Dear Readers,
I am recently home from the big city, with much on my mind. Down there in the dense urban sprawl they have little pockets saved from development and labeled "Nature areas." Now the big city folks do not conduct their fertility rituals in the designated natural mud. Oh no. They seem loathe to even walk on the muddy ground. The truth is, that stepping off the graded and paved trail can lead to fines, imprisonment, and public castigation. And we definitely cannot have that.
City dwellers have moved their fertility rites from the privacy and comfort of muddy wallows and corn fields to thin walled hotels. These dot their urban landscape and are handy to anyone who feels the urge. Of course one has to pay a fee to make use of these convenient pit stops. But that does not seem to stop very many folks from their duties to seasonal fertility.
I must admit, that not so very many years ago, I too enjoyed illicit rituals in anonymously hotels. However, I am hoping that "those good vibrations" did not carry through wall, floor, through the very air, as they seem to in today's world.
The room on my right contained, barely, a youngish couple. They had somehow got beyond the uncomfortable bit of not knowing each other well, and moved right into an urban fertility comedy routine. He was very verbal. And while he didn't seem to speak English well, he was certainly vociferous. He was delighting (or bemusing) his ritual partner with a few often repeated lines. "You are going to have another one, another one, another one, get ready, you are going to have another one." Maybe it was a chant? In any event, her response didn't seem to vary much - she screeched, laughed, giggled, and they went on and on. It is this repetition that separates ritual from real life.
As soon as the folks mentioned above had completely exhausted themselves, the people in the room on my left took up the flame, so to speak. They were much more serious. There was absolutely no speaking or laughing. It was all squeaking springs, creaking bed-frame, banging headboard, and heavy breathing punctuated by grunts and groans. The image that kept coming to mind, was the hotel mattress getting soaked in sweat. Mind you, at that exact moment, there were only a few thin layers of fabric between my skin and a similar hotel mattress. I found the thought slightly disturbing . . .
Dear Readers, I am sorry, I can't tell you how it all turned out. I am a terrible commentator. I got bored. Here I am at almost 50 years of age, and I still look damn hot. But the truth is, I'm not. Somehow the thermostat for my libido has gotten stuck on "off." And I am definitely not complaining about it either. I have no idea how long this will last. But I can take a deep breath of relief from time to time, as long as it does. From my current cool, calm, and dry perspective, I must say that it all seemed a little ridiculous. It seemed like a huge waste of time and energy.
I would much rather garden. In the garden you are a little more likely to know what you are getting into. Garden plants rarely yell or turn mean. While plants can catch viruses - they are harmless to human beings. The reproductive habits of plants will not annoy your neighbors with oft repeated phrases, banging on the wall, or grunting around like little pigs. Reproductive surprises do happen in the garden. But if they are unpleasant - one can just toss them into the compost pile. And if you get sick of a plant, you don't need a cop, a lawyer, or a restraining order. You can simply give the plant to a neighbor and no one will bat an eye.
Unless they are my neighbors. Then, of course they will make something juicy of it and spread it around. For instance, did I tell you that last summer one of my neighbors called the cops on me? Seems someone or other thought I as growing unlawful herbs . . . Dang, but it wasn't me . . .
It is time to check on my seedlings . . . So you all be good, till I can get back to you with more scandalous gardening secrets . . .
Harvest
No comments:
Post a Comment