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chifreak's Journal  Perched on the steps inside the flat iron building, waiting by the studio door third flight of beautiful wrought iron and stone going up to the fourth. All kinds of good sounds here, the old gated elevator, train outside and North Ave. traffic from someone's open studio window, the plumbing i know so well on a subterranean level. Waiting to here him like waiting for the needles to touch me, exquisite. Thanking him for making me wait a little longer. Public contempt for my monday morning little black dress and horror show make up a fortifying vitamin, his smile of greeting a tonic to wash down the hate. Sweet sweet sweet bittersweet when he tells me i look good to him today and i crawl across the studio's hardwood floor. My mouth felt like a womb. Swallow life and your smile, love it when you make noise, groaning through clenched teeth, your hands trying so hard to get a grip in my hair too short to pull. The first thing you mumble is something about how i could teach a class on how to do it and i know, in this one small corner of our lives, i am just as irreplaceable to you as you are to me. Knowing makes giving up my freedom and getting on the bus and going home much easier. Current music: nighthawks at the diner. Just You be my everything, and then gone. That's so good. Funny how all the little things stay the same. i'm still wondering, will you hear the storm when it rains tonight, or will you be safe and disconnected underground, leaving me alone with the thunder? Could never forget how sweet it is, when i win and coax real brutality from your artist hands. Baby You're the one thing the one thing the one thing i really am crazy 'bout not having starving my hunger for you really does it for me The pain is so good, the emptiness so sweet; everytime i put something in my mouth and it's not you. It's the simplest thing in the world Hope it's a long long time, i get to be your backstreet girl For a long time, which felt like my whole life but turned out not to be, I was pretty good at taking it. Didn't matter what it was, a hard fuck, a hard beating, a hard drug, a hard day, or two or even three without anything to eat, i could take it hard and taking it and getting ready to take it and remembering it made me happy. Shouldn't say it didn't matter what it was, of course there's a world of difference between being beaten by someone who loves you and going hungry because there's not enough money for bussfare to work and cigarettes *and* food, or because you hate yourself and the world too much to eat that day. There is a river of difference running from one end of suffering to the other; from suffering for transcendence, joy, pride, even just the peace and comfort of ritual to suffering for misery, hate, addiction, (a powerful piece of truth is that it's all addiction). But the conditions were never the point, taking it was, and I could take it hard. Not perfect of course, not limitless, everyone who's ever been alive has been broken, but close enough that i could say it when i needed to and believe myself. My instincts say that it's not the changes in conditions that have taken all the satisfaction out of the equation. I can take frustration or anger or hate towards my mother and swallow it and keep it from doing any internal damage, i can do the same with frustration with my child and hopelessness with the situation we're in. I can take it, poverty and going without the things i'm addicted to and nightmares when i nap with my baby in the afternoon, i can take it maybe even better than before, but there's no satisfaction in it, the end of every day just feels like an ending, nothing survived or acomplished that will make me stronger or even confirm that i'm alive and all the bad things need me around to consume them. My baby girl has outgrown her tiger shoes. When i miss you i smoke your brand of cigarettes to remember the wind of your breathe on my skin and the slow turning of the ceiling fans. History can never be truth, not completely, but the story you told on my body one of incomparable beauty. Waking up my womb an unforeseen benefit of the knowledge, hunger and fears we shared. The timeless security of underground places my most treasured memories. Paint, write, work, breathe, know you are present under my skin. i've been wanting to begin writing to you for so very long, ever since i found out i was pregnant, now you're a year and six days old and saying there's never enough time is no excuse at all. Someday soon i'll start for real, with a pen, the way it should be, and i'll start from the begining and tell you everything, every single thing. For the first year of your life (and who knows how much longer, at this point the future is unthinkable for me) you've slept on a couch with me every night, never in your crib. My mother's couch, Joy's couch, Tony and Mary's a few times when you were very little. Being able to sleep anywhere is a valuable skill i posess and am happy to teach you, on the other hand, i feel sad and sorry that you've spent the first year of your life on other people's couches and i wish more than anything that i could give you a home and a bed of our very own, it's what i dream about every night when we lie down to go to sleep. It's been a year and a half, really? Yeah- i can believe that, feels like a really long time ago. Feel rusty and out of practice at writing here, or writing at all, but truth writing especially. i want to get back to it, though, there's so much that's worthwhile to record and remember now. My daughter is almost seven months old and she is wonderful company and a fascinating person. It's so cool to see what she likes and what she doesn't, what makes her laugh. We're pretty damn attached to eachother, that's for sure. Her taste in music is really nifty. She doesn't like the Bosstones, Dropkick Murphy's or Bouncing Souls. Her favorites stuff seems to be first wave ska, the Replacements, The Clash, Johnny Cash, and all kinds of hardcore. She loves both Rancid and Op Ivy, they make her kick her feet and scream to be stood up so she can dance, she likes choking victim, virus nine, sick of it all, T.S.O.L., agnostic front, kill your idols and anti-flag. We do alot of bouncing around the house. She loves bus rides and train rides- this is how i *know* she's mine. :) Caty is wild about peas, green beans, spinich, and prunes. The yellow and orange veggies are okay but not really thrilling, and any fruit is acceptable, but it's the green veggies that turn her on. It's a beautiful day, i think when she wakes up from napland we'll take a walk to the park and maybe even try out the baby swings, we've been checking them out on walks at different playgrounds for the last month or so- today might be the day we go for it- the high today is 63 degrees- amazing, spring, finally! Current mood: awake. Never allow fear to make your decisions for you. I've neglected this journal for over four months now. I stopped writing because i was afraid of who might be reading it, that it would get me into trouble i didn't need. Yes, i could have worried about that in the first place, but until recently i didn't care, took enough pride in the life i was living that it didn't matter to me what bullshit might come back from the truth i typed. Then Dwayne walked into the tattoo shop, and in a matter of days, my world changed. I wanted despretly to have a chance, to be free, to live a different life. I changed, my life changed, I fell in love with Dwayne and made the decisions and choices necessary to be his mate. I stopped fucking around, i stopped messing with Bob, i gave up on a lot of things i had previously devoted my existence to, like submission, the act of being there, throwing myself out into the street for the sake of the night itself, and anyone who might need me. That's the simple version, the truth of it, the truth of the bones and the blood, is a lot more complicated, of course. For my own sake, i'll try to summerize... At some point shortly before I met Dwayne, I began to realize that Submission wasn't inside inside me in the way that it had always been, that it was a conscious and laborious choice to bring myself down to that state, that it required drugs to do so, that killing off pieces of myself was no longer a natural state, that sacrifice for it's own sake wasn't a spiritual act of enlightenment, it was just a habit, a place to hide. Going to California and spending time with Melissa confirmed that for me in a way that nothing else could, and i'm grateful to her for that. i feel that i may have acted dishonorably towards her and our relationship, but when something that powerful dies, what are you supposed to do with it? So I've stayed above ground, survived four months without submission, without pain, without the self affirmation I get from the curious combination of humiliation and pride that is being that slut for them, for all of my world. There are many ways to get strong, many ways to empower yourself for survival, sex was the only one I thought I had any right to claim, but I think differently now. For the first time in fifteen years, having sex really is an act of love, and i share more than my body with him. For the first time, I can see myself as more than the sum of what I have to offer, I can see myself outside the context of submission and sacrifice. For the first time in my life, i believe the debt has been paid. He doesn't see any of that in me, and strangely, that makes me happy. It doesn't bother me that he has no real understanding or appreciation of the sacred whore, my aspect, the God Jezebel or her power. He sees me in the present, only, who I am with him and living this new idea of individual life, for it's own sake. I can't say that he doesn't have a natural ammount of male fear, jealousy and contempt for my past, but he accepts it in a way that to me, makes up for any lack of understanding. There is no guilt, there is no hatred, he simply accepts who I've been, and accepts responsibility for loving me, and what that brings him. He is the strongest and most honorable person I've ever met, of course I fell in love with him. I've said many times that we deserve each other, and it's so true. We have so much to learn from each other and to give each other, and some of it is intensely painful, but always worth it. i know that we have both grown a great deal and stepped outside our boxes in order to love each other, and I find so much that is worthwhile in the process. //Maybe, if i make it home tonight, not to get torn apart or caught up in a fist fight// Another week, another skinhead. This is a very dangerous game i'm playing. i'm not sure how that's all gonna go, eventually i'm going to have to face the music. Friday, actually, the day after tomorrow. Nervous, because i know that i'm not playing by their rules, that it could get ugly, but not ashamed enough to stay home. Not ashamed at all. i like Dwayne, and it costs me nothing to welcome him home to us. Or, it shouldn't. As long as the rest of the boys can be reasonable. i'm not used to playing these sexual politics games, i just do what i do and don't care, take pride in any shit that gets talked about me, but this is a little bit different, not something i can predict or control. i tell myself it's not worth worrying about, whatever, i'll flow with it. i'm smart enough not to go to jail, even if he's not, or at least, i should be, by this time, and anything less than that is just people yapping their mouths. Taking a risk like this, right before Melissa gets here, it seems really stupid and i have to ask myself why the fuck i'm doing this- any of them, why i'm going to the show when i *know* there's going to be massive amounts of bullshit, that i may or may not be directly involved in. it's not something i really *want* to do, i don't care about any of it, i don't even like the band. If i had any sense i'd stay home. Maybe, maybe i will... Because it just occured to me that this is probably just that insidious, mysterious self destructive bloodflow that moves me when i'm not looking. Sneaky, it is, the way it distracts with drugs and hunger, only to fuck me up with sex instead Dum Dum girl. This punk rock public utility fucking i do- it's a stupid habit. Waste of my time. Not much self respect this morning, but i'll drag my ass to work and maybe talk Zen into going to the fireside, inspite of the fact that her car's not running. Not likely, but it would probably do me a world of good to go to a show tonight. Reaffirmation. That need to look around and see my world for what it is, not what i want it to be, and understand that i'm going to grow old and die here. i have a headache that i blame on the Skinhead, and my back hurts, from pushing Zen's car two blocks and i'm feeling awfully loose and disconnected to be going to work- like if i get on an L train i might not get off. i could spend a day on the train, that would be nice. Sure as hell don't want to look at food and old people and crying babies. Ick. No, a hardcore show at fireside tonight won't fix me, but it might help me realign my perspective Monday a.m. Montrose bus to Damen, i'm Down, i'm wondering how you will want me today; alive or dead? i had to dig deep this morning to find a reason to exist. i had to put on the leather gauntlet you gave me, and my old brass lock and chain on my right wrist, Melissa's collar and Carrie Ann's silver. i was fiending so bad and it hurt and i couldn't breath, so i swallowed a little liquid codeiene and six advil, put my blue lipstick on, pulled on my leather and made a cage to crawl into. It was the only way to get here, but now i'm so dead, so far down, slave inside, owe blood debt for every breath and i pray to god that you will take it from me, that fate will be kind and give us time and that you will need me. Otherwise, i'll be wrecked, fucked and useless. Did i really need to give you that much power just to live through Monday morning? Another day to understand how right Sidney was. He knew. i don't belong here. Damen bus to North Avenue. i don't have any money and i don't have any time. What we can achieve with nothing but survival and electricity is anybody's guess. i'm ready, i'm doing my best impersonation of black white canvas. The sky is dark grey and it's getting colder, it will rain or sleet or snow this afternoon. Roscoe, Henderson, School, street names echo in my head, hypnotic. Belmont, two miles to go. Finally, finally, i can feel the physical anticipation of seeing you uncurling in my belly, in my cunt. Diversy, look east, half the skyscrapers are hiding in the clouds, Sears stands up big and mean and full of money. Over the river and through the 'jects, i'm so grateful that my blood knows what to do with drugs, how to make nothing with whatever i can find to feed it. i'm all alone on the bus, love that. Somewhere close something industrial is burning. i love the smell of chicago fires. Dickens, Armitage....almost, almost. Going to make it to you by the skin of my teeth, take off all my clothes and beg you to hurt me. Sitting quiet in the church pew, you sit beside me comfortably, i can tell you don't mind the customer you're talking to assumes i'm your Moll. Shopgirl, such an easy role. You never tie me up You tie me Down Bind my brain to my intestines to my cunt Hold me still, still, not motionless incapacitated, never helpless i don't need help to fall for you Submission comes naturally my body knows what to do with pain and electricity Damen bus, going home... You fixed me. You didn't even tattoo me, didn't even hurt me, and you fixed me, i'm so high and so happy. My throat is burning from stabbing you into me as deep as i could, devouring you, sucked you dry. And you did that thing that is us being affectionate, standing up with our jeans pushed down, rubbing your cock against my wet pussy, and our foreheads pressed together hard, nuzzling and panting in each other's faces. You fucked my ass, hurt me deep, deep inside where i needed to feel something, to be torn open for you. Bent me over standing in my boots and i held my ankles, imagining chains to bind my ankles to wrists. Budweiser is an acceptable lubricant, and i love the way i smell, sitting on the bus wet in my stockings, my mouth alive with the taste of you. When you fix me, it's like banging concrete, it's like swallowing the end of the world, i feel that we are gods in the act of creation feel myself both beautiful and holy. i feel the edges of my reality flex and bend, curl and twist and buckle with my body, disintegrate all but the essence of me, this is Love Over Will. You smell sweet like fruit and earthy like beer, clean like the latex gloves you have on your hands all day. your taste satisfies me more than anything else i've ever put in my mouth. i was so empty, nothing but you inside me, Bobby Sox bones. i could stay awake for days on this, i feel like i'll never need to eat food again, like i could disappear and re-materialize if i wanted to. FREE i don't want to go home yet but it's cold and raining and i only have one dollar in my pocket, not even enough for bussfare. So i'll go home and maybe i'll sit on my bed and drink beer until i'm drunk and keep the feeling of you inside me all afternoon. Walk in my door, turn the music on loud, don't bother to take off my leather or my boots. Pull my pants down and make myself come standing in the kitchen and it hurts, it hurts so much, because i'm in love with you |
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