Where I live... lived

    Its that time of year again. The Geese are flying south again, honking as they go. I don't know why but I love that sound. I live in the bottom of a valley floor but can hear them and see them flying to where ever it is that they are off to. From a friends home up the valley wall a bit you can see across the whole valley. From there you can see many flights/chevrons of geese flying. To me its a magic feeling to see them all strung out in lines.

    I know that there is plenty of high end aerodynamics going on with them... who is in front and for how long and the ones that follow follow at a precise angle and distance so as to maximize some lift potential created by the disturbance caused by the bird ahead. It seems also that since the lead bird is experiencing the maximum drag he/she stays there for some period of time, determined by them I suppose, then falls off to the back of the line to rest and to work their way back up to the lead again, amazing, magic.

Danceing with the...

    As she twirls and whirls about the floor waiting for her partner to arrive my mind burns with a desire that is difficult to resolve. At once I want to see her perform her dance with all the passion, grace and fire that she embodies but that same passion, grace and fire ignites a lust and passion and desire in me that I find difficult to manage. Her body moves with a sexy precision that creates such a deep lustful desire to capture her and experience awesome pleasure that her body could undoubtedly deliver. I imagine seeing her move through her set naked… for an audience of one… is almost too much for this setting.

    To entertain this thought more than this moment would also carry the implication that I was some how her equal or that she could some how entertain similar thoughts or desires for me, a most unlikely possibility.

    To in anyway consider fulfilling this fantasy would burst the gossamer bubble that surrounds her and the moment would vanish like so much smoke in a wind. The fantasy and the lust of the imagination in this situation are but smoky vapors when exposed to the reality of life.

    The studio door opens… pop goes the bubble.