Posts tagged with "women"

A Truth is Worth a Million Words

You inter­pret my heart, my nature, as you wish to believe it.

— Onegin

People see what they want to see.

As I touched on a while back, some of it comes from inse­cu­ri­ty. Other times, from a fal­la­cy of pro­jec­tion as some peo­ple igno­rant­ly, and mega­lo­ma­ni­a­cal­ly, believe that every­one must think and act as they do. There are a few oth­er cas­es that don’t fit into either of these cat­e­gories though.

An exam­ple: I once offered a guest in my house some yogurt. The first thing he asked was, “Is it going bad?”. He did­n’t believe I would have giv­en it to him oth­er­wise. It was a per­fect reflec­tion of his dead­beat friends who expect­ed you to eat before com­ing to a par­ty, and he had nev­er known any oth­er type of peo­ple. A more extreme exam­ple is if you offered to feed some­one at your house and they got insult­ed because they thought you were imply­ing that they could­n’t afford to feed them­selves. Some peo­ple see things that aren’t there. It’s an amaz­ing sub­con­scious sign of their char­ac­ters.

The way some girls inter­pret things is also an inter­est­ing phe­nom­e­non. Some of them think a guy who’s talk­ing to them must be hit­ting on them so they drop the b‑bomb in ran­dom points of con­ver­sa­tion, just to warn you they have a boyfriend. Some girls think you’re gay because you don’t make any advances towards them. Some girls think you’re torn up, depressed because they declined your advances, and end up mak­ing a big­ger deal about it than you do. I want noth­ing more than to tell these girls to get over them­selves, but I bite my tongue because they end up embar­rass­ing them­selves more than I could ever do myself.

There are also times when a per­son is so pig-head­ed and stub­born that they see every­thing through a fil­ter, inter­pret­ing your actions in some crazy way, and believe you’re at fault because they sub­con­scious­ly refuse to see their own mis­takes.

The old me would have been insult­ed when some­one assumes I’m a cer­tain way. Nothing would anger me more than some­one pre­sum­ing to know how I feel or what I’m like, and I used to care des­per­ate­ly what they thought, even if I knew I was just mis­un­der­stood. It’s an inter­est­ing feel­ing to be passed that now1.

The truth leaves no room for bias, only inter­pre­ta­tion.

I’ve learned nev­er to take respon­si­bil­i­ty for oth­er peo­ples’ inter­pre­ta­tions. Only take respon­si­bil­i­ty for your intent. You learn a lot about a per­son from the way they inter­pret things and from the way they see the world.

With the truth in your heart, it does­n’t mat­ter what any­one thinks.

With the truth on your side, noth­ing can go wrong.

  1. It’s actu­al­ly been qui­et a few months since I wrote this entry. I did­n’t post it at first because I want­ed to be absolute­ly sure that it was­n’t a fick­le feel­ing, and that my strength was firm. Reading back on it now, it seems more rel­e­vant than ever. [↩]

Portraits of Gosia

Thumbnail: Gosia tilts her head 
Thumbnail: Gosia's eyes 
Thumbnail: Closeup of Gosia's eyes 
Thumbnail: Gosia's face in shadow 

A few por­traits of Gosia. She’s a first-gen­er­a­tion Canadian, her par­ents being immi­grants from Poland. One can tell she has a very European look.

Thumbnail: Gosia hams it up 
Thumbnail: Gosia on a bench 

These were tak­en with the sun com­ing from behind because Gosia was squint­ing too much oth­er­wise. I tried my flash as a fill-in to bal­ance the bright­ness of the back­ground, which helped increased sat­u­ra­tion in the fore­ground. I love the colours in these shots, they’re so dreamy.

Thumbnail: Gosia awesome abs 

Another addi­tion to my body shot series. Gosia’s a com­pet­i­tive vol­ley­ball play­er, so she has awe­some abs (not to men­tion killer curves).

Thumbnail: Gosia covered 
Thumbnail: Gosia behind a fence 
Thumbnail: Gosia's reflection in a mirror 

A lot of guys are some­what blind­ed by Gosia’s beau­ti­ful big eyes and curvy fig­ure; they’re don’t real­ize that she’s quite a strong, intel­li­gent per­son with a good head on her shoul­ders. The idea of these shots was to cov­er up part of her face, not through the fram­ing of the pic­ture, but using objects to help the view­er see past her phys­i­cal beau­ty.

Christie Had A Speech Impediment

Her unwit­ting nick­name in high school was Fudd (as in Elmer), because her “r“s came out as baby­ish “w“s.

This was par­tial­ly due to the fact that she would imi­tate her old­er broth­er in admi­ra­tion dur­ing child­hood, after he devel­oped his own imped­i­ment from an oro­fa­cial sports injury. The oth­er, and much more severe, aspect of her imped­i­ment was a ran­dom and sud­den inabil­i­ty to speak. No stut­ter, no slur.

As her speech ther­a­pist explained, it was a short-cir­cuit in the brain, caus­ing her to believe that a sen­tence was fin­ished when she was only half-way through say­ing it. The only prob­lem was that she would get stuck on a word. On good days she sim­ply could­n’t repeat it, on bad days she could­n’t speak at all. Most peo­ple thought it was brought on by a rather trau­mat­ic series of events brought on by her sup­posed friends in high school. The was­cals.

I always found it endear­ing, but she nev­er cared for it. One of the tricks she used to get by was to take her time in say­ing a word. E‑nun-ci-ate. It was like mas­sag­ing the ten­sion from a mus­cle, and slow­ly, she would be able to speak again. Another trick was to imag­ine being in a com­fort zone, which was her room, to relax when she was flus­tered.

I’ve always found that girls share some intrin­sic bond with their rooms. It’s almost as if they’re fol­low­ing an evo­lu­tion­ary nest­ing instinct, and their rooms become their homes. A place to grow and be safe. Along with the care­ful­ly lined-up books and the ran­dom pieces of jew­ellery, the hid­den cache of pho­tos and the pur­pose­ful­ly placed can­dles (some of which must nev­er be lit), are the char­ac­ter­is­tic quirks.

Christie could nev­er fall asleep if one of her dozen stuffed ani­mals were fac­ing her. Her bed­time rit­u­al was to make sure that each one was turned away.

In time, Christie’s com­fort zone became the walk-in-clos­et of my room. She was old enough to make love, but simul­ta­ne­ous­ly too young to stay overnight, so we would spend most of our time in there, the place where we could reach out and feel the walls around us, con­fined to the inti­ma­cy of the enclo­sure. We spread out the blan­ket, lit the can­dles, and closed the door.

After a while, the humid­i­ty would build up, and this was no more appar­ent than in the win­ter when we would crack open the door and tan­gi­bly feel the chill on our skin. Opening the sun she called it, as the day­light sharply spilled on the blan­ket that cov­ered us. It was the only place where we could shut out the world, the only place that felt like night.

In a rela­tion­ship, shar­ing the night is more impor­tant than shar­ing flu­ids. Falling asleep with some­one is an accep­tance of trust, a way of say­ing that we’re com­fort­able enough to drift into our sub­con­scious minds. Perhaps it was the unavail­abil­i­ty of such a rit­u­al that’s giv­en the night so much sig­nif­i­cance.

Having no night of our own, we had to make due. I cov­ered one side of a card­board pan­el with glow-in-the-dark stars and sus­pend­ed it from the top of the room. The pan­el was large enough to fill the vision, and in the dark­ness the clos­et became a micro­cosm of the star­ry sky. Even in the mid­dle of day it was near black­ness, and we’d lose track of time, hud­dled under the blan­kets with her sleep­ing at my chest, or lying there face-to-face, talk­ing while I ran my fin­gers through her hair. Sometimes, all we would do was get togeth­er and nap.

And even­tu­al­ly, Christie did­n’t have much trou­ble speak­ing any­more.

Mrs.

I point­ed out the only cute one to Shirley, and she teased me about it for the rest of the night. I only chose her because she had those glass­es and that look. She was the type before I dis­cov­ered dis­cov­ered that I have no type. Almost every time some­thing like this hap­pens, I real­ize that they’re almost twice my age, and I won­der if there’s any­thing wrong with me. The oth­er guys I know feel guilty cause they talk to girls who are some­times 10 years younger than them. I feel guilty cause I catch myself flirt­ing with women who are more than 10 years old­er than me. I feel even more guilty when they decide to wear their orna­ment­ed engage­ment rings when wed­ding bands would be more appro­pri­ate, or when they show me pic­tures of their kids.

In almost all my rela­tion­ships, it feels like I’ve been wait­ing for my girl­friend to catch up. The only one who seemed to be on par or per­haps ahead, was sim­ply fuck­ing nuts. To me, the only sav­ing grace was a mix of open-mind­ed vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty and the abil­i­ty to chan­nel this vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty into change, but most had one but not the oth­er. Perhaps I’m biased in believ­ing that a woman, not a girl, would have enough strength and expe­ri­ence to poss­es the prop­er mix of both. I real­ize that I’m prob­a­bly usu­al­ly wrong in this belief because most of the old­er men and women that I know are still very bliss­ful­ly igno­rant, and have become too old to change their ways (and this fact was a cause of a lot of my pre­vi­ous loss of faith in human­i­ty). Every now and then though, there’ll be one woman who stands out because I can read her like a book.

And she’ll be enough to keep my faith alive.

Snowflake

I have this the­o­ry that there’s no myth to the female orgasm. There are some who can have one and some who can’t. Most of the girls I’ve dat­ed have been able to achieve cli­max (or have led me to believe so), but there was one who nev­er did and nev­er seemed to care. There is no set attribute for all women.

This may be sup­port­ed by the fact that it’s the same with the types of orgasms, which vary not only from woman to woman, but from each occur­ring time as well. Some are implo­sive, some are explo­sive. Some are cen­tered in a region, some affect the entire body. Some cause lethar­gy, some cause ener­gy.

I think the abil­i­ty to have an orgasm is most­ly men­tal. The girl­friend who nev­er had one was a stone in bed, and I lat­er real­ized that she had the men­tal capac­i­ty to match.

Another girl­friend was of a sim­i­lar demeanour, but I could tell that she had the abil­i­ty to be taught at the right time, and the right per­son would have the patience to teach her the right things. I find that men­tal­ly strong girls are the ones who have the best orgasms. They’re also the most fun, because they know what they like and they aren’t afraid to ask for it, allow­ing for a lot of explo­ration. It was only when I met a strong girl that I was com­fort­able push­ing her body, com­fort­able fig­ur­ing out what she liked. She had the best orgasms, and she’s the only one I know who’s been able to have two very dif­fer­ent, very dis­tinct orgasms in a row, or orgasms that would last longer than a minute.

Even the expres­sions after­wards are unique, whether it’s a joc­u­lar look of “Don’t touch me, I’m over­stim­u­lat­ed” or bewil­dered “What the FUCK did you just do?” or “Give me a minute, I can’t feel my brain”. Guys are total­ly dif­fer­ent. Their expres­sions are linked to their orgasms, and they only have two: the angry face (aggres­sive, dom­i­nant, empow­er­ing), and the con­fused face (soft, whim­per­ing, almost sor­ry, à la Ben Stiller in There’s Something About Mary).

But that’s just my the­o­ry.