and now for obscure sci fi movie cheese:
the spice extends life
the spice expands consciousness
the spice is vital to space travel
the spice must flow
bitches.
------inspired by Xip's essay------
i think i started because i was so drained of emotion and felt like i still had something dangerous, something poison in me which needed extraction.
i continued because i liked the scabs.
because i was cold and drunk and boring...somehow razors and pain and oozing made me interesting to myself. human, intricate and mortal.
because, later, i hated everything i'd become, the place where i'd looked up from having my dick to the grindstone and realized i'd worked for all the wrong reasons toward an ill-defined goal, one which wasn't in the least valuable to me and even less to anyone else.
because someone liked to watch me do it, looked on with barely contained lust in her eyes as i drew lines in myself with commonplace, cast-off metal.
lusty, damaging, mortal, carnal, steeped in pain-mixed gratification, it became somehow analogous to sex, though more a sort of masturbation and foreplay rather than something done to or in concert with another.
~~~~~~~~--a bit of burgeoning, fictional prose in the same vein. pun intended. ~~~~~~~~~
I remember her vividly, her small gasps of lust from across the room, too frightened to intervene, too far gone in wine and blue poison smoke to think beyond the greater implications of what she was encouraging me, with her silent pleading, to do. I remember the lingering taste of the wine, cheap like the knife smoothly sliding in the skin of my shoulder--across the inside of her skull and down between her thighs. As I bled by my own hand, she bled, grinding, by hers. I could smell her moans and glazed expression from where Id used my voice to nail her to the wall opposite from where I sat cutting, bleeding. Hanging desolate loneliness above her cringing head, shed do anything I merely thought would please or degrade me. I was, after all, pursuing through this some sort of assertion, some affirmation that I indeed still lived within this pretty corpse of hollow, grey nothing.
A barely breathed a word from my lips and shed come swaying, dreaming in the damp light of drunkenness to kneel before me; breasts and breath and virgin skin, a pliant ghost of a girl. Her lust, her approval, her delicate fingers tracing, in my blood, red swirls of adorationthis was life. In this perfectly balanced moment of give and take, she in submission and me bleeding over her lips and into her parasite soulwe found together something we both needed and lacked individually. We completed each other in this malign circle of trading pain for validation.
Different reds, different shades, it seldom ceased to excite me, to bring welling up in me something beautiful, bestial and tragic; something full of barely contained confused hysteria. It was a manifestation, a new bit of evidence screaming in blood and pain, affirming life despite this seeming certainty of mine to the contrary.
In her eyes, I bound myself to her as surely as if Id squeezed my desolate life into her with fervent embraces of love. She knew, I think, how false it was... but didnt care.
-pb
book: carrie's game
music: joy division
the spice extends life
the spice expands consciousness
the spice is vital to space travel
the spice must flow
bitches.
------inspired by Xip's essay------
i think i started because i was so drained of emotion and felt like i still had something dangerous, something poison in me which needed extraction.
i continued because i liked the scabs.
because i was cold and drunk and boring...somehow razors and pain and oozing made me interesting to myself. human, intricate and mortal.
because, later, i hated everything i'd become, the place where i'd looked up from having my dick to the grindstone and realized i'd worked for all the wrong reasons toward an ill-defined goal, one which wasn't in the least valuable to me and even less to anyone else.
because someone liked to watch me do it, looked on with barely contained lust in her eyes as i drew lines in myself with commonplace, cast-off metal.
lusty, damaging, mortal, carnal, steeped in pain-mixed gratification, it became somehow analogous to sex, though more a sort of masturbation and foreplay rather than something done to or in concert with another.
~~~~~~~~--a bit of burgeoning, fictional prose in the same vein. pun intended. ~~~~~~~~~
I remember her vividly, her small gasps of lust from across the room, too frightened to intervene, too far gone in wine and blue poison smoke to think beyond the greater implications of what she was encouraging me, with her silent pleading, to do. I remember the lingering taste of the wine, cheap like the knife smoothly sliding in the skin of my shoulder--across the inside of her skull and down between her thighs. As I bled by my own hand, she bled, grinding, by hers. I could smell her moans and glazed expression from where Id used my voice to nail her to the wall opposite from where I sat cutting, bleeding. Hanging desolate loneliness above her cringing head, shed do anything I merely thought would please or degrade me. I was, after all, pursuing through this some sort of assertion, some affirmation that I indeed still lived within this pretty corpse of hollow, grey nothing.
A barely breathed a word from my lips and shed come swaying, dreaming in the damp light of drunkenness to kneel before me; breasts and breath and virgin skin, a pliant ghost of a girl. Her lust, her approval, her delicate fingers tracing, in my blood, red swirls of adorationthis was life. In this perfectly balanced moment of give and take, she in submission and me bleeding over her lips and into her parasite soulwe found together something we both needed and lacked individually. We completed each other in this malign circle of trading pain for validation.
Different reds, different shades, it seldom ceased to excite me, to bring welling up in me something beautiful, bestial and tragic; something full of barely contained confused hysteria. It was a manifestation, a new bit of evidence screaming in blood and pain, affirming life despite this seeming certainty of mine to the contrary.
In her eyes, I bound myself to her as surely as if Id squeezed my desolate life into her with fervent embraces of love. She knew, I think, how false it was... but didnt care.
-pb
book: carrie's game
music: joy division
but I don't take the kinds of chances on a motorcycle that I do on a nonmotored bike. I understand what's at stake.
I push it every once in a while, but the thing with a motorcycle is...the speed...you have to crash into something or WANT to throw the bike over for it to go. they are designed to hold themselves up at speed and most have a good amount of leaway. if you learn and ride like you don't necesserily want to die...you should be fine.
I don't know about LA. the traffic is insane there. but it's also got good weather for all year riding and lane splitting is legal in CA, so traffic jams on the freeway won't have to get you down.
after I learned to ride I spent a couple weeks only on surface streets, not even major thouroughfares...just side streets. then a couple weeks more on the bigger streets before I got on the highway. and the thing is...other drivers aside...the highway is the safest place to ride.
I say give it a shot. if you take the MSF class you'll walk away with enough saddle time to decide if you really want to pursue it or not.