Sweethearts, let me fling myself at your collective bosom. One I am in intermittent, and sometimes dire, need of. Don’t get me wrong: All I do miss are my grandmother – who’d now be well over 115 if only she had continued to live – and the famous shoulder which steadfastly offers itself and would use more shamelessly if I allowed myself.
Yes, so today’s insight is that one does not MAKE enemies. Oh, no. An enemy will force himself upon you.
Will now go and fashion a wooden cross (iron being too heavy) laboriously hung with cloves of garlic (and parsley to take your breath away) to banish those with petty intent in no proportion to the crime not committed.
Life is too sunk to attempt a souffle.
Don’t cry for me: Most my ‘social’ life is conducted on the phone. A bit hard on a person as tactile as I am. Doesn’t matter where I am. I am always HERE.
No, I am not wheelchair bound. I am as fast on my feet as what’s his name, the messenger whinging it. What I am is – always somewhere else. Mainly abroad. To top it all my passport has run out. I told longest standing friend (think sandpit) that I am now a prisoner of this island courtesy to my country’s laws and their London embassy’s mills turning slowly. Though they will give me an emergency passport should someone close and across the sea die. Die. What sort of difference does that make to the dead? Prisoner on this island. What friend said – he is very dry: “”You have been a prisoner on those isles for a long time.”
Fact is, passport not withstanding: In theory I can go where I want. But where do I want to go? If there is one thing I hate it is choice paralysis. And choice paralysis has set in. We need reason in life. Definition. And sometimes we realize that we have too much of a good thing. And too little of the other.
I like my father. A lot. Still, he does get on my nerves. About thirty years ago he offered me a bet. On the year Goethe died. He was one year out. I won. As hollow victories go that one was bottomless. To this day.
With this post I am on such thin ground I can feel the ice breaking under my feather weight.
Today I found the assertion that “Erotic lovers view marriage as an extended honeymoon, and sex as the ultimate aesthetic experience”. Be that as it may. I most certainly would never describe sex as the ultimate AESTHETIC experience. It’s gore. If not blood most certainly sweat. Enter condoms – that most evil of inventions since Lord Byron used dried oxens’ bladders to keep population under control; condoms re-instated AFTER a brief and most marvellous interval in the sixties and seventies. The contraceptive pill. Happy days. All we were concerned about was NOT getting pregnant. Yes. Those were the days. Now sex is sex with surgical gloves on. How I do my washing up. Barrier method: Marigold – yellow – guaranteed to keep a skin between hot water and my fair hands. I hate condoms. With a vengeance. Seriously. Has anyone ever considered the exhilarating surge when sperm, unhindered, hits the end of a woman’s tunnel and what it does? No. Thought not.
Where were we? Aesthetics. To me rubber is as un-aesthetic as it can get. Enough to drive you back into the nunnery and dream of better times.
PS Don’t forget to wash your hands next time you touch anyone (by accident)
PPS I wonder how sperm feels being tripped up at the first hurdle