So far this month, I have had sex 7 times. I have also added 1400 books(this is a lot because I hand pick my inventory) to my inventory, done all the housework and cooking, kept up with my workouts, chauffered kids and hosted sleepovers. Now that I am not undersexed and obsessed with fixing the situation, I finding it very easy to do everything else. This kind of goes along with the thought that I often had before the recent great improvement in my sex life which was that it was a good thing that I wasn't working on the cure for cancer because then I would have to divorce my H for the good of humanity.
A kind of freaky thing happened yesterday. I was sorting through some recent acquisitions and found a book of poetry written by an unknown female poet who died in a car accident in 1966. The poetry was published posthumously by someone who identified themselves only by the initials M.M.. I opened the book at random and the poem I encountered was entitled "A Poem Almost About Passion". The last stanza ends
Quote: the somehow maniacal the somehow saintly qualities of passion buried in the stain and taint of beings wrenched together by abstract laws and leaps of logic wired into finely sculptured feather-thin magic figures twisted intertwined as if the tap-root of this desire deeply dug in skin might bind the knotted cipher that puzzles the blood the mystery of your eyes brown the knowledge of my eyes green....
"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" - Mary Oliver
