Stuck In My Recliner

Not really. Figuratively. I have a bad case of wanting to do nothing. And sadness. A friend of ours from the old church lost his son to cardiac arrest over the weekend. The son was maybe 48. Sucks.That’s all I can say.

I’ve spent the day reading porn  from Sinclair Sexsmith’s Sugarbutch Chronicles.  All I can say is that they know how to write. She writes porn that holds my attention. And makes me what to be sexual again.

Alternatively I am also reading Black Reconstruction In America, by W.E.B.DuBois. It is an admirable work for its scholarship and DuBois’ consummate skill as a writer. The author’s Marxist perspective is not concealed and, because of the openness, the scholarship is not compromised. 

But I’m emotionally fatigued. I’ve been obsessing over trains. I want to watch the same train pass through Galesburg, Ft. Madison and La Plata, as if following the same train is some great feat.The LA-bound Southwest Chief #3 is passing through Ft Madison now. I must say the view here is stunning, yet again. 

J works and sleeps.

I have lost a lot of motivation. I am sure it will return. “There ain’t no cure for the summertime blues”, goes the refrain of a Sixties song. I feel them. Living down South, the summertime blues go with the territory.

I have a kinky story idea that I should write down. Maybe in a couple of days.

That’s about it.

In The Idyllic Meadow

The lesser god of Explanations

Was cast down from Olympus

When Zeus tired as the endless words

Left his lips in torrents

When a simple nod would do.

In Acadia, he found a nymph

Prattling on with questions,

As the randy displaced god

Took the pins from her chiton

Then buggered her to silence

As both god and nymph

Learned their lesson.

“Bringing The Art To You”



How much should I tip the driver?

I know how much for a pizza. But art? Wait. They don’t really bring art to me or to anybody else, for that matter.

“They” is the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, more of an “it” than a they. What they do is stay open, most of the time, so I can go in and look at the art. I grew up in a time when an art museum did not need a slogan, the way GE or State Farm did.

Some of the art is sculpture and paintings by Dead White Men. But it happens to fulfill an aesthetic that defines beauty. There are standards. They express ideas, some of them related to Christianity, like Bible stories or portraits of saints.

Sometimes the secular art depicts soup cans, or horses, or pictures of Elvis and Marilyn Monroe. But Hey, it’s art and I don’t want to look like a rube that has Leonardo’s Last Supper reproduced on black velvet hanging on the living room wall in my double wide.

Art is what the Museum can afford to “acquire”, which is Museumspeak for buying a work of art or borrowing a work from another museum. Let’s not forget accepting art from rich people as a gift.

Kinda creepy that within walking distance of the Museum, protesters destroyed one of the most beautiful urban boulevards in America, because it had statues of Confederate heroes . Destroying what disturbs you is what tyrants do, or the mobs hired by tyrants and plutocrats to fulfill their wishes.

Right now the mob does its destroying outside the walls of The Museum. But how long before all those religious paintings, rendered by Dead White Christian Men will need to be removed? They’re in a state-owned Museum after all. We could make room for more soup cans, or non- heteronormative art that is transpositive, ya know?

What happens when somebody decides that the art being brought to people like me is no longer acceptable? Then what ? Do we store it, sell it, or burn it? The Nazis seized, sold or destroyed the art they didn’t like. Now when aesthetics is made secondary to politics, like what Hitler and, later, Mao did, we can watch one more of our freedoms die. That particular freedom is the freedom to think for ourselves, to decide what is good or bad art. Great art has been made depicting despicable ideas. Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph des Willen (Triumph Of The Will) immediately comes to mind.

We have to find beauty and even truth in what we don’t always understand. I guess that’s what makes it art, instead of just pretty pictures.

And Now Galesburg, Illinois

I have found another site to “railfan”, to sit in my recliner and watch trains. Virtual Railfan, LLC has a network of cameras on YouTube.

I started watching trains in Ashland, Virginia, near my home. The camera looks down Railroad Avenue. It is a busy site with CSX and Amtrak trains going through town all day. The activity of the town also provides diversion, entertainment, as I watch the day progress.

Recently I moved on to Ft Madison, Iowa on the banks of the Mississippi River, an awesome sight in its own right, without the added feature of trains. Ft. Madison has a swing bridge over the river with a span that pivots open to allow barge traffic on the river to pass through.

La Plata, Missouri is a stop on the BNSF tracks, more or less South of Ft Madison. If one has time to waste and knows the schedule, it is possible to see a train pass through Ft Madison, then La Plata.

This brings me to Galesburg, Illinois. It would be first in a sequrnce: Galesburg, Ft. Madison, La Plata. Right now I am watching a freight pass through Galesburg. I am pretty sure I saw this train cross the river at Ft. Madison. Now it moves through Galesburg.

This is America going about its business. The freight trains haul plywood, bulk chemicals in both solid form or liquid, in tanker cars for that. There are boxcarss, owned by leasing companies, such as GATX. Then, of course, are the cargo containers, that travel the world, carrying the manufactured products of Korea, China, Taiwan, and Malaysia ultimately to a Wal-Mart or Target near you. From time to time I will see a container bearing the Amazon Prime logo. At least I think I do. When a symbol is everywhere, I can get confused.

So the morning progresses. There is a light rain falling in Ft Madison and Galesburg. It is sunny in Ashland, I need to check La Plata, but I suspect you’re not interested.

Later, folks

Sleep Deprivation To Sex Rant

I think I want to sleep. I need to sleep, I tell myself. I can’t really write, without my heart becoming noticeable in my chest, my eyelids heavy.

I want to sleep, yet when I take the plunge and climb back into bed, I lie there, with my mind still racing. I sit, my mind racing a little less, thinking about J and why I just don’t take her, when I need to take her.

That’s it. I run around putting a fine point on everything. Is she or is she not my wife? Being used sexually is part of the deal. It’s how we keep our sanity, by admitting this urge exists. You think with all that’s been said and written about sex in the last 150 years, we would have figured that out, the two of us, I mean.

Apparently not.

Rough Patch

It did not take long for me to start feeling down and negatively toward things. Slightly paranoid, planning my escape from America. I know. It’s completely delusional thinking.

I don’t know. I lay in bed, began to experience some back pain, and the negativity just started to well up from inside of me.

I will sit, see what happens

Sunday’s End

J and I shared an entree at Carrabba’s, the Fettuccine Carrabba,. It is the usual absurd entree a restaurant serves to make sure a hypothetical guest feels *full”.. Gotta love Americans and their appetites. We mailed an anniversary card to J’s brother and sister-in-law. They are nice people, together for 48 years. Had I stayed married to wife #1, we would have been married for 48 years. Kinda bittersweet. I didn’t know it then, but she is crazier than I am, if you measure crazy by relationships and marriages gone into the tank. More often than not, I feel like a survivor. I think I found a way to be in a relationship where we love and support each other. There are no drugs or alcohol around here. That matters. I have to go looking for things outside of my marriage to get angry. I’m frustrated here, lonely, but not angry. The little things I do for J, she appreciates. I gave her watermelon in little balls as part of her fruit snack tomorrow. She is upstairs. I am down. I’m hoping Train #97 comes by soon. Amtrak says there is a service disruption. Heaven only knows what that is. Bedtime.

More Sunday, But With Newer Day Dreams.

Such a glorious Sunday it turned out to be. A vacuumed carpet and the waste paper and magazines consigned to recycling, a shower taken, teeth brushed, cheeks and neck shaved. I sit in clean clothes with a plastic tumbler of iced Earl Grey tea on the table to my right.

As a change of scenery I am watching BNSF tracks in Fort Madison, Iowa. The tracks handle a lot of freight. The tracks flank the Mississippi River, then cross the river on a bridge and into Illinois, near Nauvoo, where Joseph Smith, Prophet of the Latter Day Saints met his demise, if memory serves me.

Speaking of memory, I recall the story, learned I know not where, of how Thomas Jonathon Jackson earned his sobriquet.

There stands Jackson like a stone wall! Rally behind the Virginian!” Commanded South Carolina’s General Bee at the Battle of First Manassas.

Funny how the tangible can be desttoyed, but the idea, the legend, the memory and the dream live on, undaunted by the tattooed cowards of the night who afflict our city like those other nocturnal denizens, the rats.

Memory conserves so much. Some memories live on in the brain, others in the muscle, some even in the cock, to be recalled in tumescence for time to time.

Anger seems so distant now, as I gaze upon the tracks, park, and river on this idyllic afternoon.

Reading Durrell To Make Way For Reverie.



I’ve been reading The Black Book by Lawrence Durrell, famous for his Alexandria Quartet. The Black Book takes place on the island of Corfu, where Durrell lived for a time. This is very dense and intense prose, compelling and yet daunting as the story demands more and more of my attention, more perhaps than my brain, recovering from a relapse of depression, can afford to give. My head aches now. I don’t know why. Maybe I need more sleep. I read a few angry sentences of a fellow blogger, whose indignant rants some will mistake for truth. Satan spends a lot of time telling us that both he and The Triune God don’t exist. That is all I can think of when I consider this blogger and their work. J worked another full day, while I did a lot a sleeping this morning. And I truly miss her this Sunday. More coffee is in order. Maybe it’s time to watch Buena Vista Social Club again. For the music, for the poignant charm of Old Havana languishing in Castro’s imposed decay. Mostly it’s time to dream of the love evoked by the music, deep and passionate. Some patchouli incense may help with the mood. I will imagine my lover grinding her buttocks back into me, as I raise the hem of her dress. She wears no knickers as if she wants no fabric of impediment. And I feel the wetness of her cleft, hearing the moan two fingers thrusting in her cunt will draw from her throat.. The headache lessens. The ache is the pain that begs release in the erotic words I let escape. The readers whom I love know who they are.