A day like this– these are the days that make poets swoon and lovers take it off and go at it like randy little bunnies.
Aside– has anyone ever wondered why rabbits hump and breed so much? I mean, it seems anathema to their overall cuteness, you know? I can’t really picture these furry little genitalia –nothing offensive, nothing obscene, no throbbing veiny pulsating bunnyhood throbbing trying to pierce some hungry bunnyhead, and certainly NO PUBES– creating some sort of NC-17 or even XXX-rated action where the performers moan on cue and act both horrified and lustily hungry and where the seeds are planted (so to speak) and then some time elapses and voilà! Bunnies!
But how are you supposed to think of bunnies as procreative when all you can think to describe their particular act of mating –wherein the word "bunny", which is possibly one of the cutest words ever, is used over and over– is, to say that it is well…. cute?
Then again, it doesn’t seem to have stopped generations upon generations of cute animals. I mean, there is no dearth of bunnies and kittens and puppies in this world. (Although? Dogs humping are really kinda gross. And cats are pretty much a domestic abuse scenario unfolding. Two words: barbed penis.)
Bunnies –rabbits, even, are cute. Sex is not cute– words to describe the act range from "hot" to "disgusting" and detouring briefly at <inaudible moan>. But boy, has it been romanticized. Not cutified, really, but romanticized to the point where in the movies it’s barely recognizable, for instance, except for the NC-17 or even XXX-rated action where the performers….
… well, you get my point, I think.
And so, back to this day because it’s an absolutely gorgeous day– crystalline and healthful and with enough crispness to recall an apple, or better yet, a pear.
Pears may be squishy when overripe, but in the crispness department they are better than apples because of their acidity. I could be making this up, too.
Seasons are amazing.
Readers who live in an area with what you might call, with some degree of self-satisfaction and (dare I say it?) smugness, "REAL" winters, can piss off at this point. I mean that in a loving way, of course.
I do mean it though: I am a tropics-born California girl at heart whose last address was Hawaii, and so this Washington winter with its infrequent snow and weird little frosts is the coldest I’ve ever been; and this particular cycle of seasons– from schizophrenic spring through wet-blanket canicular summer, cascading into fabulous autumn and spiraling maniacally into black-ice winter– is the most marked change of seasons my body has ever experienced.
And it is, really, quite an amazing display–the whole cycle. Sometimes when it’s been particularly bitter-cold I try hard to picture what this place looks like when you can actually reach out and touch that southern humid heat that covers the city like a thick blanket and I just can’t.
How can you recreate that inviting and repellent wet heaviness (um… yikes!) that lingers saturated with the scent of gardenias and honeysuckle when the wind is trying to rip your face apart and the dryness in the air pulls your skin taut, making it hurt?
Conversely, how can you invoke the scent of wood-burning stoves in winter when all you can smell in those dog-days are the melting asphalt and your own sweat?
And so, after being cold and chapped and wind-whipped, suddenly the buds start turning fuzzy and unfurling slowly and the temperature stops dropping at night. That, people, is magic of an order that is hard to explain with words.
It’s simply amazing– amazing like this morning and its jolt of happiness as the little tots of this part of the world flock to the park and smile and grow and someday will become adults who may or may not produce their own snot-riddled offspring
Much how the act of sex ending anywhere near a pregnancy, one that created those tots vying for playground space (or even the sex for the plain satisfaction of it all), is an amazing and puzzling act– one that takes you and uses you, and not the other way around.
Even more amazing, the fact that bunnies do it too. They hump. Bunnies hump. A lot.
Heh. I said hump.
Um, here: have a song. I’ve regressed to age 13 and must giggle.