Currently spread across clean sheets while the tail end of a ton of travel laundry tumbles its way through the dryer. I've been out of town for the past week. I got home this evening and immediately dove into all of the tasks associated with Sunday nights, but on Wednesday. My suitcase is almost back to empty and can almost be placed back into my closet for the next time I slip out of town with brief trace. My plants have survived, as have I. It feels good to be home.
The past three days, in particular, have been filled with a particular type of reflection that feels good.
Other than that, the past week has been filled with good conversations. Presence. Audio notes from favorite friends. Laughter. Exhaustion from a good day's work. Tarot. Bleached sheets. Hotel swimming pools. Tight sweaters. Leg wear. Heels. Dental floss. Intelligence. Deep sleep. Connection. Getting into a bit of a confrontation with a Proud Boy that involved me shouldering him. Really, really good vegetarian biscuits and gravy.
I've been around a lot of conversations about sex lately and, following, have been thinking a lot about sex lately. More so than usual, if that is possible. Thinking about sex that's been had, sex that hasn't been had, and sex that never got to be had. I get enjoyably trapped in my mind sometimes with the topic of sex and, in celebration of this fact, simply take it out via my wardrobe. Sex is so psychological for me. So is gender expression. But it is the fusion of these two things that makes it almost impossible for me to concentrate: All this energy with none of the focus. An exercise in harnessing energy. It's fun to see what comes out of it. So flammable it is.
The remedy, of course, is just as gratifying as the illness, but this time around I want a bit more time to reminisce.
be well; be loved,
k.
(image via stylemasculin-blog tumblr)
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