Style

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Style, to me, isn’t about flowery language, ‘the moves,’ and presentation. It’s about being true to yourself. Anyone who expresses something honest is bound to touch on something universal. Great art will not reveal the artist, but rather, will serve as a mirror to reveal the spectator to herself. The same goes for clothing, conversation, loving, or any action or expression. Animalism, humanism, and a unique voice exist inside every individual. If someone taps into her true self and explores her own potential, then her honest expression and communication will naturally have its own style, and her very existence may become a symbol in the eyes of others; as she may symbolize their own potential.

What some people might call ‘style’ I would call integrity. Integrity involves honesty as well as commitment. If a person is dedicated to her craft, she can express herself more honestly in the moment. For instance, if a musician puts in her “10,000 hours” practicing, then the minute she is moved to express her deep emotions, she can go to the piano, close her eyes, press the ‘record’ button and let the song write itself through her. If she rehearses a lot, then when she’s on stage, she can let herself go and trust the music to pour through her limbs as a numinous force that moves her on its own. If someone does something with such ease that her body is a vessel through which honesty is expressed, then she probably put a lot of time into honing that skill. In this manner, style develops from within.

Wrapping something up in an attempt at ‘style’ impedes communication. A lot of music, art, conversation, loving, or day to day expression is caked in makeup, bullshit and selling-points that mask the raw humanity that could otherwise be expressed. The most beautiful outfit looks dull on a person who doesn’t breathe its colors, and an eloquent political speech is made of dust if the politician has no past actions to back up his words. People use skimpy attempts at ‘style’ to compensate for a lack of hard work and self-awareness. This is the trap of ‘aiming for style’ that people fall into, rather than simply being. If someone is brave enough to define and pursue her passion and purpose, and puts blood, sweat and tears into her life and work, then even if she is a garbage woman she will automatically collect that garbage with style. But ironically, she who is concerned with style is unlikely to have much style at all.

Cats have more style than dogs because they aim to please no one.

Charm

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I don’t use charm. Charm uses me. When I’m really into someone, I can’t stop my heart from throbbing and my cheeks from flushing. I’m suddenly self conscious in ways I never was before. I feel exposed. I’m stumbling all over myself and can’t think. All I want to do is crawl into his arms, or have wild animal sex, or know everything about him but I feel rude asking, so I putter around trying to think of something acceptable to say, and barely end up speaking at all. Some people find that helplessness adorable (like a wet mouse?), some find it oddly fascinating (like a bald peacock). If I manage to avoid conversing, I stare like a hungry tigress with my eye fixed upon the prey, studying his every nuance, seeking his tender and vulnerable spots, thirsting to pounce. The less words are involved, the more likely I am to seduce, because my body language and hunger speaks for itself, and yet makes no demands.

The rest of the time I’m comfortable in my own skin and don’t think to chase or please anyone; however I am genuinely compassionate and interested in listening to what someone has to say… if I’m not, I won’t talk to them beyond being cordial. So my honest interest in them, along with my openness and natural vigor, can seem anything from charming to clumsy. I need to practice if I am to learn how to wield my charm rather than let my curiosity, ardor, and moods wield me.

Inspiration

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“When we love, we always strive to become better than we are.” -The Alchemist

I’ve always believed the best type of songs are written for one person, and the best performance is a conversation with one person. Even if the one person is not in the audience, or the song was originally written for someone else, I can’t help but imagine one person as I am singing. I drop to my knees on stage, I break into tears; I succumb to the music completely. Normally I cannot dance but on stage, the music moves me and my hips press against the keyboard, my body becomes fluid. I am always singing to one person in my mind, even if he is fictional.

When I want someone with all my heart, I become a vessel through which stories and songs emerge. I do this anyway, as a lifestyle, but when I’m turned on, in love, truly moved by another person, I don’t even need food anymore. All I can eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is my desire, my longing, the inspiration he gives me with his beauty, his mind, his words, his spirit. My art and writing and music has potential to send him a message; it is communication, and I imagine him reading it, hearing it, seeing it, knowing me. If it’s a new piece, the song is a conversation with him; it’s made of his essence; he is breathing into my keys, through my hands, singing through my voice. He is more than a goal or a chase; he is a force in the universe that I have locked in with. The trees have a pulse and the grass has veins. The clouds are made of diamonds that tumble around each other like lovers wrapping their limbs together. The wind has a taste and my feet have wings. Everything is alive. I cannot help but sing, write, create. Art and music is the same as breathing. There aren’t enough hours in a day to breathe in the smell of nature, pour out the musics and arts and words that run through my veins, dream of his touch and explore his mind. I’m changing, I’m growing, I’m expanding. At the same time I’m boiling down to one simple truth. 

 

Sex

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I love sex and I want it real. I believe sex is a communication between two people, so I don’t go in with any expectations; I let the dynamic develop on its own. I yearn to devour every corner of my lover’s mind, heart, and body, and for him to devour mine, to the point where there is nothing left of us but sweat and nails and thrusts, and we don’t even know who is who anymore. The specific manner in which this occurs can vary, depending on the dynamic between us. And I feed off the dreams of others. I derive immense pleasure from sharing someone else’s dreams and fantasies, becoming part of them; taking them on as my own, and immersing myself in their deepest yearnings and the most human, naked parts of their psyche that play out in the bedroom.

But if I am to speak of my own fantasies, I would want no toys, no BDSM rules or roles. I would want to fight for dominance, but be overpowered by raw strength; nothing but the force of limbs, chest, hips, lust and bare hands. It is only when I fight for dominance and end up completely overpowered that I feel truly dominated, and there is nothing more invigorating. I yearn to lose control, to lose myself, to lose all notions of power, to feel completely vulnerable; to achieve catharsis. But in order to do so, I would need to know my lover had my best interest in mind, would die for me, would protect me at all costs. If that is not the case, I could not trust him enough to lose myself entirely. At least a small part of me would remain on guard.

Saving the World

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Ari Rose – Chapter 1

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
The question was a whisper in a tornado of agendas, desires, and fears. The same question had been repeated countless times, by infinite voices, passing through lips on faces that would all look identical once the flesh disintegrated. The rhythm of the words was so familiar that their meaning was only a melody carrying the song of our culture from one century to the next.

I knew truth was relative. I knew it was a battle of perception. Yet I did not defend my beliefs. I made no attempt to argue that this entire procedure was nothing more than a social game, drawing distinctions and framing motives for the sake of analysis itself. Instead, I followed protocol. I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Saving the world was no longer my concern.