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Astrology

Sometimes the Moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars.  Other times, I can’t see the stars for Uranus.  Or Myanus.

A few weeks ago, I had a couple of days in a row when I botched friendships in bunches like bananas.  Things I wrote or said didn’t come out right and ended up being offensive or just not right, sending people scurrying away from the crazy old fart.

This week things are much better, I’ve gotten closer to an old friend, there acquaintances are closer and becoming friends, one close friend who hasn’t been so close is returning to closeness and I have a brand new close friendship developing.

Yay, verily I say unto all y’all, my cup do runneth over and spillth all over me and maketh me glad.

Tits is Tits, or is they?

Recently I received a couple of things, a photo and a video, that lead me to comment on the nature of what they mean to me.

I guess the question that started it off was “Why do you want to view me, you’ve seen lots of others?”

I’ve said, explained, pointed out, and mentioned more than a few times my preference for photos of women rather than something that looks like it came from a gynecologist’s text book.  Or an infants eye view of the lunch counter.  I’ve seen enough so I know what a vagina looks like, and even in their nearly infinite variety and beauty, they’re still quite recognizable for what they are and predictable as to what they will look like except for hair or no hair and does the carpet match the drapes.  So, I know what a vagina looks like,  I know what breasts look like,  I want to know what the woman looks like.

There has to be some man somewhere else on the planet that feels this way.  Hello?? Are you out there???

Anyway, back to the cases in point.  The photo was from a newer acquaintance of mine who I enticed into sending me a photo.  She asked the question.  Yeah, I’ve seen plenty, I could run and download dozens of those from the internet.  But the fact that she had taken that photo for me, no one else, and shown me a part of her that she didn’t show to just anyone.  That made it very personal and important to me.

The video was from someone I’ve been friends with for quite a while.  It was an older video that she’d no doubt kept hidden away in some electronic vault for a few years.  It was special to me, not because it would incite me to some masturbatory frenzy, but because she’d decided to share a part of her life, a little something about her that I hadn’t known before.  No doubt, its something few others know, either.  Don’t bother asking.

The whole thing is part of a long process of getting to know someone and learning about them.  Both of these incidents leave me feeling much closer to my friends and a happier man.

Now, back to xhamster...

Looking for a Dominant on a White Horse: Looking for the Dominant on a White Horse

Looking for a Dominant on a White Horse: Looking for the Dominant on a White Horse: So you wake in the morning fix a cup of coffee. sit down turn the computer on. You are hitting all the social sites blogs. searching for t...

A Rambing Rant: repost

My mother in law used to send my son handwritten cards and letters, nothing long or elaborate. He always got a kick out of them and we saved them.  Recently we found the bundle and gave it to him to look at.  He was tickled, but then said, “I can’t read cursive.”  Perhaps he could if he had a bit of time to puzzle it out, but at first glance it may as well have been Arabic to him.  It’s true, they no longer teach cursive writing as a skill any more.  Gone are the days when I grew up and learned block printing in the First Grade and cursive in the Second, and then endless excercise books for practice.  Somewhere in the third grade I started writing with the locker style, against the grain of what I was taught in school.

Starting in the upper grades of high school, I began to experiment with calligraphy.  I loved the different ways a nib would leave it’s mark on the paper.  I dabbled with this for years, finally giving my pens to my son.  He loved doing it.  A little bit, but other things took over and the books and practice papers are now in my desk, unused.  The shame of it all, my career where I lettered drawings neatly for years, left me without the motor memory to write in cursive anymore.

I still write in my notebooks.  These will outlast me, and I considered relearning the skills of writing in cursive just for this purpose.  I thought better of it, since those who will come across them aren’t likely to be able to  read them easily if I did so.

I had difficulty reading the Declaration of Independence, but only because of the lower case second s in a word that looks like an f that someone got the bottom backwards.  But that only took a few seconds to adjust my mind.  What flabbergasts me, is the future generations that will not be able to read historical documents, whether of national significance or the love letters sent from their grandparents to each other.

I dabble a bit in making fountain pens. Other kinds, also.  I give these away to special friends.  The most frequent question I get back is “How do I put ink in it?”  Some simply are more honest and thank me profusely for the beautiful object and admit they have never written with one, nor will they attempt it.  Its a collectors item.  But then, I have pens from three generations back, so I’m a collector also.

There is something magic in a handwritten letter or note.  It captures the bit that the modern methods of communicating lack.  I fear we’ll soon lose that, also.  The immediacy of email quickly worked its way into our lives, and I doubt if I would communicate one tenth the amount I do if I didn’t use it.  I do, however cajole a few of my friends to send me handwritten notes which I save and treasure.  Why?  One of them said it best I think.  “There’s a little bit of my soul hidden away in your desk.”

That's what's missing.

Set a Course and Go

Sometimes you come to a fork in the road.  You have to take a chance. 

A younger friend of mine just quit a job she didn’t really like, put most of her belongings in storage and set off to sail around for a while with her boyfriend.  He was a new boyfriend, not some long term significant other.  It reminded me a lot of the book and movie, Castaway, or Lin and Larry Purdy.  A couple off for adventure together, and they’d get to know each other in the process, rather than the other way around, spending years to get to know each other, then going off on an adventure, or even a long vacation.  Somehow, it seems a better way to do things. She went “All in”, risked what she had in order to search for what she might find.  She might find herself, or lose herself, or lose herself to find herself.  But sometimes, it seems to get you where you should be in life much quicker and doesn’t leave you with years and years behind you wondering why not?

I recently had a situation of my own that required me to go all in.  A long term relationship had changed.  Friends for a year, recently we deepened that relationship and added an intimate D/s element to it. But something changed between us, tempers flared, nasty words were exchanged.  In three weeks it was over.  We tried to patch things back to being “just friends”.  That lead to cycles of closeness, then withdrawal.  Our friendship was stuck on an endless air fluff tumble dry cycle, not heat, not going anywhere, but constant agitation. Perhaps it might be that we, meaning I, didn’t give it time to develop, to morph, to change back or forward.  I can lack patience with things that stalemate in an unpleasant cycle, and I wasn’t able to see any difference, any change in anything in a couple of months.  Endless near arguments and apologies.

Finally, after a day of quiet and no contact I decided that, for me at least, no contact at all was better than the bickering.  So I went all in.  Bet the farm. All or nothing.  I expected nothing, I got nothing.  No blame to be assigned. Am I happier?  I don’t know.  I am more at peace, but still wondering, as I guess I will always wonder.

Update:  I wonder less now.  As a peace settles without the threat of temper tantrums, I find I'm happier.

Good Morning

"Good Morning"

Two words that can be meaningless and tossed out without thought or meaning anytime  , although they are most effectively said before Noon, to anyone, anywhere.  You may actually wish the person a good morning, it may just be a greeting, or a substitute for “Hi.”  Not much more than the greeting on being introduced “How do you do?”.  You don’t care, it’s just something you say to be polite.

But what of it’s omission?  What happens when we fail to say “good morning” or some other simple phrase to greet or acknowledge the other person? It’s omission can mean far more in context than it’s inclusion. 

For instance, I was recently having a conversation with a friend that spanned two days. The previous day had been about that person and another.  When the morning arrived, my friend started in with rapid abandon with the news that they had been contacted by the friend they thought was mad at them and some emails had been delayed, blah blah blah, rolling on through email and text messages about the friend. 

Somewhere during that whole thing I wondered: Do they give a rats ass about me?

As simple good morning somewhere in there could have signified they did, as meaningless as those words really are.  Such a simple greeting can change the entire cadence feel of a conversation. Take the time to use one.