UNCOVERING

Dear Readers

Sorry not posting for so long and thanks for the lovely emails so nice to hear from you. I was sure I’d finish the re-write and start posting by August at latest, but, it’s taking longer, its harder work and I’m going deeper. What started out as feng shui, became a bulding site then an archeological dig.

Been uncovering and going into things I took for granted. Sex was safe and pure, so working with it would be. Leaving the world to work as a harlot in secret was so good for me. Going deeper, I find it better than I thought. Going into the deafness it healed me from, seeing the blessings of deafness. Words were blurred sound with no meaning. I saw them in pretty colors (synaesthesia), but they had no power over me. Before I worked as a harlot and before harlotry healed me, I lived unheard and unhearing. Deaf and no one knowing it, meant I didn’t live in words but beyond them. My actions and my life were not contained in them. I was not contained or restrained in them. Words had nowhere to hook onto me, couldn’t hurt or harm me. I lived happily outside words. No one knew I was deaf so they couldn’t force words on me mechanically. My 6^th sense told me what I needed to know. I heard that OK. Now I have to use words to take a life free of words and fit it into them, put a wordless life into words. Strange since I never wanted to ‘be a writer’ but was forced into it by a ‘voice’.

On Hollywood Boulevard, I glanced at a bookstore on the other side ( all I did to bookstores then, never went in). People rushed in, a pile of books shrank very fast and

“You must write your story!”

a ‘voice’ from the pile hit me and stunned me. A writer was the last thing I wanted to be. I was what I wanted to be. I was a harlot. But I knew I was standing in the middle of a story. And I didn’t know how the story was going to end? Will it be happy? Or will it be sad? I looked at the quick-shrinking pile, and went back to England, to my harlot retreat.

The ending a few months later was happier than I ever dreamt. The healing I received from harlotry was completed, illness conquered, my life began, plus the sudden, unexpected gift of full hearing. And that’s how I found I’d been deaf all my life. Next day I sat down with a biro to write my story. I thought I only had to write what happened and everyone would understand and that’d be sorted. I didn’t even know what ‘editor’ or ‘publisher’ meant!

When words were colors with little meaning, every birthday and Xmas my parents gave me a book about men or boys in the past. I didn’t like books. I wanted to be a woman and now. By 11 I hated books like I hated school and deliberately left paper blank in exams because I wanted to leave school, not to be good at it. From 14 several boyfriends couldn’t stop writing poems about me to which I had no reply. Poems coming at me from every direction, made poetry and writing a total turn-off. When I became a harlot I became cultured and acceptable. But people I met who said they were ‘writers’ they were ‘creative’, were miserable, unpleasant to me, thought they were superior and took drugs. and put me off writing. So when the ‘voice’ ordered me to write, it was not what I wanted to hear. But I was inspired by what happened to me, so in love with the life and goodness I was given, I wanted to share it with as many people as possible. Impelled by the ‘voice’, disliking writing, but loving what I was writing about, writing was the only means to the end, something I had to get thru somehow to get my story out.

When I started to blog my story, the bloggers I read on the Internet started to turn writing around for me, make it not so unattractive. I was glad and relieved that feedback to my blog was positive and nice. But it took me a while to admit they weren't getting what really happened to me because I wasn't expressing it. I saw what I’d written so far could be improved. I found writing was something I had to learn. That’s when I stopped to do a re-write which I thought would done by last August. At first it was like doing feng-shui. As I deep-tidied I found everything I needed was there. I only needed to find the right place for them. Where I put them changed how they looked, gave them new meanings and more or less importance. Feng-shuing the writing and the home in harmony. Nice. Home sorted but discovered major problems in writing, and more daily. It needed more than feng-shui, more like a construction site with me covered in brick dust taking off a hard hat to scratch my head and work out what to do next. Some had to come down to be re-designed and re-built. And then I excavated and unearthed beautiful objects and discovered their value. So it's taking a long time. But when it’s finished I believe the building will be 80% better and will perform its function.

Thanks to the bloggers who’ve changed my attitude to writing, who’ve inspired me to learn about writing, learn to write better and to enjoy it. You’ve helped to make writing both sexy and serious to me.

Look forward to much to blogging my book-in-a-blog sometime in New Year. Meanwhile have a Wonderful Winter Solstice or whatever you’re going to have.

MONEY EMOTIONS OR BEACHSTONE BUZZ

appears on
TLB Story Blogging Carnival


****************************

I had no awareness of money. It barely existed in my

life.  I was poor.

I didn’t know about ‘having to do something for the

money’, emotions about money not touching me, maybe,

because I was deaf.  I don’t know. My unknown (even to

me) deafness kept me untouched and free, of much that

is ‘normal’, sheltering me from many things including

money feelings. My head and purse were empty of money.

Then harlotry put money in my purse but not in my

head………………… 

They are safely in the room. I stand still while shoes

and boots prowl the carpet. They hand over their

banknotes purposefully, happily, unbelievingly,

significantly, coyly, flirtatiously, importantly,

sometimes not wanting to lose their connection with

them.  And varying degrees and amounts of themselves

are attached to the notes.  

This is my very first hint, my very first glimmer of

how people in the outside world are attached to money

by strong emotions, tightly bound and tied to it. I’m

so used to money being far, far away from me, too far

away from me to touch me or my behavior.  Innocent of

‘doing something for the money’ or ‘being nice to

people for money,’ as in other jobs,  I behave

naturally.  I’m nice to people anyway.  My work is not

‘just a job’, not drab, no money pressure. I’m working

because I want to, not trapped or pressurised to make

money.  I’m working because of my vision, the vision

which told me when I was a harlot everything would be

alright. And the vision is coming alive.  Everything

is becoming alright. Innocent of money emotions I

support myself on liquid happiness.

Vaguely and mistily, I see clients attached and tied

to money by their emotions.  But because they are

clients, their emotions don’t touch me.   Notes handed

neatly and martially. Notes handed crumpled and

freely. Smooth notes from a cash machine…….  

The money is there, briefly, in my hands, part of my

ritual of harlot sex, then I place it in the cupboard

under the honey-pot or herb tea box.  This marks the

starting-point of the ritual in which my private life,

my self in my private life stays chaste, untouched by

the outside world I’ve disappeared from. When they put

banknotes into my hand, it marks the beginning of the

ritual in which I make the money and the owner’s

world, the world outside, disappear, put it where it

will be scented and flavoured with Tazmanian

Leatherwood honey, Greek Mountain honey, cinnamon,

peppermint and chamomile  teas.  

While they’re becoming naked, I place the notes in the

left-hand cupboard under herb teas or a honey-pot. And

after they’ve gone, or after several have gone, I move

newly-scented and flavored notes to the Zimbabwean

wicker basket in the other cupboard. 

But occasionally they don’t put banknotes in my hand. 

They go towards the mantelpiece, lift up my beach

stone, lined with deep and subtle browns of the

Australian Bush, and put the notes underneath.  I can

put them in cupboard but I let them stay there and get

the buzz, the gamble they could nick them.  This is the only

emotion I have about money, a slight gamble feeling. 

If the money is under the beach stone on the

mantelpiece, it’s easier for them to nick it.

Each time I earn money, I think it’s a gamble. They

could pinch the whole lot. This heightens the value of

the money for me, and gives more luck to my job. As I

lead the next client in and he doesn’t, I have all the

pleasure and satisfaction of a gamble won.

Occasionally, for fun, I agree to take a cheque. I

learn to look at the signature and read from the

handwriting whether it will bounce or not.

“So slow.So gentle.” 

I look at the swirling patterns on the mantelpiece.

While I rub some buttocks with ice, brought in a Tesco

bag, while a client tightens pearls around his balls

and my neck, through cuddles, gasps and groans, the

beautiful patterns on the mantelpiece multiply. As all

manner of limbs pass between my thighs, my body is

becoming more stable they ever before.

An enormously fat guy, 

“I’m a butcher.” 

He has a smoked-pork smell. He puts his notes on the

mantelpiece and rams my Australian beach stone on top

of them. I wonder how I’ll survive his weight but make

sure I’m only under a third of it. 

When he’s in the shower room washing, the light above

the wash-basin mirror goes. He spends a long time in

the shower room fixing it. It feels tedious him being

there longer than my prescribed half hour. At last

he’s finished.

“Can you check there’s no one outside? Thanks”

After looking out I shut the front door behind me.

He’s coming towards me. I let him go out of the door,

then check the mantelpiece. There’s nothing under the

beach stone. I laugh. He’s charged me for fixing the

light!

One stands splaying all his limbs around me in an

exaggerated way. “Am I pleasing you? I want to please

you.” It excites me to think that he could reach one

arm into the cupboard, into the Zimbabwean wicker

basket, and run off with the week’s takings. 

I swirl around him. He softens and hardens. 

“So slow, so gentle.” 

Now, healed by harlotry, and out in the world, I hear

the world for the first time.  I hear money emotions

for the first time.  I hear how, in this outer world,

almost everyone, even the un-materialistic are

attached and bound to money by various strong

emotions. 

I hear peoples’ lives and jobs for the first time. I

hear even the most desirable professions polluted by

money.  

A writer tells me ‘Money is a very emotional thing.’

as I hand him some money.  How can a thing have

emotions?  It doesn’t.  But people do.  And I see even

the ‘un-materialistic’ in this outer world are tightly

bound and tied to money, by emotions too strong to

break free of.  And they get very emotional, sometimes

even angry with me when they find I’m not.  

In this mundane outer world in a ‘nice’ part of

London, the non-whoring world sounds more like

‘prostitution’ than my harlot retreat.  

And if they ask me what I do for a living, sometimes I

tell them, and sometimes they look at me with eyes

like cash register keys.

PUSSY POEM

PUSSY POEM
(Inspired by, and originally appearing on VLA's Friday Pussy Blogging)

Why I'm here -

To put myself about

To spread myself over the net

I want to

Slowly, honeysweetly,

Ooze and trickle over the globe,

Into hidden places I‘ll never know about.

This pussy is out for globalisation.

Coarse black hairs
Grow round it.
Jagged,

Zig-zagged
They cover the rocks

Of a pulsating abyss.

No warning sign among these rocks.
No “Beware ye who enter here!”
A hot Niagara
Without Viagra

Cocks are finite, limited,
“The end is nigh”.
They are the limit;
The end is what they are about.

“Stand and deliver!”
Cocks are displayed
“Stand and surrender!”
Exposed in their fragilities
Threatened with exposure.

Cunts promise, suggest
Intimate infinity.
Infinite irregularity,
Infinitely off limits,
Put fear in little eyes of men:

Magical, limitless,
Delicate mysterious,
My cunt is wild chaos,
Kali’s black chasm
Guarded by rocks of bone:

“Just as all colors disappear in black,
so all names and forms disappear in her.”