it’s my birthday, and looking back on last year i can see that i felt the urge to be politically astute and aware of our nation’s woes in the midst of my natal celebrations. hmm. maybe not so much this year. i mean, i admit that there are things afoot on this planet that can certainly unsettle. slaughtering and burning cattle in the u.k., violence persistent in the middle east, some strange little man thinks he was actually elected president back in november, david arquette has yet another movie out. the list goes on and on.
but i have enjoyed most of this year gone by, and though some may balk and think that this might be the last admittable birthday i have left, i am proud of where i have arrived. 29 years. not bad.
so to my friends and loved ones, thank you. you mean more to me than you know.
and to my dissenters, i must ask you to direct your complaints to the cucumber.
oh, and if you have been enjoying my site, or even suffering through every torturous reading, and you haven’t introduced yourself, please do so.
(This was originally posted to the Kittenspeak mailing list, and I didn’t think much of it at the time. Just a thought. But I have re-thought, and I kind of like what I said. So here are my Valentine’s Day thoughts - almost a month too late.)
To my experience, I am more likely to consider circumstances and situations as romantic, more romantic than the contrived acrobatics into which we throw ourselves on these holiday occasions. Or on anniversaries. Or when we want to recreate some kind of lost spark. As if the whole thing were a pile of wet kindling that just needs some direct sunlight and a little flint against steel. Humans are better when left to their own devices, I believe. Or if you need assistance, find a way to let an occasion envelope you and your partner where you are both caught up in the moment, neither one trying to impress, both feeling the welling.
Romance is rain. Misting into parking lots or dark alleys, where you were originally walking your date back to her car, only to find your back pressed against the bricks, lips against your lips, hands and hands and hands. Now you didn’t plan this, no singing telegram, no chartered limousine, but its the moment, and its right, and you are both surrendering.
Sure. There are times for sending flowers, giving cards, offering candy, presenting stuffed animals, dining out, sleeping in. But remember through your sensual history, which moments locked in your brain as the kinds of things novels write themselves around? Most of them will not have arrived at your door via FTD Florist.
Just my 2 pence. I may be wrong. Or perhaps I missed the point.
