Brain on Download Blog

Fins, Feet, and Wings

April 13, 2017 by ABCs Of Kink

Where the hook went in. Blade Right.

There is despair in not being enough. To being unformed or imperfect is fearsome, and it never goes away (though I know the shameful secret is that we all feel this way).

What is the thing I can do which gives me control for a moment?

I am writing now in service to my wild heart — impulses to destroy everything in my path, to sob a trillion tears, to wrestle ’till my death — these feelings overtaken by a simple movement of my fingers on this sticky imperfect plastic keyboard. I am writing from my center to you, who I imagine is also searching… It is the simplest thing I know how to do, so typing is the thing I choose.

I should go out and find a flower. Take a moment and fill my lungs with its perfume. Become the plant, and feed her with my exhale too. Symbiotically balancing, creating calm, and now.

Watch the baby of any creature discover a new thing — the way they react in fear or surprise, smile with trust, calm from food, or just simply take it in all around… At one time every one of us was so small and empty.

I am a mer-creature hooked from the primordial ocean, a rocky shore off of the frigid coast of Maine. I was caught some few decades ago and reeled in. Taken from my home and wiped clean. I learned to play all the games people play, but I long impossibly for the home I’ve forgotten. My bones howl and I can not quiet them, only wait their sounding out. I bloodlust the feeling of frigid ice water cutting the pain in my chest, slowly overtaking through pins and needles until a slightly warm sense of coming hypothermia creeps in, and then nothing… Salt and waves more real than a cradle, is what I crave.

Stories make us who we are.

Who am I? Who do I get to be? If I fail, will I be cast away? Foam on the sea? Doomed to wander, searching endlessly for those who, also erased, somehow recognize me — or is it finding the impossibles who will simply let me be that is my saving strategy? I may not fit any mold, but I hold my pieces together as best I can. Stitched up with fishing line, clear as the water and strong tether against my earthly weight…

Hung on hooks I know who I am.

A meatsack.

Bones and muscles and guts heavy from gravity, trapped inside a stretching skin stubborn enough to hold it all in. I was that mer-creature who traded my tail for legs. Bloody shoes. Due to desire. And today I ask for the pain of wings.

After soaring what next will I withstand, trading comfort for endorphins and sharp unease, all because I wish to truly be?

Play On My Friends,
~ Karin

If you like my blog, please check out my Patreon Page and support me. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist

~Thank you.

Filed Under: Brain on Download Blog Tagged With: bdsm, Coming out, fear, flesh hooks, flying, hanging, identity, masochism, mermaid, pain, Pain Processing, sharps, tension, trust

Talking with Strangers

March 31, 2017 by ABCs Of Kink

I played outside with friends and siblings throughout childhood and early adulthood and still prefer a lake or forest to my computer (though you wouldn’t know it, as I’m glued to this contraption most of the time). The number one rule we got taught was not to talk to strangers. Back then talking to strangers happened face to face, and that stranger could snatch you away, drug you, lure you into a van with candy, or somehow deceive you like the Devil into unholy marriage…

Concerning talking with strangers: Things. Have. Changed.

I have a profile on half a dozen dating or socializing websites these days. They’re all slightly different, and I use each of them for different purposes. Considering my proclivities outlined in this here blog, understand that I don’t always lead whips and needle points out… I consider who my audience is when I write a profile. I consider the type of people who are also attracted to that website, and what my agenda is for each particular space. I think about who on each site I might be compatible with, versus whose agenda or advances I want kept far far away… Is the site “friend” friendly, or am I in violation of expectations if I’m not looking for FWB, NSA, LTRs, anonymous sex, etc.? Is the site kink friendly? How many intolerantly religious or conservative people will hit on me, ignoring the fact that I mentioned my queer, kinky, fluid, non-binary trans, non-monogamous, liberal and socialist as fuck, neo drag and burlesque performing, sex-positive, anti-misogynistic, anti-racist, egalitarian stuff right up front? Is the demographic tweaked older or younger? Is the demographic tweaked along gendered assumptions concerning power dynamics or traditional roles? Do I think any of the people I meet on the site will become close friends, potential dates, research buddies, clients, the list goes on…

I am a character actor. My job in this lifetime has been to watch people and listen to people and figure out what makes them tick. I also am a person (read: creature). An autonomous individual carrying around my own feelings and fears and blind spots and questions and beliefs. But mostly I’m a person who wants to meet you like I climb a tree. I want to see you from across a field and be interested in your form and movements. I want that momentarily piqued interest to slowly become the desire to get closer and investigate. I want approaching you to be anything but disappointing — please don’t be rotten or surrounded by poison ivy… I want to put my hands on you, gingerly at first, and then full palm contact, sliding my arm around a branch, little by little giving you some of my weight. If it feels good and I can figure out how to do it, I want to crawl up your trunk, unpuzzling ways to get higher as we play this game of understanding our bodies together for the first time. When I’ve gotten to a place that feels good I want stillness and fresh air — to lie across your boughs perfectly balanced, only a little afraid that I’ll drop. The climb down will be thoughtful and new too. I won’t always be able to see where I’m going, but our solidly built connection heading up will help. And then a hug and a sigh — until next time I’m around, Tree, it was beautiful being with you.

It’s unfortunate that most people I meet online do not climb trees with any regularity.

There is instead, with these safe-to-talk-to-’cause-online strangers, a blundering certainty that I am existent only to be placed like a bow upon a bough. It is assumed I will stay put until faded, worn, and falling apart, until I am taken down. It seems believed, in these many circles, that tree creatures are to be cut apart or molded into a shape that fits the suburban street they are growing on — even though Tree was a seedling before most houses in this neighborhood came around. I don’t want your candy, your silver tongue’d promises, your vitriol for saying no, Troll. I want respect and solidity. Solidarity.

Every now and then with some sweet strangers I get to be Tree, feeling their creature climbing feelings, and bearing the weight of attention. I get to hold them in a naturally balanced and open place for just a moment before they get down. These are good message days…

How to talk to a stranger whose sense of touch is the plastic smoothness of a keyboard, not the rough and tumble ever changing texture of our barks? You cannot cut and paste the experience of a hiking trip or nighttime skinnydip. When we meet we have not seen it all, we have seen nothing! I like to be a creature meeting Tree, find me in a field or forest playing.

Play On My Friends,
~ Karin

If you like my blog, please check out my Patreon Page and support me. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist

~Thank you.

Filed Under: Brain on Download Blog Tagged With: being out online, climbing trees, coming out kinky, communication, community, computer age, computer dating, don't look into the sun, don't talk to strangers, Fetlife, kink, physical memory, playing outside, polyamory, Power Dynamics, Relationship, sex is natural, sexual orientation, sexuality, tension, trust

Strangers

March 13, 2017 by ABCs Of Kink

Photo by Rachel Leah Blumenthal

I do not know where I am from. Scottish moors, French and Canadian soil, Mohawk territory, mutt lands from vague corners of the world nestled closely together, and sometimes not… Maine. That magical mystical place where whispering bugs and the voices of trees unfold every secret I needed to know growing up. Part California by genetics: one bone is arguing about the primordial taste of stone fruits, and keeps reusable cloth menstrual pads about. I am a Pagan Savant, invoked in childhood as I lay full body draped on top of Earth and long warm grasses in summer. I knew hugeness in my chest, felt private and quiet and giggled softly at the secrets between my fluttering feelings and the soil, heat kissing my back and neck, my first unicorn experience. I am from my Mother, and her Mother before, and Hers, mixed in are men and Others covered up by the lies of papered identity I’ll never really know better than. These Others I come direct line down from too. Mixed in are the stories of Father, which sculpt the sand of my shape into walls, boundaries of flesh for my blood to flow through and around. Rumors abound that connection to this archetypal animation are real, but I don’t believe in Fathers. (Somewhere a game of chess just ended in stalemate. Clapping won’t resuscitate…) It’s like Tug ‘o War ropes knotted at center but far from fairly played, or plastic cups tethered with string, vibrating nonsense for the distance and corners in between. The space between myself and any other body holds a certain tension until it breaks. With no other end reining me in, I begin the bittersweet sad/angry shuffle of moving on.

I don’t know where I am from — all these photographs in boxes, tongues spoken, lullabies remembered, movements copied, and stories conjured in the dark — but I know where I am going. Like the rising of the Sun on a perfect morning, I was created to connect with you; to embrace what you hand over; to hold hope in the form of listening. Each time the magnetic pull of our bodies cement with dilated pupil, curled lips, and quick thoughts tumbling around and over each other, I am the Sun in this room warming your Earth. Our offspring are ideas grown from the heat and intensity of electric arcing ways. One outstretched hand meets prick-painful half startling jolt with another. We both jump, yet it is the overjoying wash of adrenaline from pain that piques interest to begin with. It cannot be denied — though excited lubrication, intrigue, passion, and monstrous desire thrive, there too lies sadomasochistic thrill — the realistic expectation not forever to hang about. We will create voraciously for a time and then divide. Each divorce a different story; riding similar emotional lines. I’ve grown studied on the path of infliction and healing, licking wounds through armor impenetrable, finding power within failure time and time again.

You see, only in opposition do I find myself at all; where I am.

Staring at the fairy tale mirror of forever, two-dimensional and far less physical than my three-dimensional navigations could ever have been. Standing on my side of things, I am still alive. In me, Sun-grown weeds overtake sculpted trajectory. My feral wilds, thorns protecting sweeter berries, articulated assassination of the norm darkening me within, all this in service to my perfectly natural instincts cultivated from anywhere-nowhere-everywhere: I am flesh and blood, sticky and not like. What impotent words have you for the wholeness that I am — estranged, stranger, strange.

Play On My Friends,
~ Karin

If you like my blog, please check out my Patreon Page and support me. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist

~Thank you.

Filed Under: Brain on Download Blog Tagged With: autonomy, bdsm, communication, Consent, daddy issues, finding self, gender queer, kink, masochism, pagan, Pain Processing, Performance Art, Power Dynamics, Relationship, sexuality, stranger, sun worship, tension, trust, unicorn

Fins, Feet, and Wings

Talking with Strangers

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