That is the summation of my day. 

Sex. Sexual thoughts torment me. 

Just wondering. 

Let it end there

It is one thing to be loved, quite another to be desired.

An infant needs to be loved and held and talked to. When we get older, we still want these things. They aren’t necessarily sexualized. Far from it. We don’t want a sexual charge or spin on everything, because pervasive sexuality dulls, rather than heightens our sensual awareness. There have to be at least a few unattractive people wearing bathing suits at the beach.

Yet when we think of our lover(s), being loved has to be coupled with being desired. There has to be that juncture where tasks and diversions must end and distances disappear along with our clothes.

Otherwise life becomes drudgery. All other expressions or “languages” lose their loving context. We must create the environment of love that we want babies to be born into. That extends beyond that immediate environment of home and family. Sex is an affirmation of life.

Here I am awake. I tried to sleep. I really did. Maybe I did sleep, for an hour, not much more.

J has to be at work in a little less than 3 hours. I may be up to see her off.

For some reason I feel cold. I have a sweater on. I am watching a Carnaval parade from Ovar, Portugal. It has a naïve, homegrown quality to it, with crossdressing by whom I suspect are straight men. Lots of topsy turvy carnality. The low budget quality makes this Carnaval much more appealing than the over-the-top extravagance of Rio.

Maybe I am hungry. My arthritis is putting me on edge. Sometimes all I have to do is come downstairs and sit and I am sleepy. This is the case this morning. But I think I shall sleep in my clothes this morning however.

I know this quarantine will end soon. We cannot sustain ourselves with the program of hyper-borrowing indefinitely..People want to work and the politicians, whether Democratic or Republican, know it. They may not admit it, but they know it.

That said, I had a four mile walk in a fine drizzle  late this afternoon. Just for an hour but it felt great. We had slow cooker chili tonight, perfect for a cool and drizzling evening.

J goes to work after a thirty day quarantine leave tomorrow morning at four AM. Four. A. M. I could be awake when she leaves. Crazy. But they want to get stuff done before the multitudes descend.. Makes sense. I suppose.
My despair of the past post is gone,  replaced with the belief that things will work out. I will receive all that I need and much of what I want. What is my evidence? None really exists. It is just not worth worrying about when or if my desires will be satisfied.

Is this feeling of despair, of hopelessness, of resignation, simply my heart breaking? Do. I now know my life is in the endgame?

Is my future living on one floor, the slow progression to no risky stair-climbing?

Impotence.

Incontinence.

Dementia.

Forgetting to shave. Or shower.

When will cutting my toe nails become a forgotten skill?

https://taskandpurpose.com/unsung-heroes/harold-gonsalves-medal-of-honor

My father was a Marine Lieutenant, serving with 4/15 on Okinawa. He was a forward observer, leading an Forward Observer Team. I never knew whether Cpl Gonsalves, by his sacrifice, saved my father’s life or if it was another officer.

At the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, SC, there are pictures displayed of all Marine Medal of Honor recipients. When my son graduated from Boot Camp in April 1995, Dad spent a long time just looking at Corporal Gonsalves’s photograph.

That was fifty years after that time on Okinawa.

I’m sitting here, wondering what happened to the day. It is 10:30 PM.I got stuff donr. I got a walked, four miles, a total of thirty miles for the week 15-21 April. I feel good. 

Life is pretty good. But I wanted more items checked off my mental to do list. 

Sit cons basically suck. And I try to fall asleep listening to Seinfeld.

Crazy? Yeah..

As it stands now, my daily power walk is a highlight, a diversion, a chance to connect, albeit at a distance, with the outside world.

Even as insular a space as my suburban community is touched by the coronavirus tragedy. Each day I pass the nursing home where 49 lives were lost. Why that place? Why those poor souls?

But I press on, aware of the traffic, although minimal. Every time I walk, I see how driving or riding by in an automobile is like passing through in a glass and metal cocoon. Our vehicles shelter us, as if they were an extension of our houses. We listen to our music, perhaps have our religious statuary or icons on the dashboard or dangling from the rear view mirror. We all consider this personalization perfectly normal. In a time where the uniformity of the vehicles is pervasive, this personalization is almost an imperative. But 65 years ago, your vehicle was unique enough in itself. A Chevy Bel Air was markedly different from a Ford Fairlane. These days a black SUV is a black SUV.

Awareness of my surroundings, such as the uneven grass on the side of the road, keeps me safe. The pedestrian and the cyclist quickly learn they are intruders in Car Universe. We are the aliens, not the ones rolling by in their pods.

And I walk on. I see a turtle on a sand bar in the creek. I notice the trash, the discarded brush, the plastic bags. Today, I noticed an empty cigarette pack, Newport 100’s, with a few unsmoked fags (slang term for cigarette from The Great War)*.

I speak to my fellow walkers as we pass each other by. I smile at the children, riding their bikes with their Mom or Dad following. I hear the barking dogs like the black poodle sequestered by the electronic fence. Sometimes the serenity is disturbed by the music resounding from a car, the thudding bass announcing its passing as if it were clarion trumpets of a Roman Legion.

Just as easily I could be and am the man in the pod, not the indigenous person trudging along the road. These are our cities today, where humans doing human things, only interfere with the city plans of the city planners.

* “Strike up a lucifer (match) to light your fag, smile boys that’s the style.” Those lyrics are from the song Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kit Bag. I’m hoping it’s in the Public Domain by now

I miss the old Sunday routine, Mass, brunch and a swim at the YMCA. Right now isn’t bad, primarily because I’m not sick. I’m following the Weight Watchers plan, more or less. I am pursuing power walking with real enthusiasm. Today I walked 6 miles as if it were not a big deal. I still average around 15 minutes/mile. But what the Heck. I’m out there bad hip and all. And when I’m done I feel so good. It is highly energizing from a sexual perspective.

I fixed a beef stew tonight that was well received.

I have paper sorting and organizing to do.