Blowing away the old year

This has nothing to do with goats, or the abuse thereof. The wind is blowing wildly out there. If we were having snow, it would be a blizzard. But nothing is coming down but tree branches, and I'm saying silent prayers to Boreas that my house can hold its own against the furious gusts.

But in fact, it feels as if this is all an enthusiastic sweeping away of the old year, if not the whole 8 years of the Bush administration. Good-bye tears, good-bye grief, good-bye emptiness... damn, I feel like singing an Everly Brothers song. Except in reverse.

The sun has been out. I deleted my ads from craigslist (I'll tell you soon about the second one). I will be telling almost all my suitors to go away, except for three, and I am meeting the photographer Saturday night. He's the one who peppered me with bawdy rhymed couplets. As I suspected from the second set, he is a dom. And so much more. He has an incredible depth of interests and (most important) is a cat lover. He's looking for something serious.

The other two are quite romantic, and under other circumstances I would be delighted at the prospect of dating them. Which I will, at least for a bit. But if things work out with the photographer Saturday, the other two might not last long. I would feel too dishonest.

He sent me this message a couple of hours ago, while I was taking a late afternoon nap, having been up till all hours writing him the night before:

I'm writing your rule book. I expect you to learn them and obey them, or face what's in the Correction and Punishment Appendix without complaint.

If this had been from anyone else, I would have said who the hell do you think you are already writing rules for me? Instead, I sighed, with such joy and an overwhelming feeling of security, that I know that I'm right to go for a BDSM relationship if I possibly can.

The grief isn't gone. But he has his own, much deeper than mine, for a beloved wife dead of cancer after a very long marriage. We won't fault each other for lingering love.

Time to feed the kitties.
Time for a small bite to eat.
Time to change my clothes and swaddle myself in scarves and sweaters and jacket and gloves and head out to our yearly New Year's Eve party. Last year (she struggles to hold back tears) the philosopher was with me and I was still subdued from a cold. This year, there is hope for the future of the world and the country and my life. Maybe.

At least the prospects look better.

Hugs and kisses and warm wishes and grateful thanks to you all. I hope the coming year brings you joy and love and peace of heart.

o.g.