I have been up about two hours after getting 2 hours sleep. I made a pot of Celestial Seasonings Sleepy Time Herb Tea. I thought I would go a day without caffeine and see what happens.
There is still high drama performing in my head. I see being beaten or spanked as cathartic. There would this sadomasochistic psychodrama played out and I would be “normal” afterwards. “Purged” may be a more suitable word. We all go through life, I think, with these private dramas, our little stories. To an outsider, they mean nothing. To the person who is the star of that internal drama, they mean everything.
Maybe I should find a woman who likes perfume and makeup, who keeps a clean house. But that is most likely delusional thinking on my part. That’s the sleep deprivation speaking.
I fixed J’s lunch last night. She went to work this morning. I will see her later.
Right now, as I watch the street and tracks in Ashland, I notice how the street lights make the green leaves stand out, as joggers and walkers start their days. There is light on the pavement that reminds me of that Edward Hopper painting Nighthawks. But I don’t want to be reminded of Hopper, but rather of Raphael or Rembrandt, Rubens or van Eyck. Even Breughel would be better in line with my mood right now. I think of the Bible stories that meant the world to the medievals, like The Annunciation, the Baptism Of Our Lord, the Miracle At Cana. Jesus turns water to wine. We look at people eating in the middle of the night. No wonder we’re crazy. Go reread September 1, 1939 by W. H. Auden. Think of Nighthawks when you do.
Train #98, Northbound Silver Meteor just passed through. Today it is only a half hour late. That is almost on time.
I made hibiscus flower tea. If I could be some place else, it would be Jamaica or Cuba. The Cayman Islands, maybe, Little Cayman though.
Bedtime, yet again. I fantasize two lesbians take me to their bed, because maybe I am the one male they can and want to connect with. Vanity on my part? Of course. I hold no illusion that any thought I have is grounded in reality.
Remember.. Very rich people want us to accept the world they constructed. And the messes they made. Our consolations are gasoline and war stories, as if the bravery and suffering validate it all.
Catholicism seems to permanently connect suffering and punishment to love and redemption. It’s no mistake that we Catholics are disproportionately represented in S and M communities of every kind. It is cathartic- sometimes. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if she harbored similar fantasy around spankings.