Insightfully meaningless writings of random specificity #1
Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
As I (I henceforth will be replaced with "the author") sit here with my cursor blink-blink-blinking, watching what amounts as the tantamount movie of the century (I talk about none other than the pivotal cinematic masterpiece Trainspotting) and enjoying an ice-cold brew, several things pop into the authors mind. The most striking of which is a poem by Edgar Allen Poe. Why is this striking, you ask? Why is this significant? The author wonders, doesn't everyone think about Edgar Allen Poe while enjoying a cockney British drug comedy and bottle of Bud? Perhaps this is why this is striking, all sarcasm aside. The author wishes to illustrate that this is exactly the situation that the poem in question popped into mind. Now reader, the author makes no presumption that you, as the reader, have any knowledge of Poe himself aside from the popular morphine addiction and a rather lengthy scribbling called The Raven, and most assuredly most of the readers possesses not even this much knowledge and undoubtedly the rest of you have much more than the author himself . . .why do I mention this . . .think of it as a mild disclaimer as to the interpretation of the intoxicated state under which this particular poem springs to mind.
The poem in question is one entitled "The Happiest Day, The Happiest Hour." To all of you readers unfamiliar with this particular masterpiece, and the author genuinely believes that anything written by the afore mentioned poet is a masterpiece. Let's face it, how many of us have had trouble conjugating regular verbs in whatever language you, as the reader, prefer let alone morphine. I mean writing whilst incapable of feeling the very fingers you are writing with takes a lot of skill, don't you think?
But alas, the author has digressed. Back to the point. The Masterpiece. This particular poem, again for all of you unaware that he wrote more than a drug induced rhyme scheme about a particularly dark and foreboding member of the flying species of the planet, is about his best moment, the moment in which he was the happiest. The author encourages the reader to flip through the poem to understand and find the readers own personal happiest day, happiest hour. But the author chooses this medium to share with the reader one of many moments that make him the happiest. But unfortunalty this is a particularly sensitive subject of which he has since moved on with his life. So fear not reader for the sanity of the author, that has never been assured, his life is much better now than it ever was. Perhaps a catharsis can be reached for the author, though I fear one might not be needed and in the event that catharses are in short supply from the man upstairs I hesitate to use one up.
Reader, do you remember your first love? It's funny isn't it that only in an intoxicated state do you think of things such as this. You think of the jobs you could have had. The things you should have done. The relationships you should have done differently. Nostalgia is synonymous with alcohol. But the author will share with the reader a moment of happiness like none other. And reader as you read this bear in mind that this one of many.
I can remember (enter now a symphony of violins or clarinets) waking up one Saturday morning in my apartment. The winter weather had not yielded to any measure of warmth, and the sun had been up for hours. As I slowly gain consciousness I feel warmth in the bed next to me. I look over and there she is, the one whom I loved more dearly than anything. I roll over and wrap myself in the ever so popular spoon fashion and hold her close. I can feel her heart beat through her back, and her naked flesh next to mine is invigorating and calming at the same time. She rolls over and with the heat of her first breath she says I love you. Now the reader can infer what they themselves might do with a naked member of the opposite sex with whom they have had a monogamous relationship for the better part of three years with, but the author wishes to address the fact that nothing sexual happened on the morning in question. I held her close to me and looked into her newly opened eyes, wondering what might the day bring and fearing nothing because as long as I had that moment I needed nothing further. And as sickeningly romantic it might sound to the reader, looking at her with her long golden blond hair flowing haphazardly along the pillows gave the author one of the greatest pleasures ever known. The beauty of her in that one moment makes all the sunsets and all the moonlight walks and all the paintings in the world pale in comparison. We slowly roll out of bed, regrettably the author adds, and start the morning, and what a beautiful morning it turned out to be. We flake over what each other wants for breakfast and decide that neither one of us was for the most part hungry, so we shared a long kiss and an even longer shower.
Now allow the author to describe to the reader the whole shower realm of a relationship should the reader not ever have experienced it. A shower with your significant other and it does have to be a significant other. For should it be with a passing fancy or a relation on the skids, the reader will most assuredly miss the magic of it. But with your mate, the shower can be a place of the utmost pleasure both intimately and non intimately. The author will not discuss with the reader any degree of intimacy in the shower, for he feels that if the reader needs a random researcher on this medium to describe how to do "it," that particular reader has no business doing "it" at all. Rather the more intament and sentimental and perhaps romantic aspect of it will be described. But a shower can be the best experience of ones relationship, sometimes even to the point where you get dirty on purpose just to enjoy a shower with the formerly mentioned mate. But the way soap and shampoo flow over the body, especially in the author's opinion the females, allows the touch of another human being to take on a different sensation. It is more of a romantic, smooth and almost gentile touch. Should one close their eyes, this can bring new closeness to the individuals. Even the non-tactile responses in the shower lend themselves to new heights of pleasure. Standing back in the corner and watching the way the water runs down the body, hugging every possible curve and every possible part. The way she would run her hands through her hair and arch her back looking to the ceiling as the shower beat on her god given chest . . .let the reader be assured that that was heavenly. The smell that a woman, and I am sure the female readers can give a reasonable amount of reciprocation, has in a shower is next only to heaven, in this authors opinion. And as she would turn and look at me, in her most vulnerable, I would move forward and press myself onto her body and hold her close and she did the same. Ladies and Gentlemen, that alone in and of itself is the most spectacular and special moment I can think of.
So we decide to get out of the shower, long after the water has turned cold, and continue on with our day. Together we decide that the mall and a movie is the thing to do for the day. Now as a male, shopping is notoriously an unpleasant moment, but I felt neither squeamish nor afraid of looking at those ugly cotton panties or another darn pair of shoes, in fact I, more often than not, purchased them. Shopping malls presented the author with an enormous amount of "show off" time, and this particular instance public affection came as naturally as breathing. Holding hands, whispering all sorts of things to each other, both clean and unclean, looking at stuff that we knew we couldn't afford, but just the fact we were together made us the richest people on earth, so thusly we could afford to look. That alone was enough. Then the movies. A perfect opportunity to hold each other close and bask in the emotion in its most pure and unadulterated form. Holding and breathing together as one. . .reader that is by far the best thing.
Once we get home, nothing fancy happens. Dinner, another long and beautiful shower, and crawling into bed, naked of course. Please allow the reader to caveat this with saying something that is of his own personal opinion. We were created naked; we do not wear Calvin klien and guess naturally, so bedtime is the time when we revert to our most base of instincts. To share a bed with a woman, again coming from a man's point of view, who is naked and you are as well, the bonding that happens and the trust and intimacy that develops is unparalleled. The feel of her naked back against your chest pressing and depressing as she breathes, the feel of her smooth butt as you press your member against, the way her body smells and the heat that comes form it. That alone can sustain a man better than any food. If the author had that and only that, he could live forever.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the happiest days of my life. Should any of you readers never have experienced a love like this, then you are surely missing out on a vital part of life. But as was mentioned before, and as the reader has probably inferred the relationship came to an end. Mainly due to professional goals that didn't jive. But the love felt was pure and lovely and beautiful.
Why does alcohol create such nostalgia? Who knows, but I am thankful for it. For I know in my heart that I will take these lessons with me no matter where I go and the woman who ends up with a sorry sod like myself will profit from these pure and innocent moments.
To all you researchers out there, I wish you luck in your ventures and Godspeed. And I will be here to read about your exploits, and look forward to it.
The poem in question is one entitled "The Happiest Day, The Happiest Hour." To all of you readers unfamiliar with this particular masterpiece, and the author genuinely believes that anything written by the afore mentioned poet is a masterpiece. Let's face it, how many of us have had trouble conjugating regular verbs in whatever language you, as the reader, prefer let alone morphine. I mean writing whilst incapable of feeling the very fingers you are writing with takes a lot of skill, don't you think?
But alas, the author has digressed. Back to the point. The Masterpiece. This particular poem, again for all of you unaware that he wrote more than a drug induced rhyme scheme about a particularly dark and foreboding member of the flying species of the planet, is about his best moment, the moment in which he was the happiest. The author encourages the reader to flip through the poem to understand and find the readers own personal happiest day, happiest hour. But the author chooses this medium to share with the reader one of many moments that make him the happiest. But unfortunalty this is a particularly sensitive subject of which he has since moved on with his life. So fear not reader for the sanity of the author, that has never been assured, his life is much better now than it ever was. Perhaps a catharsis can be reached for the author, though I fear one might not be needed and in the event that catharses are in short supply from the man upstairs I hesitate to use one up.
Reader, do you remember your first love? It's funny isn't it that only in an intoxicated state do you think of things such as this. You think of the jobs you could have had. The things you should have done. The relationships you should have done differently. Nostalgia is synonymous with alcohol. But the author will share with the reader a moment of happiness like none other. And reader as you read this bear in mind that this one of many.
I can remember (enter now a symphony of violins or clarinets) waking up one Saturday morning in my apartment. The winter weather had not yielded to any measure of warmth, and the sun had been up for hours. As I slowly gain consciousness I feel warmth in the bed next to me. I look over and there she is, the one whom I loved more dearly than anything. I roll over and wrap myself in the ever so popular spoon fashion and hold her close. I can feel her heart beat through her back, and her naked flesh next to mine is invigorating and calming at the same time. She rolls over and with the heat of her first breath she says I love you. Now the reader can infer what they themselves might do with a naked member of the opposite sex with whom they have had a monogamous relationship for the better part of three years with, but the author wishes to address the fact that nothing sexual happened on the morning in question. I held her close to me and looked into her newly opened eyes, wondering what might the day bring and fearing nothing because as long as I had that moment I needed nothing further. And as sickeningly romantic it might sound to the reader, looking at her with her long golden blond hair flowing haphazardly along the pillows gave the author one of the greatest pleasures ever known. The beauty of her in that one moment makes all the sunsets and all the moonlight walks and all the paintings in the world pale in comparison. We slowly roll out of bed, regrettably the author adds, and start the morning, and what a beautiful morning it turned out to be. We flake over what each other wants for breakfast and decide that neither one of us was for the most part hungry, so we shared a long kiss and an even longer shower.
Now allow the author to describe to the reader the whole shower realm of a relationship should the reader not ever have experienced it. A shower with your significant other and it does have to be a significant other. For should it be with a passing fancy or a relation on the skids, the reader will most assuredly miss the magic of it. But with your mate, the shower can be a place of the utmost pleasure both intimately and non intimately. The author will not discuss with the reader any degree of intimacy in the shower, for he feels that if the reader needs a random researcher on this medium to describe how to do "it," that particular reader has no business doing "it" at all. Rather the more intament and sentimental and perhaps romantic aspect of it will be described. But a shower can be the best experience of ones relationship, sometimes even to the point where you get dirty on purpose just to enjoy a shower with the formerly mentioned mate. But the way soap and shampoo flow over the body, especially in the author's opinion the females, allows the touch of another human being to take on a different sensation. It is more of a romantic, smooth and almost gentile touch. Should one close their eyes, this can bring new closeness to the individuals. Even the non-tactile responses in the shower lend themselves to new heights of pleasure. Standing back in the corner and watching the way the water runs down the body, hugging every possible curve and every possible part. The way she would run her hands through her hair and arch her back looking to the ceiling as the shower beat on her god given chest . . .let the reader be assured that that was heavenly. The smell that a woman, and I am sure the female readers can give a reasonable amount of reciprocation, has in a shower is next only to heaven, in this authors opinion. And as she would turn and look at me, in her most vulnerable, I would move forward and press myself onto her body and hold her close and she did the same. Ladies and Gentlemen, that alone in and of itself is the most spectacular and special moment I can think of.
So we decide to get out of the shower, long after the water has turned cold, and continue on with our day. Together we decide that the mall and a movie is the thing to do for the day. Now as a male, shopping is notoriously an unpleasant moment, but I felt neither squeamish nor afraid of looking at those ugly cotton panties or another darn pair of shoes, in fact I, more often than not, purchased them. Shopping malls presented the author with an enormous amount of "show off" time, and this particular instance public affection came as naturally as breathing. Holding hands, whispering all sorts of things to each other, both clean and unclean, looking at stuff that we knew we couldn't afford, but just the fact we were together made us the richest people on earth, so thusly we could afford to look. That alone was enough. Then the movies. A perfect opportunity to hold each other close and bask in the emotion in its most pure and unadulterated form. Holding and breathing together as one. . .reader that is by far the best thing.
Once we get home, nothing fancy happens. Dinner, another long and beautiful shower, and crawling into bed, naked of course. Please allow the reader to caveat this with saying something that is of his own personal opinion. We were created naked; we do not wear Calvin klien and guess naturally, so bedtime is the time when we revert to our most base of instincts. To share a bed with a woman, again coming from a man's point of view, who is naked and you are as well, the bonding that happens and the trust and intimacy that develops is unparalleled. The feel of her naked back against your chest pressing and depressing as she breathes, the feel of her smooth butt as you press your member against, the way her body smells and the heat that comes form it. That alone can sustain a man better than any food. If the author had that and only that, he could live forever.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the happiest days of my life. Should any of you readers never have experienced a love like this, then you are surely missing out on a vital part of life. But as was mentioned before, and as the reader has probably inferred the relationship came to an end. Mainly due to professional goals that didn't jive. But the love felt was pure and lovely and beautiful.
Why does alcohol create such nostalgia? Who knows, but I am thankful for it. For I know in my heart that I will take these lessons with me no matter where I go and the woman who ends up with a sorry sod like myself will profit from these pure and innocent moments.
To all you researchers out there, I wish you luck in your ventures and Godspeed. And I will be here to read about your exploits, and look forward to it.
