The modem for my big computer, the one with a real keyboard, is kaput. So a new one is on order. I have written a new poem, (I feel like Monsieur Gustave from The Grand Budapest Hotel.) but I have to wait for new modem to show up from Amazon.

One of the blessings of my disability is that I have been home most days and not driving. Thank God. This morning, I helped out a friend who doesn’t have a vehicle get to work. That meant I had to drive during rush hour. I saw what I was missing and I realized how lucky I am.
Anybody who criticizes conformity too stridently doesn’t take into account that conformity is what makes driving a viable means of getting places. We all agree to conform to the rules of the road. Being a unique driver isn’t particularly valuable.

Art is about increasing the likelihood of getting laid.

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.