What do we really know? How do we know it? What narratives do we accept as true for history?

What does this have to do with it getting late? I’m watching a documentary produced maybe 35 years ago, La Belle Epoque. It is an admirable presentation, but it presents a bias, a bias that we think exposes the Truth, rather than obfuscates it.

The premise is that there were, at that time, incredibly wealthy people, and then there was everybody else, living lives of material desperation. That there was a middle class, who owned houses, bought life insurance, educated their children, both sons and daughters. From these educated women, came the suffragettes. It was a middle class phenomenon. That is but one example.

My point is that the narrative exaggerates the class differences and class struggle, by ignoring the sizable bourgeoisie.

The authors and producers of this work, along with many other scholars pay inordinate attention to Freud and Marx. Other figures given attention, Darwin, Nietzsche become the other figures in the pantheon. Were no other scholars and thinkers at work then? Were there other artists besides the ones championed by Gertrude Stein and her brothers? Who else was writing music besides the favorites of the avant garde? There is an assumed narrative that we readily accept.

In the next few years, people are going to challenge the narrative of that age we call The Twentieth Century. You heard it here first.

NSFW. Erotic Fantasy. Move along, if under 18.

For Mrs McDaddy

Nothing special about today, I guess. Her lunch is packed. L took her shower, dressed in her store T-shirt and jeans, brushed her teeth with the fancy electric toothbrush. She sort of kissed me, told me to be a “good boy”, and went to work.

I must admit I was a “good boy”. I did not torture small animals. I picked up pet waste left by an inconsiderate neighbour and took out the garbage. But I did masturbate into her soiled panties before I laundered them. And a prodigious load it was, I must confess.

Oh well, another mortal sin, another sacreligious Holy Communion if I ever bother to go to Mass again, let alone Confession. But I digress..

Housekeeping can be pretty damn boring. And certain activities are just plain destructive. Don’t watch television, avoid social media. Just clean and be done with it. So the day went. Until….

As I made the bed, I noticed her book,the one she read in between watching some show about a single mom stalked by a serial killer who works at her daughter’s day care center. Something like that. The book had a plain cover. The title, Where Angela Fears To Tread. , seemed incongruous from her usual selections of Pat Conroy, Maeve Binchey, Patricia Cornwell.

There was the page she had dog-eared. I could not help but look and read.

“So Angie, you have again neglected your duties at the Manor in order to amuse yourself, by frigging your clit like a parlor maid. What have you to say before you are chastised?”

“Sir there is no excuse. My urges are my Mistress, and, I fear my ruin, unless they are corrected by the sternest of courses .”

“Then we should begin. Fetch the strap. Remove your skirt. Lower your drawers. Present yourself to me.

That was all I needed to read. Somehow I had been reading L with complete inaccuracy. She had a certain need, a need I had not seen, nor prepared myself to deliver.

How could I shift gears, to move from housekeeper to Master Of The House?

I thought of that great Otis Redding song Dock Of The Bay for no particular reason.

Do you ever love somebody and they love you, but the two of you just don’t connect? That song to me represents that frustration. (I’m not disputing any socio-political interpretation one may have for that song. This is just my personal take.)

I’ve been up for about 2 hours. I want to sleep some more.

Right now I’m thinking of all the things I ought to be doing, like giving clothes to the Goodwill, throwing out junk. It never ends, the Ought To’s, I mean. But the loneliness right now is all I feel.

The desire awakens

The skin becomes electric and charged

Was that a kiss I felt on my neck, a slow caress of my back, as muscles relax, and prick hardens?

Your hand there has skill. And you know how to tease and take pleasure in my begging.

I am yours Mistress.

There is the Robert Frost poem, of course. One of my favorite poems by Frost. Then there is the heat and the cold I use to manage the pain and discomfort of the pinched nerve.

Tonight I swam, then showered, shaved, headed home. Now I sit, ice on my shoulder. I am watching The Great Train Robbery, the Michael Crichton film of his novel about a train robbery in Victorian England. When one is as hopeless an Anglophile as I am, this is like a trip to Disneyworld for an eight year old.

The ice feels good. This natural satisfaction is a lovely feeling.

Cricket today, Sri Lanka vs. South Africa. I saw some of it. South Africa has had a disappointing series, but they played well today. It is tempting to assign a value to a team, based on its nation’s history. Never mind apartheid is a thing of the past. The team reflects all of the races, tribes, and creeds of the nation. And I have a story for every other nation in the mix.

Thursday at BJ’s I was talking cricket with Mohammed, the Bangladeshi clerk. He likes India. They are very good. I’m beginning to recognize good play now.

Cricket is fun.

Hope all of y’all are having fun,

Sorta half-asleep. Wishin’ I was some place else. A bed, perhaps.

The sky threatens rain. The clouds are beautiful.

The World is crazy. Or maybe just this country. It is going to take a century to undo the damage done by The Free Speech Movement in Berkeley in 1964 and the Leftists at Columbia in 1968. My latest e-mail from the University of Virginia indicates that the vultures of the Left are not through ripping the flesh from the carcass of academia. A National Collegiate Athletic Association Men’s Division 1 Basketball Championship might keep the grousers, critics and malcontents happy for a little while. And definitely keep them from looking too hard at the cultural Marxists who run Mr Jefferson’s University. The old shell game of bamboozling the rich continues.

Somebody has to do something about the size of government. It will collapse of its own weight.

Stop using terms like bureaucrat to describe government employees. People react to the term and lose sight of what it costs to pay for government. We can’t expect our Senators and Representatives in Virginia to downsize the Federal Government. The government employees and federal contractors keep these guys in office.

Unless that changes, we’re doomed.

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What am I doing up? I am sleepy. I sit here half watching cricket, half-browsing through Amazon.com looking for pine tar soap, Russian Orthodox liturgical music, cricket paraphernalia. Why? Back to bed.