THE NEW RAIN SONG
The most extraordinary thing happened today. I received a rug from a pal, and a song triggered something deep and peaceful inside. It’s my Madeleine moment, I traveled in time.
You see, I live with a flatmate. It’s a long story. I don’t always beat men with a stick at home but when I do, the flatmate needs to know. So it’s hard to find a flatmate who doesn’t look down their nose at a part time domme. Corporate whores who bankrupt nations are held in high esteem, but society still regards consensual bum slapping as a shameful misdeed.
Lucky for me, I arranged so most of my work is not physical beating but “being there”, online, for psychological emergencies. Like, say, when a grown man needs mummy; or when a successful one craves knocking down a peg this minute, and a society recalcitrant in its maledom ways fails to cater to his actual weakness… giving him responsibilities and praise he’s not meant for… so I give it him. Many, many men, armies of men everywhere have unsatisfied femdom needs, which at the penis tip, mean an orgasm to a woman in charge, and at the societal end, it means men are not all they’re built up to be… and it takes a pariah woman to put these men in the place nature gave them: below. Behind. In the gutter.
Of course, this can’t get out, because it would mean those men in suits from the banks that sodomise you financially… are not really in charge at all, they’re just submissive poppets. Much has been invested in the illusion of power of upper middle class men. But their psychosexual reality aligns with the invisible hierarchy of power they really serve. From the bottom of pyramid, we see those directly above us. We don’t see the scarier levels above these pompous CEOs and MPs. Long ago, society decided we can’t have evil women, like a professional domme, challenge these delusions of power. But shhhh. We’re supposed to all pretend that female domination is just about sexy latex clothes and it’s not the single most enlightening psychosexual reality that tells you what a farce history is. “Patriarchy”? My ass. We’ve been sold “authority” figures who secretly crave being the sole of women’s shoes and all this respectable head of family circus— desperate effort by the middle men, the bourgeois class, and the meek leaders of an illusory pack to hide the fact that they’re not really dominant. Nor really that powerful. More like, deeply subservient. More on that later. It’s going to turn some “fundamentals” upside down.
The world of technology is my splendid quasi-liberation, meaning I only need to connect to my accounts, and make money pour in, from home. Good for me. Not so good for ..sharing a house. Not catering to the penis tip of femdom means I can’t afford to live alone in my gorgeous flat. Being in the field I’m in means potential flatmates run screaming and I don’t get the chance to be so selective about them.
It all goes back to the Tories, I assure you.
But I digress. Current flatmate, young, well bred. Studious student… what have you. Anyhow, idea is, flatmate and boyfriend, not a pleasant chemical reaction and my particular boyfriend is a tall, boisterous, loud presence with Aspergers that doesn’t pay rent. So I was succinctly informed by the tenant that said boyfriend has to stop living here (“scrounging”), and I am not exactly rich enough to throw out paying tenant for non paying boyfriend. Long story, if you're curious why the boyfriend doesn’t pay, take it up with him. It sounds really convincing when he says it. Something, something dark side, Tories, etc. He makes it sound really grand.
Now, the boyfriend plays a complex role in my life. Cuddle bunny, hot water bottle, teddy bear, fortune divinator.. room decoration (his gold hair and blue eyes match the art on my walls). I picked this particular bunny from the internets and this alone is reason to celebrate the internets as the best thing eva. Of course the core suitability is intellectual, but day by day, he mostly fulfills affective needs. Never realise how deep those are until you lose them… because a rich student flatmate you can’t afford to lose plays check mate and you throw the cuddle bunny out with the bath water and… you’re sullen.
Wallowing through the corridors of my house, this Led Zeppelin song haunts me. I spend hours trying to find out which it is. Eventually it turns out it’s The Rain Song. My weird and weirdly beautiful childhood in the: 1. gulag. 2. post gulag/incipient neoliberalism — benefitted from these long relaxed afternoons of smuggled hippie records, with my dad, my mom… RELAXED.
Much is said every day about the wonders of capitalism and hey-ho, a professor in university once told us — I shit you not — that capitalism is the happy ending of time, now we’re all together happy ever after and it’s basically nirvana. Or as he put it, the hegelian end of history. You’re going to hear about this guy again because he’s basically the reason I spent many years of my life being bankrupt and miserable but convinced it was me, not them; and yay the US is great, isn’t it? “Meritocracy” et al.
I mean, it took me more than five minutes to figure out what’s going on when I moved to UK. It should have technically, taken the time it takes to exit the plane and reach passport control. But such are the ways of brainwashing that you explain it away. The homeless? their fault. Not worked hard enough. The dying oceans? their fault. Not working hard enough. The pensioners lied they’d work to 60 now forced to work till they die? their fault. Not worked hard enough.
It’s not true, capitalism isn’t that happy. You know how I know? Because I start being nostalgic about my childhood in one of the poorest countries in 90s Europe. Even of the first years of my life under communism, and trust me, you really don’t want to regret that. It wasn’t just the complete Western culture ban and absence of food.... but the fact mere opinion could get you “disappeared”. And yet, what I am driving to today is, I’ve felt just a slight tinge of inebriating, intoxicating longing for … that time. And a specific moment from that time.
Get my drift?
It’s TIME, basically. There was time to be enjoyed.
I remember my parents, they worked hard, they weren’t rich. But they had their weekend to themselves. Evenings to themselves. No boss looking for them at 3am by email. There was no email. It was bad, but it was also good. No boss could be looking for you at 3am. Of course, I don’t know what it’s like to have a boss. Maybe it’s good to have a boss so interested in you.
The idea is… we lounged. We had long autumn days with homemade apple pie (and believe you me, Romanian pie is REAL pie, not like this stodgy crime against humanity you call pie in Blighty; eyesrollintoskull.exe). There was Led Zeppelin playing on the magnetophone. God knows where my parents bought it; or the hundreds and hundreds of rock and classical music records lining our walls. It was illegal to buy and sell them, you see. But on this ancient bulky device, we gathered to hear the world groan — its Dionysian ecstasy beyond the iron curtain… envying, longing for that kind of dance and freedom.. Sounds reached us like from another world into our grey, and we dreamed.
We didn’t know the Westerners themselves had no time to enjoy it.
But we had. Mom made everything from scratch in the early years, even soap. Dad sew us nice dresses. And time had substance. Of course, again. I don’t really speak from experience. With my cleverly engineered career, there is one thing I have, and that is time. But nobody around me does. Everyone constantly complains they don’t have time, they have to work. At first, I thought they’re just saying it to avoid me. I think .. they just have to work. And it’s not fun work, no, it’s not about them, their wants. It’s about what pleases massa. Innit?
sadface.png
I thought they'd keep making music like this. I was promised this, this resplendent culture, it was sold to me on false pretense.. and I move here, and pay tax here, and bury my youth here… and you have .. “The Voice”??! Dear fucking god. “They don’t make music like this anymore” — thought this was said by sore losers. Basically, the West’s been producing breath taking music, and popular culture, for the past 2/3 generations. And now it evolved into a caricature of itself? The West doesn’t want to be humane anymore, let’s just make robot sounds that emulate music and have Lady Gaga scream like an ox. It’s not what music is, assholes!
Music is meant to be felt; there’s this complex unconscious brain with forces we don’t understand yet, that in a great piece of art, spits lots of meaning and emotion the artist’s been brewing from experience not navel gazing, and the listener picks up on the layers and deciphers them — emphatically, and that’s what’s deep and sincere about it. But when you just sing because you want adulation on TV in a meat dress… emulating the sound of music like the that meme cat pretends to speak human? It’s music like a parrot screeching “to be or not to be” to its owners’ guests is Shakespeare. The worse is the crowds of idiots who go along and talk about her like she’s Jesus. Emperors’ new clothes if ever there was one.
But I digress. The Rain Song elicited something deep and nostalgic, on the background of my recently departed boyfriend. Departed to his ugly flat in the ghetto. I used to have cuddles on tap and jump up with joy and laughter all the time with my bunny. I’ve been haunted by emotional lacks that send me right back to my childhood. The family scenes I long for are not so happy, they're bitter sweet. But they’re captivating and moody to the point of tunnel vision. My dad didn’t love me. He was obsessed with himself. My mum did but it was hard to tell behind all the screams. Kids can’t exactly decipher the intricacies of scream language. Dad was emotionally vacant and a social climber. Not so much back then but that’s when it started. Long story short, he ended up a neoliberal stooge in Canada labouring like a drone with a broken back and a few mortgages to his name, but proud of his family sedan and American vacay cottage. But he doesn't love me, he never did. And when I was a kid, I could feel it. Of course, I couldn't know it. Didn't know what it was. I just .. didn't feel loved.
Which was conflicting with the appearance of love, the correct motions of paternal love. Like Gaga pretends to sing, dad was pretending to love. The unconscious didn’t resolve this, and it emerged in my behaviour as “being difficult”; unhappy. Walking around needing to be loved which put people off which makes you worse… the vicious cycle of real time individual psychology vs cold hearted 20th century society.
I used to sit on the colorful persian rug; and play and talk to my dad. And listen to this deep song that’s etched deep in my mind, the soundtrack to the family story that isn't anymore. We used to talk, and I was a curious kid. My curiosity was sated, my affection wasn’t. Sitting on the rug in the comfort of the parental home, with its cooking smells, and fresh air, and sunshine. And the protection of parents. With the West pouring its sublime sentimentality in our livingroom through the old magnetophone. I could roll around and run around, the surfaces were soft and clean, and welcoming. I didn’t care. There was no care. There was no worry about the rent. No worry about money. About people’s judgment. And approval. Life was cushioned if a bit emotionally vacant. Nothing but an isolated nest with unsated affective needs outsourced to the music, and somehow, this moment melted in my head with the recent events. They’ve become one, this little trauma opened that big trauma and in the brain area where it’s stored, nice feelings were found. It’s healing to connect the present with the past and go back in childhood traumas as an adult, roll your sleeves up, and sort the analytical misunderstanding you couldn't as a kid; “not your fault, kid, see? — it’s the parents, they were too young, too poor, too .. it’s neoliberalism, see. Mum was good, but angry, but she loved you, and does. Dad was a douche, but he’s become a capitalist poppet and that goes to shows you. Mom is working class socialism, warm, honest and caring. Dad is neoliberalism, a lying scummy bitch with social climbing syndrome.”
But my bunny on the other hand.. he sates the need. And he was taken away from me. I blame neoliberalism.
I’m seething like a slow leave burning fire, I’m peaceful, I’m reminiscing. It’s autumn, and bittersweet.
A time for strange fruit and golden light and extracting romance from one’s past. I wrote this on my new brown rug, on the floor, in front of the big window overlooking the river. Rebuilding a shattered nest is no small thing. Candlelight, and Led Zeppelin booming on my laptop to the exasperation of the flatmate.
The recent experience rewrites the old memory. The accuracy of the past is forever lost under the rewritten version. Next time I have access to this corner of my mind — triggered by this song, the fall or something else.. it won’t be the real childhood I’ll remember. It will be the slightly soapy but emotionally mature version I have just created. And off it goes, sealed shut and sent off healed to the inaccessible corners of my mind… the solved conflicts and sated needs to reverberate into other areas of the mind where they’d stretched their confusing influence. Error correction. Brain healing. Of course, the correcting connections are only made slowly, as other triggers allow the magic opening of other sealed doors of memories you don’t know you have. The changing of seasons is good for that… it triggers.
Now it’s over to the bunny for the pathetic excuses.
