Sexy Hot Like Lava Volume 44: Five Erotica Stories

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Our various mannerisms, gestures and emotional reactions lend themselves to groupings in various patterns of reactions. And on the other hand, each identifiable pattern brings to light some common aspect in which the behaviours of a pattern are similar to one another. As Freud claims, this symbolic connection is also a causal connection and the current resentment is partly caused by the old resentment.

Some reactions may be the inverse of one another as in cases of mixed feelings, such as the joy for and the envy of the same friend who achieved something that we wanted for ourselves. Ambivalence, as Freud repeatedly discovered in his case studies, pervades many of our emotional reactions. Our spontaneous emotional life is stitched together through imaginative connections. That is, every reaction of ours is similar to, or symbolic of, the inverse of, or somehow imaginatively relates to, many other reactions from our past. The emotional imaginative network thus gives rise to many traceable patterns.

And for each pattern one could, in principle, articulate the respects in which the reactions that follow it connect with one another imaginatively, through similarities and symbols or inversions etc. When we articulate thematic threads that run through such patterns, we can identify various cares and concerns that emerge from our emotional-imaginative network about people and things, ideas, virtues and styles of social interaction.

If we are able to identify patterns of both the reactions we endorse and the reactions we normally ignore, the cares and concerns that emerge from our imaginative-emotional network would include those we ordinarily endorse as well as those that we normally fail to recognise. Yet, given that these respects can be articulated in language, these similarities make implicit use of familiar labels.

Part 4: Sometimes, an imaginative emotional network can also give rise to inversions among various patterns such that one group of patterns falls under one social label and another group of patterns under the contrary social label. Such a person may endorse one label and ignore the counter-label. Consciously, we do not like to appear contradictory. But, to paraphrase another Freudian maxim, the unconscious knows no contradiction or negation. Imaginatively speaking, this person occupies two—apparently conflicting—positive prototypes of womanhood or adulthood etc.


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But there is no reason to suppose that inversion is the only kind of unity available nor that overcoming it is a once and for all effort, as Lear suggests. This literary effort is not the only form; it is also method and function. I bring together form, method and function in one process, one expression. I like to think there is an intellectual, a spiritual union, a conjoining, here.

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Poetry attempts to whittle this conjoining away, to scatter it, fragment it. Life is an immense series offragments. Perhaps my poetry, as well as some of my prose, especially my more confessional journals, even defaces my life from time to time by inscribing, describing some of my sins of omission and commission which have been many.

There are many forces that attempt to fracture whatever unity, oneness and centring there has been in my life. That is putting the function of poetry about as negatively as one can.

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On a more positive note, poetry does more for me than I can describe in a few words here. Since my autobiography is really poetic autobiography, I think I try to combine the positive aspects of both genres. My autobiography weaves continuities and digs holes to find air-pockets. It engages in ventilations, drillings, exposures, divergencies and plays with time and space in a multitude of ways.

I don't think if we had stayed in Zeehan there would have been much movement toward the Cause. One never knows, of course, but one can not help but have intimations, intuitions on the subject. To serve the Cause north of Capricorn in Australia seemed to be much more of a priority by the early s, although leaving Tasmania at the time had implications for Chris and her two girls that I had no conception of at the time. After six years north of Capricorn, Chris and Dan and I moved to Perth where we lived for eleven years.

I was, by then, 55 years of age and I wanted to retire from teaching. And so I did. We then moved to Tasmania to live in George Town and here we still are as I head for the age of 71 in less than 2 months' time. In the six months before going to Zeehan I began writing poetry. I had written the occasional poem since the start of my pioneering life in but none of that poetry was kept. In Canada, in the same week I got out of the hospital in Australia, treated at last for my bi-polar disorder, my mother's brother had my grandfather's autobiography copyrighted.

Four years later I got a copy of this one hundred thousand word story of his life from to I mention this here because, looking back, it would appear that something was coming together in my life that represented my mother's poetic interests, my grandfather's autobiographical interests and my father's energy and vitality. For this reason I will include something more of their story, my mother's and my grandfather's.

The following is included from essays I wrote several years ago. Part 2: "Thirty-seven years ago this year, in , my mother passed away. All of her poetry, art, letters, selected quotations and verses from some of her favorite authors and other memorabilia has found a place between two covers, all of her work with the exception of two small booklets of her photos and a small volume of her poetry which I have kept in my own library with my collection of photos and my books of poetry.

I received all of this a few weeks after my mother's death on September 1st Requiring further organization and ordering, the material in this file has now found a suitable home that hopefully will endure for some time to come in the hands of the family I leave behind me on my passing one day. One day I hope to write a more comprehensive introduction and perhaps even annotate some of the resources in this arch-lever file in which all of her work now lies.

I have tended to use as the first year of contact. Some of her poetry and some of the inspirational material from other writers which she gathered over the years goes back to about , when she was in her mid-twenties. Most of my poetry, like my mother's, comes from a period beginning in my late forties. I find it more than coincidental that the initial flowering of my writing and that of my mother's came about the same time in our lives. Even Alfred Cornfield's writing, my mother's father's work, came when he was about fifty.

Thus, three generations, began to seriously write at about the same time in their respective lives: Alfred Cornfield in the s; Lillian Price in the s and myself in the s. The family feeling that has characterized English people and their culture since early modern times if not as a constant for many centuries back is, in my case, bound up with the sense of continuity, literary and personal, with these two individuals. I have a dozen drawings of my mother's work, nine of them are in this file: six complete and three partially complete. Three are on the walls of my study here in George Town.

The need to return to Canada was no more. I used to think, with much of modern psychology and with that popular attitude from the sixties, that guilt was unhealthy. Perhaps to those individualists for whom community has no meaning that may be true. But for anyone who lives in community, has some sense of its importance to one's life, it is obvious how much guilt can feed community's roots rather than being a form of illness or anxiety. Guilt can be and is culturally creative. Like a weight it often functions to inspire, to move us to action.

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Guilt imposed by others, what has come to be called 'guilt trips,' I have never felt was productive in community, but self-imposed guilt can very well be. Again, this is a complex topic. In addition to this brief essay on my mother's poetry, her art, I started to write a biography of my grandfather's life but realized I had too little information on his life after when he was twenty-eight. I did have his story up to that point, some one hundred thousand words.

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But I had little after that date until his death in I have written only a brief outline of Alfred Cornfield's life. It is found above. I become conscious of this everytime I return to my story. We had been in a remote part of Tasmania, a point of light in a beautiful wilderness. We arrived there the same year that pioneers settled in 80 countries. It was the first year of the second phase of the Seven Year Plan I have often felt somewhat like a travel teacher having lived in some two dozen towns during this pioneer venture. Now we would be part of a point of light in Katherine in the Northern Territory.

I turned thirty-eight the day of our arrival in Katherine. Angela and Vivienne were left behind in Tasmania. They were sixteen and eleven. They said it was too far away to live in the Northern Territory. Vivienne wanted to pursue her career, her friendships, her family connections and, in Angela's case, her home life with her father. This autobiography deals far less than it should on the lives of my three children. Vivienne and her mother were close friends, intimate friends who got on well together, if one measured their intimacy by how much time they spent on the telephone in our first years in Tasmania, to Vivienne was always kind to me and I always felt she was perfectly suited by temperament for nursing, a profession she had been involved with for some two decades by the time I wrote this: Daniel's main function was to make me laugh; although he got annoyed with me he never got angry.

We did not argue once in all our time together: , although I spanked him once and kicked him in the leg in an effort to discipline him. Although we did not talk a great deal, there was between us a quiet intimacy; he was one of those quiet Aussi achievers, I always thought. As a child and into her young adult life, Angela had something of the heat that I had as a youth and adult. It cost her, as it cost me, much remorse and many frustrationss in her attempts to learn to govern it.

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As I say, I had had a temper, too. I often thought and hoped it might become what became of the temper of Mark Twain's daughter Suzie, namely, a wholesome salt. Twain wrote in his autobiography that Suzie'character was the stronger and healthier for the presence of the energy of that temper. I lived in hope that as I got in late adulthood and old age and as Angela entered middle adulthood we would grow closer and that the heat of our personalities would produce that wholesome salt. Time will tell as it will the lives of all three children.

In looking back over the long and vanished years, some thirty-seven now to in which I have played the role of step-father, and slightly less in which I have been a father, it seems only natural and excuseable that I should dwell with longing affection and preference upon incidents of their childhood and adult life which made it beautiful to us, and that I should let their often understandable, often excuseable, often frustrating and annoying offences--justified or unjustified--go unsummoned, unmentioned and unreproached.


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Misunderstandings and difficulties arose in our family life, as they do in most families, from passionate attachments to all sorts of things, from the rubs and tensions that come to exist between souls. Being in possession of many immaturities myself, even into my sixties and seventies, I find it hard to criticize them in others, especially my own children.