Mind Theatres

Or Asexuality, Kink, Beauty, Control, & How I’d Like To Fit It All Together.

Hello there. I'd been meaning to write about this subject for a while now - but then this month's Carnival Of Aces rolled around, and it felt like the perfect excuse to actually do it. If you’re not familiar with the concept of a blogging carnival, it basically works like this: a host suggests a topic, people write about the aforementioned topic, and the entries get collected for easy reference. And if you're not familiar with the concept of asexuality... I'd like to maybe direct you to AVEN.

Also, I'd like to point out a few details, before we move on. This piece is about me. It's about my own experience as an asexual person with - somewhat - kinky sensibilities. These are individual ideas, thoughts and experiences, and they don't represent anyone other than myself.



Possible trigger warnings:
- Strong wording, as in “destroy” and “person” in the same line.
- Hypothetical situations – fantasies, if you will – where consent isn’t clear. Nothing graphic, nothing explicit, but I think the overall tone might just be worth the warning.

Calendar Fiction

Ah, Spring break. I'm only entitled to a few days this year (from today to... Monday), but I'll try to make the best of them. I've been dreaming of long walks with my dog and my camera, a little terrarium, a few hours with a cup of tea to finally finish my bone chapel book. And I've been dreaming of ten hours of sleep and not having to rush anywhere. But above all things, I've been dreaming of a shoulder that doesn't hurt when I use my arm for more than ten minutes.

Which is kind of a brilliant way to finish this post, because it's hurting right now and I have to go out to catch a train anyway. Also, I'm noticing... these photos were taken around Christmas, and three months later, ah, the weather hasn't changed at all. I guess it's still legitimate to post them now, then?

Have a great Thursday!
xx

PS - That's my dog, above. That's 8-year-old Bo, who's been with us for less than a year now. His previous owners couldn't keep him, and they were planning on putting him down. My father knew someone who knew them, the situation became somewhat known, and since we were thinking about getting ourselves a big dog to keep around the country house... we ended up adopting him. I won't say I wasn't scared of the possibilities, at first. I wasn't sure an 8-year-old dog who'd spent so much time in less-than-ideal conditions would adapt well to a new family and completely new surroundings. But he did, and it's been a wonderful experience, having him around. I mean, I'm only his second favorite person (after my dad... those two have the most amazing connection), but that's good enough for me. He's still my favorite dog. Even if he can't walk on a leash, or run in a straight line without bumping against things, or move up and down stairs with any semblance of grace, or play catch more than three times in a row...

Saints On A Hilltop

I want to try something a little different - because I could tell you about my latest adventure, yes, I really could, but I'd prefer to take you with me. So humour me for a little bit.

Imagine a hill. A small hill, very quaint-looking, covered in greenery, and on top, a watchtower. You like watchtowers. You like high places in general, because they're calm, deserted, and just slightly dangerous. You somewhat expect you'll be able to reach the top by car, but a staircase, wide at the bottom, narrow with a precarious railing at the top, is all you need to realise your mistake. You can walk, or you can leave.

You walk. The first few steps are easy, and you stop a few times to photograph the remnants of a storm. Trees split in half. Landslides. Fortunately, the day is clear, sharp, and even though it's windy, it's manageable. You feel safe among the wreckage. You keep climbing steps. Two thirds of the way up, you look down, and snap that view, too. On the horizon, the ocean, and the sky looking like a layer cake - golden and misty over the water, topped with a thin strip of blue-grey clouds, finished off with an endlessness of powder blue. The last few steps are horribly narrow, the railing horribly unsteady under your fingertips - you pull your hand away to find it coloured with specks of orange-brown rust.

You take a few seconds to catch your breath, to take in your new surroundings. You've reached the top. The watchtower rises in front of you, a wooden cabin on concrete stilts. To your left, another building, small, abandoned, a door of vertican iron bars left ajar. Inside, a blanket. You exchange a look with your travelling companion, and it means keep your eyes open, we may not be alone. You explore for a few minutes. You spot a railing on top of a boulder and decide it's there to keep people from falling - therefore, people can get up there. You walk around it, trying to find some sort of makeshift stairs. There are none. But there is a wide crack, and if you jam your back against one side you might be able to use your feet against the other, and hoist yourself up. It works. You're about as tall a the watchtower now, and wondering why it was even built when there was a perfectly good boulder a few feet away.

But that's not all. As you're about to start the long way back down, you realise you haven't fully explored the small building. You walk around it. There's another door. But this time, there are no blankets.








(Capela de S. Brás - Monte de S. Bartolomeu, Nazaré)

I did a bit of research on the place last night, and against all odds, it really isn't abandoned. It was built in honor of S. Brás (that would be Saint Blaise, for the english speakers), whose relics were supposedly brought here back in 711, and the locals still gather here every year on February 3rd, to celebrate his feast day. Unrelated, but still somewhat interesting, there are two tombstones in the chapel (you can see them on the photo above, the stone slabs on the floor), dated 1839 and 1859.

Not bad for a random adventure, if I do say so myself.

And also, a slight reminder that even if places of worship come in all shapes and sizes, they all pull at my heartstrings with the same mix of wonder, discomfort, respect, and inadequacy.

Oh, the woes of the aesthetically driven skeptic.
xx