Telly from Sesame Street

Telly from Sesame Street, remember? Most people don’t. He was the purple monster (I think I learned in later years — our tv was black and white) who worried all the time. He walked around like a muttering animated fur covered ulcer feeling awful, guilty, and worried about e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. He was constantly being talked down from ledges and explained to that everything was going to be ok.

Telly was my favorite, even though I hated his scenes.

I really felt him. I understood those overpowering huge feelings — unquenchable terribleness concerning anything and everything — in my little two and a half foot tall body. On the inside I was more often than not like Telly as a kid. I don’t think I’ve outgrown him, but the Telly inside me and I are better friends than we used to be.

Inside me there are settings that look very black and white. Yet I don’t believe in such dichotomies. The dimmer switch doesn’t work that well, it jumps around turning the lights on and off jarringly. Life is complex and even though we are constantly trying to hold on to some sort of “truth” to keep the fear of hopelessness and meaninglessness at bay, we are also lunging forward every day with mistakes and experiments. Our animal selves are reaching out to connect with one another in the most meaningful and inappropriate ways, and our brains are making rational decisions irrationally based off a chart of “acceptable ethics” we didn’t each actually internally create.

When I’m emotionally strong and feeling well I celebrate my feral deeds with hedonistic campfires and the barbaric yawp of an animal in heat, victorious in my fuckall war against repression — crystal clear about the effigy burnt up made of shame. When I am low, depressed, shaky, or weak inside, out come the tears and quivers, begging forgiveness for what I have done, thought, or risked, infected with remorse and self loathing at my counter-understanding of the the world, different from what I’ve been taught… Fear bleeds and creeps under my skin and I lie awake terrorized at who I might be: in fact who I am. What I’ve done for the freedom of my soul and the pleasure of my skin, I wring hands over moments later awash in guilt and shame. The concept that I should ever become an anybody terrifies me when I realize I might be crushed under the weight of facing this monster publicly who is me…

Neither of these, of course, represents truth. My mind ravages my body, my body in turn continually finds time to overpower my mind. Each of these moments an ultimatum for my heart, poor beatup civilian in the middle, to take sides. My stomach seethes and rebels, trying to shut the whole system down, while my head chatters incessantly allowing me no repair and no rest, so my heart (Maria or Gordan in this story), searches for the answer to this chaos, the understanding which will bring meaning to each of these feelings, mellowing out to find the line I can live with somewhere in between. Inside there are many wars being raged every day.

Why, even as a young child, did I perseverate so deeply, disquietly questioning the very basic impetus to remain tethered within my own skin? Why such intense and early connection to guilt and shame. I had (have) a ton of it.

When I found out about the concept of reincarnation I was appalled and depressed for days. I worried that there was any truth to it because “WHO THE FUCK WANTS TO DO THIS AGAIN?!?!?!!!!” I was staunchly aware that I didn’t. Life was not weight which should be borne again and again, one time was enough! Maybe even too much. To imagine rediscovering all the pain that emotions bring, again and again, even once, seemed too much for my young mind. Later on in High School I read Camus and learned his theory of the “Theater of the Absurd”: nothing was, nor ever will be again, this window of living is but an absurd moment in chaos. Theater. I was finally pacified, satisfied, and hopeful about my eventual nothingness.

I’ve gotten older though and I want to travel the world outside of storybooks, and I doubt I’ll be able to see as much as I desire. I probably won’t build that house with my own hands. I don’t think I’ll have children. There is a growing list of professions and experiences I’d like to have which I never shall wrap my hands around, a list of mouths I’ll never kiss, stages I’ll never touch, levels of ecstasy I’ll never reach, plateaus of peace I’ll never find…

In this life I’m living I’ve repeatedly made mistakes, gone too far, felt remorse, cut myself off, pushed boundaries I felt were important to push, trusted my instincts, fallen on my face, picked myself back up better skilled, and championed the challenge. I am teasing free this ball of twisty knotted line and it is chaos theory, way way bigger than only me. The older I get the more easily I recognize the cycle of it all too. I can, from further and further distances away, observe my moments of burning high flight before the fall. I recognize myself bottoming out. I know I am not in truthful territory during these highs and lows. But there’s Art there. Struggle is integral to seeing complexity and finding undiscovered degrees of perspective. I connect with ideas that are beyond me, larger than the sum of of my experiences, feelings I could not follow were I not here now in the middle of the up and down agony of… whatever it is I’m flying and crashing about right now.

The up and down agony of reality. Nothing about our lives is ultimately controllable, yet without our struggle to organize, life is not energetically sustainable.

So I come to my theory of perfect tension. The meaning of life is, I think, to find proper tension. Adjusting constantly, tendrils snaking out to each body one is connected to, keeping time with the cyclical humming we are all a part of/immersed in. Now tighter, now loosening up, now hold it firmly and breathe, breathe together, let go slowly, don’t fall if you can help it… We’re balancing in our separate corners with the million lines to one another continually supporting and threatening each other as we go. I am feral. I want to be loved. I am perverse and sexual. I want no shame within my vulnerability. I must trust. There are walls. No one will catch me but me. Autonomy. Interconnectedness. It is a mess to be born of atoms, and a challenging blessed practice to be.

Does it matter that I cheated on my vocab test in second grade? I was a wreck for weeks. I didn’t tell anyone until now. Really. The shame of being a disappointment to my parents. Whispered promises to a god I don’t believe in begging for some peace from this feeling of inner decay. I begged to that anonymous bigger thing in high school too, worried so deeply, hoping I’d start to bleed. I find myself there in adulthood about saying the wrong words to people I love, or afraid I’ll have a heart attack from eating the wrong recreational thing, or when worried I’ll find myself exploited for my mistakes which might look like tresspasses to the people not inside me… Of course I do better on my strong days, a purring lion-faerie riding dandelion seeds on the wind. On those days nothing can harm me, for I believe above all in my reasons for doing what I have done, in my own intentions and decisive jumps. Still, moments, weeks, years, decades later I can locate each rotted gut feeling, tendril upon tendril of tension wracked with guilt and disharmony carried alongside me still, worried I did the wrong thing. It is a messy gaping bag of cancer I haven’t figured out how yet to set free.

This is the struggle of humanity. Born alone, dying alone, with all of these others that we feel around us — so deeply, so tenderly, so savagely, so cuttingly, so movingly (for better and worse) — in between.

I’ve been told more than once that I’m a path cutter, wielding my machete and hacking into wilderness, looking for the more that there is. Covered in scrapes and bruises, falls, twisted ankles, yet also sitting in wonder at the solitude and beauty I find when the moon is just right and the animals and insects around breathe with me.

I make mistakes, I’ll never stop. I try things I’ve been told not to and creep toward being a better more understanding animal. I stand up for my beliefs and hold a tense line when I must in the face of judgemental reproach. And I am weary some days. I am wrong now and again. I get crazy ideas and start racing head down into the unknown future: danger be damned! This is ultimately all I know how to do, and yes, I know it ain’t pretty… But when I stop and listen: “Human child” I hear my heart say, “there is no other way it is possible to be”.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

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~Thank you.

We Make Mistakes

Todays blog is brought to you by adults not jumping into drama when something goes wrong, but talking things out instead. It takes courage to admit you’ve made a mistake. Yet everyone makes them and has to learn to face them when they occur. I made one recently, and while they never feel good to deal with, it’s important to figure out what to do rather than kneejerk react. Throughout my life I’ve found that facing my fear of being in trouble is a more helpful coping mechanism than running away. Respect is an important part of being in community, and though not everyone will be friendly or happy together always — or even like each other fundamentally — I think how we choose to connect with one another matters on a larger scale. It certainly helps alleviate stress over time.

Recently I was at a BDSM play party, and I spent a little time chatting with a submissive person who I had met at a prior event. We were talking about a particular pain toy I enjoy using, and he seemed interested in seeing how it worked. I brought it to him and we moved fairly organically from a quick demo of the toy, to having a lot of fun together, and a pretty solid scene developed between us. What I did not know in this equation was that this particular person was the property of another partygoer. Mid play he mentioned I shouldn’t mark a certain part of his body. I stopped cold. It is a pretty big faux pas to play with someone else’s property without asking first. It’s something I care a lot about respecting, as I would never intentionally cross someone else’s play boundaries. I asked this sub if I should be asking someone for permission to play with him, and his expression immediately turned sheepish. I was informed that yes, he was in fact there with a Mistress…

I felt awful. I didn’t know his Mistress, I had just met her that day, and the last thing I wanted to do was approach her and tell her I had played with her toy without asking. I could have gotten angry and made a scene about it. I could have stopped playing with the sub and not addressed his Mistress, hoping she wouldn’t find out. I could have thought, “whatever, we’ve gone this far already, he’ll sort it out on his own with her later,” and continued to play. I could address the matter with his Mistress then and there and hope for the best. This last scenario is the one I chose. I scolded the sub for putting me in a very uncomfortable position (and I chided myself for not thinking to proactively ask). I told him to follow me as I made my way into the dungeon to seek out his owner. When I found her, I asked if I could play with her sub. She said that I could, and I informed her I had already started to, and that I hadn’t realized I needed to ask her permission first, and I apologized. She seemed a little taken aback, but after a moment looked at me and said, “thanks for letting me know”. She then went about her business, and the sub and I went about ours. He apologized to me for not letting me know sooner, and took responsibility for not saying anything early on. After sufficient acknowledgement of our feelings about the situation, we continued our scene and continued to have a great evening. Fortunately, I don’t feel my relationship with him or his Mistress was compromised. I would definitely have worried about that if she’d found strange marks on him later without my apology attached to them.

Scenarios like this one are tricky, and happen frequently. I’ve noticed similar conflicts within polyamorous and BDSM circles, and (actually pretty frequently) monogamous people who cheat rather than examine their non-monogamous impulses. People lie. People don’t tell the whole truth. People manipulate situations and other’s perspectives through lies of omission to get what they want. People get caught up in unexpected moments of desire and feel all kinds of feelings when they realize they’ve violated agreements or relationship boundaries with their actions. Life is not as clean cut as most humans would like it to be. I think it’s admirable to face the mess and try to help reality function more smoothly.

I live for my relationships and ties to people I care about. It matters to me that I face my mistakes when I know I’ve stepped in something I shouldn’t have. I’ve been lied to and cheated on multiple times in my relationships, and I don’t want to cause the hurt and mistrust in people that I’ve been made to process myself. Am I perfect? Hell no, I am not. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life and I’m sure my score won’t ever be a perfect one. I do try and face the things I know I’ve fucked up about though. At the end of the day I’ve found it’s brought me closer with many people and cut a lot of drama out of my field of vision.

It’s normal to feel fear and not know what to do or freeze up, and it’s human to be graceless, or not understand the consequences of our actions. It’s impossible to know everything the people around us think we should know, but I also think it’s important to care about doing better. It’s important to cultivate fortitude and resilience and learn from our mistakes. Not everything in life is about “getting it right”, but growing and learning and becoming bigger than we already are is one of the things we get to keep working on. Reaping the rewards which living a vibrant and nontraditional life can bring you does require sacrifice: courage against the pain of fear.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

Please support my work on Patreon. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist 
~Thank you.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell


New musk.

Accustomed to something less or more or sweeter or heavy…  This and that tossed around and I’m blind to the meaning of you in my life.  The feeling is grey fog and sweet quiet wondering.  Want grafted painfully to restraint.  I’m willing not to know, but still struggle behind my eyes, wiggle in my seat, calm the urge to spring towards your body, a rabid animal.  You watch my watching and take it personally a little bit.  Uncomfortable shifting around.  My mind wanders to things that entertain…

I want to taste the shape of your smell, round and spicy, red wine dripping down my esophagus staining the space behind my breastbone, and wetting everything on the way to center.

I am sense-drunk.  These moments are relaxing and relaxing is something I don’t trust.  But I’m resolved; I won’t wrestle you.  I want to bask.  Slip your skin over mine like bike leathers for warmth. safety. pleasure.  Your value in skins: Connection.

Hair prickling, cunt throbbing, gut satisfying, emotion stoking, heat generating, connection…

And sitting with myself is the prize at the end of the day.

And it is the pain of umbilical cord sliced through.

Connection.  Together.  Alone.


I was briefly involved with someone once who was in a “don’t ask, don’t tell” relationship.  Normally this type of thing doesn’t fly with me, I’m the type who wants to meet your primary partner and maybe even other partners before jumping into bed or complicated emotional unfoldings.  But this situation was different…  When we met there was an instant connection and my playmate told me the story of his very long term relationship, and how they had come to decide that a don’t ask don’t tell arrangement was best for everyone involved.  I trusted the story and connected with this person over a period of a few months sporadically.

It was fun for a while.  But over time it grew sour, on my end mostly I believe.  Thing is, I think that because this person didn’t really practice open communication at home, there was no precedent for open communication to be a part of any relationship they were having…  And it turns out that doesn’t work for me.

Time passed and we fell off with one another.  I still appreciate the time we had together while it was good, but my lesson is learned in this arena:  I want people practiced in the art of negotiation and communication in my bed (and shower and hotel floor).  We have a longer shelf life and it’s filled with more variety, less angst, and though we’re always autonomous people choosing one another at the end of the day, I like to know that my choices can tell me all of what’s on their minds.  I want to know these things because they value me, and because they value the telling.

To Breath and Being,
~ Karin

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~Thank you.


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