Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Listening to the wind roar and gazing at the lovely fresh tiger lilies, along with another flower, in my birch vase. I love having flowers around the house, my way of getting through winter with spirits intact, no matter how bleak and gray out.
McGilchrist writes, lamentingly, that we don't write about or express enough the senses of smell, touch, and taste in particular, and also that as a psychiatrist he's resigned himself to the fact that when patients he's interviewing say that they like music, and he asks if they play an instrument or sing, they inevitably respond, no they enjoying listening to it.
My hair got wet in the rain and now it's dried by itself in thick soft waves - I myself am enjoying playing with it. Missing you, darling, very much, but it's been good for me, surprisingly. My hair smells nice, I wish you could inhale it and run your fingers through it and kiss me, and I'd like to taste your kisses, just now would be good, and touch silken you all over as I've imagined today --
KZE is all staticky due to the storm so I sat at the piano and played a couple of Bach inventions, plus Just the Way You Look Tonight, all very badly...
Darling, wherever you are I hope you are safe, happy & warm, and in a position to indulge your senses, sensuously I mean, beyond apprehending the thwack of your umbrella as it springs open and you step outside into a cold driving rain, thrusting your chin into the raised collar of your coat, smelling the ozone and wood smoke and car exhaust and noticing the rain streaming off the umbrella and putting your briefcase under one arm as you click the car keys so that your car unlocks as though a footman had opened the door, and you get in and close the door with a reassuring, airlocked thwack and you sit in the car in the silent darkness for a moment, by yourself, rain streaming down the windshield, and you think ... my God, after a good drink, and delicious bite to eat, I could really get into devouring her kisses.