Dear François,

>> This is for the meta-watchers and mind twisters.

This reminds me of the death of the gurus and their path...

>>> I started bottoming after I watched a dominant bottom to his
>>> submissive at a party. The sub seemed intent on pushing him to
>>> safewording; the blows were severe and went on without pause for over
>>> 45 minutes. Eventually, the sub gave up and ended the scene. He (this
>>> dominant) had endured more than I think his submissive ever could.

The guru is even supposed to be a better student than the student...

>> The words belong to no one.

A mantra on the death of the guru...

>> I was gagged. Not by hard rubber to bite down upon. Not by the sweet
>> funk of underclothes. No texture. No taste. I was gagged with words. I
>> was forced for the duration of my submission to speak. I was to tell
>> stories. True stories. I was to use names. Pronouns were forbidden.

Forced by the gag itself; forbidden because of the death of belonging.

>> If I fell silent there would be no whip to stimulate my reluctant
>> accomplishment of the task. No bark to urge me on. The command would
>> never be repeated. It was spoken once, softly, kindly and with
>> assurance. The command came with wisdom.

The speaking was the death of the guru; but wisdom did not come with death; it was there all along.

>> To fall silent was to face my
>> own torrent of voices

Hence the gift of a command to tell tales.

>> I began to tell stories of those that were not there. They came.
>> Incense was lighted around me. A stick at each name. Would they take
>> the glowing embers and burn each passage into my flesh? Where would
>> the marks of my telling reside?

The marks of telling are only the scars of remembering.
The names had first to burn their way out...

>> I feared the shades my speaking invoked. Feared more the ghastly
>> ephemera of the winding smoke. But fear was easy when finding shame at
>> the root of lust, I wanted to be told, craved an accounting.
>> >> I was wanting to know. I was afraid the waves of smoke and names had
>> banished the possibility of knowing the inventor of pronouns. There is
>> no name for this one.

The shame of a lust to know, a lust to name... Which comes first, the shame or the lust? The fear of the loss of something never posessed... The question of priority makes no sense when the inventor has always already died before the name.

>> The mystery, the motivation, the encounter. All swirled. Was I speaking?
>> Comfort in the body and comfort in the language could never meet for
>> me. The pain of one, joy for the other. My arms were aching. My tongue
>> swerved for the safeword. There was none.

The pain of erupting silence, of the writhing severed tongue, is indeed a joy for the heart. But how is a heart pang an easy word? Only safewords are a joy for the voice.

>> I have been deceived. I feel shame. I want to belong. I. I. I. Deceit
>> plays with knowledge. I knew. I forgot. Shame plays with the
>> consequences of forgetting. Belonging means letting go. What? What
>> had clung to me? What weight that memory could not lighten?

Letting go of forgetting... Belonging to shame... Playing with the weight that is memory... Clinging to deception...

>> If all hard tops are in some fashion polite and their apologies are swift
>> and full of dignity, if the top acts on knowledge, always in control,
>> then this gift was mine if i could discover what pushes a top to push
>> a stoic submissive to ask questions, what pushes a top to so twist
>> mind and body to induce this scene where a command, a strict order,
>> becomes a question, a set of questions. Why?

If all gurus apologize for their mask, for their deception, if the guru acts out the mask of knowledge, the gift of a command/question is already yours when you discover that what pushes a guru to be a guru is just that giving. "And why, Subuti, does a bodhisattva accumulate immeasurable merit? Because, oh world honored one, there is no accumulation of merit..."

>>> That is a dangerous word. My safety lay in transgression. A whispered
>> pronoun would lift me from this heaven into the rupture of contact and
>> another hell. No easy cliche like "I love you." This lesson deserves
>> the proper words. The words belong to no one. "We belong."

Again the mantra, and another which means the same. A transgression that is not a negation... Where is the safety even in that lesson? How is a lesson not a rupture?

>> "First person plural." Was the answer. "Next time no past or future
>> tenses --- no chains --- pure poetry." The chained one wept.

How is the present not a chain?

So, buddy; where ya been?

12 Jan 1995

©1996 François Lachance & Craig Squires