of vis movendi, pinball, and sublimated erotic fury
I don't expect you savages to understand.
You don't play pinball with just your hands, you play it with your groin too. The pinball problem is not to stop the ball before it's swallowed by the mouth at the bottom, or to kick it up to the midfield like a halfback. The problem is to make it stay up where the lighted targets are more numerous and have it bounce from one to another, wandering, confused, delirious, but still a free agent. And you achieve this not by jolting the ball but by transmitting vibrations to the case, the frame, but gently, so the machine won't catch on and say Tilt. You can only do it with the groin, or with a play of the hips that makes the groin not so much bump, as slither, keeping you on this side of an orgasm. And if the hips move according to nature, it's the buttocks that supply the thrust, but gracefully, so that when the thrust reaches the pelvic area, it is softened, as in homeopathy, where the more you shake a solution and the more the drug dissolves in the water added gradually, until the drug has almost disappeared, the more medically effective and potent it is. Thus from the groin an infinitesimal pulse is transmitted to the case, and the machine obeys, the ball moves against nature, against inertia, against gravity, against the laws of dynamics, and against the cleverness of its constructor, who wants it to be disobedient. The ball is intoxicated with vis movendi, remaining in play for memorable and immemorial lengths of time. But a female groin is required, one that interposes no spongy body between the ileum and the machine, and there must be no erectile matter in between, only skin, nerves, padded bone sheathed in a pair of jeans, and a sublimated erotic fury, a sly frigidity, a disinterested adaptability to the partner's response, a taste for arousing desire without suffering the excess on one's own: the Amazon must drive the pinball crazy and savor the thought that she will then abandon it.
by: Umberto Eco, Foucault's Pendulum
the season? spring. a single note, held
one string bowed back, slowly...forth
in the key of -- oh!
by: dactyl, feeling... musical
i've saved the best for last. i hide my vulnerability here, under an lj-cut. you keep an eloquent silence here.
i wait, impatiently, for the stroke of a pen.
imagine i am the page, blank, chaste, longing to be marked, longing to keep the record of our actions. i am nothing but space. the stroke of a pen makes me a medium of communication.
sit down beside me. place your hands on me. absorb my blankness. imagine the possibilities.
begin to shape letters on my skin. consider me the conduit between the emptiness of this night and the fullness of another. relive every touch, close your eyes and sense each one over again. let words come to you, as through a muse. don't think of them - divine them. then trace them over my entire surface. feel how my breath falters when you loop your w's. cross every t (it makes me weak) and dot every i (even though it tickles).
remember my blankness and know that you are creating me in the image of your own imagination, your own recollection. remind me of each moment as seen through your eyes. cover me, fiber by fiber and stroke by stroke, with your memories of every second.
think of each word as a series of kisses.
let ink flow like passion.
just please...
write me.
by: sapphire
You don't play pinball with just your hands, you play it with your groin too. The pinball problem is not to stop the ball before it's swallowed by the mouth at the bottom, or to kick it up to the midfield like a halfback. The problem is to make it stay up where the lighted targets are more numerous and have it bounce from one to another, wandering, confused, delirious, but still a free agent. And you achieve this not by jolting the ball but by transmitting vibrations to the case, the frame, but gently, so the machine won't catch on and say Tilt. You can only do it with the groin, or with a play of the hips that makes the groin not so much bump, as slither, keeping you on this side of an orgasm. And if the hips move according to nature, it's the buttocks that supply the thrust, but gracefully, so that when the thrust reaches the pelvic area, it is softened, as in homeopathy, where the more you shake a solution and the more the drug dissolves in the water added gradually, until the drug has almost disappeared, the more medically effective and potent it is. Thus from the groin an infinitesimal pulse is transmitted to the case, and the machine obeys, the ball moves against nature, against inertia, against gravity, against the laws of dynamics, and against the cleverness of its constructor, who wants it to be disobedient. The ball is intoxicated with vis movendi, remaining in play for memorable and immemorial lengths of time. But a female groin is required, one that interposes no spongy body between the ileum and the machine, and there must be no erectile matter in between, only skin, nerves, padded bone sheathed in a pair of jeans, and a sublimated erotic fury, a sly frigidity, a disinterested adaptability to the partner's response, a taste for arousing desire without suffering the excess on one's own: the Amazon must drive the pinball crazy and savor the thought that she will then abandon it.
by: Umberto Eco, Foucault's Pendulum
the season? spring. a single note, held
one string bowed back, slowly...forth
in the key of -- oh!
by: dactyl, feeling... musical
i've saved the best for last. i hide my vulnerability here, under an lj-cut. you keep an eloquent silence here.
i wait, impatiently, for the stroke of a pen.
imagine i am the page, blank, chaste, longing to be marked, longing to keep the record of our actions. i am nothing but space. the stroke of a pen makes me a medium of communication.
sit down beside me. place your hands on me. absorb my blankness. imagine the possibilities.
begin to shape letters on my skin. consider me the conduit between the emptiness of this night and the fullness of another. relive every touch, close your eyes and sense each one over again. let words come to you, as through a muse. don't think of them - divine them. then trace them over my entire surface. feel how my breath falters when you loop your w's. cross every t (it makes me weak) and dot every i (even though it tickles).
remember my blankness and know that you are creating me in the image of your own imagination, your own recollection. remind me of each moment as seen through your eyes. cover me, fiber by fiber and stroke by stroke, with your memories of every second.
think of each word as a series of kisses.
let ink flow like passion.
just please...
write me.
by: sapphire