Feather silk caressing
Skin to skin movement
Air scenting
A depth of heart
Kiss
Feather silk caressing
Skin to skin movement
Air scenting
A depth of heart
Kiss
What is it I am home about? He asked this out loud in his kitchen as he poured his second cup of morning coffee. He could not focus. He knew this and wished it wasn’t so. He knew wishing warranted genuine sympathy and had about as much influence over life as a tree stump.
These days he felt himself to be a scramble of movements, tics, of a sort. Not a tic like some sudden facial flinch, but a shifting of the shoulders, a turn of the head, a stretch of the neck, a shift in sitting position. A restlesness coated in the sizzle of terror. Sometimes he’d notice himself walking back and forth from one room to another, a small trip in a small apartment, talking to his dog, a damn fine listener by any measure.
Movement. That was the thing. Move. Stay in motion. This is not an easy task when a lot of the world scares the bejeezus out of you. Movement, he was sure, was key to feeling better and, if he got really lucky, happy, on occasion.
Getting comfortable in life was a never ending process.
Marty knew it made no sense and couldn’t possibly be true. That it felt true was besides the point, (almost). Because oh man, were he to believe it, live it, and be wrong? That shit would knock him down. Like most, Marty was tired of getting up one way or another in life. I’ve donated enough to that cause. This is precisely what Marty thought when he realized some bizarre shit was going. Had to be. He’d fallen in love with Sheila and that couldn’t possibly be right. He’d known her for more than a decade for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t like her beauty — admittedly the kind known to buckle knees when first observed by even the most casual observer — was anything new to him. His rational side, what was left of it, understood this. But, there was a problem. You don’t know somebody for more than a decade for shit’s sake and suddenly, badabing-badaboom, you’re in love. It doesn’t work like that, or so he’d always thought, until now that is. Somehow and in some way she’d become an anomaly. What the fuck’s up with that? Had he missed something all these years? Did some part of his mind simply leave the area when he wasn’t looking, knocking his understanding of reality out of alignment? They need body shops for the mind, he thought, not for the first time.
And if all this wasn’t enough to make his head spin, a new Sheila reality was on the scene. She made his knees weak.
Did President Donald J. Trump ban American media from his meeting with Russian officials last week because he knew he would be providing them with classified information?
Russia state media Tass was allowed in Trump’s Oval Office meeting with Russian foreign minister Sergei Lavrov and Russian ambassador Sergey Kislyak. Other than accumulating what I suspect is even more evidence of an American president betraying his country, Tass wasn’t going to turn him in to the American public, or Congress.
Clear thought leads to this observation. Trump is a media whore, he loves attention. Turing away attention — the American media in this instance — is contrary to his narcissistic instincts, but turn them away he did. No doubt he (and they) had concrete reasons for doing so.
One last observation. Sergei Lavrov comes as close to matching Trump’s color as anyone on the planet.