My three regular readers may have noticed that things have been kind of slow here for a week or three. I am fine except for a kind of verbal clog. I have a lot to say about me, Robbie, submission, kink–and also politics, the environment, and life. I just haven’t felt like saying them here.

I’m not sure why that is, and I find myself oddly uninterested in exploring the psychological possibilities. Experience tells that I probably already know what is behind my reluctance to write–and by probably, I mean, with 99.5% certitude. I suspect that I feel someone expects something from me here; I’m not sure whether I can provide that something, so at the moment I’m irritated and unwilling to make the effort. The fact that I don’t really know what the something might be makes it all the easier to abandon the struggle. After all, if I don’t know how do things right, everything I do has the potential for being wrong.

(Side note: are submissive and perfectionist synonyms, or are they two separate but often intersecting sets?)

In any case, I have been toying these past few weeks with the idea of starting the dread “vanilla blog”–the sexless blog, the blog the family can read. I don’t think I genuinely want to. That is, I don’t think the answer to not feeling like writing here is to open a new space, where I also may not feel like writing.

I didn’t realize how much this question of a new internet identity was on my mind until last night, when I had one of my obnoxiously transparent dreams. (Had I lived in fin-de-siecle Vienna and been as neurotic as I am today, I still would have passed on the interpretive services of Dr. Freud. My dreams are so overt in their symbolism that a third-grader could “decode” them.)

I dreamed aag had started a new blog. She had dropped her trademark violet theme and she had simple text as her only header. It read:


~ some of you know me from elsewhere on the web. some of you are meeting me here for the first time. whoever you are and wherever you are from, welcome.

Below those words was blank space and room for comments. The oddest thing, that dream–the idea of a writer both embracing and abandoning an identity, claiming and relinquishing words. Maybe that’s the definition of writer’s block.

Whatever it is, I’m over it–for today, at the very least.

The mofo‘s photographs, via Unscathed Corpse.