el tercer ojo

Hooray for research

 No of course this isn't about my dissertation (though no doubt that's what I should be doing rather than writing to you, faithful and much neglected Reader). It's about my first research love -- which would be anything related to corporal punishment.

Last week I wrote about the startle in Marc Drogin's book about medieval calligraphy, which included the mention of "palmers" described as "sticks with round, flattened heads with which to slap students palms." This interested me enough that I became obsessed with finding a picture of a palmer. I knew I needed to see one to make sure my scribe fantasies were accurate.

 Sadly, googling "palmer" revealed that "Palmer" is an insanely common author last name.  Too common even when adding "medieval" or "middle ages" or "scribe."  I'm sure you, Dear Reader, have experienced this frustration -- not enough specificity and you get 1,000,000 results, add too many words and you get none at all. After several fruitless hours I had to accept my defeat.

Almost. 

As Paul would no doubt tell you, I am not easily thwarted. 

So I posted to soc.sexuality.spanking, both to tell about the startle and to ask if anyone knew where an image for a "palmer" might be found.  Usenet being usenet, of course someone knew.  A "palmer" is, according to the expert response, another word for "ferule" (an implement had previously only seen as a weighted leather strap (see London Tanner's "Convent Strap for an example). The poster included a link to this image of a ferule described as the"Ferule of mason's guild, 1721" housed at the Vysoké Mýto Museum in the Czech Republic (thoughts for a  Lupus film now run riot).

As the newsgroup discussion progressed and after I had expressed my thrilled excitement at the picture, Tony Elka mentioned that this one "it doesn't really look like a spanking implement." Given the text, I think this one may have been a symbol of guild office. But armed with my new knowledge of the wooden ferule, I began searching Google afresh, this time with more success.

On this obviously fascinating page (which I hadn't visited before), dedicated to listing and defining instruments of flagellation, I found an image of a "palmeta" (Spanish), described as "A short flat slab of wood used for punish children by beating them in their hands" which fitted quite nicely with the image of a "palmer" I now had in my head, though the word can also be used to mean pretty much any paddle shaped object or even a flyswatter.

Do you think they're the sort of thing the good Abelard might have used on his teenaged student Heloise? He certainly does in my version of the tale.  

These images generally aren't the greatest (and seem to have been passed around the web for years and years with no mention of their origins) but are the best I've been able to find. Their very sketchiness is evocative for me. Hope they are for some of you too. Meanwhile, back to my apprentice scribe imaginings and my "real" scribe practicing.

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10 February 2010: A late addition.  The lovely Haron over at Spanking Writers wrote about the palmer only to have a reader respond with a link to a seventeenth century painting The Village School by artist Jan Steen (on display at the National Gallery of Ireland in Dublin. According to the artist notes, in this scene Steen used his three children, Catherina, Cornelis and Johannes, as models for the little girl, the boy being punished and the boy holding a paper. I'm rather pleased to see the palmer used in the painting being smaller (perhaps because it was being used on children?) than the ones depicted in photographs. 

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http://www.flickr.com/photos/84299143@N00/ / CC BY 2.0

Happy Halloween & A Story

Over on his delightful blog, Rad's written about his Halloween costume -- a priest's Roman collar -- for the party at Paddles tonight.  While I won't be at the party, I got to see Rad wearing this costume for the Shadow Lane party this past Labor Day. At the same party, I got to finally watch,** curled up on our bed with Alex and Bailey, the DVD Spanking Confessional.  Great fun!

Rad and his collar looked great at the SL vendor fair -- wish I was closer to Paddles.  I suspect that tonight he'll get to hear a number of confessions.  

My own confession is to cop to the priest fantasy as being one of my favorite and most sexual fantasies dating to my high school days. Along those lines, I'm posting an old story based on one of those fantasies.

Copyright 2001 to <mijita (at) thetreehouse (dot) net>. Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

First Fridays

On first Fridays we have to go to confession. Every month we're in school the nuns walk each class over one at a time. We kneel and reflect on our sins as we wait our turn in the box. A lot of girls think it's boring, but I don't.

Not with the thoughts in my head. Not this month.

I'm next for Father Damien. So cute. Totally wasted as a priest. Maybe I'll give him a thrill. And me too.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, by my thoughts, my words, my actions. It's been a month since my last confession. These are my sins."

My sins. My hands slipped beneath my skirt and I slid my panties down, letting my knees step over them so I could take them off. The kneeler squeaked and I wondered if he could guess what I'd done. The plaid pleated skirt felt rough against my skin, bare beneath it. I squirmed, pressed my knees together tightly.

"I - I've sinned grievously, Father. I don't know where to start."

I spoke the words softly, low and right into the screen, my voice catching just so. I imagined I could hear him sighing and shifting on the other side.

"Go ahead, my child. God can forgive you."

"I've been wicked, Father. Done things I know are sinful, but I don't know which sins they are." I lifted my skirt with my left hand.

"Tell me your deeds, girl."

"I - I touch myself, Father. Repeatedly run my hands over my body and, and between my legs." As I spoke, my right hand brushed against my thighs and then up between them. I licked my lips and imagined him listening. Maybe even starting to sweat a little just above his lip. Running my tongue over my own lips I could taste the salt.

"I know it's wrong, Father, but I can't help myself, love the feeling of my own skin beneath my fingers."

I moved my hand back and forth, stroking gently, quietly.

"My boyfriend touches me too. Under . . . well, you know, under my skirt, Father. Over my panties. And, and well, I touch him through his jeans."

He cleared his throat as if to speak. I spread my knees wider and let my fingers push inside, more deeply and insistently. I breathed quietly, through my teeth, but my breath kept coming in faster gasps.

"At first I mean. And then he unzips and I feel him through his underpants. And he gets, um . . . he gets hard Father. And puts his hands inside my panties. Sometimes I let him take them off me."

"You're putting yourself in danger with these actions, child. Wanton behavior can't lead to good. What would your family say?"

"Oh Father, they know! I mean, I think they do. Last week I left my panties in the car and my boyfriend's father found them. And then his wife told my mother. Who told my father."

My hand became more insistent and my body began to move in response. I covered the noise in my throat with a sob, not quite pretended.

"The next day, my father met me at the door when I got back from school. He had my panties in one hand and the paddle in the other. He threw the panties at me, telling me where they'd been found. And slapped me too. Then, right there, in the front hall of the living room he yanked me over his lap and began whacking me over my panties, telling me what a disgrace I was to them."

My fingers moved quickly against my own wet slipperiness as I poured my thoughts out to him. I could hear his watch ticking. Hear his own breathing.

"He, he, he stood me in front of him and yanked down my underpants and told my mom to check to see if I was intact. I could feel her finger push inside me, Father. Because she had to know. I cried and felt like such a sinner."

"As well you should, young lady. What if you found yourself with child? You're putting yourself and your boyfriend's souls in jeopardy - becoming a near occasion of mortal sin."

At his words I moaned slightly. So bad - such a bad girl.

"After she finished checking me, told him I was a virgin, he pulled me back across his lap and paddled me more, this time on my bare bottom. I cried so hard I was screaming, Father. I swore to them I'd sin no more."

"And pray to God for the strength to honor that vow, child."

"But when they sent me upstairs, I lay on my bed in the darkness and ran my hands between my legs, feeling the heat rise. I - I can't stop sinning, Father. Has God deserted me?"

My fingers touched my clit and I felt myself explode as the blood rushed through me, filling me with pleasure as I moved frantically against my own hand. But I lost track of my audience until the light blinded me and I dropped my skirt quickly but too late. He'd come around to my side, opened the door and saw me - well, you know what he saw me doing.

He said something I didn't hear - but heard the anger in his voice. Did he call me harlot, sinner, Eve? Not sure. But then Father Damien grabbed my upper arm and yanked me to my feet, pulling me from the confessional. I could say nothing, could feel the shocked eyes of my classmates, my teacher, on me. As he pulled me toward the front of the church, my last image of the box were my white panties against the dark wood floor. I could feel my nakedness beneath my modest plaid skirt.

The priest's finger tightened into my arm as he pulled me across the sanctuary to the sacristy behind. His voice was low but clear as he stood me in front of him.

"You've sinned most grievously, young woman. In a manner I'd have scarcely thought possible for one so young. What you've committed today is sacrilege. I wish I could violate the confessional and tell your teachers and family what you did while you were pretending to beg God for forgiveness. Ensure you're punished as you deserve to be."

I dropped to my knees before him in tears.

"Please, Father! I beg you, forgive me. I'm sorry, truly sorry."

Father Damien's hands were on my shoulders, shaking me as I cried harder.

"Beg God's forgiveness, not mine. If you dare. You deserve to be punished, but I can't say what you've done. The confessional is sacred, even when abused as you did." His hands were at his waist, beneath his robe. For a second I feared violation but then his object became clear as he pulled his black belt from around his waist.

"Go across to that kneeler and stand before it. Good. Now bend over and place your hands on the pad."

The wooden prayer book shelf dug into my stomach as I stood on my toes to reach the padded kneeler. My skirt rose up to my thighs on its own before Father Damien threw it roughly to my shoulders, baring me from my waist to the top of my knee socks.

"I suspect that your story of being spanked by your father for your wantonness was a tale to seduce me and yourself. Let's see if you enjoy being thrashed in reality nearly so much."

With that he cracked the leather across my bottom and I kicked and tried to rise, biting my sleeve to keep from crying out. His left hand pushed the base of my spine, keeping me bent over.

"Burns, doesn't it? I promise you when I'm finished your hands will never even consider roaming your body without remembering this hell fire."

The strap burned my skin again and again as I struggled and choked sobs into my arms. My thighs were lashed along with my bottom as I promised him never again and confessed my sorrow at offending him and God. Finally I could bear no more and my sobs broke through, echoing through the church, leaving my classmates no doubt as to my penance. . . .

I watch as the door opens and the red light turns to green. A girl kneels on the pew in front of me to begin her penance.

It's my turn to confess before God and Father Damien.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned. By my thoughts. . . ."

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** Paul had been at the filming last December, but I hadn't been able to make the trip to Vegas, even though people I'm so fond of were doing such a long-standing fantasy. This definitely made up for not being there though. Almost.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/gak/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Linking and Community

[This entry is inspired by the work Richard Windsor is doing in creating and maintaining his new Spanking Universe, blog of blogs site. If you haven't been there, do go see.  It's an impressive work in progress. Now that the Forth Bridge is almost painted, Richard has found the next endless task -- blogging spanking blogs. Just so he can't call it thankless though, I'm thanking him now for his time and effort.]

Links are real important -- they're how we find each other and thus are how community is created.  Links are hugely important when a blog is new and it's hoping to find readers.  Because without readers we don't need computers to do this, we could just keep a journal in a notebook.  At their best, they function as signposts for the 'net, especially within the BDSM and spanking subcultures.

Yet I'll admit to having a hard time deciding what to do when someone writes and wants me to link to them or suggests we do a link exchange. Part of my discomfort is that I've backed myself into a bit of a corner by even having links in my sidebar.  So if I'm linking to those people, why not link to this new one? Mainly it's that I've always liked my links to mean something.  I've never felt comfortable linking to sites or products I don't use.  Even more so with blogs, it seems like I shouldn't link to sites I don't read regularly. So there's that.  Add to that, the nature of writing is that sometimes people do it for a while and then stop.  That's fine with a website -- The Treehouse is currently more of an archive than anything else, and has been for a few years now.  But blogs feel like they should stay relatively current (with posts within the last year or two) -- otherwise they seem to have died. Even with my relatively short links lists, I generally find a few broken ones when I check them every few months.  I don't want to do the work needed to maintain a longer lists (though I admire bloggers like Bonnie who do so), so I suppose that makes laziness my other reason.

So how do I decide to link to something?  Generally if I go to a blog and read through a few months worth of entries and then add them to Newsfire (that's an RSS reader).  Then I'm pretty sure  I'm likely to keep reading.   At least in bursts.  Another way would be if I know the writer in person on some level. Again, then I know I'm more likely to become a consistent reader. My link list is one of blogs and sites I admire and enjoy.

Blogs I like tend to be text heavy and not present too idealized a version of life.  I'm more of text person than a picture one (old school, me) and am a sucker for introspection and good writing.  I always think / hope that if I enjoy reading something, someone who likes this blog will be interested in that one too.

So, I'm wondering, how do you decide who and how you link?   And, while we're at it, what do you find useful in a link list.

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http://www.flickr.com/photos/katemonkey/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Commenting on the Third Eye

For more interesting discussions on comments and commenting on blogs, see these posts by Casey and Serenity.  This post is much less so, however I wanted to clarify something about commenting here.

Despite the language in the "Comments" section of this blog telling you to "sign in," you don't need to -- that language is just bad wording on Typepad's part. All you need to do is enter a name and email address (neither needs to be real) and your comment will post.  Personally I'm not very likely to comment on any blog where I have to sign in -- Blogger's blogs have been a special problem for me lately with my comments either not showing up at all, or showing up unsigned -- so I understand why someone else might not want to either.    

That's all.  :) 

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Image credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/goodnightdear/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Lurking the third eye

Bonnie's encouragement each year for those of us who maintain spanking blogs* to have a "love our lurkers" day is a wonderful tradition.  While stats can tell us we have readers, comments from friends and strangers alike are always a bit humbling. For me, it harkens back to how exciting and nervous-making each new bit of contact was, how hard it could be to step out of the shadows.  I'm grateful to you for taking the time to read here, especially give how random both my writing topics and blogging frequency is.  At the same time, LoL is also a reminde to those of us who have a 'net presence to remember to take the time to comment on each other's blogs. 

I certainly cop to reading and nodding rather than remarking much of the time.  

At the same time, it can be hard to figure out what to say.  So here's a question (stolen from Typepad's Question of the Week)

What was a favorite childhood toy and why?

Mine was something called a Lemon Twist (no, not a lemon drop, though they are delish).  It was basically a loop of black rubbery plastic that went around my ankle and then came out to end at a yellow lemon.  It spun in a circle so I could then skip over it.  All the while a rattling thing inside the lemon made a lovely rattle snake noise.  I remember playing with it all day, wandering the neighborhood, skipping and twisting.  

What about you? Or write about something else.  The toy question is just in case your stuck. And because I'm always looking for ways to be a better auntie.  

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*I have to admit to feeling a bit of fraud sometimes participating from this blog in LOL -- while I do write about spanking and fetish here sometimes, this isn't really a "spanking blog" in the sense that so many of the other wonderful links from Bonnie's site are.  Still, she's kind enough to include me and I'm happy to play along.  But there's definitely better kink content out there.

I killed Niki Flynn

True! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

By the dark of the night, far past the English witching hour, I put the final touch on the death of Niki Flynn. Yes she survives on in memory, Google is filled with pages of links to her images and even some of her words. Amazon continues to sell her books. But Niki's site is no more.

Do I have your attention yet?

Okay, then that's probably enough of the gothic for now. I'm afraid I lack the flare for it. But what I wrote is true enough. Late last night I did click the "delete" button on Niki's Not Blog -- Paul removed it from the 'net at her request. If you go there today you'll get the Laughing Squid "page not found" message. Those who have been following her blog writings are probably not surprised. Niki announced she was leaving earlier this month. Galleries had been disappearing even before that. The blog already was closed for comments. Still I'm sure some people are surprised this morning / afternoon / evening to find it gone altogether.

This chapter of my friend's life is closed.

Earlier this week I read Ludwig's insightful thoughts on Niki's demise -- both his last interview with her and a final blog entry on her leaving and wondered if when the time came I'd have anything to say. Clearly I've found something.

My thoughts are a little different than some who've known Niki Flynn. She was a surprise to me despite (or maybe because) I'd known the woman behind the masks of Niki and Fiona years before they appeared on the 'net or in text and know her still. For all the mystery behind Fiona Locke, she seemed to evolve organically as an author / 'net identity. Quirky, reclusive and oh so fine a writer, I knew her of old as it were.

Niki, emerging, as she did, out of my friend's need for an alternate identity as she made first one film and then more and more, was someone else entirely. She was not the mad writer in the garret or a lost little woman-child. When I met her at her first Shadow Lane appearance, I was dazzled. Don't get me wrong, she had always been beautiful and sexy but Niki radiated a sexual confidence (and just a general confidence) I hadn't seen before, especially when meeting people. Niki was definitely another aspect of my friend -- a public one, seen, as it were, through a glass brightly. I'd seen the pictures and films Niki was making, but this was my first experience of her as a distinct personality.

The same sense of the surreal washed over me as I read (and re-read) Dances With Werewolves and Over the Knee. I know a few people have commented that people should have guessed sooner based on the writing style, but I disagree. Even knowing they were both penned by the same person and having read other writing by her, the author's voice in Dances With Werewolves has always seemed distinct from Fiona's work. There's a easy confidence and even extraversion to Niki I'd never associated with the woman I knew. That said, both, of course are her. Niki was just, to paraphrase Tori Amos, pieces of her I'd never seen --but was glad to know as I grew to recognize her voice (as did so many of us) through her blog.

I do believe closing and deleting the blog and site is the right thing to do. Niki isn't writing any more and the site was always intended to be for fun (no money was made of it -- indeed I wouldn't be surprised to find that it was a break-even proposition) and a way for her to get feedback from others in the scene. In the almost three years it was up, it was never neglected by its author, this despite her having told a number of us when it started that she didn't see herself as being much of a blogger (hence the name "Not Blog"). Rather than let it lapse into dis-use and be taken over by spam or become a chore rather than a pleasure, it's better for it to be gone.

Nothing on the 'net is ever really gone -- Niki in archived form certainly won't vanish. Even knowing this though, I did feel a tiny twinge of guilt as I pushed "delete."

A final note. As Ludwig pointed out on his blog, our friend has opted for privacy -- she removed her site and didn't leave a forwarding address. Don't write to me asking me to forward any mail. It's not that I can't -- it's that I won't.

[...]ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sounds as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. [...] Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? [...] It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they knew! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! Louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of [her] hideous heart!"

The photo was taken by Billy of Monkey Twizzle fame. The fiends ignoring Niki's death are Paul and Lucy of Northern Spanking.

Mad4Plaid OR 9/22, the First Day of Fall

Born on Twitter, thanks to tweets between the delightful Eliane and me, tomorrow being the first day of Fall (in the Northern Hemisphere) is hereby declared "Mad For Plaid Day."  You can participate by spreading the word and, most importantly, wearing either a plaid skirt or kilt.  Modest or slutty, uniform or vanilla, all plaids are welcome.

You can follow the fun here or on Twitter.  Just let me know what you're doing and how you're celebrating and I'll add links.  Pictures are always welcome.

Do come and play.

Players thus far: 

• Zille: who claims there will be picture
• Kate:is  wearing her skirt to and from classes.  What a good girl!
• Elaine : says she is changing after work as her kilt is too short (naughty girl!)
• Mystery Minx: always the rebel, says she'll wear a non-plaid games kilt.
• Bridget: so in tune with the beginning of Fall, she wore a plaid jumper without even knowing.
• Sandy: also wore plaid without meaning to and claims famous spanking model Rad is wearing a plaid bow.  (I know I'm not alone in wanting pictures of that.)
• Chris claims he can "motivate" his lovely Serenity into a plaid skirt.  We'll have to see.  (Okay, we want to see)
• Casey D. Morgan didn't go out in her skirt, but very sweetly changed into one and took a picture.  Such a game girl!

[This blog entry is evolving.] 

iPhone blogging

This is a test of Typepad's iPhone software.

Entry in the Punishment Book

A bit of detail about what's been going on with me (work combined with some spanking in the hope of their being more work completed).   Also questioning what to do in a disciplinary relationship when someone's sick. 

Anyway the entry is here.  Enjoy.

Windows, Prisms and Lenses

Thinking about blogging and being on-line, much as I haven't been lately, I wrote in response to something stumblingtaoest wrote about being judged on what he and his partner have been writing recently in their blogs as part of their poly-family breaks up and they're trying to pick up the pieces. Here's what I wrote, cleaned up a bit because I can:

I think I understand the point you’re making and try and bear it in mind where ever I read. There’s a tendency, especially via medium like a blog, to believe we know a person just from having read their daily writings. But even if they’re writing their true self, it’s at best only true for that moment.

P and I have experienced the other side of the looking glass of what you and Bridget are going through — neither one of us writes very much about problems our relationship has had over the course of its 12 years. And yet there have been problems its just we’re both quite introverted and when unhappy retreat into our own heads. But because the problems haven’t been written down though, they don’t exist on-line and we’re seen sometimes as having a frighteningly idealized existence and relationship. That’s a lot of pressure.

This was brought home rather starkly to me 6 or 7 years ago during a bad patch when I confided in a friend that I thought P and I might have reached the end (as it turned out we obviously hadn't reached the end, but rather an end) and they responded with "you can't. your relationship is the only thing giving me hope that I'll ever find someone."  

She meant well.  But ouch.  No pressure there.  Some fallout was that neither of us have felt great about writing real life stories for The Treehouse ever since, partly because we're both now conscious that it creates a falsely utopian view of our relationship.  The other reason being the site needs a redesign and there's just been too much going on for P to find the time or energy for that project. 

A good rule for life, I think, is to remember that no one knows what's going on in someone else's marriage (or sometimes even their own, come to think of it).  And likewise, knowing someone via their writing is a long way from knowing everything about them. 

Anyway, that's me on a soapbox.