Mixed Berry Medley

I want to write, but can’t think of a thing to write about. Nothing that would be of interest, anyway. To you. Still I have that urge to expunge the demons from my head. Except that there aren’t currently any demons in my head...only...just...simply the desire to expunge them. If there were any. Which there aren’t.

Really I only wanted to use the word expunge. Another word I would like to use is benevolent. I am feeling particularly benevolent tonight. I will not harm you. Her scathing wit was benevolent...for it found no purchase, no niche in which the malevolent roots of sarcasm could adhere. Like glue...like super glue…like flour and water paste...like rubber cement. Do you remember rubber cement? Would one need to be from my generation to remember rubber cement? Brown bottle resplendent with a sticky, cum-like substance...brush attached to bottle cap. Is there still rubber cement? Is/was it rubber? Is/was it cement? Is/was? Is it neither rubber nor cement?

Old school days...rubber cement and mimeographed worksheets fresh from the (mimeographer?) machine. I would take the original sheet to the school office and the principal’s secretary would run them off the (mimeographer?) machine. She would crank the handle of the drum...around and around and around it would go...depositing the fragrant sheets in a pile. I would take the sheets back to class...my nose buried in them.

My nose buried in them..my nose buried...in a glass of wine...in a man's neck. A man’s neck. There is nothing like the smell of a man’s neck. Not just any man...a man with the all-important Chemistry. It is an aphrodisiac...the smell of a man’s neck. The right man’s neck. I am inhaling at this moment...remembering. Necks...different necks. The strongest connections involved the most fragrant necks. Soooooooooooo important, the smell of a man’s neck. The fragrance. I don’t mean the stifling, nauseating, overpowering odor of the fragrance department of a department store. I mean the organic, heady, musky, clean, soap and water, manly aroma of a man’s neck. Au naturale. The cause of those curious little contractions in my belly and the source of my desire.

And I am desirous. Insatiable. Insatiable desire. Insatiably desirous of so many things. Overly passionate and always wanting...always left wanting. It is never, ever, ever enough. Even when it is enough…when I am exhausted and beaten and unable to lift even my hand. The moment it stops...I want more, always more, more, more. If you look at me do you see that desire and passion? Passion in every little thing – a passion for living, you might say. Passion that permeates like an ultrasound to the core of my id, my psyche...exposing and leaving vulnerable all the achy places so desperate and needy and greedy for stimuli...for deliverance...for sustenance, nourishment. And for rest.

I want to rest. I want to let go of the passion so I can rest. I want to sleep...no dreams. Just quiet and dark. No mariachi music from the house across the street puncturing my oblivion, no Harley guy two houses down from mariachi house (life in the ghetto is so bohemian) rev ving his bike just as I’ve drifted off, no accidentally set alarm clock announcing 5:30 a.m., no waking at 2:37 a.m. in panic and cold sweat wondering how in the hell I will pull everything together in time for the next conference, how I will make the repairs needed on the house to put it up for sale, how I will fund my retirement, how I have failed my children, how I allowed my marriage to dissolve, how I don’t contact my parents enough...why are there no cheerful thoughts at 2:37 a.m.? Why am I not waking up and thinking...hmmm...what about mixed berry medley in my next batch of scones?