Past sunset but still light; undulating slate ridge, visible now that trees are bare, reclines beneath pale apricot sky.

***

Thanked be Fortune, it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once especial,
In thin array, after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown did from her shoulders fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
And therewithal sweetly did me kiss,
And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this?

-- From, They flee from me that Sometime did me Seek, Sir Thomas Wyatt, 1503-1542

***
I would say that certain types of writing read better in Times New Roman 10-point type than in blunt gmail format. Will note for future reference. I could hardly reread at all what I wrote the last couple of days, have been feeling strange about it (not guilty - just disconnected). But I converted it - and - well, when's the next Metro North train from Brewster to Grand Central Terminal?

***
I'm sorry to seem gratuitously cryptic. I'm actually not feeling very well right now. I took a long walk this morning - excessively long perhaps - and it completely knocked me out. That combined with the fervent exercise of trying my hand at fieldspun erotica. I think I blew a bit of a gasket. I meant every word, I did - well, except that I couldn't help in places to strive for the metaphor, for the literary, but that breaks the mood - doesn't it? I don't think it's possible - or is it? - to mix Sappho with P***h****e Between the Sheets-type graphic short stories, of which I did read a number just to get the hang of it. Of the writing style that is! I have the hang down just fine - or at least the memory of it - alas. Sir Thomas Wyatt, I hope you & I might one day chat.

In an ache of longing all day long, and finally got my feet back on the ground (or my hemispheres in better balance, or left brain seizing the reins from right), and read more of the McGilchrist, in the midst of his chapter on the Renaissance and the Reformation, tandem swings in Western civilization between the, oh I don't know, naturally connected versus the repressive. He's a brilliant writer, I am loving his literary analyses (it's where the Wyatt poem, above, comes from, by the way, which resonated with me for my own reasons).

It is pitch dark out, only a bit past 5:30. I have sent up a round of heat. That enabled me to peel off my wool hat and unzip my microfiber fleece.

I leave all the rest to your imaginations, darlings.

P.S. Hello dear J.P. - I think of you too. Hope all's well with you.

Launching. Sweet dreams, all.