supplicium post mortem

gotta love Kate Maberly as Mary Lennox

I’ve been giving some thought to the subject of blog comments. We all like getting them. They make us feel heard and appreciated. Conversely, it’s easy to feel, when a post receives few or no comments, that people don’t love you.

I try not to go down this path, and I try not to beg for comments. It rubs against my wasp upbringing. Nevertheless, I can see that my posts don’t get as many comments as many of the blogs I read. What is it about my writing that discourages comments, I wonder? Is it my wasp reserve? Is it that apparent self-sufficiency that made people in college like and respect me, but never fancy me? Or perhaps I don’t give readers a place to enter? Perhaps I overwhelm them with too much reading.

Blogging isn’t a popularity contest for me, even if it sometimes feels like one. My goal is not to build a readership so I can sell books or feed a pay-site, both legitimate motivations, if not mine. Nevertheless, I can feel despondent when there aren’t many comments. This is inappropriate—or, since I despise that PC word, misplaced—because people who comment on my blog are not there to provide me with mass love. Even online friends, while they might express great support and affection, cannot genuinely love me, or vice versa.

But do I really believe this last statement? As a writer and reader, I know sometimes deep connection and in fact love can occur through the written word. For instance, I have first known and loved many of my students through their writing. Reading someone’s writing can be far more intimate than spending an evening with them down the pub or at dinner. And I would say I feel love (philia) towards blogging and twittering friends whom I have never met in the flesh. How does this compare to the love of in-person friendship tested over time? I am not yet in a position to say.

And the blogs I read that get several comments per post–these writers know many of their commentators well and have played with them (or more) in a most intimate, real-life fashion. So they are “real-life” friends, certainly more tightly bound to each other than I am to them. Thus, perhaps my aloneness in life is partly reflected in the comment traffic on this blog.

www.kate-maberly.com

This morning I was trying to get up at quarter to five, but my mind was absorbed by thoughts of casey. Jessica’s post last week about getting teary in scene stimulated my imagination about how I anticipate casey might feel playing again. Sometimes I imagine her going to a Lowewood day, or some other group scene of a not-too-adult nature, perhaps with England people. But, I don’t imagine her having fun as they do. I see her pretending to have fun but actually feeling terrifically alone and small and orphaned and abnormal; wanting RP and feeling that she must have been very wicked for him to go away; hearing a voice in her head telling her she can’t ever be like these people, telling her they will never understand or love her like he could, that she is just a bore to them–”You OK, Casey?” “Oh, yes!” smile-smile–And if she ever got seriously told off or pink-slipped (or whatever it is they call it when you get sent for to be whacked), she’d be sitting there thinking: See, you are bad, and no one can love you, and these people will never invite you back, and RP won’t be there to love you later, and neither will Marky, and if you hadn’t been so selfish and bad they’d still be here. And the tears would be streaming down her face, like they are now, and these people who were just wanting to have a fun day together wouldn’t know what to think, and would find me way too much work and un-fun, and no one would take me aside and sit me on their knee like they did Jessica, and let casey sob her heart out on their shoulder without them feeling used, and then, when she’d recovered, get her over the hump by telling her that she wasn’t bad at all, but she had been slightly naughty and really ought to take the penalty for that, and then give her a firm but sensitive punishment otk, and then look after her with a kind of housemaster’s-daughter benevolence and firmness all the rest of the day, encouraging her gamely in any cheekiness that might incur penalty because they recognize it as a sign of health, not something that needs true scolding.

www.kate-maberly.com

Except then these people would have to not go away, because if they did (for instance by living in another country, or by being busy and/or married), it would just make her feel more alone and orphaned and wicked.

And so this is why I have not let casey play RL even though I go to parties and meet people who would put me over their knee if I wanted. Because in the realest sense, tgi isn’t play for casey, or for me. At least not in the way most practitioners mean it.

Here is a story from the archives, as a Lol Day prize. On many levels it is cringe-inducing for me, but I think, towards the end, it gets at the huge force that had me and M in its grips. Keep in mind we had been corresponding for just about three weeks when I wrote it. I had no idea I was in love with him, or he with me; and I don’t think I was able to see it even after writing this story. Now, our fates appear glaringly obvious to me, as if writing can tell us things we can’t see with our minds.

I wrote Vice as revenge for the first story Mark wrote me, The Benefit of the Doubt here. Also mentioned is Mark’s story The Fishing Trip, discussed here. Dixon and Tremlett are his friends in The Fishing Trip, Mr. “Big Tim” Harrison is Housemaster in question, and Dr. Malcolm Headmaster.

This is yet another story written before I had ever experienced the cane or any RL play. Trivia: it appears that this is where I acquire my middle name, ha ha!

Vice

© Casey Morgan 1995

1.

MI6 was getting good. After months of failure, they’d finally begun to crack the Finnish anonymous remailer and thus zero in on some chief offenders in their own green and pleasant. A stray pervo in Birmingham, a hoard of terrorists in London, some Wilde imitators at Oxford. But even Morley, who headed the investigation, was surprised to unearth a user at the School. He was familiar with the place. And he knew the master in charge of its computer systems. So, rather than file the appropriate reports, he got on the train and paid a personal visit, in hopes of resolving the situation on the qt.

Mr. Harrison–housemaster and English scholar–was a man of many talents. After his former student had left him, he went directly to the Media Centre. In no time he had traced the account in question: Mark Hastings. Well, who else would it be? So it was that after Vth form English, Big Tim loped across the playing fields to Dr. Malcolm’s house.

“I might have know it.”

“It would seem he’s quite an accomplished documentarian,” Tim added. “I took the liberty of photocopying one or two examples.”

He dropped on the desk something called ‘The Fishing Trip.’

“And this particularly vulgar waste of good paper…”

‘The Benefit of the Doubt’ fell beside its sibling. The remainder had been tucked away in Mr. Harrison’s very secure filing cabinets.

“I suppose he must be summoned, formal interview and the rest of it.” Dr. Malcolm sounded weary. Ever since booking his summer holiday to Tangier, this all too human headmaster had been having difficulty concentrating. In particular, he was fed up with Mark Hastings and was running out of resources to meet him creatively.

“Ever since Hastings came here, he’s done nothing, it seems, but try to get himself beaten.” Tim looked at his friend obliquely.

“Hmm.” Dr. Malcolm stuffed his pipe between his teeth and bit hard. “Perhaps he hasn’t received a sufficiently strong dose.”

“Hmm.” Irony and understatement seethed on the carpet between them, though to an eavesdropper, the words would have fallen flat. These two men understood one another perfectly.

“I believe,” Dr. Malcolm murmured at last, “I know just the thing. Something to ensure he won’t be rushing back for more.”

read the rest of the story here

By my reckoning, we have earned 21 points. * Well done, kids. And since points make prizes, it is prize time, yay!

Here, then, is a picture from last night, what I wore to a tgi costume party (i.e. casey’s boy school uniform). It has the unfortunate effect of making me look really large and square. Oh well, as Mija has pointed out, uniforms are not supposed to be flattering. And, if they are, it would mean you are some young vixen going, Lolita-like, to parochial school, which I most certainly am not, even if I wanted to.

The nice surprise was that my coat fit right in. Who knew when I bought it (five months after M died) that I was actually buying the overcoat to casey’s uniform?? FYI, except for the overcoat, I haven’t put on these clothes since before he died, viz in over 18 months. Needless to say, it was very strange. But at least it didn’t make me burst into tears, so that is progress!

Story from the archives will be posted later today or tomorrow. No requests have been made, so I will pick the one that makes me cringe the least. Several people–flatteringly–said they wanted a story written for them. We need some more delurkers for that, but I don’t think there needs to be a deadline particularly. So, game still open.

* Each returning commentator earned 1 point, each delurk 2 points, and Mija earned us an extra point for being clever.

In this case LOL stands for Love Our Lurkers, and today is the International Love Our Lurkers Extravaganza, per Bonnie (thanks, Bonnie!). A lurker, in case you’re wondering, is someone who reads but declines to comment. If you’ve been reading Supplicium Post Mortem, or if this is your first visit, why not say hello? Can you imagine a writer who doesn’t want to make the acquaintance of readers? OK, maybe you are imagining an international literary sensation, or a sociopath, but I am neither.

So how about it, all you folks in China, Kansas, Texas, Australia, the Netherlands, France, Yale, the People’s Republic of California, inter alia? All you dear Brits, ye Canadians, and yon fair residents of Gotham—delurk yourselves!

Delurking of course earns points, and kids, what do points make? Points make prizes! (Extra points if that means something to you, lol.)

• 10 points = I’ll post a picture of me in the costume I wind up wearing to next Saturday’s tgi costume party.
• 20 points = I will post a story from the archives (so, if you are a longtime lurker with a title in mind from back in the day, make a request)
• 30 points = well, I can’t imagine there are this many lurkers, but if there are, I’ll write a story as requested by de-lurker #30.

Reading over that list, it doesn’t sound that enticing, I suppose. However, if you know me, you will know I’m not in the market for revealing photographs or excessive real-life information. It seems enough to tell you all my deepest personal secrets instead.

In any case, to readers known and unknown, seen and unseen—hello!

w4m – 40 – Gotham

I was working on my laptop at the SS Cafe this morning. You remarked on my handwriting. Sorry I was  uncommunicative; I was caught unawares. Was there a trace of an accent in your voice? You had a friendly smile. Fancy a do-over? Tell me what you said exactly…?

This is what I posted yesterday, the “clean” version. In what way, you might wonder, was I caught unawares? Well, when a girl is writing up her kinky blog and a man asks her What It Is – all that manuscript in her Clairefontaine – you should know that her Uh, it’s whatever means It’s Top Secret. Don’t get me wrong. I love people to read my blog. But, when confronted about my writing in the flesh a few blocks from home, it’s hard to summon the sangfroid to say: As it happens, today I am writing a post about the history of my kink. How, for instance, would I have introduced myself if we got to the point of exchanging names? As Casey Morgan, blogger extraordinaire? Or as the person whose name is on my mailbox?

But enough about me. You, perhaps, were just being friendly. I was too distracted to get a look at your ring-finger. Why did you sit at the table so long, drinking your coffee and staring into space? Thinking your thoughts… What thoughts were they? Did they have anything to do with the manic email I received this morning from a woman claiming I had described her husband, who was working in the neighborhood yesterday and who possessed an accent? If so, I pity you. She freaked, demanding I describe your attire and reveal my age. I don’t remember your attire. I only remember your smile, the silly fluff on your chin, and your absurd characterization of my handwriting as “neat.”

Come write your own missed connection – real or fantasy, who will know? Post the link today (Wednesday) here or on Twitter (@caseydamnmorgan). What is Midweek Missed Connections?

Read other missed connections this week:

• PapaTomLA

I’m off to Englandland, kids. I don’t know what kind of internet access I’ll be able to have over there. Yes, I know the interwebs exist across the pond, but it seems that free wifi might not be very common in stingy-old-England. Lots of places seem to have the attitude: you can mooch our wifi, but only if you pay us £5 per day, or per hour. I am trying hard not to get wound up about money and prices, but it’s a real challenge because a) I have so little discretionary $; b) I normally live in the absolute thriftiest way possible, cooking at home, cutting my cellphone, riding my bike, never travelling more than 2 hours away, turning off lights, fixing everything I can myself, rarely going out, etc.; c) It’s tough to be a traveler at the mercy of the local economy, in this case the UK, which features a trifecta of resentful service, appallingly high prices/poor value (even if the exchange rate were 1 dollar to the pound), and a meanness towards customers. I am reminded of the last time I was there and got a chicken salad sandwich at a small (empty) cafe in Somerset. When I got it (dry chicken, dry bread, lettuce), I asked nicely if I could possibly have a little mayonnaise on the bread. I was told I could have mayonnaise on the side for 15p. Because, you know, it would absolutely put them out of business if they were to go around dispensing a tablespoonful of condiment to every customer who had the Oliver-Twist-like arrogance to ask for it. Besides which, it would only encourage people to ask for what they really want – and if people did that, then – Shock! – well, the country would go to Hell in a hand-basket because people would stop whinging and actually do something about their complaints.

But let me not get started. Anyway, the small-empty-mean cafe in Somerset probably had to gouge on the mayonnaise because they’d been forced to to shell out tens of thousands of pounds for health-and-safety appraisals, equality training, local tax, council tax, refuse collection, national tax, European Parliament tax, and carbon offset fees – and all that in the month of January alone. They probably aren’t even in business today. We shall see when we go visit Mrs. RP.

OK, rant over. To my UK friends – *hugs*!

Suffice to say, I may be able to log on and host Flash Fiction Friday, or I may not. Either way, I’m sure that somehow the blogsphere will get on without me.

To snag the picture: http://www.caseymorgan.org/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/flash.jpg

Last week a challenge emerged amongst some folks on Twitter (me, @naughyabby @spankinresource @sabrinamorgan @papatomla) to write a 250 word erotic story in 24-hours. All happened to involve some form of tgi, though this wasn’t a requirement. And you know, when you do something once, it’s tradition! So, welcome to Flash Fiction Friday #2. (Even got a neat little image you can snag.)

Want to join in? Write a 250 word story: start any time Friday, finish by 6pm PDT Saturday. Post the link below or on Twitter. Try to include all the wildcards in your story.

This week’s wildcards (thanks to @spankinresource and @papatomla for contributing):

• skeleton key
• basement
• cuffs
  

Have fun!

An updated visual of how people get to this blog, other than coming directly on their own. Stats as of 5-2-2009. Thanks wordle for helping me make the spiffy image. Click on the image for bigger. Thanks as well to everyone who links to this blog!

I use the WassUp wordpress plugin to track visitors. Every week or so I manually track visitors using WassUp and Xcel. This is a low-traffic blog. I’m fairly sure it will never be an internet sensation. Here’s a pretty visual of how visitors found me. It includes both referring sources and search terms. I made it on wordle. Click on image for bigger version.