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“Do you suppose you’ll ever get married?”
“Dunno really.”
“Do you think you want to?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Really?”
“Yes”
“What do you think it will be like?”
“I imagine it would be just like it is in the fairy tales.”
“You mean with horses and white knights and all?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think I’ll ever get married?”
“If you want to.”
“You mean I don’t have to if I don’t want to?”
“Of course not silly.”
“Oh.”
“Did you think everyone got married?”
“Yes. Well, no. You’re not married.”
“I’m not married for very different reasons.”
“Like what?”
“It’s complicated.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that there is no one answer to that question and the answers are all very confusing.”
“You mean I’m too little to understand grown up things.”
“In a way, yes.”
“Do you love someone?”
“Yes.”
“Is he white knight like in my fairy stories?”
“Not exactly but I thought he was when we first met.”
“Does he tickle you and make you laugh?”
“Yes, in fact he does.”
“Do you think you will marry him one day?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps one day.”
“When will you know?”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon…when will you know?”
“When the time is right.”
“When will that be?”
“You ask too many question.”
As I begin another odyssey of planning that which is travel, I was reminiscing about how awful airports are and how lucky I am always to be sat next to “big sweaty man” or in front of “child who kicks my seat for 12 hours” and I begin to cringe.
There is so much about flying that is irritating and unnecessary but because we are held hostage by the fact that if we don’t catch our connection we’re stuck in De Gaul airport on hot steamy day in August (PU!) we have to accept the crappiness of airport staff since we may have to kiss up to them sometime later when we really need that seat in first class to avoid smelly arm pit man or woman trying to cover up horrible odor with cheap perfume.
Seems I’m not the only one who feels this way about flying. Here is a link to a blog with a fantastic post about the inconveniences of flying. This gentleman is spot on…
When one is engaged in coital nincompoopery, one would imagine or fantasize having said coital bliss in a private atmosphere. One would imagine that privacy, being key for most of us, is an integral part of getting your inner freak on.
One would also imagine that being of a certain age and having had many certain experiences and having been around the so called block a time or two, one would not imagine being shocked after discovering random people experiencing uncommon carnal knowledge behind the skip at the end of the road.
As an adult, one would think “Hmm, must just be some horny young’uns with nowhere to go” which would not be out of the realm of acceptable assumptions or, pondering that mayhap, it was an extramarital affair and the “No Tell Motel” was all booked up for the evening.
HOWEVER
Discovering that the end of my road is used for voyeuristic entertainment was a complete and utter surprise. I rang the Tattooed Man and explained what I saw to which he chuckled and called me a pilgrim. “What?!!” I shouted in self defense. No buckles on my shoes. He went on to explain this new phenomenon of sexual sport called “Dogging”.
So, he’s on his way over with the camera and I’m making popcorn.
Brilliant!
How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings–
a series of burnt circles–
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.
I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger’s great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.
Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings–
a series of burnt circles–
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.
I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger’s great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.
Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.
~Pablo Neruda~
Over the years, I have learned how to tap into serenity in a world that is anything but serene.
There are some things that make it especially difficult to be serene such as, oh I don’t know, the knob head who just robbed my laundry bag and my pants and sheets and towels from the lanuderette.
It’s people like that and events like this that catch me off guard and make it a challenge for me to stay in my “happy place”.
The upside is that I get to shopping to replace all the things some pervert is now wanking over probably at the local bus shelter.
That’s ok. Karma is a harsh taskmaster you can’t hide from, you low life tosser.
