Sanity is overrated!



A Foolish Consistency is the Hobgoblin of Little Minds—Emerson

I am so pissed off right now!  I submitted entries to a writing challenge recently and I didn’t receive even an honorable mention for creativity.  I read the other entries and they were fine and well-written, and sentimental and (dare I say it?) predictable!  Needless to say, I feel as though I have been slighted due to my quirky and extremely unpredictable story twists and turns.  I realize that my dark and slightly skewed sense of the world is not for everyone but seriously, I think that the element of surprise should compensate for something…or do we only exist as automatons in this world?  Unless something is mushy, gushy, and has the potential to leave us with a lump in our neurologically-challenged throats, are we to dismiss it entirely?  

Then there is the subject of niche.  I don’t have one.  I may not ever have a definite topic that is exclusively my own.  I just roll in too many directions to state clearly and definitively that this (insert elusive topic here) is what I prefer to examine and expound.  I simply cannot limit myself this way, which brings me to my next point: I believe that the contributions I have made on my blog may have also had something to do with the lack of encouragement and support.  I was careful to take note that the facilitator of the challenge did check out my site and I am merely guessing but I do believe it hurt my chances.  Could it be that there still exists a kind of snobbery and prejudice within the literary discipline? I would dare to venture a guess that if attention had been drawn to my blog, someone might be a tad uncomfortable…?  I don’t know, it’s just a guess. 

This brings me to another point: randy writing has been with us since humans began to carve images onto stone!  Sensuous and erotic prose is as natural as sleeping, eating, and breathing, however, the Victorian bias is still alive and well when the Brontes (talented, though they were) fit our only conception of what is defined as literature.  Any English major has read Chaucer, Lawrence, Wilde, Nabokov, and The Pearl.  What about the Kama Sutra, an antique text which dared to commit to print the most sensuous and pleasurable acts to take place between two humans?

Indifference, not criticism, is the enemy of creativity and I would appreciate any feedback you would care to share.  Now that I have gotten that off of my chest, here are two of my entries that I thought were pretty damn good:

The scenario is a blind date that starts off well until….

At exactly half-past eight, she appeared. Looking more striking than her description, my heart began to pound with excitement. Will she like me? Will she think I am as desirable as I find her? What can I say to her that will not betray my nervousness and faltering self-confidence? She spotted me with ease and walked directly over to me and without saying a word she grabbed my hand and pulled me out onto the dance floor. Hips swaying to the loud sensuous beat, her dancing had me panting like a dog in heat. I dared to touch her by encircling her waist in my arms and suddenly we were flesh on flesh and I could feel her hot breath on my neck. She was so stunning and sexy that I realized she may not think that I am up to her standard but she seemed to be into me by responding to my lead on the floor. At one point, she turned and I could feel her soft, round bottom slightly pressing into my pelvis and I almost couldn’t control myself. Thankfully the music stopped and she grabbed me by the hand and led me outside to cool our sweating bodies within the embrace of the soft ocean breeze.

I looked at her and thought “What a perfect night…” And then she spoke for the first time, “You look so beautiful, wherever did you find that gorgeous red dress?!” It was then that I heard his deep, baritone voice and realized that to my dismay that she was a man.

The next scenario is a child who is talking in her sleep:

Tonight he would be prepared. Climbing into bed with a pencil and pad of paper, his plan was to have these items ready as soon as the child was asleep and her lips began to move. The child’s sleep-talking had begun a few weeks ago and he didn’t pay much attention to her gibberish at first but over the following weeks the noises had turned into an intelligible form of discourse. Her audible murmurings were beginning to reveal things that a child of four, his child of four, should not and could not know. Her mother had been equally disturbed.

“I don’t know when all of this started but I am not getting any rest since Daphne starting sleeping in our bed,” she had said. “First it was your insomnia and now it’s her talking and rolling around and I am exhausted.” She pointed to the bags under her eyes as confirmation.

“I know, honey,” said Paul. “Let’s start a new bedtime routine tomorrow and we will make sure to wear Daphne out at the park in the afternoon. It shouldn’t take but a few days and then we will be getting a good night’s rest again, OK, honey?” Paul secretly hoped that tonight he would be able to jot down what he was certain was an intelligence from another dimension. Somehow, someway, a transmission was occurring through his child and he could swear that he had been specifically chosen for this revelation. He just wished that his wife would not interfere until he could accurately transcribe the mysterious knowledge.

Paul reached to turn-out the light as his wife rolled over with a deep sigh and said goodnight. Setting the pad of paper and his pencil next to the bed, Paul made certain that his unopened refill of risperidone was still carefully concealed.


Enjoy!  XO   DWD

so you want to be a writer? by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don’t do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don’t do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your


searching for words,

don’t do it.

if you’re doing it for money or


don’t do it.

if you’re doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don’t do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don’t do it.

if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,

don’t do it.

if you’re trying to write like somebody


forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of


then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,

don’t be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don’t be dull and boring and

pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to


over your kind.

don’t add to that.

don’t do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don’t do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don’t do it.

when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.



* this always encourages me when I am feeling as if I don’t have what it takes or that I have nothing original or edifying to share because it often comes “bursting out of me” and “it comes unasked” and it is just like that…DWD



The Tangent

It’s so easy for me to go off on a tangent; it is in my nature to overdo everything that captures my attention.  This state of mind will prevail until I hit saturation or until I discover some flaw, or some disappointing detail about my current obsession.  Until that time, however, forget about it!  If you are anywhere close to my latitude and longitude, you are going to get an ear-full, or in this case, an eye-full.  I want to compare it to the revolutions of a hamster wheel but these tangents go somewhere; I consume the object of my affections until I have learned anything and everything about my subject.  This is not a futile undertaking and I am known to log some pretty impressive mileage!

Take for example the time that I became enamored with Oscar Wilde (truthfully, I still love him!).  Everything that entered into my little world was sifted through the sieve of Wildean philosophy.  You see, Oscar had a keen perspective on the laughably serious condition of humanity: he knew that we could never be what we wanted others to think that we were.  That insight, in and of itself, is an irony because in the attempt to fool others with our fictitious persona, the only one being fooled is ourselves.  Oscar knew that people rarely revealed their flaws and that fact alone was their greatest character deficiency.  At the same time, Wilde knew what it was like to be different and to embrace his unique characteristics by embracing them through his art and he prudently hid those which he knew society would never accept (his homosexuality).  The Portrait of Dorian Gray was a masterpiece of psychological insight into the temptations of life that keep us on edge, and therefore make us feel more alive, and at the same time slowly erode our innocence and purity which are the very things that make us truly beautiful.  Most would never dare to engage in the activities that our fantasy worlds encompass and for those who do, the consequences will reveal themselves in time.  There are no exceptions.

Another obsession I have saturated myself with is that of D.H. Lawrence.  I had to know everything about him.  What an inconspicuous-looking man to embody such a sensuous and passionately erotic nature!  I wanted to know what his life was like and how a young man from a relatively poor working class family became such a courageous and skillful narrator of erotica during the last breaths of the Victorian Era.  He obviously knew women and this knowledge appears to have been an instinctual, almost innate, frame of reference.  When reading Lawrence, I can feel my heart pounding and my hands shaking…I tingle in my girlie parts as he sets the stage for sex; the spark that is ignited from the combination of literary licentiousness and my imagination knows no bounds!  I love that Lawrence!

Lately, I have become enamored with Charles Bukowski (surprise, surprise!).  I can’t seem to get enough of his raw and edgy prose.  Bukowski challenges me to remove my high-heeled slippers and to take a walk across the path strewn with broken glass and to feel the pain and its consequent relief that defines so much of the human experience.  The pretensions of culture were a slow-death to Bukowski’s art and the temptation to suffocate pure and uncensored humanity with the addition of literary  mechanics and proper grammar were an insult.  Reading Buk, I experience the swirling and ceaseless meanderings of a littered mind that exists within the ugliness of the human experience.  And in its beauty.  Despite Bukowski’s vulgar and crass language (women are “cunts” and men are “cocksuckers”), he had no lack of female companionship and accumulated a loyal following of admirers and friends.  Ripping the chest open to reveal the heart that beats within is what Bukowski did best and my thirst will never be quenched!

So I live among these Walter Mitty paradigms of fantasy and as I dissect and digest the larger-than-life bits of humanity, the words of these authors pierce my mind and soul.  Within their uncompromising arrangements with life, I find my existence through each word and my validation through each emotion that is cajoled and caressed out of hiding.  Yes, I do go off on a tangent now and then and although I enjoy the trip, it’s always good to come home!


Seeking Bukowski in a Nicholas Sparks World

We live in a world that borders on idealism, false realism, and denial.  There is a growing market for bullshit polishers and I am sick of the plethora of political correctness pushers that are predominant in our current culture.  Hence the metaphors of Bukowski and Sparks.*  One speaks what we are truly thinking, what we wish we had the guts to say, the other speaks what we wish we were thinking because that does not conflict with the status quo.  The differences between the two are in-your-face: one can be compared to tenderly dressing a wound and applying antiseptic, along with the properly sized bandage, taking care the entire time to be considerate of the patient’s level of comfort and the alleviation of any fears that may be present; the other method, the Bukowski method, is like washing out a wound with peroxide, using Mercurochrome as the antiseptic, and to hell with the dressing!—both methods seem to achieve their intended purpose but the latter is faster,  more direct and more cost effective, and in addition, it is impossible to hide any infection.  When comparing both of these approaches to some of Life’s tougher situations, would you rather be told that if you try harder, do more, make yourself prettier, richer, etc., the world will eventually offer its rewards for you to claim? Or, would you rather have the awareness that the person lying next to you might someday leave you for someone younger, richer, and/or more better looking?  Or, even if you work your butt off, success may never arrive…?  Some willingly choose to bury their heads in the proverbial sands of oblivion, all the while convincing themselves that they will be the exception to the rule and besides, we have been spoon-fed the images of these types of fantasies all of our lives.

The land of Sparks is sagging flesh sustained by plastic surgery and slow death on life support.  On this terrain, belief in all kinds of nonsense is possible: happily ever after, the Golden Age of retirement, formulas for staying fit, young, and healthy, turn-key investments, blah, blah, blah.  The truth of the  matter is that these situations do exist, however, they are the exception rather than the rule and  when they don’t live up to the hype, all hell breaks loose because Life is unpredictable and we cannot foresee anything with a reasonable certainty.  There is nothing more miserable than to be going on about the business of life believing in bullshit, only to discover that it is far from ok and if only you had paid attention, trusted your gut, not been so trusting, etc., you wouldn’t have been blind-sighted by this betrayal and its inherent misery.

I say give me Bukowski, with his raw edginess and “rip-the-band-aid” realism, or give me a razor blade!  The land of Buk is like walking into blinding daylight after time spent in pitch darkness: it hurts, you can’t focus at first but eventually clarity is bestowed, and although the landscape is not perfectly groomed, the variety is refreshing and you at least know you are not in for any nasty surprises.  On this terrain, a four-wheeler might be needed but at least you are aware that one will be required.  And in the off-chance you might believe that Life is capable of throwing out more ugliness than you can handle, comfort will eventually arrive in the form of knowing that you have been equipped with the necessary supplies and the desire to survive.  Becoming willing to view Life in its riskiness and sometimes harsh reality is not for sissies, but to the extent that you are capable of comprehending the truths of the power of substance over form, you will succeed.  Perhaps your victory will not be what the culture considers achievement, but you will consider it so, and that is what makes Bukowskism so appealing.

So, what’s it going to be: the red pill…? or the blue pill…?  You decide.


* This is not intended to be a slam against the commercially successful Sparks, it is merely an instrument of comparison.

Sunday Musings

I woke up excited this morning because it was Sunday!  This is the day that I have devoted to posting on this blog whatever crazy, silly, reflective, or creative thoughts that come into my consciousness.  Today, I woke up thinking about why I love sex so much and why I am so preoccupied with the subject.  Besides the obvious benefits, what is it specifically that drives my thoughts and desires…?  Have I merely succumbed to the mammalian instinctual drive (even though I no longer pro-create) or is there something deeper to this sensual experience?

My thoughts were swirling on this topic while I was reading a piece written by Camus on the tendency to view busyness as a prerequisite of a full and productive life.  However, the activities with which we humans often routinely engage as a part of our daily lives, are often mindless; in other words, we travel through most of our day on auto-pilot.  In fact, the majority of hours that I spend as a “paid employee” are exactly that: automatic.  I cannot begin to count the days that I have looked at the clock in surprise because of the lateness of the hour (my job is very hectic at times) and how the time seemed to have “flown-by.”  Camus challenges this phenomenon by offering the perspective that we waste the majority of our preciously fleeting moments of life with this type of out-of-body activity.

So, what does this have to do with sex?  It is true that when I am anticipating an encounter, my mind is often not in the present moment but is instead thinking about the pleasures to come; while I am preparing my body and my specifically chosen garments, I am almost always thinking about the look of pleasure and anticipation upon his face.  I also think about how I want to set the stage for his first glimpse of me in order to further provoke our appetites.  However, once all of this has come to pass, I am fully, irretrievably, and unreservedly, in the present moment.  During sexual, sensual pleasures, I am fully in the dimensional space of that sensation, that activity, that excitement, and the enjoyment that I am bringing to my partner and myself.  I purposefully take note of each of my five senses and I deliberately involve each one in the experience; I am fully cognizant of being in a continuum where time does not exist and the outside world, for a time, has disappeared.  The glorious experience of sex is escapism in its most relevant function.  To lose myself in a timeless and weightless space of sensual delight, is for me the highest form of human expression which is not permitted to exist in any other dimension than that of the present.

Sex, Suffering, and Blue-Collar Men…!

I admit it: I am a literature snob and I have lately become enamored of D.H. Lawrence’s sizzling prose.  The author’s descriptions of the male-female coital-connection is so sexy and smart that I cannot believe how well its steamy secrets have been kept in relative obscurity!   Reading Lawrence’s account of the clandestine relationship between Lady Chatterley and the gamekeeper, Mellors, is so hot that I had to take a moment to reflect upon its profound impact on my own respiration.  Lacking the sometimes excruciating detail of today’s prose, the author’s impact is attributed to what has not been communicated and is instead left to the reader’s imagination (and I am in complete possession of mine!) and this adds to its sensuous and steamy effect upon my pulse-rate, among other things!  Augmenting this reaction, the vision of a strong and assertive male who does not hesitate to take skillful charge in the pursuit of a pleasurable encounter, is itself a source of delectable excitement.  He is a man who, after all, knows how to work with his hands!

The fantasy of a man, like Mellors, is euphoric because he only wants what the woman has to offer in her physical body: a mutually shared experience of passionate pleasure and physical connection.   As a single woman, I sometimes just miss the feel of a naked, bare-chested embrace; humans were created for relationship and in this virtual-relationship age, the physical contact can be relegated to a less than deserved lower-placed ranking.  Lady Chatterley senses in Mellors the uncomplicated promises of physical pleasure that touch upon tenderness, tactile sensation, and dialog kept to a minimum…there is a lot to be said for a loss of words (no pun intended) and Mellors’ character accomplishes this feat with exceptionally powerful simplicity.  Intellectually, he is a man of the world and because he is content within himself, he is only in need of what he cannot supply: the flesh and passion of a woman.  The same is true of Lady Chatterley; she is educated and somewhat independent for her time.  Her husband is a gentleman, an intellectual, and he is very much impressed with his own smart circle of friends and their cerebral discourses and she has begun to tire of all of this loquacity and longs for pure, non-analytical touch.  Her life has become so complicated that she cannot enjoy the fulfillment of a basic human need without it being talked to death.

Words can serve the purpose of mental foreplay to stimulate and prep the soil for what is to be sown but they were never meant to be a replacement for true human contact.  The comparison between modern times and the era of Lady Chatterley’s Lover could not be more in contrast however, the same human frustrations of sex, intimacy, and need for genuine human connection, still persist.  This great piece of classic literature was written one hundred years ago but still remains relevant today.  To ingest this read in its fullness, is a pleasure that almost equals the intensity and climax of Lady Chatterley in the hands of her lover!

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