Palimpsest

Lately, Palimpsest has become my favorite word. (I think I'm not using it literally--it isn't so much the idea of paper that has 2 levels of writing, but the way that the echoes of the past become aware on the paper.)

I still love liminal, but somehow, being with Philip as much as I have (but not as much as I hopeI will be) has me in this oddly liminal moment that I don't recognize. Part of me really wants an orgasm. (Please?) But my brain thinks it is good we're taking it slowly (although I wish I had some sense of erotic imagery I can expect with Philip--most of the other stuff has lost its tug for me, as weird as that is.) I almost feel like I'm trying to become more innocent for him.  Removing the most recent text of eros from my body.  Not Tony--he left no traces. But, I suppose MaxEarnest. But not just MaxEarnest. Anne Rice.  Molly Weatherfield.  Their writings have left deep traces on my eros.  And little things too.  There was a man I was smitten with here (I don't remember the nom-de-blog I gave him), but it would have been November, 2010 for a few months), who taught me to wait for permission to orgasm, then he would count down from 10.  I started doing that always when I played with myself, and then MaxEarnest did that too.  I imagine that is a groove that is cut too deeply for me to not teach Philip.  Years ago, I tried to remove the Story of O from the fabric of my eros, but, occasionally, it will pop up as an image in the moments before I have an orgasm. Wash it away and it comes back.

Philip knows my history. It isn't like I'm trying to erase the past.  But I think my body thinks he is worth washing away the surface ink, the most recent acts to make it easier to make something new. 

For some reason, I re-read Safe Word (the Molly Weatherfield book).  The last 5 pages are beautiful, but not hot.  When I reread hot parts (multiple times over the years), I always appreciated knowing that Carrie would do well, would find a way to integrate both sides of herself. But rereading those final pages, I realize how incredibly deeply that book touched not so much my eros as my willingness to accept my eros.  In some ways, it even touched how I view some parts of my work.  I've published things (not kinky things) that are a result of the conversation that Carrie and Daniel have.

I wonder how medieval monks felt, washing the ink off a piece of parchment.  They found a 'better' way to do it in the middle ages that allowed them to remove completely obliterate that piece of parchment's history.  I suppose there were times I wanted to do that. To be truly innocent.  That will never happen and I wouldn't want it to anymore.  MaxEarnest taught me so much about how to make something like this work (and also a lot of wisdom about what wouldn't work) that I'm glad to be a palimpsest.  But maybe this time (which is exciting and also a little disconcerting) is needed for washing away the surface ink, while leaving traces that appear when least expected.