One long river of thought

One long river of thought, one long path to the horizon

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In spite of the zeitgeist, I have no interest in marketing myself because I am not for sale. If you want me, here I am.

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I concluded when I was a child that no one would ever get me, including those who think they do. I turned out to be right, which is no sense of comfort. But then, that’s life.

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Daydreaming again

and yet I put it out there

as though saying

makes it so

as foolish as it is.

So I look again

for a muse in the flesh.

Interests include

but not limited to

music, art,

literature, philosophy,

nature, sex,

each with a wide gamut.

Age is not important

as long as the age

of the muser,

myself,

does not bother the muse,

for youth left my clutches

long ago,

in the flesh at least.

Youth is only a brief visitor

at best.

I look for generosity of body,

mind and spirit,

self-confidence

and self-awareness,

curiosity undimmed,

not religious but contemplative,

someone who doesn’t rely

tobacco or alcohol or other drugs

to get them through the day,

although caffeine

is a necessary exception.

Sharing a good cup of coffee

is a wonderful intimacy.

And I seek intelligence

and open-mindedness.

You notice I do not speak of flesh

or beauty

because if all the rest is true

then beauty of body

will follow.

Ideally she would like older men,

and facial hair,

and have a car

and lots of time on her hands

so that we might explore what the day brings,

other than these dreams

I occasionally dwell in

before I wake up and do the next thing.

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I will die as I was born and as I lived, in obscurity, never seeking to draw attention to myself while working my changes under the skin of reality like a subtle disease.

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"You see," he said, "I need a woman who knows her own mind and is brave enough to approach me and make the first move. Mind you, I would wonder about a woman who made a move on me, but persistence has its rewards and its terrors."

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"The thing is," he said "is that I am invisible to most of you, no matter what I do, and more so to that beautiful woman standing in the corner of the room."

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"What is that you do not understand about love?" she asked.

"Everything," he answered.

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"You see," he said, "I have always loved ideas. And I love the idea of you. But I am less certain about the real you. You are but flesh and flesh passes, but ideas, ideas live as long as there are those to think and share them."

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"if you came to me," he said, "and stood before me and took of all your clothes, I would not tell you to put them back on. But other than that I do not know whether I would contemplate your form, paint a picture, shoot a photo or two, ask you to come closer to me, let you kiss me, let you make love to me in whatever manner most appealed to you, or if I would be indifferent. It is only a supposition you understand, only a supposition."

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We like to think that nature is benign. It is not. There is as much violence in nature as calm. One does not exist without the other. Destruction brings forth creations though a wheel, a great crushing wheel were constantly turning and grinding out new realities from the course grain of nervy and its child, matter. The concept of the benign or the evil has no meaning in the larger universe. Only for human beings does it have an impact. The rest is indifferent. Whether we survive or not, something will replace or supersede us in the constant processes of time and space and all the forces to which they are subject.

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"Although I am intrigued by your flesh," he said, "your life does not interest me because you do not have a beautiful soul. It is a shame to waste such form on such form on such meaningless content."