On the subject of faith, love, lust and violence...

Confessions of a Virgin Mistress

This blog is...

mARTurbation: art meant to please myself, as well as essays, articles, rants, raves and opinions on pop culture, sexuality, women, power, education, religion, music, films and products. No subject is taboo, no discussion forbidden.

Reading Guide:

Thoughts, Essays, Opinions and Articles have unique names and are stand-alone, even when related to previous entries. The dream chapters however, where I talk about my dreams, are titled “At The Dreams: “Insert Dream Title Here”, this is to differentiate conscious opinions and thoughts, from the subconscious movements that go on when I’m asleep (or somewhere in between). The reason I post my dreams is probably the same reason I post all other entries, to examine myself. I’m my own lab experiment. 

Letter of Introduction

Tuesday, December 18, 2007 by Mistress Cavallaro

Dear “You’re barely 21”:

I used to write all the time. I wrote letters to my best friends, letters to my parents, my teachers and my imaginary lovers; but mostly, I wrote letters to myself. Somewhere along the way, between being emotional, lost and confused… a teenager… and my current 21 years, I stopped writing. I thought, I’d lost the reasons to write, or the very drive that pushed me forward. I gradually lost the passion for all the things I expressed to myself in those letters. I burned them. I forgot them. I thought I’d never feel that way again. Of course, nobody ever feels the same way after anything at all.

I’m not going to talk about the things I wrote back then. As much as I’d love to trace my steps, and talk about my adolescence, the truth is, I don’t need to. I’m still very much an adolescent; I don’t think I’ll stop being one for now. And I still have questions, anger, sadness, disappointment and illusions of grandeur. I haven’t grown up, the way people say you’re supposed to grow up, and I doubt I will. I can’t conform. I used to write to myself about that. My life, was never typical, I wasn’t attracted to normal things in the first place. I hate that word. Normal. To me that word has never truly existed. Who the fuck is normal? So why do we use it to describe things as they “should be”? I’m tired of all the little lies that have gotten embedded into our language. I need to strip them apart and look at them bare. That’s why I need to write again.

I’ve been getting fooled again… following along with things… being forced to accept them and acknowledge other people’s conformity as an accomplishment. That is not to say they aren’t brave… you need a lot of balls to face a life of lies, know it and accept it. I also think you need double the balls to kill that life and start again… dare I say, the ovaries?

Only when I write, do I truly look at things. When I’m not writing, I feel fooled and gullible, even keen to believe the things I’m taught. And I can’t afford to do that. Not if I’m going to change something, anything at all… even if it’s just a few people’s minds. I don’t care how fucking taboo it is; I’m going to address it. I’m going to discover and see for myself, judge for myself, everything. The best any given teacher’s ever taught me, is to search for the answers myself. I don’t care if others agree with me or not, because this isn’t about anyone else but me. This isn’t even about those who might agree with me. And those who read, read at their own risk. Believe what you want. Have your opinion; talk about it yourself, on your own terms, in your own letters to yourself. Do it.

You’re just like me. Questioning everything… aren’t you?

Maybe, just maybe, you also have my “youthful arrogance” as it’s so aptly described by the “adults”. So we can cut the apologetic bullshit and make room for the irreverence. Better to be violent than apathetic. Better to feel something than nothing. Better to think that I’m the best at what I do… rather than constantly remind you of what I lack. Right? You won’t hear “I may be wrong” or “I’m sorry”… unless I mean it. These letters might be about being educated… but they’re not about being polite.


Flow... To Number One