I slept well last night. Dreamt well too, and would have preferred to keep doing so; but the baby felt obliged to climb on my face (repeatedly). Anyway- I still feel restless. Considered calling a friend, but ran through the list (it's short), changed my mind, and went to check on the goats instead. Feather's in heat. To breed or not to breed? I'd like to A.I. her, but I'm out of sheaths (a very necessary component of the A.I. gun). Could breed her naturally- easier. Eh, I'll hold out for the A.I. breeding, and if she doesn't settle, breed her to the live buck. Besides, breeding the does early means early kids, and I'm still entertaining the idea of some kind of vacation or trip back east or somewhere this winter. Can't do that if there are goats kidding at the time. So what exactly do I want to do back there? I don't know yet- go to the Art Institute for sure, eat Chicago style food, visit people. Still rolling over possibilities in my head. Maybe I'll stay here.

That's BS. This isn't about some non existent trip back east; the awful truth is that it's hell to be celibate during breeding season (and now I'm going to go find a rug to curl up under). I mean, hey, might as well be honest. Speaking of which- I found a fascinating article: asexuality. I don't relate to it personally, but it's interesting nonetheless. I once knew a guy like that, he was my dad's best friend (and I had a crush on him as a little girl). People would ask him when he was going to find a girl or get married, and his answer was always- 'Never. I'm married to my music." He meant it. Music was what he lived for, and women were extraneous. I don't think he was gay either, he just had no interest in a relationship. People always acted as though there was something horribly wrong with that, poor guy. He must have grown very tired of hearing it. Then there was Paul Erdos, who lived only for mathematics. I can see where it'd be so much more convenient, and a person could devote all their energies towards one pursuit and acheive excellence in that field.

I wouldn't want it though. Passion gives life color, depth, and richness. The dark side is that once you've had it, approximations or analogs of it are simply unacceptable. Anyway, maybe it's just me, but lately it seems as though everything I see assumes some sort of erotic identity or undertone. It may be a piece of fruit, a stone, the throbbing beat of a song, the drivenness of a piece by Bach, or the form of a tree. Flowers are particularly bad- which makes sense since they are, after all, the plant's sex organs. It gives new meaning to the custom of men bringing flowers to women. (!) Or for example, the sanserveria plant I just bought. It looks distinctly phallic to me every single time I glance at it. Drives me nuts...if this is what being thirty is like, I'm not sure I want to see forty. :-/ Man, maybe I'm just losing my mind.