My Dad’s sister Midge retired from the Civil Service with a nice pension, a great investment portfolio, and time on her hands. The Internet was well established and she did business with numerous online businesses that delivered right to her door. She ordered from Omaha Steaks, Vermont Country Store, Amazon.com and The Trappists Monks of Gethsemani Abbey, (cheese makers, called by my brother  “The stinky cheese monks”). When she died in 2011, we figured UPS had to lay off at least 2 delivery drivers.

As I enter my ninth month of surgical recovery, I believe I am carrying on her legacy of Internet purchasing.  Today nine packages came to my door, from both the Postal Service and UPS. There were books, DVD’s and a cell phone battery and charger. The books featured a biography of Samuel Steward, tattoo artist, friend of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, and as the dust cover says, “sexual renegade” (FYI he was homosexual when it wasn’t cool to be gay). We also have two books by Madame H. P. Blavatsky, found of theosophy and inspiration to the Nazis, a book of the cartoons of Robert Crumb, and recipe book from a radio personality of the Forties, The Mystery Chef’s Own Cookbook.  That book will be a post in itself at some future date. DVD’s include one about a nudist colony, one about the First World War and two about Nazi Germany.

Now I have been feeding the Amazon monkey for nine months now and if I never order another book from Amazon, I will be busy for the next 35 years.  Since I’m planning on living to age 100, I know what I will be doing to stay busy.  If there isn’t a 12 Step program for Amazon customers, there ought to be. Lots of sex-related titles in my purchases; maybe I ought to have that “talk” with my wife, instead of sublimating that needed discussion into books and DVD’s. Here I am storing in three-dimensional space what should really be a life-defining and relationship-defining dialogue with my life partner. If that isn’t fucked-up, I don’t know what would be.

 

 

 

A glance of my watch showed 15:06 when I shifted to stop watch function. I started my walk, seeking just an even, steady, sustainable pace. The weather was most cooperative and the pavement wet, but not icy. I time myself for 2 miles and today I finished my 2 mile walk in 29:15. I keep going and do my next 5 circuits at what I think is a slower pace. I discover that I finished the four mile total walk in under 60 minutes. The watch showed 16:04 when I stopped.  I have dreams of running again, running curtailed for all intents and purposes 30+ years ago when I first injured my back. (Note to self: Keep ego in check, when making this decision). As my buddy John K points out, there are plenty of good aerobic choices.

Inside again. There is mail to go through and toss out. A box has come from Amazon with a copy of a Sam Peckinpah film Major Dundee, starring Charlton Heston, Richard Harris, Jim Hutton, and James Coburn. I have learned that the studios mangled more than one Peckinpah film in the theatrical release and Major Dundee is one of them. We shall see.

But first my shower. What marvelous, warm, wet, naked luxury!  And then body lotion and clean clothes.  Is it Winter, really? Yes. It is Virginia, not the Cayman Islands and naked is still an indoor state of mind and body.  My neighbors are cool but not that cool.

J is home. J is hungry.  It is Taco Night at the local sports bar, so off we go.  We see our next door neighbor at the restaurant.  She waits tables there.  She is a 20-something girl jock (tennis) and fits right in. She asks about my back. I give her the update, bragging about my walking.  She is impressed.  She told us she broke up with her roommate/GF.  We expected as much when we saw the GF giving a long good bye kiss to somebody NOT her roommate the other day.   NOTE TO WORLD:   Life ain’t easy for anybody.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This post is coming in episodes. Pre-walk.  Post-walk. The immaculate snow of Friday/Saturday has transformed into this grubby white junk on the ground. Between snow plows, tracked front-end loaders, and Mr. Sun, the beautiful pristine snow of Sunday morning has turned into dingy gray piles. The good news is that there is plenty of dry pavement for a good walk. The temperature is almost 60, I would wager. I’m looking forward to getting outside.

It was a slow, lazy morning. I read some WordPress posts from bloggers I follow.  I’ve learned not to be judgmental about people, to read or listen and accept what they say and find the common ground.  That doesn’t me I agree with a statement or opinion. It’s just that they are my neighbors here in McLuhan’s Global Village and their humanity means something to me. You never know.

About Eleven O’Clock, I came up to check some websites on the big ‘puter, ’cause it’s easier on my eyes here.  My e-mail was uneventful.  I’m going have to check with my surgeon’s office about whether they filed the paperwork with my disability carrier. It appears nothing has happened in the past few weeks and I’m tired of living off savings.

OK, time to get dressed. I have this burgundy colored jock strap I wear under my shorts to keep my “junk” secure. I feel very sexual when I wear it. It is very soft yet secure. Could be just a tee-shirt under the back brace. It is that warm a day. Here I go. Later people.

Today is Monday. The day is a federal holiday, honoring Dr. Martin Luther King, but everyday is a holiday when one is home on disability.  My night was strange as they all have become, a struggle to sleep. My mind wanders. My longing consumes me.  I am married in a nonsexual marriage with a woman who gets very uncomfortable when sexual intimacy is even mentioned.  That makes the loneliness that much more painful.  To express what I need, full, complete passion, risks a deep rejection. The losses of a relationship, a home, financial security are daunting risks to contemplate.
So here I am six days later. In that time, I celebrated my 65th birthday on Thursday. A major snowstorm hit Richmond over Friday and Saturday. It is sunny and cold now, that beautiful time after it snows that turns the land into a picture on a calendar. Lovely.
My big goal for last week was to walk 5 times. With the storm staring at me, I knew I had to get out Friday before the “fun” began. At 8:00 AM I began my walk under gray and ominous skies. The Latino work crew putting new Hardyplank siding on the townhouse building exteriors were working and planning to as long as they could. I asked one man if he was working that day. He smiled and said “Yes”, the pride obvious in his bearing.
My original goal Friday was a simple five circuit 2 mile walk. But when I finished, I felt good, the weather was holding, so I did my usual 4 miles, and a cool down. My total for the week was 20 miles.
The post-walk shower felt great. I lay down for a bit and when I arose, the storm was beginning. It snowed, sleeted, and snowed again for about 36 hours and there is about 16 inches of snow outside. The soundtrack between my ears is playing the Bing Crosby/ Danny Kaye duet Snow from White Christmas.
I want this infernal brace off, so I can get back to swimming and more activities. but the walks are great right now.

It’s Saturday in January and the NFL is holding forth. OK, I watched for a little while and quickly lost interest, largely because of the efficiency of the Patriots and the boorishness of their fans. So I popped in a DVD of my old buddy Popeye the Sailor. These cartoons were made 80 years ago and they’re funnier than anything made today. The stories are silly and funny and anarchic like the Marx Brothers. Before the cartoons begin, we are advised that these cartoons reflect the prejudices of their times and the violence depicted is not nice, or something like that.  I don’t know anybody who takes Popeye slugging it out with Bluto seriously. But the Politically Correct crowd must always make sure nobody is having any fun that they don’t approve of. But we ignore them and laugh anyway. As my sister points out, even four year-olds know that cartoons aren’t real.

I love the animation. It is beautiful, whimsical, and charming.  This animation was unique to the Fleischer Brothers studio. It is a true burlesque of the erotic. Popeye and Bluto are driven mad with desire for Olive Oyl, that magnificent bean pole. The voices of the characters, Jack Mercer as Popeye, Gus Wickie as Bluto, and Mae Questel as Olive Oyl contributed to the comedy. Mercer was famous for Popeye’s hilarious under-the-breath ad libs. Mae Questel was a pure comic genius as well as a great voice talent. Most people will remember Mae as Aunt Bethany of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.  That funny lady was Olive Oyl.

One of my spies has informed me that the Patriots won and the Chiefs lost. Oh well. I guess the Chiefs didn’t eat their spinach.

Enough recuperation drama. I actually do plenty of stuff I enjoy, despite the pain, the brace, and the relative isolation.

For example, my two oldest friends from high school, heck, junior high school, live about 30 minutes from my house. Last Sunday, John K and I had lunch to celebrate his 64th birthday. We went to Kuba Kuba, a local restaurant operated by a Cuban ex-pat, whose family emigrated in the 60’s. It is located in a former drug store, down Lombardy Street from Stuart Circle on Monument Ave, famous for a rather dramatic equestrian statue of Confederate cavalry general James Ewell Brown Stuart, aka “Jeb”. The restaurant is cozy, (read cramped and noisy), but it has its own unique Richmond bohemian charm.  Showing up in my back brace, carrying a cane, we were offered a booth, normally reserved for groups of four.  Apparent disability does carry some privilege and I shamelessly exploit it.

Sitting amidst the funky charm, we view the murals. They feature First Holy Communion portraits and other nostalgic memories from pre-Revolutionary Cuba.  The menu is filled with all kinds of Cubano favorites, from black bean soup to tres leches cake. John ordered the black bean soup, the Cuban sandwich, and a cup of Cuban coffee. I went for ropa vieja, (roughly translated,  old clothes) a flavorful dish with peppers, tomatoes, onions, cilantro, and flank steak, slow cooked so that the beef is nicely shredded and served over rice.  Although the noise made conversation difficult, we talked about one of our mutual passions, Afro-Cubano music as performed by the Buena Vista Social Club, Compay Segundo, Ibrahim Ferrer, and Omara Portuondo.  Richmond has certain locales that flirt with the exotic and a world made smaller by jet travel, TV and the internet, can transform the remote into the immediate.  We joke about playing dominoes outside in the summer, wearing our guayabera shirts, smoking cigars, as comely and buxom Latinas watch us play. Not a bad little day dream.

When our fantasy foray to Cuba ended, I dropped John off at his apartment and headed back to reality. I picked up some pain medicine at Target and drove home. Home to football playoffs, back pain, naps, coffee, and my daily walk.

My next walk was the following day, Monday.  I put on my shorts, shoes, unlined anorak and back brace, and began the circuits of my home street, 5 circuits with a 2 circuit cool-down. The walk feels good. I live in a neighborhood called Knollingwood and it is on a knoll or hill. (Think Grassy Knoll of JFK assassination fame). So there is a downhill and uphill portion to the walk.  I’m getting stronger, have more endurance and discover that the arthritis in my  left hip hurts almost as badly as the post-operative back pain at the incision site. But what the Hell, I’ll be 65 next week. If one is this old and doesn’t hurt somewhere, that person is probably dead already.

 

Source: Walking

God gave us the capacity to sin. Free Will allows to make choices, to choose God’s Will for us as our own choice. Or we can choose to act selfishly for our ends.
Transformation begins when we see the damage that our selfish acts cause. Our selfish acts wound the Very Heart of God, when we hurt another human being. It is the knowledge of whom we are hurting, both human and Divine, that compel us to abandon our selfishness and embrace the Divine. We come to see the pain of brokenness when feel the pain of those we have hurt.

Note: This is my first foray into erotic fiction. Comments are welcome. Criticism urged. Plagiarism, No.
Here it was 3:30 on a Friday afternoon. Jimmy had just secured the last lug nut with the air wrench, completing the tire change. New tires too. Not a lot of profit, just enough to not feel to bad about taking Felicia out to dinner tonight or tomorrow. He looked at the completed work order stack, the work in progress stack and  the pending stack  All orders were nestled snugly in the completed stack. Wanda, his office manager, could handle the customers coming in to pay and pick up their vehicles. He was done for the week, ready for the weekend, a long weekend with Labor Day on Monday. In addition, the children were on their way to Felicia’s parents’ house and a special Grandchildren Spoil-A-Thon was in the works for them. What the Heck, it’s the end of summer; the kids are deserving of some spoiling. The text from Felicia as he left the parking lot confirmed the children were at Gram’s.

Turning out of the parking lot, he wondered how long had it been since He and Felicia had been completely alone, child-free and carefree for 72 hours.  Plenty to ponder, nothing to plan.  After all, who wants sex on a schedule? A stallion at stud? Perhaps. A scheduling freak? For sure.

It did not seem like a long drive home. He saw her Volvo in the driveway. She’s back, he thought. He let himself in, finding the house strangely quiet, except for the music, emanating from the bedroom. Beethoven’s Fifth. Final movement. Her music; the drama in the chords and orchestration meant one thing. He knew what to expect. Quietly treading the stairs, he spied her through the crack in the door he knew she purposely left ajar. He saw her on the bed, the flowered red silk kimono, open and gathered and bunched at her waist, her thighs open. With one hand, she spread her labia, the other guided the wand vibrator up and down on her exposed sex. Fascinated, he watched as she moved it, varying pressure, directing it from lips to clitoris, elusively teasing herself, then hard and direct.

He felt his cock hardening as she approached her climax, her body tensing and she screamed as she came and came and came again. He knew what would follow and each time she squirted he was astonished as the first time he saw her squirt,soaking the towel placed beneath her ass.

She was quiet in her afterglow.  After a few minutes, she sensed his presence.

“Hello Big Boy” (her pet name for him)

“Hello yourself Slut (his pet name for her). That was some show.”

“Wanna see the replay?”

Sure enough, she had the camera on a tripod, positioned to record her “Quality Alone Time.”

“I see your mind is as dirty as it was the night we got it on in the back of that hearse I was fixing in the shop.”

“‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever’. John Keats said that. And what is more beautiful than a dirty mind coupled with a passionate heart?”

“Amen, Slut. Now get your ass out of bed, pour me some iced tea, and join me in the shower. We have three days to play like we’ve never played before. And don’t worry about what to wear this weekend.”

I made some posts on Facebook recently. One was a link to a story on Vatican Radio about a Catholic activist in Vietnam who was released from prison. He was put there for demonstrating for political and religious liberty in Vietnam.
http://en.radiovaticana.va/news/2014/10/03/vietnam_frees_catholic_activist_after_three_years_in_prison/1107847
These are things we take for granted in the USA.
The second was a comment I made:
“Where did we get the idea that having sex is a right? Or that having sex will make us happy? just wondering that’s all.”
Let’s get back to the title. The desire to detach ourselves from the travail of this world is shared by many. Businesses like Anheuser-Busch (or its successor) or the Mexican drug cartels are more than happy to facilitate this detachment. I don’t need to mention the advertising or entertainment industries, do I? Seems like no matter how hard we try to escape, reality always catches up. So our foray into numbness is always short-lived. And we never quite get numb, because we know the fix, or the endorphins, always wear off.
Were Karl Marx alive today, I think he might transpose some words in his famous statement, “Opium is the religion of the people.” We keep trying to consume our way into happiness. What we get is more damage , further intrusions of reality, from addiction to bankruptcy, STI’s, or the basic guilt and remorse we feel for treating people like instruments for our gratification.
The newly-freed Vietnamese political prisoner was jailed because he engaged and challenged his country. Religion was hardly his opium. It was anything but.