able to picture it.

Joe.


24 Fun Things To Do In An Elevator...

1. Grimace painfully while smacking your forehead and muttering: "Shut up, dammit, all of you just shut UP!"

2. Whistle the first seven notes of "It's a Small World" incessantly.

3. Crack open your briefcase or purse, and while peering inside ask: "Got enough air in there?" (This was hard to pronounce in Spanish, but worked well.)

4. Offer name tags to everyone getting on the elevator. Wear yours upside-down.

5. Stand silent and motionless in the corner, facing the wall, without getting off. (This was fun.)

6. When arriving at your floor, grunt and strain to yank the doors open, then act embarrassed when they open by themselves. (This I don't think people understood.)

7. Greet everyone getting on the elevator with a warm handshake and ask them to call you Admiral.

8. On the highest floor, hold the door open and demand that it stay open until you hear the penny you dropped down the shaft go "plink" at the bottom.

9. Stare, grinning, at another passenger for a while, and then announce: "I've got new socks on!"

10. When at least 8 people have boarded, moan from the back: "Oh, no, not now, damn motion sickness!"

11. Meow occasionally. (This one I really couldn't keep from laughing, so it looked dumb.)

12. Holler "Chutes away!" whenever the elevator descends.

13. Walk on with a cooler that says "human head" on the side.

14. Stare at another passenger for a while, then announce "You're one of THEM!" and move to the far corner of the elevator.

15. Wear a puppet on your hand and talk to other passengers "through" it.

16. When the elevator is silent, look around and ask "is that your beeper?"

17. Say "Ding!" at each floor.

18. Say "I wonder what all these do" and push the red buttons. (This one Ben wouldn't let me do.)

19. Listen to the elevator walls with a stethoscope.

20. Draw a little square on the floor with chalk and announce to the other passengers that this is your "personal space."

21. Announce in a demonic voice: "I must find a more suitable host body."

22. Make explosion noises when anyone presses a button.

23. Wear "X-Ray Specs" and leer suggestively at other passengers.

24. Stop at every floor, run off the elevator, then run back on.

Did Anyone Ask For Your Opinion?

To the disgruntled ex-paradigm.
There are two sides to your jaded, rusting coin. Both are scarred. I do not see a single way you could be justified for the response you and your supercillious friends initiated.
For the record, I have no obligations to take down the image. I am breaking no laws, and no moral code. I am speaking nothing but glowing admiration for what I chose your self-expression to represent. It isn't about you. Your depiction was an icon, a perfect symbol of the freedom I was illustrating, the freedom to want, and broadcast it.
I took it down not out of dignity, as was suggested. Dignity would demand leaving it up.
Not out of politeness. No rudeness was committed in showcasing you as a best example.
Not because you lied about emailing me to take it down. You had not. Up until you spoke I had nothing but rude threats from your blindly frustrated, parochial so called "friends" (something that no one, not even yourself, responds well to).
Not out of kindness to your request. That would also have been a good reason--one human rising beyond the other's stinging slaps and unsheathed claws when he does her a good turn, only to do her another one. Nobility would have sufficed... but I had a better reason.
I took it down because I was wrong about you.
My vision was and still is about abandonment. About wanting, and not being afraid to show the whole world that you are a vulnerable human creature who has voids. You are, you know. And trying to cover that, with whatever pretense (exclusivity, should/shouldn't, environment, minors, attention), is simply hypocritical, but more than anything, sad, because of your potential.
I took it down because I do not want a symbol who will stake the wind on a crusade for delusioned, untouchable purity. With staunch Pharasaical apologists in her tow who will get so riled about what is scopically such a tiny thing that they will post language and threats beside their grimacing faces, and beat me over the head with blindfolded "should" demands and violent intimidations, neither of which mean a thing to me.
It is what is wrong with humankind in this generation. That we can't let down our brick walls for a second to get close to someone else, or to overlook mistakes. Your reticence, I do not have a problem with. That is your liability, and none of my business. But maybe you didn't know that assuming the worst was a crime? It is what starts wars, mutilates children, kills foetus'.
I have chosen another poster girl for Desire. One that fits the bill. This woman deserves adulation, she is as wildfire as they come. Round of applause for Clare, you know I love you girl.

Joe.

PS
Thank you, Hobbs, for your offer but if I take you up on it, it will be to stamp the smothering opposition to my utopia with the image of your pencils and her facade.

Tipsy.

I did the strangest thing last night.
I am writing a part for a novel that involves a character being tipsy, written in the first person. In order to get a realistic feel to it I saved up my alcohol money for two weeks and invested in a bottle of Sherry at WalMart. And as I penned, 'He popped the lid off and sipped from the rim,' I took my first swallow.
Then I didn't stop.
Normally I stop. My body was giving off all the warning signals, but I needed the realism. So as he stumbled his way through the chapter with a drink in one hand, I did the same. The keyboard and the bed I was on kept moving and fading, and everything was suddenly funny. I propped myself up to see how he would walk across the room (I made it across). I meandered around in the hallways to see how things would look to me. And I wrote what came into my head. He took the paths that I would have taken, that seemed appropriate to my direction-less state. The chapter closed, then I collapsed.
I lay on my covers with no will to either sleep or arise, my eyelashes turned to mortal weapons against my cheeks. The slightest breeze felt like a tornado, and yet the actual tornados felt like wisps.
I don't remember details of what else happened. I somehow managed to do the dinner dishes I was on. A friend of mine called, was delighted to have caught me with the trousers of my logic fully down, and I remember talking for a very very long time. I ate ham sandwiches that tasted like rotting avocado, and I guzzled all the cold water in the fridge because I knew I was supposed to. I think I showered. I think I walked around naked for a bit. I do not know what time this was, just that the house was black and that I was surprised not to have fallen.
I have yet to see what it was I wrote in that chapter. I am hoping it was worth the head/stomach cataclysms. I'll keep you posted.


Joe.

PS
I'll be staying the next week with Gobbledygook, Faire Un Nom, and Sparticus. If there was any time you wanted revenge on half the Family blogger committee, drop us a line (a bulky package wrapped in brown paper packaging and twine), and you'll have it.