The Migratory Habits of Objects; Two Movies; and sex, too.

I've spent the morning puttering around in the name of cleaning up this unholy packrats nest which I call my home. M is home for spring break; he points out that none of this mess is his fault and I must ruefully agree. It's amazing how objects move from one place to another, and how much time I spend moving them back to whence they came. I walk in circles, pick something up off the dining room table and take it to the kitchen where I pick something up that goes to the bathroom, something else to the bedroom, something to the living room, something to the dining room and so on. Then things are a bit tidier but far, far from clean. Toby threw up again last night so the very first thing I did today was clean up dog vomit. That always kind of sets the stage for the day.

Last night M and I watched two movies: King Arthur and Hero. King Arthur was really one of the worst, the abso-fucking-lutely worst, movies I have ever ever seen. This morning I wanted to go searching for a support forum to help me get over the post traumatic stress disorder. It made no sense, none at all, was wildly historically inaccurate (completely bizarre) and in fact the only thing that would have saved it would have been a sudden appearance by Godzilla. When you have trained, marching Saxon infantry being attacked by tall blonde Picts led by Guinevere in a leather bikini & tossing gasoline bombs with trebuchets - well, you really need a giant radioactive mutant lizard to save the movie. It's the only way. But alas, Godzilla did not appear and the gorefest continued. M and I started singing the Knights of the Round Table song every time they said knights! which they said a lot. A lot. You could make it into a drinking game, but on the other hand then you'd probably vomit. You might anyway. It's a vomitous sort of movie. Hero, on the other hand, is totally, totally beautiful and really wonderful, and you should go see it immediately. Right now. Go get it at this very minute & watch it. I insist.

I met somebody at a St. Patrick's day party and we went home together and I think that is all I'm going to say about that in the name of not jinxing anything, since I really, really like him. His name is G. Well, no, not actually G, as in Hey G! but begins with G, which is one of many deeply meaningful coincidences (the first guy I ever fell in love with was named G) that I am going over in my head at tremendous length. As one does when one's mental age has suddenly been adjusted downward to a hormone saturated 15. Although, since I just, in the course of my puttering, picked up & read my handwritten journal (also known as the book of drunken maunderings) for the past couple years, I must say that my mental age seems to be about 15, period. They (them, you know, the ubiquitous they. The Knights of Malta, or whoever they are) say that you stop growing up as soon as you start smoking pot, which in my case was 15, so I guess that's proof. Like, totally, wow!

I have been thinking though, in a bemused kind of way, what it is exactly that makes sex either good or bad or inbetween. I don't think it's a question of skill, really: let's face it, sex is not martial arts, you don't need to spend 20 years in a dojo learning how to give blow jobs (one will suffice, like mine in a secluded monastery in Tibet, bwah ha ha.) So I think it must be a question of connection: emotional connection, I guess. But that explanation doesn't really hold up, because then it's hard to explain why sex with two comparative strangers can be so completely different with each - or, if it's just connection, why sex with someone you love madly and have loved for years isn't always incredible, mind bending and rapturous. As anyone who has ever had Roll Over Rachel married rote sex knows, that's just not the truth. Maybe it's pheromones, although they seem to function mainly as a handy contemporary dismissive answer for any question about why people are attracted to other people, or aren't. Sometimes I think it's reincarnation; we're recognizing souls we knew in another lifetime. I did have a long and very interesting talk with J about reincarnation the other night - but this paragraph is about sex. Reincarnation will have to wait. The reincarnation sex argument is too depressing though - if you follow it all the way through, it ends up that you've already had all the lovers you ever will have, and there's nothing new out there, which is just purely suicidal thinking.

Whatever the answer is, if there even is one, which there probably isn't (some things are better left a mystery, after all) I must say that I had a really amazingly great St. Patrick's day and my faith in humanity may have been restored. Keep your fingers crossed. ;-)