The Golden Foot

Over a year and a half ago, that’s when I completed this entry for my old blog.

Some men wouldn't mind a similar fate.

I sit here, listening to my playlist.com songs, and thinking back on the wonderful experience that was to watch the World Cup last year, to have shared that with people close to me in real life, and those that belong to Giantess.com, wonderful people that feel as deeply as I do about the Beautiful Game.

It was also nifty to watch these games (I don’t think I missed more than one) and think of all those tall images that please my mind, such as what I would look like at two hundred feet in height and sitting on the Olympiastadion’s tiers with minuscule spectators crowded around me, all wearing the colors of my beloved flag (or not—I hardly think I would care where I sit at that height).

Another thought that amused me was to think of the Golden Shoe as a foot instead. My favorite winner was Davor Suker, all those years ago. Man, what a way to manipulate el esférico… but back to the present. The man in the image is David Beckham, who scored a nightmarishly winning goal for England against my team, and therefore deserves my poking a bit of fun at him as I award him the official Golden Foot to carry on his back for all eternity.

He can take it. All the scandalous money (yet not baseball-level scandalous) he’s making now in Cali with the LA Galaxy will help pad his painful back against the foot’s unrelenting pressure. I read somewhere that Beckham is an icon for the gay community, and I wonder why. Simply because he poses naked for pictures? Don’t straight men pose for naked photos all the time?

All seriousness aside, I have some expectations Beckham will further soccer’s popularizing in this lovely country long confused by that odd, hypnotizing nothing-is-happening-on-the-field quality of baseball and basketball, or that other sport that’s played with a misshapen “ball”. While my lack of cable service will prevent my watching every widely broadcast national football game, my desire to witness a Borg-like assimilation of the masses into a frenzied passion for the game will only culminate when I witness my first televised knife stabbing between opposing team fans on the field, enraged by the other one’s mere existence.*

After all, a sport is not properly watched unless you can keep score with the ink of your own blood, or at least feel the experience heightened by the possibility of death by panicked trampling. Don’t give me this:

So happy and cheerful. Disgusting.

…when I can have this:

Fight! Fight to the death!!

I love the Game, and all that it inspires. I love the way it brings people together… unless “together” means that you spend so much time playing abroad that when you go back home you have no idea how to maneuver the ball with others in your own nation’s team. But mostly I love it when it inspires a person to get off her couch and go play it, instead of only watching it

*Second, actually. One of the most vivid memories of my childhood was the stabbing of a man on a football field after a game, by a man that was rooting for the other team. I watched it on TV, but my mind can still reproduce those red wounds on that white shirt as transmitted onto the screen, and into my brain. TV censors for Latin America? No such thing.

New Order – World In Motion

Waiting For Her

I should be embarrassed to share this with you. In fact, I am, a little bit. Oh well, it’s not as though you know my real name or can laugh directly to my face.

The tricky dichotomy is that I love my thoughts on the fictitious relationship between a woman and her small man, but at the same time… every once in a while I slap my forehead and roll my eyes at the insanity of it. I wouldn’t blame anyone for doing the same.

But coming around the mental circle again, I wouldn’t change a thing about this quirk of mine. It’s far more fun than spending time watching reality shows on TV, or anything else actually comparable.

I wrote this a year and a half ago.

* * *

There is a chance you have, at one time or another, come in contact with elements of the animal kingdom. If you have, it’s very likely that you have liked a few specimens from various lineages of the tree of life.

If so, then it’s possible you have kept, or are currently hosting one or more of these creatures in your home. I know I am. I have a few cats, and it is because it’s very difficult to imagine life without them that some of the following thoughts came to mind.

I tend to have fantasies that include all possible scenarios, no matter how impossible. I think I have shown to myself that I’m not particularly concerned with what is really possible at all times anyway, so it isn’t that much of a stretch to throw my cats in the midst of what I picture would be a life shared with a tiny, little, shrunken little speck of a man.

It’s simple. They would eat him.

After toying with him some. Claws and teeth would be involved.

That’s the nature of cats, and I can hardly blame them for being spontaneous within the reality of my fantasies.

But then I take the next step in what I call “not wanting to think about unpleasant things,” and picture instead that they would get along famously. My cats would be fond of him as they are of me no matter his runty size and delectable-looking extremities, and enticing body made of edible flesh. They would listen to him in the same way they pay attention to me, with the same occasional and extravagant displays of obedience, the same curious independence blended with a constant willingness to sit on what I’m reading and be petted.

See how nicely they get along?

Waiting For Her

I was surfing the net a few days ago, and perusing through one of those places people upload images of family and pets and flowers and all manner of random things, when I stumbled upon the above photo of a cat looking out, staring at or waiting for something, don’t know what, but cats like to look out windows often.

There was something about it and the empty space between the cat and the woman’s shoes that made me think it was the perfect spot for the image of a shrunken man right then and there, sitting, staring, waiting in the same way the cat is.

The rest came to me the way some of these thoughts do, suddenly, often unexpectedly, like a movie that plays on its own in my mind while I watch from my own perspective from above, or from the female perspective, and even the male one sometimes, just to see what I look like.

I imagined that after I leave the house or the room or whatever … I wouldn’t even have to leave the house. I might be outside raking leaves or something of the sort … but inside there would be my cats, that for the benefit of this image have compacted themselves into one, and then there would be my Little Man, and the both of them would be buddies and confidants while I’m gone, and there would be all sorts of conversations as they stand or sit to wait for me, looking out that window. He might sit on that upturned shoe (except my sandal would be much prettier) at some point and would follow the irregularities of the sole with one little finger as he strikes a conversation with my other little pet….

“So … when do you think she’ll be back?”

“Meow.”

“I don’t have a watch either. I just thought you might know.”

“Meow.”

“Fine. *sighs* Do you think she’ll bring us something?”

*grooms*

“Oh, stop bragging. She doesn’t always bring you stuff. And if she does, it’s usually kitty litter anyway.”

“Meow?”

“Hey, at least I have a bathroom.”

“Mreww.”

“It’s not in a dollhouse! I prefer calling it a smallish home.”

*purrs*

“I really need to get a job.”

“Meow.”

“Cleaning her jewelry and applying nail polish is not what I would call a job. I used to be someone important in the world, you know? I used to have all these people to manage and order about, and now … well, just once I would like to put some food on the table.”

“Meeeeeooooowww?!”

“What? I said food- Erm, why are you looking at me that way?”

*stares and licks chops*

“She did feed you before she left, d-d-didn’t she?”

Let’s pretend you want to stop eating meat

If you would just stop that silly screaming I would explain that I only want to share a delicious recipe. See, I have nothing against the death of another living creature so I may roast, boil, fry it, and eat it. When I was six years old I had a pet chicken (the sort that you get at a county fair when it’s a tiny baby chick) I’d play with sometimes, after returning from school. One day my beloved chicken was nowhere to be found, and coincidentally I happened to wonder where he was while observing that my mother had deposited a plate of chicken stew before me.

She casually mentioned the chicken had flown south to seek adventure. I looked at my mother and knew she was lying. I knew the golden pieces of flesh in that bowl were parts of my pet. I shrugged, allowed her to think she had fooled me, and ate my meal. My pet was yummy. At that age I understood that baby chick was no longer the little creature that my father had bought me months ago when I oooh’d and aaah’d over its cage as it chirped. The large chicken had entered the food classification.

Yet I cannot, and will not eat squid. I simply refuse to devour an animal I admire.

About a decade ago, I was a vegetarian for a year, and I quite enjoyed it back then. I’m thinking about repeating the experience, because I’m reaching meat-related boredom, and because I’m not liking what I’m reading and finding out on the Internet about the way our food is treated before it dies. I’m not only referring to animal cruelty, but the hormones and antibiotics and soylent green-like feed. I’m not the only one I cook for, so there’s a serious level of responsibility there as well.

Here’s a recipe I like for

Stuffed Ancho Chiles

Ingredients

• Ancho chiles
• 1 jar of Newman’s Own salsa, the Cilantro one is best
• A block of Monterrey Pepper Jack cheese

Preparation

When I looked into the procedure of cooking the chiles, I found that most recipes indicate they must soak for a number of hours, or overnight. I had no time for such foolishness, so I was glad to spot a recipe with shortened steps. I only had to boil water and 1/4 cup vinegar with bay leaves, marjoram, and thyme to taste, and soak the chiles in the water (after removing it from the burner) for fifteen minutes.

I believe the reason for soaking the chiles is to soften them, but I don’t mind the harder texture at all. It’s the flavor that makes them delicious.

So I did the above, and once that was done I halved the chiles, and removed the seeds. Now I had six halves, and I had no idea what I was going to put in them, so I looked in my fridge and saw some leftover Newman’s Own salsa, cilantro flavor, and I spooned a couple of tablespoons in each chile half.

I grated about half a block of pepper jack cheese and placed it in lovely mounds over the chiles.

I created a foil tent over the baking dish (I like pyrex for this) and inserted it into a 350° oven for 35-45 minutes. By then the cheese was deliciously melted. I ate mine with rice.

And some meat.

How does a little man eat his Reeses?

I’m going to repost something from my ex-blog, because I’m lazy…

* * * * *

How? With great difficulty!

Back when I spent some time looking for collaging material last year and during the beginning of this year, one of the image sources I chose was Flickr. I like to use those that members specify can be modified, but that’s neither there or anywhere.

That’s where I found this image (and the one above, by the same member) a few months ago, and bookmarked it. Every time I look at it I smile:

Runny nose, get it?

There are more that have a theme of size difference, and those I predilect, hence my sharing his fun work.

I still say that chocolate and peanut butter don’t have any business mingling together, but then again I only understand the appeal of grape soda. I mean, if I ever grow a hundred feet in height, the country that produces the best tasting grape soda will earn my allegiance.

But I’m afraid the first factories to go down under the weight of my foot would be the Reeses and Twinkies ones. Yuck.

Fake movie posters

I had fun creating these for an image (collage) contest at Giantess.com. I didn’t win (except in my heart, of course), but I didn’t care. The other contestants came up with some really fabulous entries, and when the time came to vote, I didn’t choose one of mine. Here are my entries:

1,880

1,880 one was my first entry, and created days after I saw the poster and trailer for Cloverfield. The same as conventional folks, we peeps in the multi-size community were alight with conjectures as to what the creature would be like, and some of us proposed it would be in fact a giant she.

Some of us are hilarious.

Anyway, this entry nigh amounted to cheating, as I barely had to do anything to make it work. The destruction was already there, courtesy of J. J. Abrams. The “1,880″ refers to (more or less) the giantess’ height, and it’s an obvious play on “01-18-08″.

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Honey, I Shrunk You

I’ve always thought the “Shrunk” movie series would have been better if they had involved a romantic relationship between a woman and a tiny man, but I’m alone on that.

No, I’m not? Nice.

In Honey, I Shrunk You, the little guy would have been played by Orlando Bloom, it seems… and the brilliant yet quirky and clumsy scientist would have been his lovely wife. The DVD extras would have included side-splitting outtakes and interviews about parts of the relationship small children mustn’t know anything about until they reach the age of forty.

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In Her Shoes

In Her Shoes came to be because when I was studying getting Netflix, I checked out their recent releases, and there I saw this movie ad I knew I had to transform into what I did, as it’s a well known fact that those ladies that have a diminutive boyfriend are wont to allow them playtime inside their shoes.

I think that’s crazy. If I had a shrunken boyfriend I’d constantly warn him to stay out of my shoes, if he knows what’s good for him. And I wouldn’t be able to understand his delight in constantly disobeying me.

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Ladies Prefer Brunettes

Years before the image contest for which Ladies Prefer Brunettes was an entry, I had ripped off harvested the elements from the Internet. I had the idea of creating all these fake movie posters based on old, classic movies.

That Cary Grant, North By Northwest pose is perfect for this purpose, as is Marilyn Monroe’s. I had to work on this collage the hardest, as I recall. The floor was created from all sorts of grain effects, and the shadows drove me insane as they always do. But copying the credits style from the original movie poster was fun.

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The Cookie Thief

The Cookie Thief was the most distant in “content” from the original poster. There’s this rumor I have helped circulate that if little guys indeed existed, their sole purpose in life would be to steal cookies from a jar, because that’s what some grown men do without permission. The nerve!

I love satire and ridicule, so this fake poster endeavors to magnify the drama of stealing giant cookies from an unsuspecting woman’s kitchen. Why do they need rifles, you ask?

To kill enemy bugs, of course. Duh. And because those are M1’s they are holding. If I had an M1, I’d also carry it around with me all the time. Sweet!

And these were created by Trinket999, one of my favorite collagers in the giantess world. Not that there really is a giantess world. Well, the giantess community. We the people. Whatever. My favorite is Casino Royale, which wasn’t a finalist as The Kiss was, so I voted for that one by default.

. . . . . . .. . . . . . .

What to do with $10,000

Tall and tiny, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G

It’s 5:22 in the morning, and I can’t find my copy of The Bachman Books. I know I bought it years ago for $4.00, and I know I read it, but somewhere along the line it got gone. So I’ve been looking for it, and instead found a bag of bubble wrap I somehow have to recycle. Who takes bubble wrap? Apparently some UPS stores do, but anyway, that’s not your problem. Damn… where’s my damn book!?! I wanna read Rage again! And The Long Walk is practically part of my childhood. I’m thinking maybe the cable guy took it when he came in here to install cable so I could watch the World Cup. Except he said “Great book!” as he walked out the door and saw it on my table, so unless he was some incredible prestidigitator (in which case he wouldn’t be a cable guy), there’s no way…

Life is cruel.

Speaking of ways in which life is in fact cruel, I was thinking about those little boxer girls in Thailand. Someone told me a few weeks ago that the National Geographic Channel had a show called Taboo, and one segment of it was about girls that seemed to be about four years old, that had learned to box, and did it as a betting sport. At first I was disgusted, because I remember what I was like when I was four years old. I wanted to read books, and if my parents had put me in a ring so that greasy people could bet money on me, or on my opponent, I would have screamed bloody murder. Then I thought about it, and I continued to be disgusted by the idea. Muay Thai kickboxing, I think they call it, is becoming increasingly popular in England as something parents force their little children to do, and it can be found in the United States as well, except I haven’t seen footage of local little kids beating each other up while they move about in a sports ring.

That being said, I think it’s only cruel when the child doesn’t want to do it. If your little girl is wailing before every fight, that’s a pretty strong indication she might not want to be there. If I had a daughter, I still wouldn’t put her in a position where she’d possibly receive injuries to the head. That’s where she’d keep her brain. She’d be needing it.

But what does that have to do with the price of lemons?

Well, speaking of parental cruelty, decades ago there was this fabulous practice in South America that involved children and their parents. When a child had a birthday, her parents would throw her a little party, which involved her classmates and their respective progenitors. There would be cake, drinks, often a terrifying payaso

and after the screaming died down, the hostess would proudly announce it was time to break the piñata

Now I will tell you something that perhaps you do not know. Piñatas back then were made of ceramic, a material that we children were supposed to hit with a stick as it hovered over our heads like a Death Star with breast implants, and that after it shattered in a million pieces, we were supposed to dive into a pile to try to gather as much as we could of the toys and candy that had exploded from its sharp innards. The parents? They stood back and smiled, and I would not be surprised if bets were placed and money changed hands as Fernandito elbowed Camilito in the face to get to that miniature fire engine, and Blanquita bit Carmencita as she snatched candied almonds from her iron grip.

Years and a heartfelt rendition of “I Like to Live in America” later, I prepared to torture celebrate my firstborn with the same practice, once he proved he could stand on his two feet and hit acquired targets with a bat. Awesome, I thought. Now it’s my turn to watch him dive into sharp fragments of a breakable material have fun with his family and friends! But as I waded my way through Parties’R'Us, there were no decent piñatas to be found. Soon I discovered that in this country all piñatas are made of cardboard and paper. Do you have any freaking idea how hard it is for a small child to break a paper and cardboard piñata? Do you have any clue how difficult it was for me? The thing just sort of caved in like rotten fruit, and we had to de-hang it and tear into it like a pack of hyenas.

It was so Lord of the Flies, and of course I blame J.R.R. Tolkien for it. It’s clear that parents, in a misguided effort to honor Gimli’s attempt to destroy the One Ring at the Council of Elrond, have chosen to emulate his behavior through their American children. Piñatas, just like The Ring, cannot be simply destroyed.

You need a Barrett M82, or a McMillan TAC-50, which brings me to the title for this post.

If I had $10,000, I’d get me one of those. Either would do. Them .50 BMG rounds can go through just about anything… so I was tweaking the image I posted above, the Sitting in a Tree one, and I got to thinking, If that tall lady there threw her little shrunken fella a party, then she’d have to provide an unbreakable piñata as well. Pondering what would be best to bring it to submission made me think of those sniper rifles, which I would love to own, being as I love guns.

Of course I’d need to sell one of my livers to get ammo, but hey, sacrifices.

I gotta go. Have a nice day!

Book (and magazine) covers

I hope you can fly, little bug.

Speaking of books, there are a few book covers out there that call my attention because of their design. In September of last year I posted the image above in my old blog, no title, no clues, and I asked members to tell me what they thought it represented. I used any excuse to play games and give the gift of points—as in the Giantess.com “currency”.

Thinking back on it, wow, I had forgotten how much fun it was to wrap a GDC present and wait til it was opened. Yes, it was only pixels doing something here and then over there, but it was the sort of thing that made that board experience unique.

The best part of those games were the guesses, and I believe I gave points to everyone that participated without reference to how much I like their guess, or to its accuracy, or to how little they sucked as a person, or any of those preferential, unfair, completely unrelated factors that are generally present in events such as sports games and orchestra auditions.

A few days later I added my thoughts to that particular blog entry, and shared the guesses I had received. A wonderful one related a thought of “walking the plank of a giantess’ thumb, to be flicked away”. While that is the most obvious thing about the image, the idea of a plank as a final platform of a relationship between a tiny man and his ex giantess/owner was what inclined me to name it “The Plank”, but not what attracted me to the image.

I think of a tiny man set in his ways, reluctant to try new things…. Maybe he wishes to make new friends, but feels self-conscious of his size when she tries to introduce him to her own colossal guests during a gathering at home. She never sends him flying in the air, but the gentle nudging, the female support, the energetic, endless, loving guidance is always there, and always shared when she needs it in return.

And that’s something I see in the funniest guess: “it’s her right hand, which indicates that she will be flicking him towards herself based on the position of her arm, etc… maybe she likes him and this is her way of ‘making the first move’…?” How the idea of a woman encouraging a little man by thrusting him off the safe ledge of her thumb, into the air, to meet her, any part of her, at the other side, made me laugh! “I LIKE you, so OFF my thumb and INTO MY HEART you go!” *thwack* Some giant first move!

The guess that most approximated the book cover in the way that I would picture (since I love to change song lyrics to include giantess and shrinking content) was this one, tweaked from the Paul Simon tune:

-make a new plan, Pam; you don’t need to be coy, Joy, just listen to me
Point him away, Fay; there ain’t nothing to say- ay,
Just give him a flick, Chick. And set yourself free.

The image was also someone’s reminder of playing football with a folded paper football with the guys, and that’s how they used to kick field goals. That, in turn, reminded me of mini soccer on desktops during my own school years, a game that was mostly played by boys but that I also enjoyed. We’d shape our own goals with our hands, laced fingers from hands that stood on our thumbs, and from the arch of those laced fingers would come one single digit, both the player and the goalkeeper, to kick that little paper ball across the top of the desk. It was clumsy, but that’s what made it fun.

And here’s the (technically true) answer of the blog game:

Every once in a while, when I’m searching for reading material, or merely by coincidence, I’ll stumble onto book covers that are perfect handheld images. I’m not sure what school of advertisement holds that such images will make for better selling books, but hey, I’m buying.

Actually, I’m not buying any of the books, and merely downloading the covers for my own perverted uses, but then again I tend to only buy used, old, smelly books anyway.

So I found the image and added it to my collection of three. Back then I realized there were plenty more at Giantess.net, but the whole image watermark thing that place has going on prevents me from saving anything from there.

Love Monkey

Stern (12-05)

Deal Breakers

And what are books made of? You had to ask.

The Cure – A Forest

When I love to get mail

When the year began I made the resolution of not buying any more books for a while. The foundation for that decision was the amount of books I already have that I have not yet started to read, and a desire to keep a bit more money in my wallet.

I have failed.

There’s always the “last book I will get”, usually a fiction temptation, or delicious reference material, or a biography about Prokofiev (I have nine of those), and yesterday the postman dropped off a box that contained the last six books I will get this year. My heart pounds with a slight sense of guilt that sits in the back of the bus, all the way back while the selfish pleasure I take in my purchases bullies it and calls it names.

The box came from Daedalus, a company that sells very cheap books, from which I will probably continue to order books even if I were to find out the owner puts puppies in his mouth or takes candy from babies.

List of guilty pleasures:

This is a book about a dog, and it’s a Christmas present for someone who has two of those creatures. Me? I’m more of a cat person, multiplied by three. I started wrapping this coming Christmas’ presents in July, so as to avoid the stress and rush of the end of the year. So far it’s working very well.

I only hope the recipient of this book doesn’t notice I’m wrapping it in paper she’s used to give me presents in the past. Another thing I am is cheap. As long as being cheap doesn’t involve books.

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I got this book for someone who will invariably give it back to me come Christmas Day, so I suppose I’m cheating… but my conscience will rest in peace as soon as I remind it that I’m so dedicated to giving loved ones the right present that I would never dream of gifting them with something I would not love to receive myself.

I know I’m including the Amazon.com link with every book, but they are all available at Daedalus for far less money, in all cases for less than half the price. What I like best is finding used copies, even library rejects that turn out to be in fairly decent shape. There’s something tree-saving about purchasing a book that would have perhaps ended at a landfill.

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Because I love music of all periods, especially the Modern and Romantic ones, and I love to learn all I can about instruments and sheet music, so I can eventually play the former and read the latter.

So this one’s for me. My mom plays the piano a bit, and she often played Classical music records as my brothers and I were growing up, but she seldom mentioned composers or names of the pieces, so it’s taken me years to retrace my steps and learn who wrote what, so as to add it to my own music collection. Listening to NPR helped with that.

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I own a book about insults found in all of Shakespeare works, and it’s in a flap format that allows you to combine words to form multiple affronts. It’s fabulous fun, so when I saw this little number, I knew I had to have it.

When I ordered it I convinced myself it’s another Christmas present for someone in my family as bored with the f word as I am, but now that I’ve received it, I think I’ll keep it.

Oh, you know you’d do the same, you inconversable kites!

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I love books about languages, from dictionaries to grammar and writing books, any kind will do. I probably have an etymology “fetish”, since searching for the origin of words—phrases, idioms, all that good stuff—is compulsive, the fun kind of compelling imperative that helps me understand a language more and more each day.

The accent is something else. You Americans and your funny ways of pronouncing words.

If Kansas is ‘kan-zəs, then how come Arkansas is ‘ är-kən- sȯ? What the heck is that about? It’s fascinating to find out, and amusing to learn how different ethnic groups happen to carry pronunciation responsibility.

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I repeat the above for this one. I read a very interesting article a few months ago about the importance of learning different languages. It’s impossible to dedicate oneself to truly understand the structure of a new language and at the same time avoid learning about the culture that speaks it, and the ties that form with the culture to which one belongs.

That’s what I found when I learned English, and it’s the same thrill I hope to find when I learn to speak German. There are people that have been hearing me say that for years, but hey, it will happen. The day I’m able to call myself a polyglot I’m gonna get such a big head!

Who knows, maybe my body will grow too, to match its enormous size.

.And now, here’s the soundtrack for this entry.

Q-Feel – Dancing In Heaven (Orbital Be-Bop)

That thing about buildings…

I love buildings. I’m fond of architectural structures in general as I believe most people have been since the dawn of time, as the clear efforts to make the solid shapes that surround us show. It’s in my blood too, as some of my early reading material included my dad’s then nearly undecipherable issues of Architectural Digest, and I sometimes had the delight of seeing him at work, where he was constantly surrounded by blueprints and maquettes, or walking around construction sites, issuing instructions and orders.

Decades later I’m searching the Internet as I try to understand my thoughts regarding giantesses and shrunken men, when I stumble upon the first images of a giantess doing intimate things to a building. I can best sum up my initial feelings regarding such collages with the following image.

But I understood then as I do now if only slightly better, that as easily gathered as we all are by our common enjoyment of size differences, the visions we enjoy—even when they are about the same exact thing—can be experienced at opposite corners of our minds.

A perfect example of those opposing corners is the building thing. Some people like to view those collages, and I prefer the idea of walking by buildings, or over them, or using them as sitting furniture. Screwing them? I’ll pass.

I didn’t make my feelings known at any board aside from some vague references and smilies and veiled comments and badly hidden remarks, but now that I have my own blog I can publish a daily manifesto of my abhorrence for the building thing and there ain’t a bloody thing anyone can do about it.

An entire life of looking at my surroundings to find man-made shapes to admire, of taking the time during holiday vacations to visit houses, buildings, churches that were magnificently shaped, of going out for rides with my family just to “look at the pretty houses”, of equating the advancement of a society with its conquering the land both horizontally and vertically… I simply can’t, or won’t put that together with the enjoyment of gentle, sweet, romantic visions of being a giantess.

The building thing just doesn’t jive. I guess having parts of my anatomy that can relate to how that would feel makes my girls shrink at the very idea, and to celebrate that horror, last year I created the silly gif file above.

The way I see my little guy

He's a feisty little one.

I wrote this over a year ago for my old blog. Some days I think it’s a pile of crap, but most of the time I like it, even if it’s about someone that doesn’t exist.

* * *

Size does not determine power. That has never changed for me.
The man I imagine has always had his own brand of force.
Reducing his height in my fantasies,
Enveloping his world with mine,
Never means he becomes a mouse, weak, or prostrate
Great I am to him, an earth-moving, ground-quaking woman
To me he is a different kind of great, in heart and mind
His valor does not falter to booming steps or thundering voice

“Come close,” he calls, “closer still, giantess.”
“Over my land, my home, my body,” and I see it, have always seen a
Union of two, equal though he fits in my hand, and
Refuses to give in simply because my fingers wrap him tightly
Admonishes gently, kindly, without fear, when his
Giantess behaves in a way she should not
Elevates me in ways that have nothing to do with my height

Soul he infuses in everything he touches
Perfect he is not, and sometimes he falls off his small pedestal.
In the way he writes, works, sings, leaves his footprints on my heart, he
Rises to every occasion, influences those around him
Improves, rectifies, expands what he touches
Takes much less than all he gives

He laughs often, never falsely or at the expense of others
Understands my own brand of fun, a “Silly giantess”, he calls me
Moods go up and down, because I do not always imagine him happy
Only our fairy-tale fights are short lived
Reconciliation is always sweet, warm, and true, just like him

* * *

Collective Soul – Precious Declaration