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.

There was a shooting at two mosques in Christchurch, New Zealand. The Bangladesh National Cricket Side was in town for a test match. I hope they’re safe.

The perpetrator is an avowed white racist, not a Muslim. 49 people were killed.

Every time a shooting like this occurs, any murder really, part of me dies too. A little bit of hope that we really are rational, sensitive, loving creature shrivels up, withers away. Maybe that’s necessary.

I woke up to urinate. And look at my messages as if some incredible news affecting me is about to happen.

But no. I guess that’s a good thing.

I did read Porngirl3’s post about her children. I miss the days when my children were little.

Then again there is a lot about my past I miss. However I don’t miss who I was then.

I went back to bed, lay there for about ten minutes when I realized I like being awake in the predawn night. The silence is so compelling.

I’m not one for nude selfies, but I like wearing my logger jeans from Key Apparel and long sleeve tee shirt from L L Bean. So here.

I ran into a friend of my deceased ex-wife yesterday. She reminded me that the secretive nature of her final months left me kind of incomplete around our relationship.

I don’t know precisely what it is I’m trying to say. Maybe I’m saying that I have been striving to be a better person than the lecherous drunk I was when we were married.

Maybe she’s out there in the ether watching. Who knows?

I wake up

Start to think

And wonder

What am I doing up?

Do I want to sleep, renew, restore

Or sacrifice this time for a new experience?

With the wakefulness comes the longing.

For some reason, I can’t seem to chill. The world of Word Press has me happily engaged. I can take an idea, , think it through,write it down, hit the send button and people all over the world can read it. Amazing.

Aristotle or Aquinas, John Locke or Karl Marx couldn’t do that. Not that what I write approaches any of their works. Maybe therein lies the problem. I can put it out there for the millions or billions to read and maybe seven or eight actually do.

Very sobering, I love all you guys, but these exercises in thought and self-expression can merely start here.