Louche

I have to pick up where I left off yesterday.  It was a promise.  Where was I, though?  Oh, yes. . . how the story ends.  I find that I am not as upbeat as Jung in this matter, but we agree about one thing--we must pretend.  He says he doesn't "believe" anything for which he has no evidence.  On that we agree, too.  Neither of us will "believe" just because we hope or intuit that it might be true.  So here is one of the greatest names in psychology speaking about death.  

The thing about the psyche transcending the time/space thing is good.  When he projects, though, that it might not be dependent on the body. . . I start to get queer.  And then. . . “I may not know why we need salt, but we eat salt. . . because we feel better.”

Uh-oh.  I may not know why we take Xanax, but we take Xanax. . . because we feel better.  

And so, if this is one of the most revered psychologist in history. . . just imagine a local therapist!  

But like I said, I do believe we must pretend.  Here's a 91 year old fashion model.  It's not just him.  We're all pretending. 

He's "louche."  That's what they say.  Good word.  I think I'm louche.  If not. . . I'll pretend to be.  

Speaking of which (of what?), my Buckminster Fuller t-shirts came yesterday.  Oh, yea, the material is a dream.  They are the lightest weight, softest organic cotton you could imagine.  And as predicted, I do not have the build of a model.  They don't look as good on me as they do on Tennessee.  Skinny.  That's what makes clothes look good.  "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels," is the aprocryphal saying attributed to Kate Moss.  Slim.  I would like to be slim.  But as scientists are finding out, being thin is not a choice.  It is a mysterious combination of bacteria and hormonal balances.  Fecal implants, for instance, may help.  And, of course now, Ozempic.  Crack cocaine, etc.  Chemicals, baby.  Nothing feels as skinny as crack cocaine tastes.  Remember Drug Skinny from long ago?  I must say, I've never minded a woman whose head looked just slightly too big for her body.  

But everything is chemical.  Practically.  Scientists have located a "faith gene."  People who have it are predisposed to believing things they don't understand.  Those without it. . . are going to hell.  

And now. . . low sex drive is linked to a chemical imbalance (link).  

"Sex, sex, sex. . . all you ever talk about is sex."

"While hanging out with his college roommates, Peter (not his real name) realized he felt differently about sex than other heterosexual men."

Really?  The writer is going to dub him "Peter?"  Could they have been less subtle.  "Richard" would do.

But then with just an injection of kisspeptin, boom!  All his troubles subsided.  Now he's like the proverbial rabbit.  Where he once thought nothing of sex, now he is much more imaginative.  

"What are you doing?  Don't do that.  No. . . that's weird.  Really?  That's what you want to do now?  Jesus, Peter. . . ."

And now there is this. 

Erectile disfunction, too, is chemical.  

The gel has a cooling and warming effect that stimulates the nerves of the penis, prompting blood to engorge the tissue, said Dr. Arthur Burnett, a professor of urology at Johns Hopkins Medicine who was involved with Futura’s trial of the gel. He called the gel safe and “quite appealing.”

 I assume that it would work on a clitoris, too, but that is not the issue.  While sex and gender are separate issues, I'm just saying.  A little kissepeptin and a tube of eroxon (uh-rocks-on?) and that 91 year old louche can stay in bed all day.  

What a world.  

I made the little red beans and pork for my mother and I.  That's how we celebrated the 4th.  With wine.  I was home by happy hour, and just as I lighted on the deck, thunder began to crack.  I sat in the slight drizzle for awhile smoking and drinking, but when the pops got too near, I had to head inside.  And then the deluge.  

After the storm had passed, the fireworks began. In them, I had no interest.  But text messages came.  Q called and was beside himself with Independence Day joy.  He had been to one celebration and was on his way to another.  My Yosemite friend texted the picture above of his son with a happy girl.  He sent photos of the mountain fireworks. 

The girl who will not ask me out texted.  Swoosh.  Swoosh.  Swoosh.  

She was alone.  She will not always be.  

I need to work on my louche.  I may skip out on my routine today and head to the beach.  The holiday crowd should have thinned out.  I will go to the fat beach where I won't see too many people.  I'll swim in the ocean and have some lunch and be home by mid-afternoon.  

Probably not.  I have become a creature of habit.  A real shut-in, I am.  

But that is fodder for another day.  

Swoosh.  

"As your spiritual advisor, I am recommending you break your routine and head out for some adventure.  Go to the beach."