I’ve been working on a poem. No rhyming, free verse, not about sex directly, but erotic in its own way. A poem works itself out of my head and my heart.
As I lay in bed this morning, I listened to the birds singing and enjoyed the absence of other sound.
Serenity isn’t hard to come by for me. It does require me to be still though.

The stick says plus. Call me.

Today has been one of those days I wouldn’t trade for all the fireworks on the Fourth of July or all the hot dogs at a Labor Day picnic. Here it is, the 9th of March and I gave up checking on how warm it was after I walked outside barefoot at 8:00 AM to fetch the newspaper. It felt just fine.

So the day found me a partial sluggard, tempted to explore my concupiscence, but fully engaged with the glorious experience of being alive and healthy. There are pleasures that don’t get recognition; fresh strawberries for one, kefir, or a  peeled navel orange, sectioned, ready to be savored. What I long for the most is a woman sufficiently indolent to enjoy these delights with me.

There is one activity for which no partner can amplify the pleasure. That is my daily power walk. I stepped off around 4:03, beginning my ten circuit, four mile walk. The groundskeepers had put down hard wood mulch so the walk was filled with that fecund and earthy smell. The pine trees had sap that was running and the piney scent made its presence known too.  I saw my neighbors and my neighbors’ dogs. Sometimes I recognize my neighbors by their dogs on the other end of the leash.

After I finished my first lap, I asked myself if I was having fun. It didn’t feel like fun. It felt like air entering my lungs at a swift rate. and legs straining and stretching with every stride.  Self decided to speak up and give his two cents about the meaning of pleasure.

It doesn’t feel like fun now”, Self says.

“Wait till we’re done, Self, and we can see what we did.”

Self finally agrees to schlep along, promising to be unobtrusive, checking out the women, in case I forget.  Almost Spring means all women are beautiful. We are all attached to the glorious colors that await us, yellow daffodils, and forsythia, purple croci, red tulips, the marvelous pink of quince, and the  burgeoning extravaganza  that are the azaleas. Shucks. I left out the dogwood and the redbud.

Almost Spring has me picking up the pace, to see if I can average below 14 minutes for a mile, maybe hit 13 minutes a mile. When the walk is over, my stopwatch say 52:41.23, an average of 13 min. 10.25 sec per mile, a personal record.

Almost Spring has me motivated to move that much faster, to  feel the breeze blowing on my sweaty body, cooling it. Almost Spring is about that last lap and the cold water waiting in the kitchen. It is a shower , water pouring on my naked body, the smell of peppermint soup, tea tree oil shampoo, and water evaporating  on my naked skin before I  can dry it off with the towel. Almost Spring is taking my time getting dressed, wishing a lover could dawdle and lallygag with me, a lover thrilled to be naked with me,  open to  the dalliance of lust and the call and response of desire.

I made the mistake of going on Facebook and looking at political posts from friends, some I agreed with, some I don’t. Politics on Facebook is a game for losers.
Which raises the question, have we forgotten how to think? Do we know how to use facts to forge an argument?

Next comes the realization that I am happier blogging my thoughts on WordPress. I will save Facebook to keep in touch with the nieces and nephews in faraway places or right across town. I will enjoy the pictures of children and pets. I will post an occasional thought-provoking article. The truth is Facebook is the Romper Room of political thought, where adult children of all political stripes can be the immature brats that is consistent with a limited worldview.

After a ten day hiatus, forced by a cold, I went back to power walking. The walk felt so good.  I did the usual four miles, stopping about a mile through to chat with a neighbor I had not seen in a while. Even with a 2 minute interruption I had a good walk.

Right now I’m watching a DVD, Cuba Island of Music. It deals with Cuban music, but kind of preachy and didactic, without the energy of Wim Wenders’ Buena Vista Social Club. Of course, Omara Portuondo, Ibrahim Ferrer, or Compay Segundo have yet to appear in this film.  Bad Cuban music is an impossibility. The Afro-Cubano rhythms are powerful, seductive, erotic, and inviting. One simply needs to dance! They just finished a segment on Santaria, the syncretistic native religion with African indigenous and Catholic elements,

Life without the Brace of Doom, is a delight. I still have some back pain that rears its ugly head when I try to sleep. So I sleep on an odd schedule.  There are times when I lie in bed, wondering if sleep will come. Then I get up and read. Pretty soon it is 2 or 3 AM.

There is another aching pain I have, the longing for sexual intimacy, sexual passion. It cannot be ignored. It is not a “thing to do”, like brushing your teeth or ironing a shirt. It is the consummation of the love I feel for my wife, my partner, and my lover.  Another chance comes to break the logjam.

I talked to the Claims Examiner and the money is headed my way. I have my short-term claim paying through to 11 November and then the long term (6 months of disability) disability insurance starts. Same idea, different pockets.

Evidently the best time to talk to a claims examiner at an insurance company about a disability claim is Friday afternoon. Imagine my surprise when the claims examiner picked up the phone on the first ring. Fully expecting voice mail, I found myself speaking with Jessica, the claims examiner. I was immediately reminded of a Seinfeld episode where Jerry does a monologue about calling someone, only to be disappointed when the person answers and there is no rollover into voice mail.  We had a brief and friendly conversation. She did have the doctor’s statement and  patient notes. She would review with the appropriate people and get back to me within the hour. We shall see, but my experience with her tells me she does what she says she’s going to do. Soon I will know if the logjam has been breached.

The insurance companies have protocols and procedures to be followed in order to review and pay (or not pay) claims.  I liken it to court etiquette at Versailles in the Eighteenth Century or in Vienna during the waning years of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  If my “papers are in order” (use your best Major Strasser from Casablanca voice), the claim will be paid.

Stay tuned.

The wheels of fate grind on mercilessly. No word yet. And I’m tired. It will be 1800 Hours Central Time in twentytwo minutes. We ate overpriced food at a swankier restaurant, all the while waiting for The Phone Call. I am going to bed at 1900 Hours Eastern Time for some kind of rest.
Adios, amigos.

This is a piece I wrote back in 2014, when euthanasia and physician-assisted suicide were “hot” topics.  The parallel to fin de siecle´ Vienna was never mentioned.

The German term in the title was a commonplace saying in Vienna during the twilight years of the Habsburg Empire. Suicide was quite common in Vienna on the eve of the Great War. Better to overdose on morphine than to stick a Luger in your mouth was the sentiment reflected in the saying. Why all this morose chatter at the start of a new day, you grumble?

The news people have taken up the story of a woman in Oregon electing to take a doctor-prescribed lethal drug to end her life, rather than suffer the last stages of a dreadful and painful cancer. I should add that the lethal dosage of the drug was prescribed by the doctor for the specific purpose of ending her life. Everybody has an opinion about this and, quite frankly, I don’t care what yours is.
Like the Viennese of 1900, the culture has taken on a world weariness, Weltschmerz is the rather poetic German term. Optimism is a rare outlook today. This culture has lost its vitality.

Big Drama can be about the passion of desires consummated. Or it can be about money. Early this morning, at one and two and three, it was about money. The big drama was between my ears.
Back in 2012, I finally had the money to settle my credit card debt. The amount of money that the banks forgave was imputed to me as income. For example a $20,000 debt settled for $10,000 would mean, according to Uncle Sugar, that the banks gave me $10,000. And in a way, they did. I received a 1099 and I had to pay taxes. Only I hadn’t, yet.  Monday, I paid the bill, but I stayed up worrying and castigating J and myself for this predicament.
Funny thing is, when I wrote the check, the drama evaporated as the ink dried on the paper. Soon there was only an envelope passing in my hand, through the open car window, into the big blue metal mouth of a USPS mailbox.
Life continues.
Monday morphed into a four mile walk, a shower, a cup of tea, and a good book. Today the good book is Parisian Lives by Samuel Steward. He has a good, engaging style and I’m developing feeling for his characters. Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas figure in the story. Stein is portrayed, not as a legend, but a wonderfully rich, human character.  This is a book I recommend.

It is 8:49 PM. I did my walk today, schlep, it felt like today. I was dragging my wrist heart-rate monitor. I could not figure out how to turn on the stopwatch function.  “Patience, White Boy, the Master

will reveal more of its mysteries when you are ready,” the little voice in my head says.

The device isn’t that hard. I think the brace’s physical restraints forces me to put more energy into doing the least little thing than I am willing to admit. So I make the learning curve on piddly challenges that much steeper.
Actually, I’m pretty happy today. I look forward to reading people’s blogs. And there is less drama with you guys than in Facebook. What you share in the way of problems, like aged parents, are genuine. I empathize. I’ve walked that road.
I am doing the blog on my Smartphone. Something new.