Anna’s Adventures

Its terribly freudian to hark back to one’s childhood to explain their quirks. However, I have this image which haunts me lately. My sister and I are about 3 and 5, sitting on the makeshift lounge in the dusky dawn light. My parents are in the kitchen. Naked. My mother has the chef’s knife, and my father has the fish knife. They crouch, and slowly circle one another. The anger in the room is tangible, and I know that my father will lose because he is weak and my mother is strong. She has a reason to win. He has nothing, he is out of his depth in every way. I put my arm around my sister’s shoulder and we both sit in wait, not sure what event we are hoping for.

Twenty years later, I am kneeling between my two lovers as they engage in ideological warfare over my welfare. There is the irresistably needy black hole versus the stifling nurterer. I feel sucked between them, pulled taut and unable to move. I kneel, still, barely listening to them. I begin to count all the knives in the house. Most prominent, the machete that I gave him when we first became lovers. The swiss army knife he gave me for my birthday. His swiss army knife. His leatherman multitool. A cook’s knife, blunt butterknives, plastic picnic cutlery. The sharpening block I taught him to use reminds me how sharp these knives are, because I made them sharp.

What landed us here was that she didn’t approve of my knives, of my cutting flesh into stripes. She’s here to tell him that. He’s here to tell her he doesn’t care. I’m here to kneel between them, wondering which one will win me in the end. Which one will I declare the victor? Which one will deliver me more of the intensity and damage I am in love with.

I count the knives. He gets angrier. She gets angrier. Will either of them break into a run to the kitchenette? Will I?

From the corner of my eye, I watch the long machete, and I become scared because my body is the battleground. I become excited because my body is the battleground. Annihilation is nigh.

But no. Neither of them could do it. Neither of them would do it. They had to have me wholly and separately. Neither would think to carve me up and scrap and cawl over the carcass. Neither of them would make love with the other over my bloody body. Winning, to them, meant taking all of the spoils rather than fighting well, hard and without quarter. The knives stayed undisturbed. The threat remained unspoken. The arguments remained ideological. I remained kneeling, frozen between them, unable to declare a victor.

I can’t trust someone who says he would never hurt me. I trust someone who could hurt me if he wanted to, who could hurt me if he needed to, if I asked him to. I can’t love someone who asks not to be hurt. I can only choose to act, and intentions mean nothing in relation to the consequences.

I won’t promise you a thing, but I hope you trust me. You haven’t promised me anything and I’ve no reason to be disappointed.

I need a lover who will be with me when I need to be gentled. And who will meet my passions like a train smashing a suicidal virgin on the tracks.

The psych said:

• I seem calmer, more relaxed and happy
• Like I’m in a more adult relationship - something capable of equity, egality, exchange and balance
• She likes my tattoo, and the painting which I showed her

I didn’t tell her about the secret squirrel stuff yet though. Shhhhhhh!

I’m a bit weirded out by the idea of being in an adult relationship (with nf, myself and the world at large) because it means:

• I have to offer something
• I have to carve my own roles, which is harder than just accepting the ones I’ve given
• I need to fill my own time, and expand out my own desires - w00t!!

Arrrrrgh! Now after all that time - 3 weeks of excitement and flirting and loving and being radiantly floating, I’m down to earth and seriously afraid of the yoke again. Or maybe I’m just bored and look around, and its the only thing in the corner of my room.

Solution: I need to get out more.

Don’t be too over zealous in following up something lovely… down time is needed too

Forever is a long, long time. I really don’t need to rush things, do I? Though at the same time, I really do need to keep focused on what is happening to me right here, right now. I need to keep having fun. I need to stay in love. I need to be with sweet people.

I had such a wonderful weekend! So much happened. I saw some friends, I saw my family, I made some new friends, and I got to play biker’s moll all weekend long.

I am too tired to tell all now, but here are some highlights:

• ANZAC day - I almost won a game of pool, w00t!
• I saw a fantastic baseball wound from sliding to 3rd - yikes!
• Talked about rifles with an ex-airforce lady
• Went to newcs on Saturday
• Saw my grandmother for her birthday
• Saw my dad (yikes!)
• new friend met some of the fams and got thumbs up (phew!)
• Rode on the back of the Indian from Swansea to Newkers, and then on Sunday: from Newkers back to Sydney. It took us from 11 to 5. We had many many stops, a few visits and meal breaks too, but fuck my bum is SORE.
• Fell off the back of the bike at very low speed due to gravel instability on a driveway. Got dragged a little - got a thigh bruise, some interesting bum bruises and a bit of a pulled bicep. Man who saw it told me to get new friend home and smack him round: country folk are so romantic.
• Very, very sore today.
• Very, very satisfied.

I don’t want the yoke. Fuck it. I kick the fucking thing.

I’m happy, I’m satisfied, and I don’t have a promise of love eternal, or monogamy, or even friendship. But I also am not being strung out with the promise that I might get these things if I behave.

I currently have friendship and I’m so happy. There ain’t no restraints on me today.

I get to pursue what I wants. The view of the future is so sweet coz its my future. Not “ours”, not “yours”, mine.

There’s something in the air that’s taking me back to the sex of my adolescence. No, I’m not revisiting a time of innocence and discovery, but a time without shame. The first thing I had to do as a teenager, was to lose the part of my shell which kept me back from loving and accepting myself.

But losing that shell carries the rise of being exposed to nasty people.

Something happened, though. Some monumental shift of cogs and gears within me let it all click: internal validation is the name of the game and pleasing my own tastes is the aim. Now, by this I hardly mean orgasm or various ways to reach one. I do mean selecting my partners in sex and love and friendship with much greater care.

I’ve had partners who were distant. I’ve had partners who didn’t care. I’ve had partners who cared too much, and I’ve had partners who cared to the psycho point of manipulating me into submission.

Now this thing that’s happened has shattered all the silliness, all the shell and safeguards I’d put in place and left a naked truth or 2.

First off, and most obviously: I’m fine, and what I want to do is fine.

Secondly, I don’t like being grabbed by sweaty guys with one hand on their cock and nothing to say for themselves about it. I’m attracted to people who have some understanding of the world past “food/fuck”.

Fact 3: In the past I’ve tended to go for people who’s intellect beckoned me onto new paths, but I’ve since found that they aren’t what I need. Sure, they are very pretty in conversation and they have (usually) good spelling and grammar, but they simulate intelligence and inquisitiveness through competition and domination. If you question them, then you’ll be quoted out of the water before you can pick up a reference book.

Fact 4: There are some smells I really like. Skin, light sweat, motor oil, the salty lake at Swansea, ginger and roasting lamb.

Fact 5: I like engines. Eh, what can ya do?

Fact 6: Some people use honesty as a way to manipulate and hurt. They do the wrong thing with eye wide open, and then confess to their partner, who can only suffer and offer absolution or create drama by resisting. I’m not into that kind of honesty.

Fact 7: Honesty in itself isn’t a bad thing, but I flinch when I hear people tell me that its important in a partner / friend. I’d rather be lied to than routinely stuck like a voodoo doll.

Fact 9: (Many of these aren’t facts precisely) Its not that I don’t like men, I just don’t like lots of things that many of them do. To me. To the ladies I love. To themselves. Urgh.

Fact 10: The most degrading sexual act I can think of is sex without consent. I won’t allow it to happen in any form in my world. That’s not to say that I’ve been raped, but it is to say that I have seen some behavior recently that’s made me question how some people obtain consent, and I am not happy.

Fact 10b: (I’m really not into the idea of shit in a sexual context though - just me!)

Fact 11: It’s OK to routinely fall in love with people, things and the world. All that love comes back. I’d rather make love and fun with friends than have undramatic sex with the same partner for the rest of my life.

Fact 12: I’d rather have sex with a polite stranger than a violent lover. I’d rather have sex with a violent lover than a manipulative partner. I’d rather have sex with no-one than with a bland partner. I’d rather have sex with a bland partner than a sleazy moron. I’d rather make love with friends than most of the above.

Fact 13: I’m not going to make you complete, and I’m not going to wait for you to make me complete.

Fact 14: I don’t mind waiting sometimes. But not too often. And not for nothing.

Fact 15: I’m not jealous. Not anymore.

Ai, what a week!

I had some amazing dreams! In one, Kal told me that he’d got a lewd tattoo in full colour. In another, I murdered 2 men. The first was a thin young man who ran in front of my car and who a white fatty spray all over the road when his body shattered. I dragged him into some woodland and drove on. The second was and older fat man who I killed in rage, dismembered and buried. Later, I was walking along, and saw some coins and differently shaped keys on the ground and I began to collect them. As I dug, I noticed papers belonging to myself and my sister, and I remembered that this is where I buried the fat man. I really hoped that I wouldn’t get caught, and woke with the sense that it was a real memory!

On Saturday morning, I dreamed of lactation. I dreamed of touching my nipple and having it spring forth in a multi-directional white spray of nutritive life!

In other news, I went to the gym and punished myself at cycle and at personal training. I so ♥ Kel, my trainer. She is just honest, nice and sweet.

Then after my training sesh, I got ink! Bluebeard is dead, I inherit the riches of the castle.

Courtesy of The Illustrated Man. Wheeeeee! Oh yeah, and new friend didn’t say “I don’t like tattoos” or “that looks stupid” or even “hrpm” followed by silence. He said “that’s new” and later, asked about its significance and (wait for this) listened to the answer. Oh fuck I am in trouble!

Workmates said “that’s lovely!”.

On friday night, I went to hellfire with cleopatra eyes and a pushup bra. I was escorted by my own skirted centurion, which was rather lovely. But I must admit, the best part of the night was arriving and leaving on the antique Indian. It was nice to be introduced to people as we mingled. I even met some people under my own steam - a lovely young man named G* who’s costume theme was “if you find a cheaper outfit, Bunnings will beat it by 10%” and who appreciated my new tattoo. There was another bloke with lovely eyes who’s followed me about a bit and who I might speak to next time. I danced with this wildly enthusiastic lass who was dancing with everyone one by one. Yay! All in all, I was a bit subdued, but had a very nice time, some compliments, and I think some acquaintances. Although as we were leaving, I was accosted by some drunk dickhead, but he was easy to deal with: just said “No, I’m leaving now, goodbye”. I think that its good for me to practice the boundaries.

Yesterday, I had a lovely chat with KS. Yay! We talked about how sometimes you have such a hard time in relationships, and then realise that you’re just having them with the wrong people. I’m suddenly aware that there are heaps of people who’d wade a river of shit to worship me. Maybe that’s why my mum always wanted me to marry a plumber? (Actually, she wanted a son who’d be a plumber).

Today, my father is coming to visit us - wow. I had only found that out at 7am yesterday morning (after 3 hours sleep).

I’m really quite happy with myself!