I made this sweet and sour cabbage dish with sweet from oranges, sour from balsamic vinegar. Very yummy. Cheap too.

Thing is, I call it “food porn”, because when I get creative in the kitchen, I wanna have sex real bad when I’m done. Anybody else like that?

Anybody else out there have an abundance of this stuff? I guess we should use it when we’re at table eating our meals cooked at home. Well we could, you know.

Or is malaise a better word? My car battery is dead because I don’t drive anywhere anymore during the day when J is out. Or asleep. (Same difference, when you think about it). I suppose we could give it a jump when she gets home. But here I sit, needing a haircut, in my stocking feet, not wearing my eyeglasses. There is just no need for any of that. You know, trimmed hair, shoes, corrected vision.

Pre-SIP, my world had little points in space to which I would venture, Church, AA, the YMCA and its pool, Weight Watchers. I would drive to the store by myself. Now, not so much.

Most people, especially those with jobs, want this to end. On the other hand, here I am, with an ever-deepening case of the Fuck-Its settled into my consciousness. And I think that perhaps, I’m not alone. The isolation breeds apathy, a false sense of self-sufficiency. There is the virtual community that exists in the internet and on my smart phone, but it’s not the same. The images aren’t the same as real people.

For the benefit of civilization, we humans need friends, family, lovers, partners, associates. We do stuff together. If we are lucky, we will take from this that the shortcomings of the connected world show it to be a scattered, fragmented and lonely place.

It is no substitute for genuine community.

The storms rolled in in the middle of the night, waking me up. Now the raindrops gently patter outside, serene in contrast to the thunder and lightning.

I long to return to sleep, perhaps to dream of love and a lover, of new experiences, unafraid and uninhibited.

The storm did not shatter a serenity or ravage my bliss. To dream again is no small wish.

We got a this on the porch the other day. Our next door neighbours had a surplus of bath tissue, so they shared with us. This is what neighbours do.

That is the summation of my day. 

Sex. Sexual thoughts torment me. 

Just wondering. 

Let it end there

It is one thing to be loved, quite another to be desired.

An infant needs to be loved and held and talked to. When we get older, we still want these things. They aren’t necessarily sexualized. Far from it. We don’t want a sexual charge or spin on everything, because pervasive sexuality dulls, rather than heightens our sensual awareness. There have to be at least a few unattractive people wearing bathing suits at the beach.

Yet when we think of our lover(s), being loved has to be coupled with being desired. There has to be that juncture where tasks and diversions must end and distances disappear along with our clothes.

Otherwise life becomes drudgery. All other expressions or “languages” lose their loving context. We must create the environment of love that we want babies to be born into. That extends beyond that immediate environment of home and family. Sex is an affirmation of life.

Here I am awake. I tried to sleep. I really did. Maybe I did sleep, for an hour, not much more.

J has to be at work in a little less than 3 hours. I may be up to see her off.

For some reason I feel cold. I have a sweater on. I am watching a Carnaval parade from Ovar, Portugal. It has a naïve, homegrown quality to it, with crossdressing by whom I suspect are straight men. Lots of topsy turvy carnality. The low budget quality makes this Carnaval much more appealing than the over-the-top extravagance of Rio.

Maybe I am hungry. My arthritis is putting me on edge. Sometimes all I have to do is come downstairs and sit and I am sleepy. This is the case this morning. But I think I shall sleep in my clothes this morning however.

I know this quarantine will end soon. We cannot sustain ourselves with the program of hyper-borrowing indefinitely..People want to work and the politicians, whether Democratic or Republican, know it. They may not admit it, but they know it.

That said, I had a four mile walk in a fine drizzle  late this afternoon. Just for an hour but it felt great. We had slow cooker chili tonight, perfect for a cool and drizzling evening.

J goes to work after a thirty day quarantine leave tomorrow morning at four AM. Four. A. M. I could be awake when she leaves. Crazy. But they want to get stuff done before the multitudes descend.. Makes sense. I suppose.
My despair of the past post is gone,  replaced with the belief that things will work out. I will receive all that I need and much of what I want. What is my evidence? None really exists. It is just not worth worrying about when or if my desires will be satisfied.

Is this feeling of despair, of hopelessness, of resignation, simply my heart breaking? Do. I now know my life is in the endgame?

Is my future living on one floor, the slow progression to no risky stair-climbing?

Impotence.

Incontinence.

Dementia.

Forgetting to shave. Or shower.

When will cutting my toe nails become a forgotten skill?