This was the view I enjoyed from the back porch this weekend.


I'm off to the Shenandoah mountains for a long weekend of reading books in a place where I can taste the approaching Autumn; it has always been my favorite season, and I am ready to embrace it.

Here, some rambling thoughts that might amuse you while I am gone.

D'jaevle, Writing

good girls go to heaven

I first learned the intricacies of sex through the written word. Voice followed text, and I became a disciple of language.

If I can bring you to your knees with my voice alone, imagine what is possible when I have you in front of me.

I don't need to touch you to make you wet.

I just need your faith.

The last of my three recently recorded audio pieces, this one is best experienced while alone.

D'jaevle, Wicked

never look behind

We all like to be scared. Whispered tales told when the lights have gone out. Ghost stories shared by candlelight. Movies that have the pretty girl clutching at your arm at appropriate musical queues and jumping into your lap at the appearance of the crazed hatchet-wielding menace.

When your frightened, your pulse races, adrenaline rushes through your veins, your senses are heightened. Your focus narrows to the source of your terror.

It's what you feel when caught under the gaze of a predator, when meeting the stare of someone who sees the truth of you. It is the knowledge he will exploit it ruthlessly.

There are moments that are built with intention.

Sprawled in the front seat of a car, blindfolded, skirt half-way up your waist while a hand presses between your legs, fingernails dragging across your inner thigh. It is feeling the car slow at a stoplight, the unseen gazes of those in the cars around you.

Pinned to the wall, his teeth sharpened against your skin and his whispered threats made into the curve of your neck.

Placed on all fours and taken so hard from behind it *hurts*. A brutal fucking that leaves you raw and emptied.

Held under him, his hand wrapped tightly around your throat, dictating each breath you take in.

Bound to the bed and laid open. The sounds of strangers, or worse, people you know. Unfamiliar hands on your skin while a gentle voice tells you to be still, to give in, to obey.

There are moments built with intention, and what you have to fear the most isn't the hands that hold you, isn't the ties that bind you, isn't the voice that commands you.

It is what happens next.

His unspoken promise to make you bleed, one way or another. 

No prayer this time.

This is a dictate, meant to be listened to in the dark. 

D'jaevle, Afraid

The Sound of a Prayer

We all have saints we pray to.

They are the family we come from, the friends we lean on, the lovers we lose ourselves in.

They are the dreams we live for, the laughter we are lost to, the pain we suffer under.

But not all prayers are answered.

And not all saints are to be trusted.


This is my prayer. 


D'jaevle, Paying the Devil

Metaphorically Speaking (Song of the Week)


David Olney put music to John Hadley's lyrics and created a song that both tells a story and acts as a living metaphor. From the album Migration (2005).


Illusion and magic are something I am passingly familiar with.

As children, my older brother and I loved magic. Our parents bought us the '25 in 1' magic kits, filled with cheap tricks such as the 'ball and cups', the 'box and quarter', the hollow wand, the color-changing scarves, marked decks, and squishy foam bunnies. We'd practice, never long enough, and give semi-formal shows in our living room. We were particularly good, but I learned enough card tricks to impress my friends as a teenager.

As I got older, I learned that magic is, at its core, about misdirection and deception. But that's alright – we want to be deceived. Our need to know how the trick is done is directly proportionate to our childlike happiness in experiencing the inexplicable.

Love is like that. It is an illusion, a trick of the mind – it is, in the traditionally passionate sense, a tangle of hormones driven by our insecurities and a desire for companionship.

Yet we live in the belief that love is unreasoning. That it is impossible to judge or understand. We write sonnets and haikus in its honor, we weep at its absence and laugh at its affect on others.

And we try not to look too closely at what love really is. Because it doesn't matter why we love.

Just how.  


David Olney, My Lovely Assistant