A Doctor’s Kiss

The Great Romantics Of Any Age; A Lover Once, A Lover Twice; Love To Love In Modern Age— Morning Papers XXXII

On Romanticism; Idealism, Buttocks, And A Morning Cup Of Tea

Any Romantic doesn’t seem to outlive twenty-plus of their years; I suppose in all, that is all their years — more suspectable to Suicide, Freak waves while in a lil’ dingy, and to Tuberculosis! —

Such is the Romantic!

So we set our stages well today with this opening — as much as I would appear a Stoic in actuality, I am a resolved romantic at heart, woe to the danger of I contained within; I had my three chances in this score. Now I can recline, flirt with my friendly crushes, and humbly be satisfied.

How I adore this free-form madness of the Morning Paper; all my thoughts hurtling out, without care of refinement or due cares of prosperity. What a joy — what a whittling hoot, to be without my canon or the incident for some form of greatness!

Doctor, I say to you, as you twirl around this circular console, as you try and arrange a coherent train of thoughts before I lose it to a sudden compulsion or a distraction to something else belaying my time. So strangely enough, I am in a Romantic mood — what gives, you?

I’ve toyed many times, in this series, so wee in the earlier hours of mine, of the Romances of many decades and centuries anon. Judging by the nudity freely shown, by her tush in the picture, you know I am exploring these regions once again; she’s got a great one too!

So here we are, in the dusty plains of the American frontier, (and such a line, has suddenly reminded me of something I ought to have written) thereupon the tracks, from bayous sound to the hills is a solitary house, wherein a sole lady lives, a Spinster you could say and her ineffable grounds surrounding, by the riding of the horse and saddle.

Rarely was there a sight of a well-groomed farrow around; Ideally alone, but never forsaken absolutely by the glimpses of intruding know-nothings, therein she marches to town and passes the numerous homesteads of the frontier, in a blackened dress, and a straw hat, she passes into the multitudes general store and gathers what she came to do and retires back to her home.

So why this image, this scene that I have woven before you? — if you’re expecting a full and conclusionary answer, you must know I am not the time to give such things freely. However, it is in connexion with Romanticism or rather the placement of humane Emotions beyond reason and everything else — the silent prayer for humanity; so the question, instead of an answer is, is her way of things romantic in such a sense or rather something practiced of practical means?

Now, onto quick musings of romantic, smoothing, kissing types and the crux of the many who opened up this story expecting something more forthwith and sexually concerned.

Leveling the mundanity of your day, from the liberality of this wee Spinster to ye, by my spindle, let us go, take my hand and I’ll take you there, delving further in seemingly endless halls and banquets, and stiffing quarters of humane love; love the wise word, in all its queer quirks, and the pain therein!

THE LAST PAPER:

In an Age so eagerly forthcoming, wherein the churning of butter for yourself is sure to enchant an estranged viewer, what could astound in the Romantic quarters of ideals and turned-up noses, running flat on rainbow scarfs? Unfurl the flags, raise the colors, and be what? — so much, almost too much choice is circling, love’s-so-confusion seems to be the correct statement of the day.

Nothing surrounded by bigotry or embarrassment, but rather a philosophical consumption of the sheer exhaustion, an individual could experience in the depths of tugging-war-games of love and sex. Oh, Doctor, hush my lips, my cheeks are turning rosey!

For love, in such an unadulterated thing, is for the most part momentary, a love that revolves around the pillars of the years, and can survive the acts of another person's life, is a rare confession between two individuals indeed.

Stick to two, for one would be too much

Now, I have many crushes, mostly adoring friendships, all sequestered in psoriasis and care; that avenue could go all the way down to the seventy-second avenue — I’m jesting somewhat. With my needed charms, I can quickly make friends in moments, I suppose I have a face many generally share their secrets to — to the astonishment aye! — but as time reveals much in its unstoppable march onwards, true friends become known, much out of surprise and many others fall to the wayside; Many catch my eye, but few remain glinting in that same eye.

Friendships to me are what make this living bearable enough for me to do what I must do, before my dying day; A mother, who has three monkies she manages, alongside her teaching, and dares to write several books at once, now that gets me properly flustered in being impressed; especially since one of those monkies is her acting partner — Bravo, madam!

This may lead me to suspicion that is all to my fancy, all is fair regarding another person’s preference — that is true to a point, but without temperance and boundaries, it becomes anarchistic and rudderless in any storm, which will appear. Perhaps best only for a brief respite, but for anything long-term, I’m doubtful.

To love anyone so vividly, in whatever terms is something in of itself, and then be expectant of yourself, and of another, followed by another and one more to fulfill, whatever it may be, seems like stretching the skin too thin — which may be the adequate metaphor there. Or unwinding the spool of wool too far. Something surely is going to give?

I cannot believe the endless faith that there is another one coming after this one, someone can only take so much — love only so many, before the weakening on the inside wears utterly through, and becomes visible on the marked face. There is a limit, as with all good things, love, in its erotic and endearing quarters, has its.

But to be love, to be caught unaware in a new, shocking maze of fancies and passions, is something to behold in one’s life, aye, and I am not worrying against such flights, in fear of suffering — oh, there will be suffering no doubt, and to suffer well is where the fools and idiots miss out on in fear of scars and wrinkles; bless them, bless their very complexions onto yours, to suffer well is the wisdom of living sages — to suffer needlessly is the curse of all scornful fools.

But who can say where this venture today will bring to you tomorrow, after yesterday — can determine where love and all its beguilements and sufferings, and things in between will take you; you dare to love, there it is, that is its fairness, a closure on today’s happenstance in hope, perhaps vain hope for something else tomorrow.

Something intoxicating if it could be aught, but not all the time, just enough to keep a fire burning alive — fingers are crossed, just in case.

Ta-ta-now.

Ever yours; The Doctor [Adams]

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©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms

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