I wish I knew what the deal was around sleep. I wake up, lie in bed a bit, falling back asleep doesn’t come easily or quickly. Now I am watching old Bugs Bunny cartoons at 3:34 AM. Feeling sleepy again. I suspect Elmer Fudd won’t catch Bugs in this cartoon either.

Well, I overcame the general ennui and funk of my recent post Waking, Reluctantly yesterday by doing some yardwork that needed to be done. Routine maintenance like lawn mowing and leaf raking is done by the groundskeepers hired by the HOA management company, but the more specialized stuff is done by the resident/homeowner (me). My front garden had mimosa saplings growing in it last year, as well as a Virginia creeper vine that managed to climb up the screen on the living room window. My house had an appearance that was part Dr Seuss, part Addams Family. I was heartily sick of looking at the mess.

My late ex-wife (ex #2) was a gardener by avocation and a good one. I always admired her skill and

Collateral Damage From Yard Work

her passion for the yard. Inspired by her memory, embarrassed by the sorry look, and motivated to do something positive, I put on some old clothes and got to work. Digging out the saplings wasn’t too bad. The ground was wet enough so that simply digging around the saplings got all five of them out. Then a shrub on the end, (species unknown to me) got trimmed a bit. Next I cut back the vine, although I was unable to dig it out. When I get my Social Security money next week, I will get some mulch to put down, plus some hanging baskets, and planters for the front porch.

Now my diligence is being acknowledged by the pain in my arthritic left hip and at my fusion site. The Aleve I took seven hours ago is wearing off. Pride in accomplishment is now tempered by the pain.

Oh well

Upon finishing my gardening, I find where Luis Henriques posted a lovely motet by Tomas Luis de Victoria on his You TUBE. Channel. Life is getting even better. I put the link on the next post.

This was a morning, that turned into a day, where my enthusiasm wasn’t quite where it needed to be.

Things are out of joint. I’m like AMTRAK. My “trains”, if you will, are running late. My trains, to explain the metaphor, are the activities I use to take me through the day. Swimming, meal preparation, writing, reading. Other “trains” on the line take me off schedule, for example, a half-hearted search for video pornography on the internet. I think I will find something gratifying, never do. I just want to find lovers perform who actually love each other.

Never mind. Now I am writing, getting my thoughts out.
Thought 1). I can’t transform my home in one day.

Thought 2). I have goals to achieve. I want to write the novel that is in me.

Better now.

It was a good day. Got to Mass, then a nice brunch w J. I did some writing, put clothes away, set aside some to give away. I’m getting ready to have oatmeal (McCann’s Irish Steel Cut Oats) I know it’s 9:30, but I’m an adult, I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want to. Trust me. I’ve made worse decisions around food.

NSFW. Erotic Fiction Sexual Themes

Flor sat for as long as it took for the sobbing to stop, which was as long as it took for the memories to die down. She thought about her hand print on The Captain’s ass, how servile this strong man became at her command. He did lick up his semen from the sheet. She looked across the room and saw Barrows embracing The Captain, The Captain’s head resting on Barrow’s chest, just as her head, rested on the Captain’s chest that afternoon. That afternoon? How could it have been so recent?

Beryl reached for Flor’s hand, looked into her eyes and saw the strain from the drama just acted. “Catharsis. Greek. Aristotle,” Beryl thought in single words. She knew Flor’s exertions had rendered her open, vulnerable. Now was not the time to use her. She stood up without releasing Flor’s hand and Flor rose too. Beryl led Flor to her bedroom, to her bed, a Shaker style bed with a Hudson Bay point blanket covering the soft flannel sheets. She motioned Flor to lie down and then followed suit. Flor noticed Beryl sent a text to someone before she turned off the light and cuddled with her.

Flor welcomed Beryl’s warmth, her body pressed against her body, Beryl’s arm holding Flor close. Flor remembered no dreams from that night, just that the scene with The Captain and Barrows and her replayed again and again. Flor, in her recollection, focused on her thrusting up The Captain’s asshole, his cries of pleasure when he brought Barrows off, then when he shot his own load.

Top. Bottom. Switch. Power. Pleasure. Ecstasy. Satiety. When her appetite returned, what would she order from the menu? Or maybe, who would order for her?

She noticed Beryl’s absence, heard a shower running, and walked toward the sound. There was Beryl in the shower.

“Want some company?”

“Get in.”

They showered together as if they had been lovers long used to the other’s body.

“Get on your knees. I’ll wash your hair,” Beryl ordered. Beryl began washing Flor’s hair as Flor’s focused shifted to Beryl’s belly, more muscular than round, and her sex, still covered with hair, though neatly trimmed.

When they had finished and dried off, they walked back to the bedroom. There on the bed, were clothes in Flor’s size, jeans, a cotton sweater, wool socks, deck shoes. No bra, no panties. Hmmm commando. OK.

“I’m springing you. I have some errands to run and I want a breakfast that would make a lumberjack’s meal look like that of a Chanel model’s. You’re coming with me. Cap says OK.”

Off they went in Beryl’s pick up.

I still feel somewhat sick. The bronchitis and allergies. Ugh. I’m going to try going to bed early, see if I can turn this around.