Newly-Discovered Sexual Position: A Promise of Heavenly Delight!

A new post is an imposing obstacle when all I have in mind is a "sense" of what I want to write. That "sense" contains a lot of sentiment and, as such, is as far away from the construction of words as the brain will allow. But,  that's where the gift of writing comes into play. Somewhere there is an intersection between thought and feeling. For me, it is not direct observation that puts thought and feeling together, at that intersection. What works for me is diving in, swimming around the arena of feelings, then surfacing into thought, looking around for landmarks, and going back under, then, repeating this process until the light comes on in my head that is attached to my typing fingers. Voila! Thoughts come, "stuff" happens and words are formed.

But tonight is different. I don't have a "sense" about anything. I am sitting in front of this computer at our internet cafe, because I feel like writing, but the desire alone doesn't carry much punch. My fingers are ready. The blank screen is waiting for the little black symbols to fill the page. Nothing comes to mind. Kind of like going out for target practice without ammunition. At least there are no bears to contend with. Not that life lacks anything noteworthy: Jane, Emelie's sister and the mother of the kids we take care of, just had another baby. Look. Don't spread it around, but I hope she quits having kids.

It is ant season here. You won't hear about ant season on the weather channel. Sure, there is rainy season and dry season and hot and "cold" season (when the temp drops to a shivering 75 degrees), but it is all a tactic of the Department of Tourism, in cooperation with the media, to avoid talking about ant season, the meanest season of the year.

Fifteen minutes after rainy season, when the earth is dry and hot, the ants surface en-mass, in search of food. Grain, meat, sweets, oil - depending on the kind of ant - are all on the list but your foot is a more-than-adequate substitute for any of these.

 I found out, recently, that ants don't bite, they sting. Well, actually, they drill. That's right. They drill a hole into you and then squirt a bunch of chemicals in that are manufactured in the meanest part of the ant, probably very close to the asshole (excuse my French), since the whole business stinks.

Okay. This isn't science, but you can throw science out the window when you have just been stung on your big toe by an ant. Feels like a nail has been driven through your foot. I got stung three times this past friday, which just happened to have been Good Friday. It was a near-religious experience. Probably would have been the real thing if I hadn't said "Holy Shit!" In this case, "holy" modifies the word the shit, as any English major would tell you, but it don't modify it enough to render it pure and clear. At least, not pure and clear enough to open the gates of heavenly bliss and allow for even a fraction of a second of religious experience. Damn! I screwed up!

Most of the ants that sting are red, but there are exceptions to the rule: notably, a very large black ant, about a half inch long, called the nigerus antus maximus mf. I named it myself. All is in latin except for the "mf", which are the first letters of the two words that I yell out whenever I get pierced by one of these babies!

Okay, that's all I have to say about that.

Well, were you expecting something else?