Dream: Literarily Weird

I'm almost embarrassed to post this just due to the level of weird, but I have written before about the majestic awkwardness of my dreams and it's not quite flying around on a waffle. I also kept waking up overnight, so I kind of had dream vignettes that lead up to some fuckery that will probably surprise you or not.


1.

"Are you wearing a skirt?" My mom gives me a weird look as she lounges on a large sofa in an art gallery. The towering walls are crowded with framed artwork. (It's basically like the gallery rooms from Penny Dreadful where Dorian Gray hangs out.)

I look down and pull at the light blue fabric and immediately recognize what I'm wearing, so I correct her, "It's Sailor Mercury cosplay."

Mind you, it's not good Sailor Mercury cosplay, but something I tried to sew when I was eleven or twelve. A white tank top with pleated blue fabric sewn onto the bottom. Complete the look for yourself with shorts, spiky dark brown hair, and dark-rimmed glasses. Very hipster dude ironically cosplaying as Sailor Mercury. Good choice, subconscious.

I'm being haunted by unfinished sewing projects past.


2.

I wander into a bathroom. It's pretty dark, lit only by amber-tinged light from stained light bulbs. The glass on a couple of the bulbs is broken, but the filaments are still glowing. The toilet has electronics thrown into it. Wii and Xbox controllers. More junk is thrown into the filthy bathtub.

The mirror is smudged and dirty. I can't see my reflection that well and I'm not quite sure why I'm in there so I leave.


3.

In another room a doorbell rings, so I walk the halls to find it. This building is darkly Victorian in style, lots of curiosities everywhere, except it's exposed to unreasonably bright light. It's kind of like looking at a theater scene when all the stage and house lights are up, and there aren't any curtains to cast shadows. Not sure if I'm even in the same building as before or if I'm jumping between locations each time I fall back asleep. Whatever, I'm still in my total crap cosplay.

I open the double doors to the outside and find a very tan, shirtless muscle guy and a pale trans woman in a shiny spandex club wear kind of dress. Neither of them talk to me, but they just walk into the house like it's totally obvious that they would be there. I follow them and don't try to question anything that's going on.

There's another art gallery sort of room, but this is a different one. The artwork is larger and not as cluttered. An elaborate bed is set up against the wall at the back of the room. Clothes start coming off. Oh, okay, this is one of those dreams.

I watch for a while, and decide to join them because this is my dream and they brought me along. I kiss the woman. They're both trying to get me out of my fetching Sailor Mercury costume, but I hold onto it because I think I'm going to need it later. And I keep hearing this odd noise outside the room.


4.

The next time I'm aware of it, the room has shifted into something more modern and smaller. The bed is still against the wall. Eventually I decide to go check out the weird noise. It's the sound of shuffling and more solid footsteps. Maybe I'm paranoid because my dreams don't just gift wrap attractive naked people for me. That's not how this goes. Ever.

After finding nothing worthy of notice in the bright hallway, I head back into the room and close the double doors. The naked people have been going on without me. I sit on the edge of the bed and get used to the idea that this could possibly be a sexy dream and not a weird one.

I put my hand on the muscle guy's thigh. The doors to the room burst open and there's a scraggly-looking man with a mustache standing there. He's in a worn brown suit that might have been a nicer suit at some point in time. He has a revolver. I jump up and dive for him. It's all very slow motion. He fires off four shots in an arc over the naked muscle guy's head.

Yes, Edgar Allan Poe just showed up to the sexy dream and started shooting at us. All of us glare at him. End scene.


 --I have loosely interpreted this dream as trying to tell me that I need to stop fucking around and get back to writing.

Poem: Pussy

Here's one of my poems just in case you were missing out on some crazy cat lady/black widow action.


Pussy

I will have twenty cats and just as many lovers that I’ll keep lined up on a wall,
Not the cats, they don’t stand at attention as urns with ashes do, and pictures in frames
They always found others, but never quite moved on
a bit of them would rather be with me
if only dust in a jar to occasionally stumble over
with marabou trim, pedicure, and a leopard print dressing gown
oh, it’s not that obvious, is it?
No, lust is something more than planning,
they learned; that they like being helpless
tasteless is a flavor all it’s own and can be anything
strawberry, vanilla, handcuffs, secretary,
naughty nurses them back to health,
they find a vitality in the taboo, that I expose and conceal
like a dagger, blood-reddened lips, each kiss a bit of them inside me
falls away with a fluid wrist motion,
nothing is missing, but I’ve taken them
all the pieces are here, waiting in the doorway
I smile at the chance opening before me
As the mailman slides another letter into the brass box

Genitals and Bad Weather

I was going to do this nicely thought out post about how I've been busy because I got a part-time job. And I'm also preparing to move to Pennsylvania.
Instead I found this on WTF Fanfiction tumblr--
Words Used to Describe Genitals
It's just awful, but I'm a sucker for dirty euphemisms.
My favorites include: glossy rod of muscle and blood, fuck stem, rippling sausage, Throbbing lavender man-fruit thing, cherry splitter, flaccid love truncheon, whispering eye, assular regions, magic toothpaste of love, love spuds...

Oh and also during the time I've been away there was a week without electricity...and poor cell phone service. Apparently, tonight, there's supposed to be a storm much like that one. So, I'm enjoying electricity while I have it. And will be sending out submissions early.
Because the last storm prevented me from doing that altogether.
And my laptop has a bad battery and must be plugged in in order to work. So, that's going to be fun.

On the bright side, though, most of the trees were knocked down in the last storm, so there's far fewer branches to fall on our neighborhood.

...the last storm got my grandmother's car. When the insurance company totaled it out they said it had the nicest interior that they had ever seen in a 20 year-old car.

And I don't have pictures of the rest of the neighborhood, but many other cars were more impressively crushed. That included a truck with the cab completely flattened. I'm sure the people whose porches were smashed by trees, or their roofs ripped apart by the wind are looking forward to tonight's storm. 

My neighbors across the street just got their roofing materials delivered the other day.

Hop Against Homophobia: Giveaway, Iran, The Suicide Grove

Hi. Thanks for stopping by. I'm J. Lannan and it may not be the best time to host my first giveaway and be involved in a blog hop when my first m/m romance-type story won't be out until later this year-- I also have a job interview this morning, and will be out of town for a memorial service for a couple days-- but this is the time I have so I might as well use it.

May 17th is the International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia and this blog is participating in the Hop Against Homophobia.Click on the picture in order to visit the other blogs involved.





Each blog is doing a giveaway of some sort and here is mine. Since I don't have any extra copies of magazines with my poetry and essays in them I am giving away some random LGBT swag. (Note: I'll probably find something else to add before the hop is over and will add that to the list, or just include it as a surprise)

One Pack of Meiji Hello Panda cookies--they're cute, strawberry-flavored and could be considered snacks that pair well with reading-related activities...
One Rainbow Wristband--I notice a 50% increase in flirting when I wear my rainbow wristband so it must be imbued with magical powers of some kind. (Blog owner not responsible if your wrist band does not have magical powers)
Two Badges--One has a hot dog in a raincoat with "always protect your weenie" printed on it, and the other says "Deal With It" in rainbow lettering

That list almost made me sound orderly...almost. So, in order to be entered to win my giveaway leave a comment on this post and include your e-mail address, or twitter info so I can contact you. When I get back in town on the 21st I'll randomly pick someone and send you a message to get your info.

Here are my two comments on homophobia since the blog hop tackles that issue. The first section discusses Iran's death penalty for homosexuality, and the second is a look at bullying and suicide through imagery I pulled from Dante Alighieri's Inferno. Intermission is exactly as it sounds.

Iran Executes Gay Men 

I've been told that I have a gift for shining a different kind of light upon dark subjects, but as I write this I realize that I have trouble bringing my kind of light to a situation that is so horrific and extends far beyond the harassment, name-calling and rock-throwing that I've personally been on the receiving end of.

In college I majored in History and studied Iran's judicial system. It's a sad and corrupt system that often forces confessions via torture. I've always found myself drawn to the study of injustice because I have grand schemes about making the world a better place for everyone. I know that's a Miss America World Peace kind of statement, but it's true. One of the only things I kept around from being raised Catholic was the concept of do unto others as your would have done unto yourself, but even that is a pretty common sense concept.

Several years ago Mahmoud Ahmadinejad claimed that there were no gays in Iran. His American audience laughed. While his delusional nature may be amusing sometimes, the treatment of gays in Iran is no laughing matter. It may surprise you, or may not if you know the region, that consensual sex between men is punishable by death in Iran (and in other parts of the world). During my research I even watched an interrogation video in which a man had kidnapped another man to keep as a sex slave. One was obviously a victim (his teeth were bashed out), but when punishment was handed out both men were executed.
The Iranian judiciary just determined that four men will be executed for consensual sexual activities. The Jerusalem Post has that article.
In 2005 two gay teenagers were executed for the same crime.

These events are happening in this day and age, and I feel stranded on an island of inability because I can't do anything substantial about it other than pass the information along wherever I am able. So this is the information I give to you.

Intermission

Being a Historian left me with this empty feeling of inability. I've heard stories about Historians being epic alcoholics for this very reason--well, that, and no one listens to Historians and History repeats itself if left forgotten...it's a frustrating field. So, where does an angsty, detail-obsessed person who harbors a compelling case of nascent alcoholism turn? Yes, become a writer. It was so obvious.

I still write essays, but now I write other things as well because I want to explore topics instead of theories. Writing gives me a platform, and if you're going to stand on a platform you better have something that you want to say.

The Grove

As I've mentioned before, I was raised Catholic and you can probably guess where I'm going with this...or not. Where earning a History degree left me frustrated with my lack of ability to change History the conformity of Catholicism I attempted to force upon myself left me with a lack of identity. It took me a long time to figure myself out after being told that everything I did could send me to the hell fire. Catholics are a little more subtle than other denominations, but the hell fire is still there. And it can give you quite a sense of hopelessness to live in a constant state of internal and external scrutiny that is simply incompatible with what you feel is true about yourself and the world. I now bring you to the universal topic of bullying and suicide that plagues so many kids in the LGBT community as well as those kids who are just different. I was twelve when I first attempted suicide. I don't really want to discuss the why, or how, or what right now because they're not part of this story, but this next section is the story.

Due to my long-term intimate relationship with suicidal thoughts, the Catholic belief system, and my Italian heritage I took a morbid solace in Dante Alighieri's Inferno. In the middle ring of the 7th Circle of Hell the people who committed suicide exist as gnarled and bleeding thorn bushes that are terrorized by harpies. The suicidal will never regain their bodies after The Final Judgment, but will have their corpses hung from their thorn bushes. (I told you it was morbid) This is the imagery I always return to when thinking about suicide, but I think of it differently because my relationship with nature is stronger than my relationship with the concept of hell.

I invite you to walk with me through the grove of the suicides. At first I feel peace because there is the notion of a quiet comfort in death. The struggle is over, it's true, but that's it...death is the end. We can just keep walking, though. We're not staying. The trees are all thorns and scabs. It's a sign of obvious pain, and the trees now bleed when injured, but in life the pain is not as obvious as a twisted mass of bleeding thorn branches. The scabs reopen old wounds, and the thorns harm those who get too close. It is a desperate situation. Depression puts up barriers or causes people to lash out, but suicide creates a death with painful memories for those who longed to be closer to the victim. Each memory doesn't simply contain the sadness of loss, but also an added nuance of pain because they could not reach the victim.

To me the harpies represent the reasons and torments that lead people to take their own lives, but as you'll notice the harpies are alive and still active to continue their torment. And even trying to understand this torment assails those left behind. Schools do too little, people don't care enough, and pain goes unrecognized, but after another life is lost everyone looks back and points to incidents and people. What good does it do now? Maybe we can stop them from tormenting anyone else, but I think the most important approach is to teach love and compassion. I think people don't love enough.

I want you to know that if you've wandered through the grove of the suicides you should know that you're not alone even though the path seems empty when you're there.


Wow, that was more of a downer than I expected... and I wanted to end with some love.


Here's "Pure" by The Lightning Seeds

Book Review: Playing With Dolls by I.G. Frederick

I was given the opportunity to review an erotic novel by I.G. Frederick, so here is what I thought of it:

Playing With Dolls by I.G. Frederick has an intriguing plot and brings insight into the realm of male submission. Jesse has always been led to believe that he should be gay just because he prefers to wear women's clothing and enjoyed playing with dolls as a child. His exposure to gender identity and sexual preference has been dictated to him by his therapist who fails to separate expression from orientation, and the theory is rather forced upon him by his parents because gay is an easier answer on the surface. His father accepts him, and his mother expects him to be a gay rights activist.
Over time Jesse explores his sexuality starting in a lackluster relationship with David, where he loses his virginity on his 18th birthday in a scene that is written in a way that easily conveys his disappointment with the encounter. He is then introduced to BDSM by a lesbian couple (Ashleigh and Rachel) that more or less accepts him unquestioningly, but thinks that they know what is best for him much like his parents believed. He does enjoy the experiences of "flying" that they provide. Ashleigh and Rachel pass him off to Tony, a leatherman who further brings him into a Dominant and submissive relationship. Jesse is unsure of this arrangement, but goes along with it and continues to let others decide for him. It's entertaining to watch his attempts to make the best of some scenes that he finds to be not quite the right experience for him.
In general I found the progression of encounters to be appropriately more exciting and sensual as Jesse discovers what he enjoys. The book is oddly insightful in regards to the main character's slow revelation of finding himself through gender expression and sexual exploration. He begins to assert himself by choosing a career and life path that he wants rather than appeasing his parents. I enjoyed the varying degrees of information on the BDSM community, and even the fact that some of the characters didn't quite know the proper guidelines that go along with BDSM, but that's also an aspect of Jesse's education. This book is a delightfully sexy read that effectively evolves into Jesse pursuing possibilities for himself rather than just accepting what others have planned out for him.

Playing With Dolls can be purchased on Amazon.com and All Romance ebooks, and will be available on SmashWords later this week.
I.G. Frederick can be found online and on Twitter

Decline and Distractions

I've been dragging this week due to the impending death of a family member. I had been thinking about making the trip up to see my Nana one last time, but she has been unresponsive and I'd rather my last memories of her be associated with when I visited after her surgery in October. During that surgery a tumor had been removed from her jaw and the side of her face was stitched up vertical below her eye. Even though she was unable to talk at that time, she was awake and wrote on her dry erase board, "I bet I look like Halloween."
Her rapid decline has been quite shocking because everyone had just found out that the cancer had spread on Monday morning.
So, I've been doing my best to distract myself which so far has involved sleeping, clearing my desk and playing Skyrim instead of working on my writing. I have submitted two things to publishers this month so far and I'm trying to finish up two more flash fictions by the end of the month, but we'll see how that goes.

Here are some images that are also kind of distracting. Not last weekend, but the weekend before I went to Sexapalooza. It's a consumer sex show and there were a lot of Burlesque performers and dancers of various types. Also included were seminars and opportunities to buy various products of a sexual nature. I wasn't impressed with the museum of sex because it was pretty much posters with some facts printed on them, and then some vintage underwear hanging up that wasn't all that inspiring (I've done more risque google searches), but here are pictures of some of the performers.

Self-Love Victorian Style

Self-Love Victorian Style

I've been working on a research project this quarter involving normative Victorian views on masculinity (and especially how these ideals are subverted in Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray). In my research I have come across an interesting book entitled "Talk on the Wilde Side" by Ed Cohen. I was especially drawn to the chapter entitled "Taking Sex in Hand: Inscribing Masturbation and the Construction of Normative Masculinity." This isn't my first rodeo when it comes to odd Victorian health topics and I knew Victorians were pretty uptight about sex (even though some argue that the existence of a discourse on the subject shows an increase in openness), but I had not read about the reasoning for their opposition and fear of masturbation. The whole topic of health in the Victorian era always appears curious to me since the sanitation problems in the cities were rather abysmal. I guess they focused on what they thought they could control...like stopping young men from touching themselves. This was a rather proper-sounding posting, but from now on this piece will be interspersed with inappropriate euphemisms from the World Wide Wank.


Think of England--but not if you find England to be particularly sexy...

"Lie back and think of England" was a quote sometimes credited to Queen Victoria, but it was apparently part of the advice given to young brides when it can to the sexual desires of their husbands. Women were not supposed to enjoy sex as their great pleasures were supposed to come from having children and working in the home. Men, however, had sexual urges that apparently required the invention of table skirts to protect the modesty of especially attractive pieces of furniture from unwanted advances (this is according to a show I watched on the History Channel several years ago).

There was a double standard in existence though as the virginity of upper and middle class women was to be protected, but single and married men could expend their additional sexual energy on prostitutes from the lower classes, but not upon women from their own social standing. The practice of men purchasing services from prostitutes was generally allowed in society, but led to the spread of venereal diseases that probably didn't go over too well with their supposedly faithful wives. During the late Victorian era "Chastity Leagues" formed with the intent of men also pledging their chastity until marriage and promising their fidelity once married. The Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885 protected women and girls further, but extended sodomy laws to criminalize any sexual contact between men even if everyone involved consented. Girl-on-girl action was excluded from this set of laws because women were not supposed to have sexual desire, and in a quote that I've heard was attributed to Queen Victoria, "Women would not do that sort of thing."
"Every Sperm is Sacred"

I know that Monty Python song isn't exactly from a satire of this time period, but that was the thought. Sperm should be used for reproduction, not entertainment purposes, and it should be used for the Empire! The mantra of the Victorian era was "self-control" and getting in touch with your manhood was not self-control. Young men were the future of their class and Empire, so wasting anything that could be used in reproduction was akin to the guy saying, "I hate the Empire." The middle-class had additional issues with their sons' reproductive abilities since they were a group formed upon their financial distinction from the poor, but not defined by blood as the aristocracy was. This meant that the middle-class sought to establish itself by creating their children in the appropriate image of their values of Christianity, industriousness and self-control.
In addition to religious, imperial and parental control over young men's interactions with their own bodies there were additional pressures from school and doctors. Schools encouraged lots of sporting activities that were meant to exhaust students so much that they wouldn't think of playing the organ. Victorians were big into the concept that how you looked on the outside was a representation of how your mind and soul were on the inside. This is why The Picture of Dorian Gray was such a scary book. Dorian did naughty things, but looked fantastically handsome and healthy. Also Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde shows this concept as well, since Mr. Hyde is representative of a lack of self-control and indulgence in violence he appears as a nearly animalistic figure (he's also considered obviously lower-class...but we won't talk about that right now).

So, charming the one-eyed trouser snake shows no self-control, a hatred of the Empire, a disrespect to family and disregard for class perpetuation. You're basically committing treason by this point. So a sense of shame should follow one around at all times, but what did the doctors have to say about it?
One a side note: It seems that visiting a lady of the evening was more acceptable than buggering your hand because at least there was a lady involved and the young man was being kind of productive... plus, everyone loves the pox, right?

You'll go blind--or end up mentally deranged

Self-abuse was the term coined to talk politely about going on a date with Mrs. Palmer and her five slut daughters and the possible medical complications of such activities. A self-abuser was viewed as mentally deficient, lazy, self-centered, and heading for a derangement as well as other physical ailments. So basically if you knew a lazy young adult who was apathetic and uninterested in perpetuating his Empire...or maybe he just preferred Art or Literature over physical fitness... yes, you guessed it, he's probably spending too much time getting his palm red. Although, there was never an appropriate level of that activity because it was tough to turn around a guy who was playing tug-of-war with the cyclops. Everyone around him must try to help him realize his errors though because eventually he may be more than lazy and apathetic; he could end up with just about any ailment you could ever have--not just carpel tunnel-- and he may spiral into a debilitating mental derangement. Victorians apparently thought Insane Asylums were the place for people who had trouble keeping their hands off themselves.
Not only mental illness and physical illness could be caused by this selfish sex act, but it could apparently KILL YOU!
A fun French picture book showing the degradation of a young man who spent too much time decongesting the snorkel...
Click for depraved pictures, or what passed for depraved in 1830

Look at that guy...unhealthy soul, unhealthy body, apparently... I'm still trying to figure out how you lose your teeth and cough up blood from wanking. I guess I can kind of understand the whole not being able to walk and red eyes...maybe. He was obviously playing too rough and has poor aim.

Anyway, since Victorian women apparently had no sex drive they didn't touch themselves and therefore did not have their own madness related to having a clam bake for one, but apparently just about anything else could drive a woman to madness (probably because she wasn't supposed to be doing those previously unmentionable things), but if her madness was self-abuse related, then, no one really talked about it like this because sexual desire was not supposed to be part of the proper feminine nature. Although, Victorian doctors had a cure for that hysteria...hysterical paroxysm. Yeah, the doctor's office was the best chance for an orgasm. Of course that was treated as a disorder, but I'll just share this article to pick up where I left off: Vibrators and Clitoridectomies: How Victorian Doctors Took Control of Women's Orgasms.