As always, I am up to the brim with things to do. My Plan of the Day, To Do List, Tasker list and dry erase boards (yes, I have more than one) have all been piling up on my desk and wall, taunting me with their unchecked boxes and their unfinished statuses.
I look at the pile of paperwork to my right and the unanswered mail, the unwritten reports, the lonely study texts gathering dust behind me, the half-empty cruise book layout that requires tending and all I can think about is Henry Miller and his gratuitous use of the word cunt. Life around me is growing moss from total disuse while my mind wanders to tawdry and illicit scenes that one simple and vulgar word can imply.
Why do we place such importance to words that define our genitals? Why do words like “cock,” “pussy,” and “cunt” excite and alarm us? Has our society become so Puritanical that we are programmed to flinch at the mere mention of our reproductive organs? Why is it okay to say reproductive organs but it’s not okay to say cunt? And why has that word become an insult?
I can’t help but stay lost in thought, stuck in my mind’s eye as I sit here and wonder the whys of the etymology of our sexual organs. I think back to times of clandestine trysts when life was colorful and dangerous and loud and raw. When times were uncertain and love happened and came and went in a span or hours, days, maybe even weeks if you were lucky. There was abandon and noise and turbulence brought on by a mere surreptitious glance from across the room.
Life was dangerous. Love was dangerous. And the C word was more than just a word. It was an invitation.
Not there’s a new C word that I have to focus on: completion. As in the completion of these damn tasks.