Therapy

58DegreesJuly is going through an identity crisis. Temperatures aren’t record low, but they feel utterly unusual. Not as shocking as spotting a tiny man in my home, and certainly not as delightfully puzzling, that’s for sure. I’ve been trying to find little people since birth (there are pictures of me as a baby, being held by either of my parents, always looking down, searching for who knows who), so if one day I do meet a tiny man as he emerges from a small baseboard door, or my shoe, or my panty drawer (what was he doing there?!), or my cupboard, I’ll- I’ll… what will I do? I don’t know. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out. Also, long ago I considered therapy for “this”, but no more. Why destroy the precious bloom of my fantasies with mental health? Also, I don’t like pistachios. Also, I’m rewatching the World Cup games, just for fun.

* * *

Maxine shifted in her chair, looking uncomfortable. “My back hurts.”

“What happened to your back?”

“In my incredible wisdom, I decided to sit in bed so I wouldn’t fall asleep waiting for the little guy to reappear. But I invariably drift off in a terrible position for my back, and after two nights, it’s killing me.”

“Would you like me to get you a cushion? I have a heating pad in my kit that you can use for the rest of the hour.”

“No, thanks. I’ll be okay. Let’s get on with it.”

“Very well. Let’s go back to what you said about the little guy. You’re waiting for it to reappear?”

“I know how that sounds, okay? But I also know what I saw.” She wanted to add, “He’s not an ‘it’, he’s a ‘him’,” but the addition of those words to her declaration felt self-incriminating and counterproductive.

“During your last visit, you spoke of it as a product of your imagination. A hallucination brought about by stress. Has something changed?”

“No. I don’t know! I’ve been telling you for weeks that I think I’m nuts. During my visits, as you so quaintly put it, like you’re my great-aunt Gertrudis, and we’re sharing a cup of tea, and you’re telling me about the Spanish duendecitos that helped you escape Franco’s military police as they chased you through the woods.”

“The Spanish what?”

“Duendecitos. The diminutive form of ‘duendes’, Spanish for ‘elves’.”

“I see. Maxine, you seem upset.”

“Of course I’m upset! Why do you think I keep coming here? I need help. I need to stop feeling like this. I need to stop needing to find some stupid little guy that doesn’t exist! Can’t you just give me some drugs, like I asked? Just prescribe me some Ambien so I can sleep, and something that numbs me so I don’t think about him, or care about the clues he leaves!”

The therapist sat quietly this time and listened.

“Great. Now I’m talking about the clues as though they are real.”

“What do you think they are?”

“They are things I want to see. They are accidents of nature. Or things I forgot I bought.”

The therapist’s silence nudged Max on. “It’s just… if I’ve forgotten so many things, then there’s something very wrong with my memory.”

“I recall you said there have been a few things you found. A ring, a wreath, a letter written on the back of a used stamp. Have you seen more of these tiny objects?”

Max had not told her therapist the whole story, or mentioned the real number of gifts she kept in a box under lock and key; gifts she inspected almost every night as she marveled at the craftsmanship. Craftswomanship, if she was doing that to herself. Over thirty precious little tokens of… what? Friendship? Showmanship?

They felt like more than that; much more, but she refused to define that feeling. One insanity at a time, please. The first order of business was regaining her ability to sleep, which she had lost to the notion that there was a little man living in her house and making her presents and writing tiny notes for her.

“Maxine. You seem distracted.”

“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry. What was I saying?”

“I asked you about the items in your possession. You mentioned three gifts.”

No, lady. Try over thirty gifts. One for each month, one for each of my birthdays, holidays, and a condolence note when I lost my sister. But I’m never going to admit as much, and I’m certainly not going to show them to you. “Yes, that’s right. Three gifts.”

“Do you mind if I see them?”

“W-why do you want to see them?”

“I’ve heard you talk about these gifts as real, palpable objects you can touch. I’d like to offer my set of eyes if you feel comfortable showing me the objects. That way I can tell you what they seem to me.”

“Yeah, ok.” I’m showing her the crown, but I’m never showing- Shit, what’s wrong with me? She’s only trying to help! Max couldn’t help but hold back. As badly as she wanted peace and a good night’s rest, there was something she could only describe as a feeling of foreboding when she pictured spilling every secret about the events that had been taking place for two years. “I wear the cro- the thing that looks like a crown like a pendant around my neck.”

“May I see the wreath and the note as well?”

“Uh, they… the wreath fell apart, and the note did too after I handled it too much. It’s just as well. I probably just imagined it was a note.”

“That’s unfortunate. I would have liked to see them.”

“Yeah…but here’s the crown.” Max pulled a delicate chain from the front of her blouse. The crown slid slightly, a pendant so light it barely had any effect on the silver links. The therapist stood up from her own plush chair, and approached Max. She bent over her and squinted at her chest, trying to get a good look at the infinitesimal gift.

“Would you mind if I get a closer look?”

“Not at all. Look as closely as you can.”

“Would you please remove the necklace from your neck so I can look at it with my magnifying glass?” The therapist said that while walking towards her desk, which for some reason annoyed Max tremendously.

“I’d rather not”, she said as politely as she could. The therapist seemed surprised, and to Max’s shock, slightly annoyed. “Maxine, I’m only trying to help. I can’t see small things up close-”

“Then put your reading glasses back on, and that magnifying glass will really come in handy.”

“Yes, but the chain around your neck is quite short, and the light in this office is not sufficient for close inspection.”

“Then I’ll stand by the window, in direct sunlight.”

“Maxine, how can I help if I can’t do my job?” The therapist’s voice was pleasant enough, and she was smiling when she said the words, but there was a glint of anger in her eyes that she failed to hide for a fraction of a second; long enough for Max to notice.

“I’m not removing my grandma’s chain from around my neck. If you like to see the ‘object’, then get as close as you like. I don’t mind.”

“Very well”. The therapist walked around her desk, and while she unlocked a drawer and searched for her magnifying glass, Max stood up slowly–her back twinging painfully–and walked over to the window. While she she looked for the lever to open the blinds, they lifted by themselves with a soft whoosh. Max turned around and saw the therapist holding a small remote.

“Fancy”, she said, suddenly feeling uneasy. The therapist only smiled again as she moved closer to Max. She set down the remote on the window sill and held up the most ornate magnifying glass Max had ever seen. Max brushed her hair back from her shoulders, and fished out the tiny crown again. When the therapist reached for it and pinched it between her fingers, Max felt a wave of nausea hit the pit of her stomach.

“See the tiny red jewels?” She asked, when she felt the therapist’s fingers grip the crown and tug at the chain. “What are you doing? Stop!” Max’s own hand flew to the therapist’s hand, closing around it and struggling to keep it close to her chest. She looked at the therapist in disbelief, and saw a look in her eyes, a mixture of rage and desperation that made no sense.

The therapist reached for her with her free hand, and Max realized she was determined to tear the crown away from her. Fury filled her thoughts like a red curtain. She rushed forward, tackling the therapist and sending her sprawling on her back. The fall had the desired effect as the therapist’s grip loosened. Max, having toppled over her with considerable more weight in her much wider hips, rolled off the steamrolled therapist, and scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could.

“You fucker. What the hell do you think you’re doing? What’s wrong with you?” The therapist lay still on the floor, clearly conscious, a calculating look streaming from her eyes like a stock market ticker. She’s… regrouping. Fuck, I have to get out of here. Am I locked in here?

“Max, why did you attack me?” The therapist was lifting herself from the floor, and Max took a couple of steps back. “Max, stop. Please, calm down. I want to help. Why did you push me so hard?”

Max only took a few more steps away from her, too scared to look around for the door, thinking the moment she did, the therapist would rush her, but she had no choice. The moment she glanced around, she looked back long enough to see the therapist lunging toward her desk. Max didn’t wait to find out the reason, and half expected the door to be locked as she turned the brass knob. She heard it click a fraction of a second after she opened it. As she rushed out of the office, the therapist screamed in frustration, but Max ignored her. She saw no one as she ran to the main entrance and then sprinted off again, looking back at the glass and metal doors of that brand new office building, now thankful she hadn’t driven there.

My paranoia finally paid off. I didn’t give her my real address or phone number, and I paid cash. I only wish I hadn’t used part of my first name. But she can’t find me, can she? And what the fuck was that about? Why would she try to rip his crown from my neck? Fucking lunatic. Just my luck. The adrenaline pumping through Max’s body made everything look too bright, and she realized she was still running when she saw people staring at her.

She slowed down and looked around. She had no idea where she was, but she hopped on the first bus she saw. Four bus connections and one hailed cab later, she was home. She didn’t mind having taken the long way home. She didn’t always take her cell phone with her, and now she was glad she hadn’t. There was no GPS, no cell tower, no credit card trail on her.

In the dim light of one single lamp in her living room, she spoke out loud, alone, to someone not herself. For the first time in two years, she addressed the little guy that had been leaving tiny notes containing one single message, always somewhere they could be spotted easily. The notes were always clues to the location of a gift, and there was no explanation for any of the dozens of gifts in her possession.

“Well, that was a bust. I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re real. I saw you… I know it was just a glimpse, a moment, and I was blitzed beyond belief… but I know I saw you standing there, next to my shoes, polishing a scuff mark on one of them. And then you dove under the couch and I couldn’t find you no matter how hard I looked.” Max was speaking softly, affectionately, the way one might address an adorable kitten clawing his way up one’s leg.

“I tried to get some help. Mainly drugs. So I can sleep. For two years you’ve been giving me these precious little presents, and I’m grateful. I’m even grateful if it’s just another personality trapped in my head making these tiny works of art, because there’s real talent and creativity behind all that work. But I really need to sleep. I’d be very grateful if I could have enough sleep sometimes… and thoughts of you make my brain burn like it’s on fire.”

Now Max felt her exhaustion, all the adrenaline that had coursed through her like a tornado added to that devastation, and tears began to fill her eyes; however, her voice did not break. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, or if you need my help, or are recruiting me for your army of giants. If you could let me know, maybe I can get some decent shuteye.”

In the wall, in the darkness interrupted by an otherworldly source of light, the air stirred.

Advertisements

The moon and the stars

Moon_and_Stars

If I could hold them in my hand
I’d make them understand
I’m not a haunted mind
I’m not a thoughtless kind
If I could put them in a jar
I know they wouldn’t scar
I’d do it if I could
I hope you know I would

“Late At Night” – Buffalo Tom

I’ve been told my gentle posts are boring. I’m not sure what’s wrong with some tiny brains, but there is nothing boring about stories of shrinking a person down to a couple of inches in height and loving that person to death. No, not literally. I’m going to keep writing about the things I like, and if a few people find them boring, that’s perfectly fine. I hold no grudge against those wonderful and mentally balanced people, and to demonstrate my gentleness, I promise that upon my tremendous growth I will pay those people a visit, and give them exactly what they want in a prolonged, exquisite, thorough manner. See? I’m sweetness incarnate.

I’ll continue to write about that common man you see every day, and that uncommon woman you ignore every day, and the way she sees him and doesn’t think he’s common at all, and there is something about the way he walks or pays for his coffee or fills out his pants that propels her to get up from her seat and follow him, and when he turns to face her she stretches out her arms as though she’s an old friend from college, hiding the hypodermic needle that finds his neck and shrinks him permanently.

I’ll continue to write about what happens when he wakes up, and days and weeks and months and years go by, and he continues to wake up tiny, and the anger has diminished the same way he did, and he finally understands that she is his life now. He sees love in everything she does to for him. She fills his life with purpose, dreams, children, and peace.

There are universes filled with people that experience importance in being a temporary entertainment, their flash in the pan nothing but a sticky glob under the foot of a woman that already forgot she crushed their insignificant bodies. I see meaning in that… but I was born with an understanding of the value of tiny people. When I was a toddler and learning to read, “dwarves” in fairy tales only measured a few inches in height and their whole purpose in life was to entertain me. I had dreams about them that seemed real. I still remember their weight on my torso when they climbed from the floor to my bed and then onto me, speaking a chittering language I struggled to understand, and dancing and telling me stories. My impulse wasn’t to crush or devour them, but to preserve and befriend them.

I wanted what they gave me to continue for all eternity, the same way I want those little people in some of my stories to live forever. In my stories I want the giantess to live forever, and she often does. She captures the moon for the man she chooses, and it doesn’t matter what havoc that wreaks on the planet’s surface… I don’t ever think about that. One of my favorite WIPs is a story about a giantess that likes to gift planets. That’s a scale in which I feel quite comfortable, and why I bought that moon lamp in the picture. That’s also why when I found that galaxy egg-decorating kit for Easter, I had to buy it and use it. I own the stars, and when I look at the Milky Way it feels mine too. When I stand in place and look up at the heavens and watch them turn, I don’t feel small like so many people do. I feel that’s my backyard. I feel I can stretch out and touch it and make it my toy.

And I’d play with it gently.

Most of the time.

My Millions ad

I was sitting here, pissed off because I couldn’t find those old Lay’s Singles potato chip commercials. Remember them? I saw them nine years ago, and I posted a blog entry about them, and now the YouTube links for them are dead, once again proving that when I publish a video, I have to actually have the thing in my mac in case the link disappears. That’s what I’m doing now, but after finding super low-res versions of the ads I wanted, I also stumbled upon this…

Clearly, something very dirty is happening there, and I invented my own dialogue for it… Hm. I should use my iMovie to edit it. Yes… it will only intensify the uncomfortable way I feel, but hell, it’s a day of the week. When do I not feel the way I feel about my own sex toy Hopier in my own suitcase as I travel? He packs lightly when I don’t (yes, I know that makes no sense–never mind, I know what I mean).

I was shopping at Walmart…

Perfect for him.
Perfect for him.

…And I spotted a box of 20 wooden clothespins. Perfect for a two-foot-tall little guy during laundry day, no? Their true function is that of paper clips. I think I used one once, and added the rest to the pile of Walmart things I never use. That’s not true: I don’t have a pile of Walmart things I never use, and the clothespins are in a wooden box I use to store pens and staples and paper clips. The contents of said box have changed very little in the last twenty years, given that “pens” and “staplers” and “paper” are objects I seldom use nowadays.

That’s not true: I used a pen this morning. I used it to write on a return form enclosed in a box that also contained shoes too uncomfortable to keep. I didn’t staple the box shut, or closed its cardboard flaps shut with mini clothespins. I used mailing tape. I’m not crazy.

That’s not true: I am crazy. I do have a pile of things I never use. It includes VHS tapes, Christmas decorations, fabric notions, a Jar Jar Binks blanket, and other things I will soon “purge”. I can’t be classified as a hoarder yet, but the pile will try to convince you otherwise. And I’m never getting rid of that Jar Jar Binks blanket.

 

Paper cities

Behold how I shamelessly add this one to my pile of incomplete posts. I’ll try to get back here tomorrow if I have the time. I probably won’t, but I will say that ever since I was a child I’ve experienced great enjoyment from creating little things out of paper. But enough for now. Tomorrow I will expound upon my latest fascination with Mother Mother, and how this video makes me think of little people. Not that I need help with that.

#######

Today, November 5th of 2016, nearly six years after December 10th of 2010, it feels like a thousand years ago in some broken parts of my heart; but the ones that remained untouched still feel the same way about paper cities. If I ever made a giantess video starring myself, I would spend days, months, years (?) constructing a paper city from scratch. When I was a young girl I spent endless hours cutting up pieces of paper, and glueing and scotch-papering them together to form chairs, tables, beds, dressers, furniture for a small man, about two inches in height.

What did I feel while I did that? Funny, the things you remember as an adult. I’ve forgotten so many things, but I’ve never forgotten that feeling. It’s a powerful cocktail of creativity, pheromones, single-mindedness sharpened to a fine point, and joy. Looking back at that time fires up a slight autonomous sensory meridian response. Creating things for a little one, however non existent, definitely hits me right in the Goddess center. I also remember thinking, I wish I had toy people to whom I could give this furniture.

I never found toy people; not yet, anyway. Soon afterwards I threw away all that furniture, as I saw no point in keeping it, if I had no “people” to play with that could use it. I would have to do the same with that fictitious paper city I imagine I’d build for myself, after filming myself walking around gingerly… or maybe destroying it. I have no idea what mood would find me that day. Maybe both. I fancy myself gentle, but in reality I have a temper. Bad, quick one.

I love Mother Mother. I was looking for music years ago, and I thought to search for songs, any songs titled “Wrecking Ball”. This happened long before the crappy 2013 one came out, so I was spared that search result. Instead, I found Mother Mother, and I’ve obsessed over them since then. If only they toured the States, my success would be complete. When O My Heart came out, and with it, the video for “Body of Years”, I was pulled back to that time of fun with paper. The paper city in the video is the sort of city I’d kill trees to build. I don’t get to walk on those trees, or slip between those buildings, or peek into those tiny apartments, and smile at the tiny imaginary people; but that’s fine. I can imagine I do.

And then, if they don’t say hi back, I’d set their city on fire.

Minimiam

http://www.minimiam.com/en/goen.html is a website I found yesterday when I was doing a search for “shrunken men” but in Spanish. Minimiam, as I understand, means “mini yum” (I’m sure the vore folks will love that) (yes, we do), and it’s a duo of food photographers that place miniatures on edibles in such interesting ways that one can’t help but think of a story behind the image. As you can imagine, stories that involve small men are always going to interest me.

The two artists, Pierre Javelle and Akiko Ida, are also married. It crossed my mind for only a second, that though unlikely, it would be fun if these miniatures interacting with food and creating situations that are similar to some of the scenarios I describe to myself, are more than professional tools for the couple. I wondered if they use them for role-playing… probably in the same foolish way some have felt a temporary ray of hope that Pamela Anderson is really into vore. 🙄

Two Words

Well, you’d think that copying and pasting a few paragraphs would make posting these every Wednesday a bit easier. As it turns out, there’s an insane level of busy that doesn’t permit such simple blogging maneuvers. These two words were provided as part of the game by a giantess community member by the name of IncredibleShrinkinI. Wherever he is, I send him a warm hello, and my thanks!

* * *

serenading_4_by_mike973
Serenading_4 by mike973 – What this entry should have been about.

Backseat, Piano

The polishing cloth scratched the palm of his hand as he worked, its interwoven threads thick as ropes to him. He stopped long enough to switch hands. His discomfort took a backseat to her needs; she had always made that very clear. He looked up and over his work to watch her apply the finishing touches to her hair and makeup. She was ready.

“Is it done?” she asked without looking at him.

“Nearly.”

“Nearly what?”

“Nearly… mistress.”

“That’s a good little man,” she said, getting up and walking towards him. He braced himself for what followed, yet still felt his every bone rattle when she set her elbows on her dressing table to give his efforts a closer look. The shock of her descent plucked a steel tooth inside the music box mechanism, as large as a piano key to him. The vibrating note made his ears ring, and he shook his head clear of it.

“It looks great! Thank you, little one,” she said, her breath a wind that played with his hair. He stood up and away from her reaching fingers and she picked up the ring he had been cleaning. His heart felt heavier now that she was leaving.

“Will you be out very late?” he asked, hating the needy tone in his voice. She was walking away, leaving him on top of the dresser, forgotten up there the same way her other possessions were, when she turned her head and answered.

“I don’t know, little one. It’s a blind date, after all. Don’t wait up for me.”

He watched walk away, and when he heard the front door close in her wake, he turned to look at the jewelry in her box, and felt the weight of the world pressing down on his chest. Catching his reflexion on the black polished surface, he thought of options. He could sit next to her makeup and other trinkets all night long, or he could figure out a way to climb down the facade of her vanity.

It was time to leave; time to find a place where he’d be wanted.

Menicure, not manicure!

Because more than one little man is necessary.
Because more than one little man is necessary.

Last night I was reading MattyBoy’s latest Math post, in which he used a ladder to illustrate his point. So I’m reading about the ladder and given how my mind lives in the gutter- in fact, sometimes I think the gutter is in my mind, but never mind.

So I’m thinking a ladder is what a shrunken man needs to climb up to those hard-to-reach places that are a woman’s… well, every part of a woman except her toes and heels, because every once in a while she grows so tall even the arch of her foot is a distant domed ceiling. Anyway, I was thinking about that, and then just a few minutes ago I tripped on the Flickr image above.

It’s fun when the universe conspires to divert me. Thank you, universe.

There are other similar images (just a few) in the author‘s photostream, if you wish to take a gander. Here’s another effective use of a ladder I really like.

“Ideas32” by Kassandra

Tiny USB vacuum cleaner

Now do your chores!
Now do your chores!

This is a cute little thing. I saw it and I couldn’t help thinking of a shrunken man running out of excuses on why he can’t possibly do chores around the house. The tiny appliance is several inches in height, so a small man would have to be the size of a tallish doll to get anything done with it.

But under my scrutiny, it wouldn’t matter what size he is: flea or cricket-sized, there’s work to be done. And onto a serious matter, what’s wrong with you people? Why aren’t there more collages of tiny men cleaning giant things, polishing shoes, scrubbing jewelry, that sort of thing?

Get on with it. Chop-chop! 😉

“Better Clean Well” by The Borrower

PetitPlat by Stéphanie Kilgast

Little Food
Just the right size for a little guy…

Saturday afternoon I was poking around at Flickr, looking for backgrounds as I do from time to time when I act as though I don’t have hundreds of unfinished collages to work on before I continue accumulating material… when I found this adorable image.

So tiny
So tiny!

PetitPlat is the miniature work of Stéphanie Kilgast, tiny foodstuffs, dollhouse accouterments, jewelry, all representing things on a very small scale, and perfectly adorable. Upon seeing the image I instantly thought of this collage by Gcode, one of the best shrunken-man images in the history of ever.

11-Aren't You Lucky by Gcode
“11-Aren’t You Lucky” by Gcode

If you look at Ms. Kilgast’s gallery you will find photos of little dolls arranged together with the play food in a little kitchen or a tiny table, but I prefer to imagine a shrunken man that sleeps in the nude and wakes up to a delicious morning meal served in a bitty tray and brought to his doll-sized bed by the woman that owns him, keeps him and feeds him.

He’s lucky indeed.