Vi Et Animo

With Heart and Soul

I am finally feeling a groove with my writing. For a solid three weeks, I have been writing, deleting, pacing, stomping, smiling, smirking and rolling my eyes. I have named my short story, Positional Sacrifice, and I’m amazed that such a simple act could give me such a buzz and extra focus. I’m looking forward to the moment when the working title of the novel comes to life. I’ve had several stumbles, but one humungous, mother fucking hurdle.

I came up against an incredible block when I sat down to write about my lovers experimenting with hot wax and ice. You see, I was drawing from personal experience and all these intense feelings came erupting to the surface. I found myself in floods of tears and I just had to stop. I pulled myself up quickly though and thought how do I resolve this? I really want to be able to write about everything. As my friend is now dead I decided to write him a letter, to let my thoughts sort themselves out. It was really hard, with lots of tears but I have now written some wonderful words, and my characters are enjoying themselves immensely. Below I have posted some snippets of that letter.

Dearest Angel,

It has been a very long time, and I don’t really know where to start. So forgive me if I ramble, I’m sure I will get to an end eventually, and by the end find some peace.

. . . I have been flirting with Romance, you’d have liked him, he is dashingly handsome and exceptionally sexy. We were talking chocolate and sex, which was one of your favourite conversations, if you remember. You made me laugh with your vivid descriptions of numerous chocolate escapades. . .
. . .I can still see the shocked expressions of my friends, and then their frowns across the dinning table, or maybe that was because you were only wearing your underpants and a cowboy hat. Not appreciated by most but always by me, you were so damn good to look at.

I have to say it, but sometimes I just hate you. You were just so full of life, cheeky rude and lurid, and so fucking sexy. Remembering your touch, your eyes, the way we moved together; how you would pin me up against the hallway wall and demand your payment for passage, you made me feel so alive. Then I get angry, and it all ends in tears.

. . . despite all your best sales pitches,  I am still a chocolate sex virgin. I can feel you turn in your grave at the thought, what am I doing with my life? Well lots you pushy bastard, but right now in this moment I’m thinking about you, and now you evil prick, I’m choking on my tears. . .

Back to the point, Romance made me think, as he does, about how to describe wild richness, which was why we were on the topic of chocolate.  I began to remember the wild sensations of hot wax and ice and, of course, all of that is connected to you. I tried to write about it, but I started to cry. The wild richness of my memories with you, before you got sick and let go, were consuming me. I told Romance, some moments and some people aren’t meant to be written about. I retreated back to my walls, I haven’t really let myself think much about you since you turned your back on me. That was nearly fifteen years ago, a whole other life time away. . . .  I found out you had died all most a year after the fact. I was pissed off, I wasn’t given the chance to say good bye. Not that I’d have known what to say, I felt you had thrown your life away. . . So much time has passed now but the feelings are all still there, all as intense as the last day I saw you. Fuck you’re a prick, you’re holding on to part of me and I fucking want it back.

You know how much I disliked you that first day we met; you were so over the top, so confidently arrogant. You were so dramatic throwing yourself up again the door and proclaiming I was a walking goddess, I couldn’t get away from you fast enough. But you won in the end. That first date, was one of the most romantic moments of my life. I was forever yours under the stars in the botanic gardens, with your champagne flutes and music and the archery set. You were pure unadulterated magic. You made me so nervous, that fist kiss so expectant, and slow, you so tenderly taught me how to savor the moment.

,. . . but the real gift you gave me was to be comfortable being me. To appreciate my skin and relax with my sexuality. I will never have another lover quite like you, thank God, but I am forever grateful. I learnt about trust, when we played, and the feelings I have around those moments, those incredible sensations were all ballsed up because you smashed my trust against a wall and then just walked away. I am so angry with you, I just want to see you and shake you and now your gone.

So I have thought long and hard about how to make peace with you, to free your beauty within my memories, and to free my imagination to play with and enjoy you again. Tomorrow I’m going to the park, there is a beautiful ornate fountain there. I have made a  paper bird, that this wonderful artist showed me years ago. It is white and elegant and peaceful. I’m going to put it in the water and say good bye to you, forgive you and cherish you. I hope you found your peace beautiful man, you deserved to have had a much longer and happier life.

I loved you. I love you. You will be in my heart forever.

A x

Six Sentence Sunday 3

I’m so excited to be welcoming you to Six Sentence Sunday. It has become the highlight of my week, so many wonderful stories to read and very talented authors to support. Please follow the link for this weeks list or follow #sixsunday on twitter.

I have finally found a working title for my WIP short story, Positional Sacrifice.
It is a chess term that describes the sacrificing of a piece with no immediate result, but leads to an advantage, and if you play smart, to checkmate.

Last week we left our lovers in the shower, drenched with the tension of sensual promises.

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She braced herself against him, the palms of her hands finding the middle of his strong thighs. She moved to the rhythm of the steam, turning effortlessly around, to kneel down in front of him. Using her whole hands on each leg, she pressed into the muscles, moving up, her thumbs edging slowly around, finally resting at the base of his penis.

She looked up, soaking in his form, his was towering above her, dominating her every thought. She looked him directly in the eye as he gently stroked her hair down to the base of her neck, and quickly moved her fingers around to cup his balls. Holding his stare she started with her tongue at the base of his hard shaft, his blue eyes widening as she licked her way up.

Six Sentence 1   Six Sentence 2

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I hope you enjoy this weeks reading and Six Sentence hopping.  I would really appreciate, if you have the time, could you please leave a response. Your feedback is very powerful, it makes me think and work harder.

I have a pushy little request of you today, please take some time this week and simply slow it down, consciously enjoy who you are, and celebrate your sensuality.

It can be as simple as taking a bath, taking a big deep breath and focusing on the warm water on your skin. You deserve to spoil yourself.

Or think about playing with your lover and a blindfold . The simplicity of the suspense and anticipation is magical.  You deserve magic.

I hope you have a fantastic week and I look forward to presenting six more sentences next Sunday.

Six Sentence Sunday 2

Hello and Welcome to Six Sentence Sunday, please follow the link for this weeks amazing list of authors or follow #sixsunday on twitter.

Here is another piece from my WIP short story. Last week we were left standing in the bathroom, with the steam dancing to it’s own seductive tune.

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He was really enjoying just standing there, watching her, knowing she was waiting. She was trembling, trying very hard to keep focus on the warm water as it washed over her, battling to keep her composure. Seized in his gaze, she could hardly move, she could hardly breathe.

He cleared his throat; unexpectedly her whole body tightened with anticipation. Slowly he stepped in, right behind her,  gently tracing from the back of her ear down to the nape of her neck, with the tip of his finger. She arched her back, almost hypnotically, overwhelmed by the sensual promises of his touch.

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I really hope you enjoy your six sentence Sunday journeys today and I would really appreciate any feed back you might have to share. Here is something fun you might like to try, it was a bit sweet for my liking but a dazzling colour!

Sex in the Shower Cocktail
recipe courtesy of Dirty Drinks

Fill Shaker with Ice
1 oz Blue Curacao
1 oz Triple sec
1 oz Butterscotch schnapps
2 oz Orange juice
Shake and Strain into Champagne Flute

Introducing Gretchen

I found this beautiful picture of actress Sylvia Sidney. She wonderfully gives visualization to my leading lady, Gretchen “Ginger”, isn’t she just divine.

Punctuate it!

During Six Sentence Sunday last week, I was given some amazing feed back. In particular, April Dawn highlighted my struggling punctuation and clumsy use of passive voice. However, she phrased it far more tactfully.

Today I found a fantastic paper on passive voice so I am starting to create my own strategy or checklist to ensure that I only use it when appropriate. I have also definitely gotten lazy with my punctuation; I tend to write like I talk. This causes me confusion when punctuating, I think it will take some concentrated effort on my behalf to resolve.

Below I’m going to use the Green Pen of Hope, inspired by Epic Black Car, and his Red Pen of Doom. Hopefully when I’m ready to submit my first page to him, it won’t bleed too much.

The Original Six:

They hadn’t really made it past the front door, it had unfolded, urgent and lustful. He had fucked her hard, a primal urge he couldn’t control: the heavy sweet smell of sex still lingering in the room. It was holding him, caressing him, keeping his head spinning, and heart pounding; but she was gone.
He could hear the shower running,  the warm steam dancing to it’s own seductive tune. Her silhouette had stopped him from moving any closer, his eyes drawn to her form, her nipples pert on the crest of her breast,  the soft curve of her back, all of her was swirling and tumbling around in his thoughts.
He was going to taste her again, but now he was going to take his time.

The Green Pen of Hope:

They hadn’t really had hardly made it past the front door, it had unfolded, urgent and lustful. He had fucked her hard, a primal urge he couldn’t wasn’t prepared to control. The heavy sweet smell of sex remained. Lingering in around the room, it was holding him, caressing him, keeping forcing his head spinning to spin, and his heart pounding to pound; but she was gone.
He could hear heard the shower running, then felt the warm steam dancing to it’s own seductive tune.  Her silhouette had stopped him from moving any closer, his eyes drawn to her form, her nipples pert on the crest of her breast,  the soft curve of her back, all of her was swirling and tumbling around in his thoughts.  He stopped, his eyes drawn to her silhouette through the opaque curtain. The shape of her breast and her pert nipples, the soft curve of her back, she had made him want her.
He was going had to taste have her again, but now he was going to take his time.

* I’m still struggling with the tense.

The result:

They had hardly made it past the front door, it had unfolded, urgent and lustful. He had fucked her hard, a primal urge he wasn’t prepared to control. The heavy sweet smell of sex remained. Lingering around the room, it was holding him, caressing him, making his head spin and his heart pound; but she was gone.

He heard the shower running, then felt the warm steam dancing to it’s own seductive tune. He stopped, his eyes drawn to her silhouette through the opaque curtain. The shape of her breast and her pert nipples, the soft curve of her back, she made him want her.

He had to have her again, but now he was going to take his time.

the sexiest political idea

The post title is quite objective, some might say objectionable but so is the nature of politics, similarly objective is what gets people sexually aroused. They are also both incredibly relative; it is almost impossible to separate life experiences, our cultural backgrounds and religious beliefs from how we form opinions, and react sexually. So I qualify by stating this is the sexist political idea I have had the pleasure of entertaining in many years. I’ve toiled over getting it into one succinct statement, and I’m really only three quarters happy with it. but I want to finish this post tonight.

The legalised lending of money at interest is at the centre of our economic malaise, making moneylending with interest illegal will change the world with benefit for all.

I don’t know if I can adequately and eloquently, explain just how much this very simple idea has turned me on. Firstly I need to tease you through, introduce you to parts of it’s journey. The idea comes from Peter Maurin. Maurin believed lending with interest allowed people to live off the physical labour of anothers. Important to his idea was that while people were taking the profit they weren’t exercising any responsibility for the land. He believed that everything had been has been mortgaged from homes, to government to the church, and he felt the financial owners were then absent from making responsible decisions about it’s usage.

I feel his sense of betrayal and abandonment, society wasn’t focused on making our biggest resource look after us for the future. Maurin believed when people started only producing for profit  the values of society were only then concerned with competition instead of co-operation. He often uses the terms individualist; as in profit emphasised competition rewards only the individual versus personalist; where he is trying to describe localised co-operation through emphasising the person as human beings with our earth, our biggest resource. Maurin began to feel the bank account had become the dominant standard for our values.

I absolutely love thinking through the idea of a world without banks. It makes my heart beat faster and I explode numerous ideas. Importantly I begin to feel that there is hope to finding other ways, and my children and my grandchildren have a chance. As my mind races, my palms start to sweat, think I might be heading out on a first date as I could dance with this idea for hours.

Maurin’s ideas eventually culminated with other thinkers and economists into the theory of distributism. A third economic system! We don’t have to choose a spot on the political spectrum just between communism and capitalism anymore, how ridiculously sexy is that! I can’t tell you how many times, I have felt frustrated and almost stagnant having to place  my political bent somewhere between left and right. I often felt I slid up and down that political pole far too much. However creating a triangle of options, of differing, almost three dimensional places to sit my opinion is so wonderfully tantalising it almost makes me feel faint.

Self Organisation by Peter Maurin published June 1, 1934

If only the politicians of today could voice their ideas through this kind of simplicity and expression.

Self Organisation by Peter Maurin   June 1, 1934

People go to Washington
asking the federal government
to solve their economic problems
while the federal government
was never intended
to solve men’s economic problems.
Thomas Jefferson says that
the less government there is,
the better it is.
If there is less government there is
the better it is,
then the best kind of government
is self government.
If the best kind of government
is self government,
then the best kind of organisation
is self organisation.
When the organisers try
to organize the unorganised,
then the organisers don’t organise themselves.
And when the organisers
don’t organise themselves,
nobody organises himself.
And when nobody organises himself,
nothing is organised.

Six Sentence Sunday 1

My first ever submission to Six Sentence Sunday, recommended to me by the wonderful  Lorien Velez.

This is a piece plucked from a my first erotic short story, which isn’t quite ready to go live, I’m not confident enough with it yet to put it up, please reply if you feel like it, I’m in the need of some feedback – I hope you enjoy. Ax

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They hadn’t really made it past the front door, it had unfolded, urgent and lustful. He had fucked her hard, a primal urge he couldn’t control: the heavy sweet smell of sex still lingering in the room. It was holding him, caressing him, keeping his head spinning, and heart pounding; but she was gone.

He could hear the shower running,  the warm steam dancing to it’s own seductive tune. Her silhouette had stopped him from moving any closer, his eyes drawn to her form, her nipples pert on the crest of her breast,  the soft curve of her back, all of her was swirling and tumbling around in his thoughts.

He was going to taste her again, but now he was going to take his time.

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Especially for Gayle Ramage, I get lost in his eyes.

Ralph Fiennes

Union Square 1933

Gil Elliot – the landscape

Gil Elliot , Twentieth Century Book of the Dead, 1972 pp 189 -190

The landscape might begin with that broad diffusion of death over the plains and poor hills of China and Mexico dislocated by war and revolution; with life draining back from exhausted towns into a countryside and into Novgorod. The peasants of those vast provinces…wither under the blight of man-made famine, [as] marching armies uproot them from the shallow misery and leave them on the bare earth battered and bleached like old cardboard boxes smelling sour in the sun and the rain. You might see some such landscapes as familiar, others with fresh surprises like waking on a long train ride as rings of dusk creep hills recalling new countries and old stories: and indeed the citizens of these parts are cosmopolitan and have have many stories. Nigerians and Germans alike squeezed to death by economic blockade, Armenians massacred in the gaps between large and small wars, train-loads of Europeans dying between frontiers: Paraguayans, Chinese, French, Americans falling to disease in the intervals of fighting. Truly a universal nation, of which impressions must be as fleeting as those tantalising glimpses of quiet static things from a train window, in the foreground rushing past and in the distance a slow revolving panorama…. When it comes to an industrial landscape you can not see so much, apart from general greyness, black chimneys, slag heaps and waste pools, from a train window. But of course! the railway sidings, so important to those nineteenth century regions of the dead. The labour camp regions, with Vorkuta and Karaganda at the very end of those railway lines that push up into the Arctic and the east, down to Siberia and the south. The thick-clanging of trucks that took the living and half living from the ghettos of Poland, Russia and the Baltic States: and pumped eager uniformed lads into the battle regions of the Western front, the Ukrainian front, the Don, the Caucasus, the Italian front. The concentration camps with their own railway sidings.