lamoureuse

Le temps (de me révéler)

Love letters, hidden in plain sight.

Le temps (de se cacher)

Un nouveau cocktail de neige et de pluie verglaçante promet de s’abattre demain…

‘A new cocktail of snow and freezing rain promises to fall tomorrow…’ When you read that in the paper? You know you’re staying home. Fuck. 

Own it.

Please.

Tumblr is an incredible community where you can find just about anything. Especially when it comes to expressions of sexuality and sensuality. It’s great that people that want to post pictures of themselves have a place to do so. What I find so frustrating is the prevalence of self-directed negativity, to a lesser or greater degree. 

I get it. I was the most hateful, judgemental person towards myself for much of my childhood. I was never satisfied, always felt a bit out of place. In retrospect, it was probably linked to chronic depression. And it was because of that, at about 13 or so, I decided that I was the ONLY person that could convince myself that I was beautiful, or worthwhile, or attractive. I decided at a very young age that I did not want to derive my self worth from the opinions of others. That I needed to accept myself as I was, wherever I was at, and be proud of who I was. And so, from then on, I worked hard at it. 

Tumblr is a community where, because of the nature of my interests here and the blogs I follow (and sometimes end up unfollowing), puts me in contact with a lot of self-posters and the commentary that follows. It kills me sometimes to see the comments that accompany a posted picture (I don’t mean the replies). Some posters are new to self-nudes, others have built up a successful following and have received much validation in terms of reblogs and follower interaction. And yes, of course, there is the unknown interaction of anons and negative commentary, but that’s not my focus right now. 

It bothers me when I see other women downplaying their beauty or sexiness, discounting it or turning it into a bit of a joke. Once and a while, sure, but as a consistent, ongoing theme… it makes me a bit sad. The beautiful thing about the internet is that we can chose how we want to represent ourselves (leading sometimes, to fantasy and deception, self- or otherwise). What pains me is the underlying discontent. The inability to accept that others see you as a sexy, beautiful, interesting… What I see in that is that the individual can’t really accept those things in themselves, regardless of how many more posts they make, pics they put up, or playfully raunchy positions they get into. If you love what you do, and people seem to enjoy it too, own it! 

I can’t solve all the world’s problems, and I don’t need to. I’ve worked very hard to get to where I am today. And I enjoy the fuck out of my sensuality, my sexuality, my body and what it has to offer. I make a concerted effort not to deflect regarding the parts of me I don’t like, or make a silly joke out of it. I make a concerted effort to hear your compliments, and take them in. Bask in them. Wear them like armour to protect me on days where I’m not feeling so fierce. Oh sure, I’m sarcastic and silly at times. I come from a family with a sense of humour so dark that a family reunion draws out astronomers. I really feel as though when the primary impulse is to deflect or deny, I am missing an opportunity to be loving and kind to myself. To accept myself. And I wish that for all those that create images of themselves and put them out there into the world.  

— 

Image credit: Self-Conqueror, by artist Sandra Salter

Resolution

Last night. I finally met my mystery girl in person, after years of wondering what she was like. I had a stroke of genius (insanity?) and did a bit of messaging with a friend prior to the party to… um… soothe my nerves. Yeah, right. I wanted to know what I was walking into, and I knew that he would get why I was feeling a bit nervous. 

Essentially, I discovered that:

* She really seems to like her breasts

* She really seems to like guys noticing her breasts

* She’s pretty geek-friendly

* She’s pretty

Phew! Totally under control, I thought. I’m geek-friendly, and I have awesome breasts, and I’m pretty too! And I knew for a fact that said awesome breasts would be totally on display in my red bra, as my dress for the evening was prone to slipping aside a tiny bit, likely to reveal a bit of lace.  

It was such an absolute relief, that, from the moment she walked in, as I watched her throughout the evening, through our brief interactions, I realised she was not who I had made her out to be in my fantasies and dreams. Bubble? Blissfully burst. 

New Year, Old Story

I wanted it to be just like that. That gif of Bette and Tina. Smiles. Slow, sensual exploration. Taking our time, letting things unfold. Oh, I really thought perhaps she could be that girl. 

That girl. An intellectual match with interests of her own. Creative too, and hard-working. Tall order, I know. And yet, here she was? Maybe? It was a slow season, and the dating pool was dried up, let alone shallow. I was tired of the guys I was meeting, and was craving female companionship. And there it was, as if she was writing to me. 

‘New in town. Looking for girl to hang out with and show me what she loves about this awesome city. Interested in something intimate as well, but, no pressure. Hanging out and doing stuff is cool, too.’

Except she said it in an ‘Ohh! I totally want to get to know her!’ kind of a way. So I responded, and we wrote back and forth. She was having a tough time adjusting to the city, was feeling a bit down, needed new work more work any work, but really wanted to get out and explore. I listened, I provided some ideas about where we could go and what we could do, tailored to our mutual interests, and then, after indicating interest… 

Disappeared. 

I always wondered what she was up to, and over the years, cruised by her blog, checked out her facebook. She was much more publicly available than I was. Great for stalking! And then, about a year ago, all of a sudden, our circles intersected. Always just missing her, never having had the opportunity to actually meet her, the number of friends that have worked with or socialised with her is near maddening. I have to check my impulse to ask ‘Is she cool? Is she interesting? Is she as pretty as she looked? I knew her before you!’. 

Tonight, after a funny parallel existence, I’ll be meeting her in person for the first time. I wonder if she’ll make the connection. I wonder if she’ll know. Most people don’t have my memory, so, I’m guessing probably not. But… I’m so curious. I’ve let go of the fantasy of traipsing round the city with her, a super-cool-interesting-to-be-with-girl, and am walking into this to meet her as a stranger.

And yet.

I find myself planning my outfit, accessories, shoes… with her in the back of my mind - there’s a near competitiveness to my thinking that is SO unlike me, it’s maddening. It’s as though I have positioned her in my mind to be this witty, creative, professionally talented individual, and… well, that’s *my* niche. It’s not a pretty feeling. I’m trying to understand what it stems from, why it comes up in relation to this particular girl. It’s not fair to her, or myself. And so, I’m trying to let go. But it’s hard. 

It’s hard to let go of the mythologies we write for ourselves. 

— 

The cover of Girl Friends, Volume 1 from the Yuri Everywhere blog. ‘Yuri’ typically refers to girl/girl themes in manga, anime, etc. 

Sound memory

He was an awkward, gawky adolescent, and so the sounds that flowed so freely from him were that much more surprising. He thought in musical phrases, the outside world less important than the ones in his head. Read, integrate, assimilate, and produce. His outpouring was endless, boundless, limited only by his body and its weakness. Fucking tendonitis. 

I don’t know why he’d let me stay, why he accepted me. He was such an odd and cranky fellow at times. Though he was a genius in a milieu full of genius, he never preened or rested on his abilities like some of the others would try to, those for whom their talent and gift came seemingly effortlessly. I liked that. (I liked his brother even more, but that’s another story). I’d pull two (for legs bent) or three (stretched out) desks together, and lie across them listening from the other side of the piano. Classical or improvisational jazz, or avant avante garde, I loved listening in. I knew I’d never possess that kind of genius, that impetus, that drive.