I never knew the simple joys of going out with hometown boys. For me, romance was never focal on a male who was a local. The smart ones just aimed to debate me but seemed to have no yen to date me; while the ones who asked were way too slow. Why this was, I do not know.
I may have been too brash and vocal for any hometown country yokel, so when I finally tied one down, he was a boy from out of town. Sweet Sixteen and never been kissed, romance was something I had missed; but we made up for lost time with remedial work that was sublime.
So it is, I am confessing, that mobility’s a blessing. If what you need’s not where you are, then I suggest you use a car. If you cannot shop at home, it may be necessary to roam. Free trade’s not just for clothes and toys. It also works for teenage boys.
When business problems brought disillusion, I hoped to prompt their fast diffusion, jumping to the fast conclusion that a coronary occlusion could be allayed best by the fusion of tequila and a lime and so I thought that it was time to move from Spain to Mexico to see how well my life would go in climes more southern, still, than mine. I’d heard it said on the grape vine my college sweetheart still lived there. I thought I’d see how she might fare. But when this friend sought dissolution of her marriage, my inclusion as a witness brought confusion. It seems the judge had the delusion that she and I were in collusion— that it was I who broke their fusion. He gave me three days of seclusion, thinking that my simple exclusion might furnish them a love transfusion. The Spanish/Mexicano fusion I now know is mere illusion. That we’re joined by language is a delusion. What exacerbated the confusion was that I spoke in Andalusian!
The prompt today was illusion. (Image downloaded from the Internet.)
(You don’t dare enlarge these, do you? If you do have the courage of your convictions and wonderful resistance to temptation, enlarge all photos my clicking on any one.)
I breakfast on oatmeal and vile green tea. Oats aids in digestion, the tea makes me pee and helps me to swallow the Omega 3 that lowers blood pressure and lubes up my knee. I do pool aerobics when the water’s not cold. I open my mind so it doesn’t get old. I don’t shoot up drugs or overdo liquor. I try to eat food that is good for my ticker.
Broccoli, whole grains, jamaica, white beans to lower my blood pressure by other means than those dreaded pills that make me feel old by sapping my energy, dulling my bold. I can give up the salt and give up the nookie, But please don’t deprive me of my evening cookie or maybe a dozen or two, more or less. In my frenzy, I sometimes lose count, I confess.
If I’m going to have meat, a potato’s a must. Protein without carbs is simply unjust. Dark chocolate’s allowed, but I fear just a bit, and when it comes to chocolate, I never can quit. Who wants to commit to a life with no sin? No pasta, no cookies, no chocolate, no gin? I try to be good but I’m still not the best, for I cannot commit to a diet with no zest.
Youth today want to abolish all the elegance and polish that has received such veneration from their parents’ generation. Jeans with rips and shirts with holes seem to be their fashion goals. What is ironic is the tags. They spend a fortune for these rags!
The prompt today is polish. Image taken from the internet.
Though her clothes are old and ratty, her cast-off hats tattered and gnatty, and her aroma eau de catty, still her style is somewhat natty. She has a certain savoir faire, a childlike, careless stylish air. Silk scarves and clanking jewelry devoid of runway foolery.
Diaphanous and parachutey, silk nightgowns might do double duty as ballgowns were she ever asked to functions one arrives at masked in Dior dresses or black tie. In lieu of that, she’ll just get by strolling the streets in finery gained from her dumpster minery.
Onlookers may think her batty— clothes so rumpled, hair so matty. all of her gloriously tatty— her ballet slippers so pitter-patty scuffling through the city streets, greeting everyone she meets.
She is a fixture in our town with a certain wide renown. Pointed out to visiting friends, her unique presence somehow lends a flavor to the streets she walks. She does not mind the stares and gawks.
Until one day she is not there— her birdlike plumage, strange and rare flown to a runway far above– a blown-off hat, a single glove left on the stairway where she fell— to become this legend that I tell.
Ladies have loved a uniform since writing was in cuniform. They’ve flirted with each man they’ve met with shoulders garbed in epaulet. No telling what the reason may be why every serviceman they see with stripes and bars upon his chest is the man they like the best.
A Scottish guardsman who’s well-built may show his legs off in a kilt, whereas an Arab man who’s urban struts his stuff beneath a turban. Cops on their beats and Maitre d’s have all the ladies that they please when they don the prescribed clothes in which they are assigned to pose.
Some women even make a grab for guys they see in olive drab. Ushers in jackets and in gloves have been known to find new loves in their darkened theater aisles as they exercise their wiles escorting with a liveried arm those special ladies they seek to charm.
German gents who seek attention, it’s hardly necessary to mention, when they’re wanting to be chosen, don a pair of lederhosen. And sailors find they rarely lose out when they get their navy blues out. It’s true a full-regalia’d guy is sure to catch the feminine eye.
Be it a robe or regimental, there’s simply something elemental about a man who’s dressed to kill— for women cannot get their fill of a gentleman in monkey suit. Unsuited men just can’t refute that they suffer real regrets that that man in epaulets gets all the women that he gets!
The prompt today was “uniform.” (image of Barney Fife from internet.)
Toes peeking over, eyes cast away. I do not want to look today. Time enough when time is over. It’s true I’ve ceased to be a rover, for though I’ve seen the Nile’s beginning, I can feel my chances thinning for ever standing at its end. I’m feeling too close to the bend to chance the risks travel might take. I’m living less for living’s sake.
My house and garden fill my world, increasingly. My life is curled fast on itself more frequently. “Becoming” has turned into “be.” It is not giving up on life so much as drawing back from strife. Surely, now’s the time for this, as I approach that big abyss.
Those of faith are sure they know the glorious ending to this show we’ve seen via nature’s invitation; and yet the minister’s oration you must admit, is speculation. That’s why as I stand toe-to-air, I have no need to see what’s there. Whatever’s written far below, it’s where at last, we all will go.