I got a spanking recently. That’s good in itself – the subspace wrapping itself around me like a cotton-wool cloud.
A bit less welcome though, was the sub-drop I experienced maybe thirty, thirty-six hours later.
Now this might sound like judeo-christian bullshit (it does to me, for a start!)
I don’t believe that ‘all pleasure must be paid for’, that positive experience must drag in its wake, a comedown or hangover.
I believe, based on experience, that the point (if there is one) to terrestrial existence is to have fun. To figure out what makes us happy and grab it with both hands.
It wasn’t deep subspace. (You know, where it kicks in like heroin with an LSD chaser) but just enough to light myself up with that old familiar feeling.
It’s like riding a bike, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter how long the gap was, your body remembers what to do when you get there.
I felt it rise up, felt myself sink into it and that opiated sense that everything’s groovy.
Enough to remind me why I’m alive, at any rate.
So, the following evening, I’m at home. Things are fine. Then it hits me. Out of the blue. Right between where the eyes should be.
The first thing I noticed was the fear. Things felt heavy, like a plethora of problems I couldn’t deal with, all at once.
I started to draw parallels with other phases in my life. I found it easy to remember instances when I’ve failed as a partner, a father and a human being, but when I tried to remember good times, the well was dry.
Considering previous relationships, I forced myself to work my way back from the hellish endings to the honeymoon periods, when things were good and the world seemed positive and filled with light and potential.
It was hard work. I spent around three hours, maybe longer, forcing myself to remember the positives I dredged up from the depths of my forgetting.
Something else I noticed, was that the music I put on (Miles Davis’ ‘Steaming’; John Cale’s ‘Paris 1919’) seemed overpoweringly loud, strident and aggressive.
Eventually, I figured out what was happening and started to pull myself out of the matmos.
I believe this may have been triggered by the spanking, followed by me wiring back into revising ‘1919 (outside)’ a few hours after I got home.
The concentration being enough to tire me out and lay me open to the great, leathern-winged monster that climbed in my head for those few hours.
Why not use your face to read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
If Scottish literature can be thought of as an elderly, overweight gentleman with savage diarrhea, 1919 (inside) is the land-mine he just stepped on.
Do it – do it NOW – for the children, eh? think of the children.