I should try to resist sounding bleak.

���� Not really bleak, because nothing's bleak right now, but just, you know, blah, in the way that can result from having dramatic tendencies, and times that aren't distinctly positive.

���� And for example, standing in the shower, suddenly realizing that I've not soaped or scrubbed or anything for five minutes and I'm just standing and worrying about when and whether in the next ten years I might have a chance to have a baby -- well that's just about as absurd a mental moment as I've ever had. As such, it's not distinctly positive.
����And this just ten minutes after getting up, at 6:30am;
����and this being totally not my thing, not part of my mental world at all and yet here it is in the shower with me;
����and then the splintering thought lines racing/tracing to find the impetus for this concern:
������Is it Amy's new baby?
������Is it the upcoming 30th year?
������Is it a latent concern of the Chris-Becky animal, rearing up now desperately for its own survival? or for the survival of the animal? or for no reason at all? (take Becky out of the picture and it dissolves!) Or rather than a single shared concern, maybe a dual parallel concern, as we both enter the 30th year, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah (there's a hint of something here that makes me want to go on "blah"-ing, to shut out something uncomfortable)
������Or is it actual?

���� What are all the stock ideas about baby impulse? There are the basic animal ones -- in which organisms are compelled to reproduce, by hormones, or by genes via hormones, or by psyche via instinct, or whatever; and the biological clock. Those apply to everybody. Then there are the ones that are used mostly on poor and other "lesser," sad, people into whose psychologies delvers don't mind presuming to delve -- to trap a man; to have something to love, or that will love back; to feel successful, to find meaning. Do any of these apply? I'm so confounded at this apparently human unreason that may or may not be totally arbitrary and probably both is and isn't, in a quantum way that spins me out -- that I have to mutter "who the hell knows?" It's like the stupid stripping my clothes off while I sleep -- It's just annoying. Who knows why out of nowhere I'm concerned about babies.
����You know what? I'm not really. It was five minutes in the shower.

���� But I guess I am. Somewhere.
���� AGH! This is outrageous.

���� I had a neat conversation this morning with Laura and Marilyn about, well, humping, I guess. Not about love or sex or relationships or even hooking up or fucking -- it was just about the ways in which a sex-liking person might get some from time to time. So it was these young women living their normal, social lives, and here and there taking opportunities to have sex, or here and there setting up longer term, casual arrangements. Funny stories about "sure walk me home, but don't think you gettin' any," and "there's no way this dude's kissing me," and "dude, there's no way you're not kissing me." And whether she did or didn't take a shower with somebody, and who knows and has slept with whom, and how to make the guy get up and fetch something so you can enjoy his naked butt walking around the room. 'Cause he used to do that to her, but now the tables is turned! And one guy, she tried to tie him up, but no way, woman -- he got scared! Marilyn and Laura both agreed that casual sex -- especially long term with a friend or acquaintance -- can be worth it, but isn't something you end up really loving, not even as much as a good tv show. I didn't contribute anything to the conversation except questions. I'd have been happy to talk about the stuff like kissing and dressing and how five minutes of listening to a certain girl talk can make you want to throw her over your shoulder and take her home, but the conversation was making me sad. People's being funny monkey-mammals is fun -- being animal-like is cool but I'm a conflicted enough person that it can also suck. B and I are animal in different ways, and while those ways can be fiercely sexy, there's not been a high frequency of having everything synch. So much that you'd be gasping, if it weren't for goddamned Ren� Descartes.

���� In lighter news, I've discovered that I only need two songs to clean the daycare, and luckily they're on one CD and one follows the other. Can you guess? No you can't. Pat Benatar! First, "Heartbreaker," to rock my ass, as they say, maybe three times, and it actually does rock in spite of its really mediocre self (kind of like ac/dc); and then one time of "Hit Me with Your Best Shot," to cleanse the palate. Hm, that ass/cleanse sequence is a particularly bad mixing of metaphors! Anyway, not the most worthy songs, but you're not looking for much when you're mopping -- you're just trying to get through a lonely, spooky 3 hours -- and these songs happen to work. Put just those tracks on repeat, and it's safe to zone out. You'll mop away on an even emotional keel for the duration.

���� And speaking of spooky -- I've been really scaring myself lately, over there. Arriving in the dark, getting out of the car to open the gate, leaves whipping up in a wet wind. I lock myself in, and then I try not to ever look at the windows. If my eyes focus on a window for even a second, I'm stuck with the idea of someone looking back. Even if I avoid that completely, I have at least two jumping-frights a night, from shadows and reflections.

���� Well, that's where I'll be tonight, 7:30 - 10:30 probably.


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