shaken, not stirred

is it a persecution complex if people really are trying to kill you?

i have a post all ready to go, but my heart just isn't in it. it's the next installment of the saga of dominick. mostly in his own words.

but i'm not feeling kinky right now. i'm too shaken for that.

i went to hear Bach's St. John's Passion at the National Cathedral. yeah, i'm Jewish, but i like a lot of liturgical music, the old stuff, and i like Bach, and a friend was playing in it who was staying with me while she was here from out of town and she got me a comp ticket. 4th row, yet!

well, i don't know much about the new testament. really, the only book i've read all the way through is Revelations, back in high school, because it was the source of symbolism for a play i was in at the time. so i was totally unprepared. and i couldn't hide from the text because not only did they hand out a program with the text side-by-side in German and English, and i always want to know what's going on (obviously not always the wisest thing), but also i do remember some of the German i studied umpteen years ago so couldn't escape all the references to die Juden.

when it was over i wanted to quietly slink away - and could understand why generation after generation people would go out and say "Hey! Let's go kill us some Jews!" really, who could blame them after what they'd had poured into their ears?

by the time i came home i was close to tears. i'm not even sure why it hit me this hard, but i'm very very shaken. i told my black housemate that it was as if she'd had to sit through Birth of a Nation, with the KKK as the good guys. because of course Jews aren't the only ones who have been the victims of genocide. and hatred has a habit of persisting, as well as of being politically very convenient to incite. and don't anyone give me any crap about the situation in Israel. that's not the issue here.

we never know the whole story. about anything. we certainly don't know the "truth" about what happened to Jesus because even 4 accounts written right after the events would have been different. we always see things through our own personal lenses, and the distortion becomes even greater when we recount the story to others. everyone has an agenda, conscious or not.

but injustice doesn't excuse injustice in response.

and i still remember my little great-aunt in Argentina showing me all the very old photos displayed over her bed. she pointed and said "this one was killed in a pogram in 19xx", "he was chased down and killed by Cossacks", "this one was killed by ..."

so even though Bach wasn't up there pointing at me, saying "look! there! the Jew. SHE killed Jesus!", i felt it very personally. and i was already feeling guilty when it started to sink in where things were headed. because in the early part, i was exceedingly disconcerted to find my cunt twitching and my thoughts straying to the philosopher at every mention of being bound or beaten.

so what is my greater sin - being a Jew or being a submissive masochistic fucktoy?

i don't even feel particularly owned at the moment. oh, i'm being properly submissive and undemanding and very very understanding. i know about grad students and the pressure they are under. and i especially know about THIS grad student. he's worth the wait, what we have is worth the wait - not just as a bdsm thing but as two people who, oddly enough, have a lot to give each other and are so very comfortable together. but for reasons connected with the Damn Dissertation we go days without any contact at all, not even e-mail. and now, because i'm working again and he doesn't get up till 10 am, we don't even have the morning wake-up calls. this week was worse than usual. we haven't been in touch since Wednesday night. it's too long for me. too hard. whether as a girlfriend or as a submissive masochistic fucktoy, it's too damn hard. i feel unmoored. the ropes are loosening. and i feel guilty at needing more. even just a little more. i'm so very afraid that it will all dissolve without a little more reinforcement.

i'm frightened.

i'm frightened by flickering images of ancient pogroms.
and i'm frightened by my needs for just a little more.
frightened that he will panic and run.

when all i need is to be held
when all i need is reassurance
when all i need is a gentle hand stroking my hair
and a firm hand grabbing my hair,
and a cruel nail pinching my nipple
and a dark voice demanding an answer

"who owns you, kitten?"

tell me, master.
tell me.
who owns me?

= = = = =

LATER...

i'm sorry, master.
i should never doubt you.
i should never doubt that you will take care of me.

thank you for calling.
thank you for making me feel safe.
thank you for denying my request for a haircut.

and most of all
thank you for saying
strictly and firmly
"you are spoken for."

YOU own me, master.
you do.
i know you do.

i will sleep in peace.