In a couple of twenty-four hours, I will be another year older. Wiser is a giveaway. In my feathered history are several interlinking acts but then again I have been around for a while. Fortuitous and determination hobbled together by a wobbly sense of honor (maybe read humor) provides a widening cornfield of endeavors. Sure, one can encapsulate these under one paisley umbrella – creativity. Writing is the prim Donna.
Self-absorption (the bane of writers and introverts) and painting (international stamp illustrator) was thrown under the speeding BMW ragtop in favor of in depth observation and eager yakking. Words are me enthusiastically talking, although if you are a neo-regular at this high noon oasis I feign I am a scribe for some ancient mariner from another planet. Right Hoopoe?
The past weekend was a murky watershed. These are rare or maybe I am not paying attention to the other intrusions of change. In my review of the last twelve months of Bonnie, I am looking at long days and shorter nights of acceptance. Death, grief, political madness, finca plantings, birding, persecution of the many by the elite, and did I mention birds – covers it. One can throw in the fact my Fedbook page is closing in on 5,000 friends and turn on the VitaMix.
Let us be real, I do not have 5,000 friends, and how the hell did Zuckerface come up with this number as a max anyway? What Al Gore rhythm was infused in the matrix to divine 5,000? What I do have are a sordid number of hunting predatory men daily hitting on me, a few hundred fellow political junkies and other aware intellects, and a catcher’s mitt full of actual face-to-face friends, along with two family members.
Getting back to why the surge of men is like climbing Mt. Everest in a bikini. Why males think the Net provides them a keen opportunity to be rude dudes with salacious come-ons is the abuse of the freedom of speech – pointed out by an articulate savvy FB friend in his comment. It is not like going to a bar in your best slut suit and expecting men to not ask you if you want a drink. One can leave the location, or in FB-speak block the dunderhead. I have not been in a dive or hustle bar in 30 years, I further counsel this is not a viable place to find one’s soul mate unless you are there to change matching horses (read stallions?). Why was I there 30 years ago? Fern bars where big then, and we gathered in these to discuss politics and other poorly devised nonsense.
Currently, there are three articles sitting on my desktop needing attention – one is a nifty comprehensive history on Scottish
independence, another is about what are the forever
innards to a man and woman in an exceptional relationship, and the third is under wraps.
The unwanted male burps are an unending interruption and certainly annoying. There is one gentleman I would like to receive regular contacts, but do not, so there is the knife churning the butter.
Age in women is supposed to mean you are no longer attractive – enough. Maybe this year at this newfound age, I will discover how to conduct myself so I am not a moving target. I doubt it. Happy Birthday to me.