/CRIT/ - Critique thread!

I skipped to the end and red the word 'catgirl'
sorry man can't help you

what's wrong with catgirls?

Attached: 1547534522795.jpg (400x365, 17K)

[An attempt to dramatize a friends existential crisis]

Every child grows up with faith, be it in country or family or god, and has, if they are clever, a crisis of it. They discover that the things they have been told are, on examination, riddled with contradictions. The nation has blood on it’s hands, the bible is stuffed with lies and the family is tyrannical, manipulative trap. This is typical of most kids teenage years and it often marks the beginning of an immense discovery faze: an exiting, thoughtful time in which the fundamentals of ones society and upbringing are brought into question in an exercise of self assertion and pure individuality.

But then, if the child is so predisposed, there starts another more unfortunate faze; in which, as ones life is spread open and it’s knots of contradictions are laid bare and coldly excised, the child tries to reshape it again, only to discover that he cant. He realizes that he made a miscalculation. An assumption – something he did not know he was making – had snuck it’s way past his interrogative censor. Who said that anything can ever be fit together.

And so he searches for other assumptions and discovers indeed a large store of them hidden
within him, the everyday porous sediment of the examined life. After all, If life’s particulars cant be fit together then who said that joy can be made to fit meaning? His delight, he now realizes, is as empty as the thing he was, just a few days ago, delightfully deconstructing. The adventure, started as an attempt to rid truth of it’s inconsistencies, has ended in a prison.

He sees the jailers face everywhere. Everything is tainted. He’s in the media, in politics, in religion, in god, in family and friends, in good and evil, and joy and truth. Every inherited supposition is a trap. Even in his previously joyous individuality, for it too is the product of contradiction, and, after all, he has only his own faith that it is truly individual to him and not, like so much else, the product of the jailers influence.

But still he goes on and rejects faith itself. Instead, an embrace of the arbitrary, of formlessness, of fluidity, of a life without the confidence of the solid. He chooses it, and knows what it would mean. To never reassemble that boneless spread open thing that he so carelessly, with the curiosity of a child, bisected in his youth. That priceless gift, offered to him by family and community, by friends and society and by god almighty. The gift of something imperfect yet complete. The gift of something nameless but all consuming.

The meaning of life

Wrote something about a guy who thinks he's Jesus and gets sent to an asylum.

No roots, roots, roots.
Grow deep, deep, deep
As mine.
Holy pretending
Never ending
No roots grow deep as mine.
You judged tree
Before you saw the fruits
Holy Pretending
Never Ending
I'm the true Devin.
No roots grow deep as mine.

*Devine

pastebin.com/pDzGLi98

Posted last thread but nobody read it :(

Divine?, it's impossible to tell what it's about without you saying so, so it either needs a good title or to be more obvious

cut the indeed

I don't feel like clouds weep, is it a cliche? just my opinion though. Despair are the winter times is grammaticaly incorrect, even if you intended it;s not good.

pretty good poem overall though.

Yeah fair enough. I was lurking the thread so wanted to contribute something.

Carver isn't oversimple. What you're detecting is the pernicious hand of Gordon Lish, my friend

>nation has blood on it's hands
>had snuck it's way past
dropped, seriously, learn the fucking difference
Jokes aside, you seem to be writing in a 19C kinda way reminiscent of how Englishmen translated germans. Stop it. Also, don't dramatize your friends unless they understand and accept whatever you're doing.

>Also, don't dramatize your friends unless they understand and accept whatever you're doing

You listen to the guys shit for month's on end and not go mad. Turning it into a writing exercise was the healthiest thing i could do.

as for the olde-worlde feel i was going for a homiletic tone since all our conversations have that ministerial undertone. Thus the faith malarkey .

Is there a way to copy footnotes and end notes into google drive from a word doc?

I had felt quite at ease and in control when I parked the car with almost fifteen minutes before the start of our session, and I politely waited until exactly ten minutes before to notify Mistress Darcy by text or phone call that I had arrived. I was only to enter the hotel upon receiving her instructions and was quite certain I was about to be welcomed inside, her knowing I’d served another Domina but was still quite green in these situations. And so when she whimsically replied, “Hi, cuck. I want champagne! Impress me.” I was completely spun into a wreck of anxieties. Not at all familiar with this part of town, I was completely dependent on my Google Maps to send me towards somewhere in walking distance where there was Champagne. This was my chance to impress her, sure, but I was completely feverish in trying to find and then swiftly stride, shop, check-out and orient myself again with my phone and find my way back to the hotel, updating Mistress as I deemed appropriate. Inevitably, things took longer that I thought and I was texting her at five minutes after the formal start of our session to effusively apologize for taking so long, my freshly showered body now covered in an damp and unflattering perspiration, my deep panic making me feel as pale as I no doubt appeared. Non-plussed she told me to find her in the hotel’s lobby, where she sat wearing tight leather pants that terminated just above the ankles of her feet, her raven toes pinching the thongs of flip flops, baring her pallid feet quite flagrantly at me, her knowing full well of this weakness from our discussions prior to this meeting. So off kilter from the surprise errands and the heartstopping to and fro, the running late, the bursting into an unattractive sweat, I felt this was another test, one where if I failed to make respectful eye contact and cast my unworthy gaze upon her, especially her feet, so conspicuously downcast and obvious to so perceptive a Domina, I was certain she might slap me around right there in the luxuriant and serene lobby, itself quite dark, being decorated with onyx marble and dark floors, we were alone but for the pair of employees at the front desk.

But what she instead commented upon was my failure to remove the adhesive price tags from the two bottles of Champagne and the bottle of Sparkling Moscato, a choice I selected from having scoured her Instagram to learn all I could of my Domina, the better to please her, and finding a Vivino 4.6 star bottle on such short notice, I thought things were turning in my favor. But everything Mistress Darcy does is deliberate, or might as well be as far as I could ever fathom, and she relished my fumbling to remove the stickers and bashful, earnest apologies, telling me to calm down and not draw attention to our little fray. She quickly decided it was time to head to the elevator, stopping us to tell the bartender downstairs she was taking her drink to her room, to which he smiled and thanked her. Still trying to catch my breath, to control my heart rate and sweating, to try and enjoy the moment too, and anticipate what Mistress might need or might throw at me next, feeling so far I had failed each of my tests and shown myself to be like all the other subs and slaves, horny, uninteresting and ultimately beneath Mistress Darcy’s satisfaction. I wanted so badly to please her, having obsessed and agonized over this encounter, reading every Max Fisch review, every article, every account or rumor of her styles, her protocols, so too also the incredible pictures of her incredible alabaster skin, as if she’d never seen sun, but was radiant from pure femininity, a rosey, peachy albinism. As it was just us in the elevator Mistress Darcy asked, “What’s better, cuck, the journey or the destination?” Immediately overthinking, and not quite sure what I would answer, or if I could even recognize anymore what my preferences are with my ego having been so hammered, I responded, stuttering and stammering I’m sure, “the journey, of course,” trying to feign a bit of confidence, to seem as masculine as I could at this point. Mistress Darcy is quite petite, but athletic and voluptuous, a beauty that is both a natural wonder and her personal creation, and she exudes seduction but also power, it roils about her. Her dismissive response, mocking, biting, a bit disappointed in how clueless I was, “It’s the Destination, man!” She told me to hold the elevator door for her and I did so right as it opened and she slinked past, her aromas luring, snidely from her wavey obsidian hair, her sashaying, pert leather-clad glutes reminding me with every calculated sashay and boom of her hips how impossibly distant and unattainable her intimacies would always remain to me.

There are some Dominas who really are closer to spritual healers than kink aware escorts. In my experience, I was at the time a lost soul and sought out Dominas because why not, I'd grown up with Maitresse Madeline videos, that all seemed hot, and sex was just not rewarding, especially because I obsessed with pleasing the woman and while I could do that most of the time, I largely forgot that women enjoy giving pleasure too, and being received as good lovers and all that. Vanilla stuff was incongruous to all these other kinks and weirdness. But I figured they were silly nonsense, excuses to just do transgressive kinky stuff. And so when Mistress Darcy tossed my first chastity device to me and I was proud to have caught it, thinking I'd preserved some aspect of my pitiful masculinity, I don't think the tectonics of domination had quite shifted into place even then, not until she unbuckled my belt, unzipped my pants and pulled me out of my underwear, all acts that would have been the crowning chest-beating win in another context, but now she let me hang there, limp, uneasy, while she separated the chastity devices pieces and began going into why she enjoyed these types of scenes so much, and how Inadequate I was to even her first boyfriend who she'd tried such games with and came to love, it started to sink in how powerless I was and the degree of design that Darcy had planned. I recall her angelic finger briefly even touching my shaft as she swiftly installed the chastity device, which took mere seconds to render me into the now completely unfamiliar experience of witnessing intense play without self stimulation or pleasure to justify or comfort or deflect me from the full weight of Darcy's plot falling into place. Prior to her lovers arrival, Mistress helped me acclimate by pulling me over her knees and quite gently spanking me, giving me a really an ideal view of her statuesque feet, like slightly tinier versions of women's feet in neoclassical paintings, brightly white, shapely, immaculate, intricate wrinkles and bendings surpassing the brush of velveteen and silk. I could just fixate upon her feet and make them my world, finally, but I could derive really no sexual arousal from them or else I'd risk damaging my caged genitals. The disassociation this caused I think helped me land in the subspace I needed for the rest of the scene, seeing beauty and being deprived, even punished by the beauty itself. Sorry if this runs on. I've been meaning to write out these scenes in greater detail and didn't expect to explore these memories again so soon after doing so in the early femdom thread where I mentioned her book. I'll try to clean this up and add more later. I need to make the story flow more from her character than my perspective so to speak I think

Love my work !