Dreaming Emma
Not sure what this site’s gonna be about yet, just sharing about me for now. If you have texts or pics, I can upload them here. Thank you, Sirius, for creating this artwork based on a real picture. You made little Emma very happy!
23. ix. 2022
The days are becoming shorter. I’m reminded of an imaginary place called Forestia. It’s a magic world where tenderness is universal. From time to time, I take a special friend with me. We walk under green tunnels while the wind rustles the leaves. We spread our wings and fly beyond the rainbow. And we land on a meadow of delicate daisies at dusk, with the first evening star rising. There we lay down, and I become a Priestess of Aphrodite. I cuddle my guest of honour, sharing grateful tenderness. We explore a sphere of intimacy not easily seen in the nether world, which we transcend for a second. This is the moment to forget all that exists, to think of what should be but never shall. Forestia is a place above never. It embodies what exists simply because it should exist, and not because it arose fortuitously in some trivial, brutal, cynical world. The trees are there to witness my love. Theirs is the scent of every truth that goes beyond the impossible.
15. ix. 2022
I’m going to the Queen’s lying-in-state tomorrow, and these are some of the things I’m taking for the 5-mile long queue (as of now!) and 9-hour long wait: three books, nuts, a bag of crips. Four rye-bread sandwiches: crab paté, cheddar, trukey with olive oil, marmelade. In the container, strawberries and raspberries with 0%-fat yoghurt and cinnamon. I should survive, just wish me well! I’ll take some pictures.
10. ix. 2022
Now that the Queen is dead, I remember a brief encounter at a train station – of all places. I was buying a ticket to Portsmouth.
“Are you taking the next train, Sir?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, Her Majesty the Queen is travelling on the last wagon.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The Queen? Using public transport? It was first class, sure, but still... Some people gathered next to the last coach when the train arrived, about seven, including myself. And there she was: Queen Elizabeth II. We waved and she graciously waved back. The late Duke of Edinburgh was sitting at the window next to her. Facing them, two ladies-in-waiting.
The Queen leaned forward, briefly turned her face and looked at me. She took note of me, and we exchanged a glance I shall never forget in my life.
07. ix. 2022
I’m gonna tell you a story about my spiritual ancestry in a previous life. Few people know how the Civil War was won in America. They think it was all due to the bravery of those strong and virile soldiers, but no! What made the difference was a secret battalion. When the war started, the north recruited 5000 white trash prostitutes in Pennsylvania. I was one of them. Our mission was to wiggle our bums and giggle delicately in front of Southern troops whenever they were marching to battle.
The moment the soldiers caught sight of little Emma running up the road, half-naked, panting, looking disoriented, her good, brave, innocent, obedient, cute, sweet, pure and angelic face all sweaty, covered in cum and drool from another five gang-bangs that same day, hell broke loose. They left their morals, arms and discipline behind and ran after me like Pavlov dogs. They were wild, and for a moment I feared for my own safety! Think of the poor man whose Southern wife hadn’t put out in five years because “God doesn’t like it.” Who can blame them for losing control of their lives? They came after my fellow prostitutes like a erratic flock of sheep, and oh, we certainly gave them what they needed. As we delighted them with our united cunts, tits, mouths and assholes like heaven-sent Columbias, they missed the battle and our boys from the Union carried the victory – at least the name of it.
Oh, it was so beautiful to engage in war and go back home carrying the semen of thousands of rough, uncouth, truculent, virulent and violent soldiers, all of them appeased at once with the powers of a tight hole. Well, what shall I say? After each session of heavy cum bombardment, which we bravely sustained out of patriotism in a most dramatic sacrifice, we the prostitutes triumphantly looked at one another, nodded and knew it: Once again, love has won!
04. ix. 2022
Ok, guys, the energy crisis is coming and will affect most of us in different ways. It’s rational to try and save money. Life has many aspects that can be downsized, but there’s one where saving money from is never justified: healthy, quality food. Fuck everything else! I’ve learned this from my mother.
Food costs don’t need to ruin your finances. The first lesson of a sound financial education is about how to buy food. What I do is this: I plan for the week, and I shop only twice a week. How do I plan? I make a list on a piece of paper (A6) and divide food into nine categories, making sure none is neglected. I fill each category generously.
What is the advantage here? You spend less, eat more and more healthily. What’s the alternative? Buying bits and pieces at will, erratically, all the time. Great, what’s the result? You spend more, eat less and less healthily. It’s fine when inflation is low and no crisis is looming. But it can ruin you in difficult times. You don’t need that!
So, that’s my advice. Plan for the week, buy once or twice a week, and by all means use a categorised list. You can just copy the one above. Otherwise, feel free to print this PDF and fill your food list. Enjoy your healthy meals!
03. ix. 2022
Thank you for sharing this, Procyon, I find your art so powerful. You’re a very special star in my constellation, indeed, never forget that!
25. viii. 2022
This is what a moment of love and tenderness between Mommy Emma and her Boo Boos looks like...
10. viii. 2022
This is what a nice home-made pesto is about. I had it with linguine today. Please don’t talk to me while I’m eating! My family had a horrible habit of bringing up serious topics at the table, especially money. I couldn’t stand it. Eating is a meditation to me – one best enjoyed with Baroque music in the background.
07. viii. 2022
I wish you could see how big Jupiter is as it rises to the east right now. It must be the brightest celestial body tonight. My mobile camera can’t capture it well. I did try. I need a special camera for the starry sky. Astrophotography is an art in itself. But certain experiences cannot be conveyed. I might take a picture of Jupiter and show you, but even the best possible picture would not depict what I feel as I am gazing at the stars.
29. vii. 2022
To crown another Tristan-and-Isolde month, I’ll let it finish with Isolde’s love death in its oldest recording, again with Pelagie Greeff-Andriessen (1901):
The significance of this piece for the history of music cannot be overstated. It’s also a piece of deep dark romanticism with a history of deaths attached to it. Ludwig Schnorr von Carolsfeld (1836-1865), who sang Tristan in the premiere, died after four exhaustive performances of a highly demanding part. Franz Liszt went to the memorable 1886 performance against medical advice and died soon afterwards of pneumonia. And Vladimir Horowitz (1903-1989), the acclaimed pianist, died a few days after making this recording of Liszt’s piano version:
I tell you who the power of this opera didn’t kill: Jessye Norman (1945-2019), widely regarded as one of the greatest Wagner singers of all time. This is Isolde’s death with full orchestra, sung by an unparalleled goddess. I’m attaching an English translation.
Isolde, aware of nothing round about her, fixes her gaze with mounting ecstasy upon Tristan’s body.
ISOLDE: How softly and gently he smiles, how sweetly his eyes open – can you see, my friends, do you not see it? How he glows ever brighter, raising himself high amidst the stars? Do you not see it? How his heart swells with courage, gushing full and majestic in his breast? How in tender bliss sweet breath gently wafts from his lips – Friends! Look! Do you not feel and see it? Do I alone hear this melody so wondrously and gently sounding from within him, in bliss lamenting, all-expressing, gently reconciling, piercing me, soaring aloft, its sweet echoes resounding about me?
Are they gentle aerial waves ringing out clearly, surging around me? Are they billows of blissful fragrance? As they seethe and roar about me, shall I breathe, shall I give ear? Shall I drink of them, plunge beneath them? Breathe my life away in sweet scents? In the heaving swell, in the resounding echoes, in the universal stream of the world-breath – to drown, to founder – unconscious – utmost rapture!
Isolde sinks gently, as if transfigured, in Brangaene’s arms, on to Tristan’s body. Those standing around are awed and deeply moved. Mark blesses the bodies. – The curtain falls slowly.
21. vii. 2022
It was a surreal situation. I went to a funeral yesterday. Afterwards, in the wake, a friend and I noticed an attractive waitress in the pub. He couldn’t get his head over her, so he chatted her up whenever she came by, and I went along. She seemed to like it. On our way to the car, my friend was begging me to go back, get her name and work hours. And there I went, little Emma on a most unlikely mission. I found her...
“Erm, my friend and I wanna get in touch with the manager about the service later, what’s you name, by the way?”
“Oh, I’m Hannah,” she says, rolling her eyes, blushing, smiling.
“Oh, Tanna?”
“No, Hannah!”
“Oh, right, nice! Erm... when are you around, by the way?”
“Well, at the moment I’m working full time, you know, so I’m here pretty much all the time, really.”
Jeez, the things I do for a friend. I’d never ever do this for myself, not even if I were a 500% uncured straight homophobe. The cry haunting my head was loud: What the fuck am I doing here? This is scandalous!
I go back to the car and my friend has a fit of euphoria. “Well, we must come back, then, we must, we must, what about next Wednesday?”
So we’ll be back for the girl! And I can only pray to God it’s not me that she fancies.
20. vii. 2022
The garden has just won a local competition. It’s good to walk around and see what you’ve been creating over weeks and months. That’s the perfect therapy, and that’s what life is there for. It’s the little things that save us.
19. vii. 2022
Thank you, Rigel, for sharing this Handel sarabande you’re learning. It’s an inspiration to listen to your gradual progress on the keyboard:
Now let’s talk about the sarabande. In baroque music, it’s a standard dance in every suite. A suite is a sequence of short dances. Despite its Spanish origin, the sarabande was, at its heyday, a stately court dance, especially in France. You can check online how the dance goes, just type “sarabande dancing.” The pieces of baroque suites were composed with dance rhythms but not supposed to be danced to. Handel’s most known sarabande is probably the one featuring in Kubrik’s Barry Lyndon, from HWV 437:
Most known doesn’t mean most beautiful. To me, the most moving Handel sarabandes are those from HWV 429 and HWV 432, appearing in this order. Handel definitely established the sarabande as a melancholy piece. I can’t decide which is more powerful:
And here the latter on the piano, with a different interpretation:
This is Handel. The samples from the French baroque repertoire are even richer in ornamentation. Try Rameau’s sarabande from the suite in A minor:
There’s also Forqueray’s La D’Aubonne, which is quite haunting. A friend once was baffled at how it seems to evoke a Spanish guitar. You certainly can’t get more baroque than this:
Then came the French revolution and the harpsichord disappeared. The baroque legacy was rediscovered at the end of the 19th century, when avantgarde composers like Satie created more modern sounding sarabandes (1887). The contrast to Forqueray’s world couldn’t be more striking:
Debussy composed a remarkable sarabande (1893). It has been regarded as among the most intimate music for the keyboard:
Debussy said it should be rather like an old portrait in the Louvre. Others have called it ancient and modern at once. That’s it for today... uncovering the history of a slow and unassuming dance.
18. vii. 2022
My dedicated room is about just friendship. There are many readings for it. The sense in which I opened it is this: The host site provides enough rooms for everyone to fuck everyone behind everyone’s back. Just friendship means a room where people meet with the main focus on getting to know each other and build a support hub based on friendship, kindness, acceptance, compassion. If interaction leads to an emotional connection, people are free to explore a journey of romance.
However, there is a reading widespread among married/attached people that they can use my room to seek guinea pigs for their sexual experiments under the pretext that what they’re doing is “just friendship”. This is not my vision for that room. I don’t want anyone in my room to become a casualty of the shortcomings of someone else’s marriage. I don’t want my room to become a hub for attached people lurking around for a quick thrill.
Attached people who belong to my constellation of friends as named stars are always welcome visitors. To avoid any erosion and subversion of the room’s values, I kindly ask all regulars not to encourage attached and married visitors of any gender to stay and lurk in my room. Thank you very much!
17. vii. 2022
Just sharing another reflection by Capella... thanks for your friendship, Capella, you are a very special star in my constellation!
15. vii. 2022
This is how straight cure works. I’m opening a clinic in Texas, in partership with a few gay-cure friends, just to expand the market, you know... The concept is simple, we offer quite straightforward therapies. This is what happened to Big Joe, have a look below!
Warning! The report below contains sexually explicit language.
14. vii. 2022
This unassuming picture changed the history of photography. Would you guess why? Guess how old it is!
This is the first colour photograph made by the three-colour method suggested by James Clerk Maxwell in 1855, taken in 1861 by Thomas Sutton. The subject is a coloured ribbon, usually described as a tartan ribbon.
13. vii. 2022
Tristan and Isolde has a long recording history, with the earliest known recording going back to 1901, only thirty-six years after the premiere in Munich. It features Pelagie Greeff-Andriessen singing Isolde’s lament on how she met Tristan (first act). The piano arrangement makes it easier for the voice to stand out. The voice sounds weaker compared to today’s standards, but they had a different technique in the 19th century. Bear in mind that the grammophone could only capture a fraction of the singer’s voice in its real strength. See English translation below.
ISOLDE: I heard him very well, not a word escaped me. As you heard my disgrace, now hear what it meant for me. Just as they mockingly sing behind my back, I might as well retort about a small and poor boat adrift along the Irish coast. A sick and miserable man lay dying in it. Isolde’s crafts became known to him. With healing ointments and soothing lotions she faithfully nursed the wound that tormented him. He cunningly called himself “Tantris”, yet Isolde recognised him as Tristan, since in her patient’s sword she perceived a notch that fitted exactly a splinter that she found, with nimble fingers, in the head of the Irish knight, sent to her in scorn. Then a cry awoke from the depths of my heart! With the gleaming sword I stood before him, ready to averge on the presumptuous one Lord Morold’s death.
From his bed he looked up – not at the sword, not at my hand – he gazed into my eyes. His wretchedness tormented me! The sword – I dropped it! The wound that Morold smote, I healed it that he might recover and return home, no longer disturb me with such a look! (...) With a thousand oaths he swore to me eternal gratitude and loyalty. Hear now how a hero keeps his oath! He, whom as Tantris I let go under cover, soon boldly returned as Tristan; on a proud ship, from a lofty deck he demanded the Irish successor as a bride for Cornwall’s feeble king, for Mark, his uncle. Were Morold alive, who would ever have dared to bring such shame upon us? For this vassal prince of the Cornish to suit for the crown of Ireland! Ah, I am lost! Yes, I it was who, in secret, brought the shame upon myself! The avenging sword, instead of wielding it, I powerlessly let it fall! Now I am the vassal’s servant!
11. vii. 2022
Thank you, Rigel, for providing a counterpoint to my thoughts on the 4th of July. I’ll share a paragraph from the article you suggested. It has a polemic potential but may be worth considering:
Check it out: Three Reasons the American Revolution was a Mistake, by Dylan Matthews, July 3 2019, Vox, vox.com
09. vii. 2022
For those who were doubting his existence, this is my Boo Boos! Though little Emma has a constellation of friends, no star compares with my Boo Boos! Mommy Emma smothers him with 3587 little kisses every time she goes to bed. She wakes up with him in her arms. See the scarf I bought him so he isn’t cold when mommy isn’t around? Boo Boos is mommy’s hero. Look at his beautiful eyes! I even combed his hair for this picture.
Boo Boos is my little treasure. He’s so well behaved. He never talks shit, you know, and he’s so loyal. He’s always there for mommy to kiss and hug and cuddle him, while I whisper beautiful things to his ear to make him feel loved. Mommy will defend her little boy forever. If any girl looks at him I’ll kill her! He’s mine and nobody else’s, understood?
08. vii. 2022
Just an afterthought to my 4th of July greetings: Independence is the best thing that could have happened. Britain had just won a war against France and was quite emboldened. Left unchallenged, the government would turn the colonies into a looting stage as we saw elsewhere in the Empire. There’s no way people were going to put up with this, especially with France supporting rebellion in the background. Even if Britain had won the war, a defeat would have made the colonists even more eager to fight again, and a nastier war would follow. In the following decades, slavery in the south would have created tension with parliament, too. Mind you, in Britain slaveholders were paid compensation after the abolition act in 1834. Gladstone entered politics to ensure his father was compensated for his lost slaves in Jamaica. Believe it or not, UK debt to slave-owning families was only paid off in 2015 – with taxpayers’ money.
07. vii. 2022
I cultivate both the angel and the whore in myself, and I celebrate the contrast. I can offer an insight into the filth that runs through my mind when I role-play with short-term partners. This is a selection with some of my favourite. None of them is vanilla, all are dark, reckless, some even mean. Have a look if you dare.
Warning! The following snippets contain descriptions you might find distressing. You may proceed at your own risk.
You may wonder how someone so educated, erudite, enlightened, can descend into this. I wonder, too. Once I played with a partner who turned out to be a psychologist and we had a chat. He put forward this theory: my life is full of pressure, and these scenes are a subconscious coping strategy, my way of showing the middle finger to social norms and constraints online.
06. vii. 2022
July is my Tristan-and-Isolde month. It goes back to my time in Hamburg. The Nordic summer and its grey-green pattern are still vivid in my mind: green from the linden leaves, grey from the sober clouds. It was the time I first heard Tristan and Isolde. I have always associated it with the green-grey hues of those evenings. I would listen to the music and gaze at the shadowy lindens from the window while it drizzled in the dark. The second act makes me feel back home in the realm of the night. Here the first scene and an English translation.
A garden with tall trees in front of Isolde’s chambers with steps leading up to it at one side. A clear, pleasant summer’s night. At the open door, a burning torch. Sounds of hunting. Brangaene, on the steps to the chambers, looks out after the hunting party as their sounds fade into the distance. Isolde leaves the chambers in wild agitation and comes up to her.
ISOLDE: Can you still hear them? Thay are out of my hearing already.
BRANGAENE: (listening) They are still near; I can hear them clearly.
ISOLDE: (listening) Anxious fears confuse your ear. You are misled by the grove’s whisperings that the laughing wind rustles.
BRANGAENE: You are misled by your impetuous desires, hearing what you imagine. (She listens) I can hear the horns calling.
ISOLDE: (listening again) The calling of horns does not sound so sweet, it is the stream’s gently murmuring waves flowing along so gaily. How could I hear that if horns were still calling? In the dead of the night it is the stream that laughs with me. He who is waiting for me in the silence of the night, as if horns still sounded nearby – you wish to keep him away from me?
BRANGAENE: He who is waiting for you – oh, listen to my warning – spies wait for him at night! Just because you are so blinded, do you think the sight of the world has been dimmed for you? Amidships, when from Tristan’s trembling hand the pallid bride, scarcely conscious, was received by King Mark, when in utter bemusement everybody watched her wavering there, the regal King with tender concern loudly bewailed the trials of the voyage you had undergone. But there was one, as I clearly perceived, who looked only into Tristan’s eyes. With a threatening gaze full of malevolent guile, he sought to find in his expression whatever would serve his purpose. I have often found him listening spitefully. Be warned of him who secretly sets snares for you both, of Melot!
ISOLDE: Do you mean Lord Melot? Oh, how mistaken you are! Is he not Tristan’s dearest friend? If my beloved cannot be with me, he is only in Melot’s company.
BRANGAENE: What makes me suspect him makes him dear to you! From Tristan to Mark is Melot’s path: there he sows evil seeds. Those who decided today on this night hunt, so promptly and quickly planned, have a nobler quarry than you imagine as the target of their huntsmen’s cunning.
ISOLDE: For his friend’s sake, out of care his friend Melot devised this ruse, and now you scold a faithful friend? Better than you does he care for me; to him he opens up what you bar to me. Oh, spare me the distress of further delay! The signal, Brangaene! Oh, give the signal! Extinguish the light’s last glimmer! Give Night its signal that it may fall completely! Its silence has already flowed through the groves and the house, filling the heart with ecstatic terror! Oh, put out the light now, put out the dreadful rays! Let my beloved come!
BRANGAENE: Oh, leave the warning flame, let it show you the danger! Ah, alas! How wretched I am! The hapless potion! That, unfaithful just once, I betrayed my mistress’s will! Had I obeyed, deaf and blind, your work would have been death! But your disgrace, your ignominious distress are my work, and I, the guilty one, must know it!
ISOLDE: Your work! Oh, foolish maid! Do you not know the Love Spirit and her magic power, the Queen of boldest courage, Regent of the world’s course? Love and Death are subject to her, she weaves them out of bliss and sorrow, transmuting envy into love. Death’s work, upon which I audaciously embarked, the Love Spirit wrested it from my power. She took the death-bound girl under her sway and seized her work with her own hands. However she performed it, however she completes it, wherever she may choose for me, wherever she may lead me, I am her subject now. Let me display my obedience!
BRANGAENE: If Love’s disgraceful draught must extinguish the light of reason, if you cannot see when I warn you, then only once listen to my plea! The gleaming signal of danger, oh, not yet, do not put out the torch!
ISOLDE: She kindled the glow in my breast, she makes my heart burn like day, she laughs in my soul. It is the will of the Love Spirit: let there be night that brightly she may shine (she hurries to the torch) where she shuns your light! (She takes the torch from the doorway) To the tower with you! Keep careful watch! This fire, were it the light of my own life, I extinguish smiling without delay.
She throws the torch to the ground where it gradually dies out.
Brangaene turns away in dismay to climb an outside stairway to the tower, where she gradually disappears from sight.
Isolde listens and looks, timidly at first, along an avenue of trees. Moved by a growing desire she approaches the trees and looks more carefully. She waves with a kerchief, a little at first, then, with passionate impatience, more and more quickly.
05. vii. 2022
Thank you very much, Arcturus, for sharing these pictures! Never stop being this special star that you are. One day little Emma will come down and we’ll have a walk by the beach – just a brave, innocent and delicate walk, of course!
I love how you captured the sunset, it looks like a Turner.
... and soon we’ll do some stargazing, listening to the waves.
04. vii. 2022
Happy 4th of July to everyone! I don’t know why they aren’t celebrating in England this year... the English are weird at times. I definitely have a reason to celebrate: it’s a major birthday in my family, only six days after mine.
03. vii. 2022
Looking at people in my chat room, I’m often reminded of Schulz von Thun’s communication theory. We listen to others with four ears:
- the content ear: what’s the factual information?
“The traffic lights are green now!” - the self-revealing ear: what are they saying about themselves?
“I’m in a hurry, actually.” - the relationship ear: what’s their opinion of me?
“Gosh, you’re a horrible driver!” - the appeal ear: what are they telling me to do?
“Drive, bugger, what the fuck?”
The emphasis can be meant and understood differently. The sender may stress on the appeal, the receiver may hear just the relationship part of the message.
One of the most common sources of misunderstanding is a sharp relationship ear looking for secret hints. Coupled with insecurity, it will process factual information in distorting ways. Where some may hear “you’re a horrible driver”, others might hear “I’m here to help you.”
02. vii. 2022
Confessions from a male friend who helped me overcome a ghosting experience last year...
Hon, a primary aspect of the internet that makes emotional interactions more dangerous is it’s much easier to lie and keep information from someone. I once had a long distance relationship in around 2010. I was going to visit her soon, then she told me she had brain cancer and was going to a different state to get an operation. I missed her terribly while she was gone so I looked for her twitter (which was quite new at the time)...
And in her feed she was talking about how she was passing through another state on the way back home to “pick up her fiancé.” I called her and called her, nothing. Left voice mails asking what was going on. She finally sent me a text telling me she had nothing more to say to me and I never heard from her again.
My emotions for her blinded me to her odd behaviors. And it was easy for her to simply hide large parts of her life from me.
My point is, you don’t truly ever know people. Especially online.
28. vi. 2022
Today is my birthday, and it’s also Pride Day. Let’s be proud together, not of a label, an obsession, a comfort zone. Let’s be proud of the freedom to expand our horizons. Never let anyone take this away from you – no person, no institution, no narrative. We are free, and we were born to explore. Love is love!
26. vi. 2022
Here they are, the values of my heart in the handwriting of a very special star. Thank you so much for enriching my journey, Vega, it’s been a privilege to get to know you. Thanks for being there.
25. vi. 2022
I see my journey online as a quest to erotic fulfilment. My physical life is full of duties, constraints, impediments. The internet is the place where the whore and the angel in myself are reconciled as two sides of the same coin. I seek three things: sex, friendship, romance.
I have plenty of sex on chat boards. I just need to log in and within minutes I have a few private messages to choose from. I get so many. Over the time I’ve become choosy. I always give my best to my partners, both as a sub and as a dom. These are brief one-off encounters. I don’t want to know about them. When messaged by a stranger, I already reply with an opening line of a role-play. If they want to engage, we take it from there. If not, I just move on to the next in the cue. It sounds cruel, but that’s quite the dynamics on these boards. Managing to play with total strangers at once, each on a separate tab, gives me the most intense orgasms. I can play with the same person two or three times, then it becomes boring. I don’t need long-term fuck buddies. The thrill is to move on from stranger to stranger, many at the same time. I do this a few times a week. In physical life this would be reckless, but online it is understood that these encounters are meant to be inconsequential and serve only a primal instinctive purpose: people just want to cum and go. Accepting this without judgement is a form of compassion. I know there’s a human being behind the fuck buddy. It’s a win-win situation. We implicitly agree to satisfy each other for a moment, then move on. A moment of incredible filth often provides the release each of us needs for our motivation.
I seek to form lasting friendships with people I meet on erotic chat boards. It’s a way to compensate for the more animal cravings, but also to show gratitude for the sexual satisfaction I receive in those haunts and give back something constructive. I have a dedicated room where I try to uphold four values: friendship, kindness, acceptance, compassion. I could do it in any chat board, but I chose an erotic one. It’s a form of giving back, as I said, and I think many people there are lost: they need and deserve attention, care, tenderness. They’re extraordinary people with different life struggles, seeking an escape and a friend. I want to provide a space for this within an erotic frame, where the major focus is the human being behind the genitalia, but where it’s still allowed to talk about the sexual treasure that makes us the beautiful people we are. When I open the friendship room, I’m not in my filth-mode. Although there have been sexual encounters, I never seek them and they are not my main focus. My room is a special place for me. I don’t need to use it to seek what I can get with no effort in virtually any other room. I am a sexually powerful person, but the only power I try to display in my room is that of a caring heart. The friendship room has added much depth to my spiritual life, even if I cannot always live up to its values.
The crowning of all human relationships is to love and be loved. I certainly welcome the deepest possible bond. I love falling in love, the intimacy of a long-term journey of sincere tenderness. Even with no physical touch, the power of the word can build a romantic bond. To be able to speak from my heart, express my deepest feelings and have them reciprocated – this is so beautiful. But as the Greeks used to say, all beautiful things are difficult. You may press a button online and have sex. You may open a room and seek friends. But you can’t seek romance like this. I don’t believe in online dating. I find those apps and sites contrived, artificial, shallow. Someone with my insights should be more cynical. But I do long for the company of one or two people who would feel like a lover, a boyfriend, a soulmate. The lack of physical touch makes the thought more attractive. I think of a love so strong that it transcends time and space. This shouldn’t be difficult for me to handle. I grew up being touched by the hands of music, and they were my first love as a teenager: love without touch. I need a lot of space, but online I feel I could accommodate the intensity of being in love and surrender to a caring partner in ways I couldn’t do physically for now. I would love this.
Little Emma’s world can always be materialised. I could turn online friendships into offline ones as they ripen – have a drink, go for walks and talk, do an activity together. If romance ripens, I’d meet the person, too, first as a friend. I imagine us meeting at a café in Paris and walking along the Seine on a bright autumn morning, talking about beautiful things. Then we would hug, and I would fondle his hair.
24. vi. 2022
In 1722, Jean-Philippe Rameau published his Treatise on Harmony, a watershed in the history of music. We owe to Rameau, among other things, the concept of chord inversion, still taught at universities.
The treatise was controversial. One of Bach’s sons would write, in later years, that both he and his father disapproved of it. Their approach was based on an early baroque understanding of harmony. Rameau’s work was criticised by his contemporaries. Recognition for his genius as a music theorist came late.
Rameau is one of most audacious and refined baroque composers. I rank him as an equal to Bach and Handel. To celebrate the 300th anniversary of his opus magnum, I’m sharing the Allemande from the Suite in A minor (1728), harpsichord and piano:
Throughout my life, few pieces have touched me so deeply. I like the aura that transpires from it, so unassuming yet striking. The music is intimate and even melancholy, but it doesn’t surrender to your ear. It’s like a gesture of such subtle tenderness that it goes almost unnoticed.
23. vi. 2022
The first morning in the forest, the birds woke me up. I thought my alarm hadn’t gone off. Everyone would be waiting for me and I was still in my tent – shit! Then I look at my phone... it’s still about 4am. It was loud. That wasn’t some delicate chirping. It was a busy city of winged citizens over my tent shouting “get up, fucker!” They definitely knew how to make their point.
You aren’t afraid of monsters at night, are you? Well, to reconcile you with the romantic creatures of darnkness, compare the views outside my tent during the day and at night.
22. vi. 2022
This is a contribution from a special star to little Emma’s world. Thank you very much, Capella, for sharing this.
What are
aching neck
empty hands
and dry lips
longing for
Here’s what she misses
it’s a thousand pink kisses
some more
on every step
a few dozens
each foot
You wonder what this is
it’s a thousand pink kisses
Welcome
to anyone
who’s walking
to my home
have some
21. vi. 2022
Few people think of the unromantic side of forest work: throwing trees away. I’ve never cut so many birches and chestnuts in my life. But they had to go, so other species can grow. We used some to build dead hedges.
20. vi. 2022
Just coming back from the forest, I’m still bathing in the breath of a better world. I shall share some details of my adventure over the week. For now, a taste of my work place. A place for quiet walks, contemplation and lots of banter, laughs and jokes with friends – everyone camping nearby.
12. vi. 2022
Going to the forest later today, just packing. The weather will be good for stargazing, so I’m drawing a map of the sky for my coordinates tonight. Spica and Antares will be around in the south, with lady Moon getting in the way; Altair, Deneb and Vega to the east, Capella to north if I’m lucky to see it, as it will be quite close to the horizon, and of course my little North Star; and Regulus and Arcturus to the west.
I won’t take pics of the stars, but I’ll try to capture something beautiful in the forest. It’s frustrating, because my eyes are very aware of the different shades of green. I know exactly what colours I want to capture, but the photos are always way behind my expectations. They’re gross. Over the time I stopped taking pics of nature. I’ll make an exception this week.
10. vi. 2022
The Stonewall Riots started on June 28. I’m proud of sharing my birthday with the initiative of people standing up for their rights. Seeking erotic happiness is a spiritual right.
Sexuality is a journey of endless discovery. Along the way, we develop preferences around a comfort zone. There’s a way of celebrating that. But we can also get obsessed with our comfort zone. We can crystallise our sexual life around a Neolithic label: “I like girls. I like big tits. I like blowjobs. That’s who I am. That’s what I’m going to be for the rest of my life.” Well, that’s quite a sad life. We are more fluid than we are raised to think. On the Ocean of Aphrodite, we’re free to surf on different waves. They might bring us back to familiar waters. But they add depth to the journey.
The only sexual life to be proud about is one in which everything has been explored – with curiosity, acceptance and respect for others. The world I’d be proud of is one where children are taught: man and woman, gay and straight – fuck that! Everyone is a universe. Every two people click with one another in a unique way, and that’s what matters. Gay, bi and straight are not even scientific distinctions, they’re popular simplifications, gross and harmful.
Sexual preference is not a law of nature. A guy may spend twenty years fucking pussy. Then he goes to jail and spends another twenty years fucking men. A woman swears she’s always been a lesbian. One day a man comes along and it’s love at first sight. No, she wasn’t “cured”, she’ll love pussy forever. But again and again love and libido make a mockery of crystallisations. Black and white is only true of movies. Horizons can be expanded. Fucking outside the box can save your life.
I don’t want any man to be proud of being gay, because that would allow another to be proud of being straight. I want them to feel bad for their labels, ashamed for conflating an obsession about their comfort zone with sexual liberation.
02. vi. 2022
I like to think of my companions online as a constellation of friends, a spiritual support hub along the journey. While they are many, each of them is unique in their shine. What I share with every single one is an irreplaceable experience. No two people love in the same way, and this is the treasure of my constellation. The sky above me right now is a picture of our bond. Here we are –
My constellation makes me safe online. My stars understand I’m not using them. Some bring me sexual joy, but it’s not just about sex. I look after them with loyalty: I listen, I assist, I never give up on anyone. I am grateful for the acceptance they’ve shown, and the kindness they’ve shared I couldn’t take for granted. We’ll shine together in a universe of enduring friendship: the Order of Stars. More soon!
01. v. 2022
Late afternoon in the garden, late spring. One more spring. Night slowly sinks in, yet the little birds are singing. No stars yet, but the breeze is bringing the scent of the night to come.
I hear a piece of Dowland in my head. It brings back the evenings I spent in this garden, year after year, unware of how sweetly time was taking my sighs away. Just as I sat there and still sit.
29. iv. 2022
Some people say the French Revolution sealed the fate of the harpsichord, an instrument associated with nobility, royalty, absolutism. Whenever a château was plundered, the first prestige object to be destroyed was the harpsichord. Possessing one could cost your life. No wonder many aristocrats were in a hurry to dispose of theirs. It was a dramatic end for an instrument that had shaped music in Europe since the late middle ages.
The harpsichord was already in decline when the revolution started. A new musical taste was emerging in the mid 18th century, a movement against the very sophistication that a harpsichord can capture so well. For the new generation, the music of the future had to be more down-to-earth. So you had this new instrument, the piano-forte, which in literal translation means “soft-strong”. It lacked the charm of the harpsichord but allowed the player to control intensity. People were curious about it.
It was a question that shaped keyboard practice in the 18th century: harpsichord or piano? Mozart went for the latter, and with such a genius throwing his weight behind it, there had to be something good about the piano. By the time the French Revolution started, it was only a matter of time before the piano took over. Roughly ten years later, Beethoven was composing sonatas that definitely couldn’t be played on a harpsichord.
I can tell the true riddle of my own self, and speak of my experiences – how I have often suffered times of hardship in days of toil, how I have endured cruel anxiety at heart and experienced many anxious lodging-places afloat, and the terrible surging of the waves. There the hazardous night-watch has often found me at the ship’s prow when it is jostling along the cliffs. My feet were pinched by the cold, shackled by the frost in cold chains, whilst anxieties sighed hot about my heart. Hunger tore from within at the mind of one wearied by the ocean. This that man does not understand who is most agreeably suited on land – how I, wretchedly anxious, have for years lived on the ice-cold sea in the waves of the sojourner, bereft of kinsfolk, hung about by ice-spikes; hail pelted in showers. There I heard nothing but the raging of the sea, the ice-cold wave. Sometimes I would take the song of the swan as my entertainment, the cry of the gannet and the call of the curlew in place of human laughter, the sea-mew’s singing in place of the mead-drinking. There storms would pound the rocky cliffs whilst the tern, icy-winged, answered them; very often the sea-eagle would screech, wings dappled with spray. No protective kinsman could comfort the inadequate soul. (The Seafarer, Exeter Book, opening lines translated from Old English by a friend)