A Hug

It’s done.  Another day spent shooting morphine into the veins of the pained.  I’m home and I’m tired, but  I’m wanting something.  I want something.  What is it?  It’s not chocolate, pasta or  pizza. It might be french fries.  Is it french fries?  They would pacify,  but crispy deep fried potatoes are not what I crave, as my good friend Ken Black said to me once while I was gettin down with a  bowl  of hot and salty pomme frites, ” it’s food Kate,  it’s not love.”   Ken went to Stanford, he’s really smart.

What do babies really want when they are screaming and we pop a rubber nipple into their mouths to shut them up?    I suppose the obvious answer is a boob.  But the nipple works, it pacifies them.  Keeps them quiet, maybe they fall asleep allowing their hosts a few moments of peace.  What do I really want when I’m doing the grown up equivalent of screaming?   What am I doing to settle the agitation?  Blogging.  I’m blogging, it’s sort of like screaming.  Quietly.  I’m blogging instead of drinking wine, or eating some form of carbon hydrated with oxygen molecules.

I have what Ken Wilber calls, “Skin Hunger.”

I want a hug.

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