saturday, little to report

SATURDAY, LITTLE TO REPORT. Dreams were truncated, something about trying to assemble a rapid Covid-19 testing kit properly, with some foggy interludes in Finland again with all of those lookalike bearded lumberjack worker types (Finland haunts my psyche), and then being at a country house by a lake where both Brynhildr and the mother of my children were present at the same table. Brynhildr is, as you can imagine, quite set, quite voluptuous, quite strapping, quite terrifying. There was some slight tension there, you know. The women in my orbit make no bones about having the men they like when they like them, and as many of them as they like, but there is always that territorial aspect about who controls whom, or who can make him do her bidding when. That was the tension in that dream. Sometimes I think the whole of my existence is at mercy to the acrobatics of women’s hormonal sunburst cycles and fraught moon tides. The whole ride of life, from bloody birth to the last orgasmic gasp. There is no escaping this cruel and desperate fate. Like the Beatles, I run from crowds of screaming fan girls wetting themselves, fist fighting and crying, crushing in the roofs of getaway cars, trying to cut off a lock of my hair. I hide myself in the venue basement, or around the corner, but there is just no escaping the sturm und drang of the feminine mystique. Which begs the question, do I bring anything myself to the equation, or am I just an innocent bystander? Is there give and take or just pull, pull, and more pull? There is a really splendid sun-kissed euphoria to the act of lovemaking, as it’s called, to be taken in, and then … well, and then what? Memories, memories. In the summer, I dreamt of this feat in the forests with Brynhildr and some kind of spider or other insect took a few bites out of me. My undercarriage was swollen for days. Everything was double the usual size. How do I get myself into these things? Why can’t I say no? November light outside now. There is often so little light on these days that there is no way to qualify the days or the time or the night. It’s just one long tapestry of gray. You can do anything in November, sleep until 2 pm, work until 2 am. It’s part of the general disorientation. Dark inky octopus black. The black is thick and all around you. You can’t see your own hands. That’s how thick the November dark is. It makes one dream of summer lake swimming and lovemaking in the forests. Even if you have to suffer through a few insect bites.

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