Two Thousand Fourteen

Originally Posted Wednesday, January 1, 2014

I wish today was my birthday and that I was two thousand and fourteen years old.  That's how old the earth is, right?  I would have seen everything.  I'd be really interesting. 

I read the précis for a book review today (I wasn't interested in reading the review) that described the work as centering on a woman's lifelong emotional and sexual journey, and I realized that I've left out half of that fascinating equation.  Oh. . . you get plenty of my emotional journey, the whining and the ecstasy, but there is definitely no sex.  Of course, I could tell you that this was the conscious dichotomy of the blog, that there are plenty of naked people (I know. . . mostly women) and no sex.  And truthfully, the pictures are not about sex.  Well, they are, but only in the way an art review is about art.  Think about that.  It's meta-sexual.  Sort of. 

But there isn't any writing about my "sexual journey."  Precisely.  I realize I haven't had one.  There has been no "journey."  Maybe.  There has been exploration.  I could write about my sexual awakening in the fifth grade which was the first time I was aware of my penis becoming erect in public.  I was seated at my desk so nobody knew, but I did and I understood it would be wrong for anyone to catch me rubbing it against the underside of the table/desk at which I was seated. 

I quickly "journeyed" into shameful masturbation. 

But I am uncomfortable writing about this.  It seems sub-normal to me.  It is no way to start off a new year.  I mean to write about it.  As Q pointed out on his blog yesterday--something of which I have never been fully cognizant--you need someone to kiss to fully celebrate at midnight.  Yes, yes, of course.  This infernal aloneness is not the stuff of celebration. 

All I had this year was celibacy and sobriety.  It made for a hell of a sendoff. 

And so I say once again, into the breach. 

That's a pun. 

I cannot recommend either celibacy or sobriety.  Actually, one or the other might not be as bad. I mean if you were a fucking like crazy, you might not need to drink.  And if you were not, the drinking could bring some solace.  But together, the two make a ferocious pair.  There is a sort of synergy toward blandness that has to be experienced to understand.  I'd much prefer to be blithe. 

I just realized that of course the twit didn't include her intellectual journey to complete the trifecta.  At least I do that in subtle ways.  And having realized that just now, that I am two for three instead of one for two, and I feel more complete. 

I'm sure this has been too much confession today, and the image of me as a fifth grader going all lascivious has you gagging, but I promise to stop it.  Just look at today's image.  Tell me what you see.  It is like a Rorschach test.  First thing.  Don't think.  No, no, that is wrong.  Think about it.  Your first thought will be mean.  I don't want that.  I'm not looking for real criticism today.  I am the guy who made cabbage soup and watched t.v. until ten-thirty on New Year's Eve.  My life is its own reward.  I don't need your help feeling worse about it.  It is a good picture, a damn fine one, and it made the woman happy.  If I put people in costumes and photograph them this way in this light, I'll have a series.  It could be a discovery, or even. . . dare I say it. . . a journey.