“In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.” So says the poet. He’s wrong. The truth is all year round, throughout all the seasons, the fancies of men AND women, young AND old turn DEEPLY to thoughts of love. Which one of us is right?
I’ve weathered many. I’ve sat in boardrooms trying to brain some of them. I have protected my head from the hail type and fretted about the companion to drang. I know about fire and snow and dust and sand and rain. But what I love most is the calm before.
The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one — or so the song tells us. Then came the rover. And suddenly, there was more possibility in the world than there had been before. Maybe that’s why there is a universe. It’s the space in which we dream.
Who feels entitled to all your time? And all your health? And most of your money? And not just that. This person claims your blood, sweat, and tears and doesn’t even say thank you. Who demands your life, your mind, your energy. And now! Hand it over now. My newborn.
I looked for happiness.. In the arms of men who didn't care and the company of women who scoffed. And then I found it. The everlasting kind. In a stubborn backyard. For months it sulked, breeding slugs and plant rot. Until one day, it smiled and offered me a rose.
It is a good name for a perfume. Temptation. It hints at desire and seduction with a wink at impropriety. But hints and winks are not to my taste. If I’m going to splash the dark forces on my pulse points, there has to be something darker. Something like Poison.
She was offered a job in Australia. “I don’t want to go,” he said, “I don’t want you to go.” He said, “It’ll be a mistake. It will ruin my career.” So she stayed. Years later, she can’t remember his face. Memo to her younger self: make your own mistakes.
