We're due for some thunderstorms this afternoon. The temperature is just a little too high for this time of year, yet, if today is like many of the other times when this has been forecast, all of the meteorological mechanics that conspire to make for the flash will most likely miss us by a few miles. Still, I have to get out there and finish up yesterday's chore of doubling the size of the burn pile and mowing the yard. The bush-hogging will have to wait, which it can, seeing how it is a coarse process and another two or three inches of growth matters little.
Yet, here I sit, second cup of joe to get me up to speed while I finish reading the new posts in my old blogroll.
I'm seeing some trends. Some reflections on days passed, some regrets intimated, and intimacies alluded. It makes me want to do a series of posts I've resisted for years, for they may seem un- and -ly, that being the recollection of trysts.
Admittedly a sad collection of mostly names forgotten whether long term or one night, more often than not in a self-induced haze, and oh, so long ago. Not all forgotten, and certainly searchable, which actually salves any remorse, better choices made when I settled down.
Even so, those I read pale in mind-play to something I read last night on that big social media site. Often, if not blocked, a friend's correspondence will appear on my feed. This was a call for help: a marriage down the tubes and a veiled threat to end with a garage filled with CO and particulates, written, so it seemed, from the site of the crime against the self. A cry for help followed by a dozen or so commiserations, words of hope and one "call me if you want to talk." The original poster replied with thanks and there it ended, the post, that is, and it was I who was left hanging.
I have written a number of emails and made phone calls this past week, none of which have been returned. What's that about?
I recently was considering writing a post about the one that got away. Frankly, some of the more sex-deprived bloggers -- err, those deprived of having sex with at least one additional person -- have tired me of reading about sex of all types. I would much rather read a post about romance.
ReplyDeleteI guess I'm reading a different group of blogs, 36. Mostly old guys or artists for whom romanticism reigns (different from romance). If I were to post that which I've resisted (for the most part, I try to be a gentleman about things), no doubt there would be less of a vicarious pleasure for readers than a plethora of caveats for those inclined to such life choices. And the latter would be wasted on the old farts that read my blog, so I don't suppose you'll ever see such here.
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