Zee Fear of Flying

Despite the fact that I really could not get into this book, thoughts of the Zipless Fuck have stayed with me always.

"A "zipless fuck" is defined as a sexual encounter for its own sake, without emotional involvement or commitment or any ulterior motive, between two previously unacquainted persons."

In reality, I would loathe this.
Unevolved tho' my stance may be, I just don't do sex for sex's sake. And with a total stranger?!? -- Just Say No.

However...

The fantasy of it?

     Is Hot.

The air was dark, sticky, and thick from the press of bodies and the pulsing of the bass. She shifted position, trying to get a better view of the band that was seducing the crowd into one pulsating mass of sexual energy.

Lost in the driving rhythm, it slowly dawned on her that she was now brushing against someone… and that the someone seemed to like it.

The touches were tentative at first - allowing her to draw away if she wanted to. But she didn't want to. Instead, she pushed back, just a little, and gave a slight swivel with her hips. Hands aligned themselves to stop the swivel and tug her back against an unmistakable hardness, which began a light humping against her ass. The hands urged her back to movement.

Keeping herself curved out to maintain that contact, she leaned back a bit into the warm flesh behind her and slithered, mirroring the swirling beat with her body.

Slowly, deliberately, fingers caressed down her thigh and back up, crimping her skirt, bit by bit, into a bustle of folds at her hips. She bent over slightly in encouragement until, finally, the back of her skirt was up over her rump.

One hand moved around to grasp her mons, while she felt the other brushing behind her. Something heavy dropped free and insinuated itself between her thighs. She moaned in acceptance and let the hands guide her. Back and forth it pushed, getting slicker and slicker with each thrust.

An arm curved around her waist, up to her breast, manipulating the soft flesh, but also supporting her as she arched forward, opening herself to the hard velvet now driving into her. 

Oh, it was good. 

Oh, she was wet. 

Oh, how she… 

Really, she...

OH!

She sagged into the form behind her as they rested briefly against each other.

A quick kiss brushed the nape of her neck and then the warmth behind her was lost in a brief brush of air as her skirt dropped back down.

She didn't look back.

She didn't need to. 

24 Down - Sasquatch (4 Letters)

ooo! ooo! I know! 

Yeti.

(which, for purposes of this post I will treat in the singular.)

I have always been fascinated by the Yeti.

As a kid, I would read anything about it that I could find. 

Hoax or Reality? 

Yeti held a curious appeal for me -- wilderness, mystery, and exoticism… all combined in one large, furry (yet benign) body.

And I hope it's a mystery that's never solved.

Because while I grant you that it's existence is a highly unlikely proposition, I don't think it actually matters whether there really is such a thing or not. Even if it's a myth, I think the Yeti is important because it symbolizes our yearning for there to be mystery left in the world.
We don't want to have conquered all.

Rather, I suspect that a lot of us want to believe that there are still wild and wondrous things out there to be discovered -- maybe even by us.

And the Yeti is the poster boy of our hope.

X-Ray Visions

About a month ago, TMI Tuesday asked the question:

What is the most photographed part of your body?

My first thought was, "do X-rays count?"

Because if they do, my answer would have to be "my torso."

Boy howdy, have I had a lot of X-rays taken of that in my life! 

As is often the case with tall and rapidly growing children, I had spinal issues for several years. Nothing that hampered me particularly but enough to necessitate frequent visits to the specialist's, where I would be poked, prodded, manipulated, and sent down the hall for X-rays, all while wearing the mortifying open johnny.

I'd be taken into a creepy dark room (this was in a VERY old building) where the technician would carefully cinch an adult-size lead apron around my loins, position me up against a cold metal frame, order me NOT TO MOVE -- and then disappear, leaving my nervous and goose-fleshed self to battle shivers of fear and cold while his disembodied voice cautioned repeatedly, "Stay Still! Don't Move!" from the depths of a shadowed corner. 

(If they really didn't want me moving, couldn't they have at least let me wear socks?!?)

And no, I never wanted to replay this scene in later life, thank you for asking. Too much...

In actuality, of course, there was nothing exceptionally awful about the procedure. But I was eight years old and spooked -- by the unknown, by the fact that I required protective gear (what was going to happen to the parts that weren't covered?), by the creepy room…

It was basically like starring in my own horror movie… and I never liked those anyhow.

But it was undoubtedly good practice for me, because I would spend a great deal of time getting X-rayed in the years to come. Hands, arms, legs, feet, head…

I've pretty much been irradiated from top to bottom.

(Except maybe for a lead apron-sized patch around the loins…)

The Wet Stuff

I gotta tell ya -- the six letters at the end of the alphabet really make you work for your words. If I weren't such a stubborn cuss, I'd be throwing in the towel about now. 

I may need the entire month of May off, just to recover.

But -- only four more to go. And so...
***************************************************

Wax, Wishes, and Waffles were among the final contenders for W, but I decided to go with Water.

Water is one of those things that's so very much a part of me, I almost don't realize how much I'm connected to it. Until it's not nearby… I'm happiest near an ocean but a lake, pond, river, or even babbling brook will do. As long as it's close enough for me to get to if I need it.

Water settles me. I love it's many moods, to see it calm and turquoise and inviting, or grey and whipped by whitecaps, or even the dirty, churning mess of water in a bad storm… it is always beautiful and majestic and just so very alive.

But the connection isn't just visual -- I also need to hear water; be it as gentle lapping or roaring cataracts, the shussshing of it dragging lightly over ruffled sand, or the echoing booms as it pounds the shoreline in fury.

Even an oblique reminder of water can soothe me. The cry of a lone seagull can stop me short, flash me briefly to dawn at the shore -- and make me smile.

But water is not something to take for granted, either.

I may love it but I also have a healthy respect for it's power. Water is an element of nature and as such, not to be taken lightly. When I was very small and my mom was teaching me to swim, she made quite sure I understood that I was dealing with a force much bigger than me. "It's nothing to be afraid of but you do need to respect it. Don't fight the water -- you will never win. Learn to go with it, instead…"

(I suspect this may be the root of my jellyfish nature…)

I would also like to point out that Cancer is a water sign. So it's entirely possible I come by my affinity honestly. But I won't go off on a woo-woo tangent on you all. 

Because wherever it comes from, the fact remains…

I love the water.

V is for...

Vocation

I think it must be lovely to have one of those.

A couple of my former beaux always claimed that they'd known what they wanted to do since they were four. And while I may secretly question the veracity of that statement from the one who became an industrial engineer, none the less, they both clearly had a long-held goal that they pursued and succeeded in achieving.

I always rather envied them that.

Not all vocations find their voice at such an early age, of course.

Sometimes, people fall into their callings purely by accident.

However it's found, though, I think that when you have a vocation, it can make life more tolerable in a number of ways. 

It seems to me that when you are doing something you feel called to, that makes it easier to accept the stresses and aggro that are part of the process, because they are just a piece of the equation. You have a sense of focus and direction to give you purpose -- and you receive the satisfaction that offsets all the sacrifices and compromises that are required, because you are more focused on the bigger picture.

I think it would be grand to discover "the thing" I want enough to make it worth all the bullshit attendant thereto. But I simply haven't found that. 

I've had jobs that I've enjoyed, certainly -- all of them, in fact.

But a vocation still eludes me.

Maybe it's over in that alternate reality, living with my dog.  :-)

Coming "Un" Done

Some letters are harder than others…

When I don't have a good idea of my own, I go check out word lists and make a note of the ones I think I could maybe write about.

"U" may yet prove to be my undoing…

Because when I finished and really looked at my list as a whole, I realized I had focused almost entirely on the "un"s…

unattractive, unmasked, unmarried, unwanted, unrealistic, unreasonable, undressed, unfathomable, unhitched, unearned, unfortunate, upgrade

That list -- could almost be called "Freudian", couldn't it?

It honestly wasn't deliberate, or even particularly indicative of my mood at a higher level of consciousness. But still, it's a bit telling, I think.

Yet there are some words that don't show up there, either.

I didn't pick "useless"… or "upset"... or "upheaval"...

"unctous" and "ursine" didn't make the cut…

It wasn't simply any negative word that caught me eye.

No, it was the "un"s … the "What I'm NOT"s

un-  a prefix meaning “not,” 

freely used to give negative force in adjectives

That's really where our minds do their best work at messing with us, isn't it?

We're practically hard-wired to focus, not on what we truly are but rather, on all the areas where we fall short. We compare and contrast -- and rarely to our own advantage. 

WHY is it so much easier to overlook our "have"s in favor of obsessing over our "have not"s?

I think that, for me and probably at least one or two others, this is such a knee-jerk reaction that it is probably nigh-onto impossible to retrain the tendency.

I don't know if it's realistic to think I can undo the habits of a lifetime.

But I think maybe I'll see about un-thinking the matter...  :-)

It's Talk Like Shakespeare Day!!!

Go, Willie! It's your birthday!

Go, Willie! It's your birthday!

This was pure, unadulterated serendipity.

Just last week, I recalled that I'd missed this last year, so I looked up the date… and lo!

Talk Like Shakespeare Day fell *smack!* on the day I had slotted for "T"! 

When the universe handeth you a free vehicle, you drive, forsooth!

Tangents, tolerance, and travesties can wait for another day.

Now is the time to celebrate the 450th anniversary of The Bard's birth by heading on over to this website and checking out the fun...

I particularly like the Patrick Stewart soliloquy on "B"...
   and the list of words and phrases still in use today.

      A good insult always cometh in handy, of course.

And if anyone understands that story of how they encoded Shakespeare's sonnets onto DNA well enough to explain it to me clearly, dooooo drop a line! (I think I see the basic gist but I'm pretty certain I'm missing a lot of detail…)

Just go and enjoy.

It's not every day you get to Talk Like Shakespeare, after all!

S***!

If I ever had a reputation for being avant-garde, this post would send it surging down the toilet, because I am about to make the highly unpopular declaration that… 

I don't like Swearing.

Now, I would like you to observe my choice of words, there.

"don't like" 

I did NOT say, "don't approve"...

Nor am I claiming I never drop the odd bomb myself.

But I don't relish swearing the way some people do.

To me, swearing is something you reserve for when you really, really mean those expletives bursting past your lips… Otherwise, it's is nothing more than unthinking filler -- and unthinking anything is not really my cup of tea.

The coarseness of the language isn't really a problem for me either, it's that sheer mindlessness of use that gets my goat. Which is why I get so irked when people sniff that I just don't like swearing because I'm prissy. 

I would venture that you, my virtual friends, know me well enough to understand that I've never met a word I don't like -- I just have too much admiration for them to frivol them about carelessly. I'm not a prig, merely (yet again) a persnickety bitch.  :-D

I also eschew any defense of swearing as a feminist cause. I can believe that for many people the arguments may have centered around acceptable gender behavior - but that was never the case at our house. Swearing wasn't framed as being dependent on gender or even class. Rather, my mother (The Vocabulary Queen) simply refused to accept that her children could not come up with a better term for any given concept than mere vulgarity... "Anyone could say that… Show me that you know some good words!"

(My mother valued originality, what can I say?)

(And I would love to have seen her reaction to SP, who can string together veritable Joycean soliloquies of polyglot invective... I can picture the smile now…)

I guess what it all boils down to (for me) is that words are tied to intention…

and I believe that both words and people deserve the courtesy of considered choices.

But this is just one woman's opinion... YMMV

Bebop-a-rebop...

Rhubarb Pie.

(thank you, Garrison Keillor)

Rhubarb pie, believe it or not, is actually one of the key elements in my own personal mythology.

It's a love affair that started early in life - eating rhubarb pie is literally one of my earliest memories. When my mom had her first surgery, my folks brought in Betsy to help out with the cooking and housework -- which was kind of like bringing Amelia Bedelia into your house… Betsy didn't do anything the way my folks wanted -- she blocked the plumbing and broke the vacuum, and nearly drove my dad crazy… but boy, howdy, could that woman bake a pie! 

Specifically, rhubarb pie.

I was already a little rhubarb fiend, mind you. The early-summer treat at my Grandma's house was to be given a Dixie cup with some sugar in it, and let loose to wander out back, where I would pick a stalk of rhubarb, dip it into the sugar, and potter amongst my Grandpa's beekeeping equipment, nibbling and nosing away to my heart's content.

But I don't ever remember having rhubarb pie before Betsy came along. 

I surely remember that first pie, however... that perfect balance of sweet and tart, with just a hint of salt to meld the two tastes into one; the gorgeous, pink syrupy goodness, surrounded by crisp, flaky crust…

I immediately became a convert for life.

It took a long time before rhubarb pie became the life-staple I wanted it to be, however. For one thing, I was seriously pie crust challenged for many years. My mom had made a good pie crust, but that was one lesson we didn't get to in time. And neither Dad nor Grandma did pies. They'd cook just about anything else, but not pies. 

I tried… but the results were about what you might expect from a 13-14 year old girl trying to fudge her way through pastry-making on her own. And by the time I figured out the secret, I was living in the south, where rhubarb just doesn't thrive, so that added another year or two to my Rhubarb Hiatus.

Finally, however, the stars aligned. I moved back home, Dad planted some rhubarb (he loved the pie nearly as much as I do -- just not quite enough to make a crust for it!) -- so I had means, motive, and opportunity... and my love affair has been steady and uninterrupted ever since.

I'm afraid, however, that I am a rhubarb pie purist…

I do not cut my rhubarb with anything. There will be no strawberries or custard found in my pies. Nope. Around here, it's "All Rhubarb, All the Time". 

Save that other stuff and put 'em together in a strawberry tart.

A strawberry tart is a fine and noble thing that I will happily help you eat.

Just don't get the ingredients near my pie.

Nor do I get fancy and do crumble on the crust. If you want rhubarb crisp, make it, by all means! That's another very tasty thing (that I will also happily help you eat) … but keep your crumbs to your damn self.

I'm afraid my pie stands alone ... but I will share! :-)

A Quality of Life

I like things Quiet. 

In both the external and internal senses of the word, "quiet" is my preferred operating mode. Which makes it kind of interesting, living in the 21st century as we do…

Growing up, it was easy. We spent summers in a place that was so quiet, you could hear the surf from a good half-mile away. There was no TV reception, and altho' we got radio, it was so static-y, it wasn't worth the effort. I learned to be totally comfortable listening to nothing but birds and crickets and my own thoughts.

Which is a habit that's stayed with me to this day. There's rarely any background noise going in my house; TV, radio, and/or music are only turned on if I'm specifically watching or listening to something. Otherwise, it's just the clocks, the furnace, and whatever traffic is going by outside. In fact, noise is the one thing I dislike about the weather getting warm enough for me to open the front door, because, even tho' there's lots more light (good!) things also get a whole lot louder. (bad)

It amazes me how few people can handle quiet, however.

It's actually amusing when I have company, because most people start getting twitchy within about four minutes of sitting in the silence of my living room. Sometimes I take pity on them and start up a playlist, but more often, I entertain myself by refusing to notice their discomfort… (Did I mention my evil twin lives here with me?)

I also like things to be that kind of quiet on the inside, as well.

In a perfect Jz world, this is what you'd see if you could peek inside my soul.

Mind you, that isn't the view all that often, but it's a conscious goal.

I don't like drama, I don't enjoy being angry, chaos makes me crazy, and I loathe feeling rushed. I tend to resent situations that land me in any kind of upheaval -- and yet, that's life, hello. I can't go around getting put out every time stuff happens, or I will never achieve any kind of serenity at all.

So I do my best to plod through the aggravating times, keeping my eye fixed on that dock.

Because I really do like things a whole lot better when they're quiet.

Poetic License

P is for "Penis",

P is for "Poem".

I'm not good with either…

So I'll just go home.

:-D

Happy National Poetry Month

(just think, if Hedone had her way, you'd have gotten 30 days of this!)

(I'll take that chocolate anytime now…)

Other

other |ˈəðər|

adjective & pronoun

1 used to refer to a person or thing that is different or distinct from one already mentioned or known about  • the alternative of two   • those remaining in a group; those not already mentioned2 further; additional

3 (the Other) [pron.] Philosophy & Sociology that which is distinct from, different from, or opposite to something or oneself.

It's a funny thing, isn't it, the way people bond together in endlessly-fluid pairings of "us" against "them"…?

Gender, skin color, religion, geography, beliefs, habits, foods, favorite TV shows…

You name it, we can find people to oppose over it - and those who will rally around each side's flag.

And mock.

And agitate. 

And provoke.

And fight.

I'm sure it's a trait we developed in order to increase social bonding -- which makes it particularly puzzling to me that the results are so very divisive.

Because if we can't figure out how to purge animosity from the process, if we can't stop confusing "other" with "opponent", this "bonding enhancer" may yet be the death of us all…

An Unlikely "N"

I had great ideas for a scintillating (ok, reasonably interesting) "N" post, but I have a thumping headache that I haven't been able to shake all evening and it's now far too late for coherent thought, anyhow, (plus I'm punchy!) so...

I'm stretching WAY out on that lettered limb! 

With no further ado..., Ladies and Gentlemen...,

I give you... My Teen Idol..., Rudolph Nureyev!

(as seen dancing with Miss Piggy on The Muppet Show)

Enjoy!  ;-p

Intermission (illustrated version)

As you know, the A-Z Challenge isn't the only thing going on this April.

Hedone brought it to my attention that it's National Poetry Month.

(And I'm still waiting for those thanks in chocolate that I didn't write a poem a day, as she suggested… *ahem!*)

Beatrice noted that it's National Grilled Cheese Sandwich Month.

(oooh, yeah. I'm all over this one!)

So I got curious and looked what else might be going on this month…

And learned many interesting things.

Like, for example, that it's also:

Tomatillo and Asian Pear Month

(how on earth did those two get put together to make this a thing, do you suppose?)

National Kite Month

(Your annual justification for telling someone to, "Go Fly a Kite!")

National Garden Month

(Participation guarantees results like the above in just 30 days, right?)
(or my money back?)

Rosacea Awareness Month

(I'll skip this one -- my rosacea is already far too self-aware, thank you.)

Here's a good one

Emotional Overeating Awareness Month

(lest my self-medicating with fish & chips and chocolate [and grilled cheese sandwiches] lead to untoward consequences)

Holy Humor Month

(because it can be really hard to work "the one about the stylite that fell into fornication" into conversation, otherwise…)

International Twit Award Month

(so many nominees, so little time…)

and my personal favorite….

Jz Appreciation Month

WhooHOOO!!!

who knew?!?!

*oh, wait… that's "Jazz"…*

~dagnabbit~

(*sigh*)

Minimalism

"Minimalism is a tool used to rid yourself of life’s excess in favor of focusing on what’s important so you can find happiness, fulfillment, and freedom." 

I have a dream of a minimalist life…

See, I come from a long line of packrats. 

I don't think we quite qualify as hoarders but I also don't think I'd want to invite any TV crews into my house, either. (Just to be on the safe side!)

That house, by the way, is the one I grew up in.

And I'm the keeper of the still-undistributed inheritances.

Which means my house is full of pretty much everything my dad ever owned for the 60 years he lived here -- and quite a few bits from mom's 30 years here, as well. (Altho', to his credit, dad's packrattitude had more to do with being a child of the Depression and knowing how to fix anything with anything. "You never know…" -- and downstairs it went -- "just in case.") 

I've got every tool in the world (power and hand)…

All the heirlooms that nobody will let me get rid of, but that they also won't take to their house… (The family Bible, cherished childhood toys, heirloom jewelry, photo albums from both sets of grandparents, four generations worth of household furnishings, not one, not two, but three vintage sewing machines… I even have a boat part that my brother won't let me throw away because he remembers the story behind the purchase…)

Plus, there's the stuff that nobody actually wants... but that I can't throw out until they've signed off on not wanting it...

The penultimate beau used to say my house was like one of those sliding puzzles - that somebody had to just take one tile's worth of stuff out of my way and then I could start shifting things around…

I know everyone means well… but it's been ten years and I'm still waiting.

I'm not sure I'd be very good at minimalism but some days, I'd kill for the chance to try!!

Lachrymose

In a perfect world (or even just during the other eleven months of the year,) this would be one of the last words I'd use to describe myself. 

(Seriously, those "related words"...! Wouldn't you rather die??)

lach·ry·mose adjective \-ˌmōs\

1:  given to tears or weeping 

2:  tending to cause tears

Latin lacrimosus, from lacrima

First Known Use: circa 1727

Synonyms

tearful, teary, weepy

Related Words

demonstrative, effusive, emotional; maudlin, mawkish, sentimental; bawling, blubbering, crying, keening, sniffling, sniveling, sobbing, wailing, weeping, whimpering; misty, misty-eyed, moist; bemoaning, bewailing; doleful, dolorous, grieving, mournful, plaintive; funereal, gloomy, lugubrious; brokenhearted, dejected, depressed, despondent, disconsolate, downcast, downhearted, heartbroken, heartsick, heavyhearted, inconsolable, miserable, sad, sorrowful, woebegone, woeful, wretched

The Weeping Hedgehog

But it's April --
     a month with a really bad track record for me.

So look carefully at that picture beside to the definition.

←←←

Does it seem strangely familiar to you?

I hate Aprils...

Lessons of the Kaleidoscope

Kaleidoscopes are a spectacular reminder that the very mutability of life is what makes it such a wonder. That, altho' that the slightest shift can create a whole new picture, the evolution itself is beautiful, as well. -- And that even if we don't particularly care for what is created at times, there is always another vision just around the corner, waiting to be nudged into reality.

That's the poetic version.

The pragmatist might prefer this:

J is for...

When I was young, certainly through high school (and quite possibly longer, tho' I cannot swear to it,) I usually bounded up the last step of our stairs in what cannot possibly be called anything but a leap of joy. It was a physical expression of an overwhelming internal surge of pure joie de vivre. The world was a terrific place and I was just damned happy to be alive.

I don't do that so much now.

Nope… I haven't surged or bounded in quite some time.

Rather, experience has tempered my elation and given me a more moderated view of the world -- there is still much that is terrific, but there is equally much that just sucks. Which doesn't mean you give in to the suckage, I'm just explaining why I don't feel called to leap rhapsodic any more, either.

Instead, these days, I more often experience joy as a quiet, ephemeral thing … a collection of small, perfect moments of happiness, rather than one great, surging tsunami of exultation.

And I wonder if that alteration of form isn't what causes people to overlook joy in their lives -- if we aren't confusing happiness with the dopamine rush it can bring. It sometimes seems as though, if the two don't arrive hand in hand, we can't recognize that Joy Is In the Building.

As though we are focusing on the wrong part…

Which may be why, when I read a quote (by the completely unknown to me Henri J.M. Nouwen) that said…

“Joy does not simply happen to us. 

We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.” 

…that I found myself somewhat irritated.

Something about that statement irks me. But why…?
Why does this fairly benign homily get so directly up my nose?
Because I do believe that you create your own aptitude for joy… so what was getting my goat here?

Finally, I decided that I simply don't like the wording, because once again, it seems the focus is put on the wrong part. My distinction is a bit nebulous, I realize, but to me, this statement almost asks us to force ourselves to joy, to just whip some up every day and call it done.

And while joy may not simply happen to us, I also don't think it's a thing we choose or create. All we really need to do is to recognize it.

Because I think joy always exists... what we choose is to see it and experience it… or not.

id theft

"The id is the primitive and instinctive component of personality. It consists of all the inherited (i.e. biological) components of personality, including the sex  instinct (which contains the libido), and aggressive instinct.

The id is the impulsive (and unconscious) part of our psyche which responds directly and immediately to the instincts.  

The id demands immediate satisfaction and when this happens we experience pleasure, when it is denied we experience ‘unpleasure’ or pain. The id is not affected by reality, logic or the everyday world.

On the contrary, it operates on the pleasure principle (Freud, 1920) which is the idea that every wishful impulse should be satisfied immediately, regardless of the consequences. The id engages in primary process thinking, which is primitive illogical, irrational, and fantasy oriented."

Because I've been generally ignoring all things physical, I was a bit surprised the other day to realize that my "pretty draping" (thank you, Cameron Diaz) is back as though it had never been shaved away. Which led to me thinking about how long it had actually been, anyhow...

Maybe not that long on the overall Jz's History of Abstinence Scale but sufficiently long that it gave me pause.

Because the last time I shaved that bit was in preparation for the last time I had sex -- and when I did the math, I realized it's been quite some time since I've even felt "in the mood."

I may have returned to being my own woman again physiologically -- but psychologically, something doesn't seem to have gotten the message. Because my libido is still AWOL... apparently over hanging around outside BG's house, waiting for him to notice it's there.

I had been taken aback when it first transferred it's allegiance to him in the first place. And maybe I shouldn't be surprised that after five years, it has trouble remembering where it actually lives…

But I'd kind of hoped that by now, it would have found it's way home.

Can I file a "Missing id" report, do you think?