gullybogan

Dear Reader,

So there was this major conjunction last night. You might have seen it.

It was, after all, in the sky.

Princess was out and about, running an errand, and she called me up, mobile-to-mobile.

« Go out and have a look in the sky, » she crackled. « I’m smiling at you! »

And so she was.

I grabbed my toy camera and my real tripod and started taking happy snaps. This one i’ve worked with Photoshop a bit, cropping out the smoke stacks of the refinery and bringing up the light levels so you can see what’s going on.

When Princess got home, she had Sybylla with her (picking up Sybylla was the errand, i can now reveal, having successfully built mystery and tension in my narrative). We all stood in the backyard and marvelled at the glories on high.

Sybylla took out her mobile and climbed up on a low garden “wall” i made out of some rocks one day a while back. She beckoned Princess over and rested the mobile on top of her head. « Now, stand ab-so-lute-ly still, » she instructed Princess, as she herself swayed back and forth on the tottering rocks.

« Well, bon chance, » i advised her. « I used a tripod and a fifteen second exposure, so your hand-held cameraphone should do a magazine cover job of it. »

« Um, *head-balanced*, thank you, not ‘hand-held’. »

Once everyone was satisfactorily disappointed with their cameraphone images, we headed in, to continue to talk about the wonder in the skies. Princess was convinced one of the players was Mars, but neither looked red enough to me (actually, i have to ask the girls if it looks red, cos i’ve got this colour-blindness thing going on).

I looked up the Risings and Settings in the The Age, and figured out that it was Venus and Jupiter accompanying the Moon.

So how about that?

The other conjunction last night was the same conjunction that happens every night, when Princess and me snuggle up in bed.

There’s a pun to be made here somewhere about her heavenly body, or possibly something about the moon, but i’m leaving all that well enough alone.

Sunday night she came to bed as Gaia intended, wearing nothing except Obsession (by Calvin Klein) and toe-nail polish, but last night my dusky maiden paraded out of the tiring room with a pair of undies in place.

« What’s with that? » i challenged, a little affronted. I mean, i don’t ask much.

« Oh, i’m feeling fertile, so i thought it best to leave the lid *on* the box tonight. »

I retire with le pistolet unholstered, dear Reader, and what with its alternating flapping and jutting, and its ambitious lubricating ways, it’s best at fertile moments to do whatever one can to keep the tadpoles out of, well, where they belong, but where they’re not exactly welcome.

She climbed in and started her “getting comfortable” bouncing and rolling. She’s quite a wriggler, as i believe i’ve mentioned before. Eventually she settled down, and i spooned up to her. I like to wrap my arm around her and place my palm over her navel, so that it’s like we’re clicking together, an intricate cypher made out of smooth, warm flesh. She wriggled some more at that, called me a bone bag a few times, and then said with some finality that it was no good, she had to turn around.

Rather than turning around as well, i arranged myself so that we could “spoon” front to front (whatever that’s called; “cuddling”, probably), and my fingers fossicked for her back dimple, in order for it to take over the role of her navel in our tableau of interlocking parts. I clicked us together with my finger tips in that left dimple, arranged le pistolet via a deft jiggle of the pelvis so that it was out of harm’s way, and waited for sweet oblivion.

After a few moments she again advised me that i was a bone bag. More wriggling, and she insisted i *had* to turn around, or she was going to be restless *all* night. So turn around i did.

When she spoons me, i like her to put her hand on my belly, below my navel. But she never does. She always puts it on my hip. I even take her hand and put it there for her, on my tummy, but she always moves it straight back to my hip.

She wriggled some more, but that was it; she’d finally found our falling-asleep conjunction.

So how about that?

Yours,
Gullybogan