Wednesday, January 12, 2011

My darlings, snow day today, about a foot fell overnight and into the morning, the plows came through and here comes one now, they're all out in force. I've got an enormous stockpot of homemade chili simmering on the stove, a dish I make once a year, in January, perfect for a cold snowy day. I am missing you very much. It's not so easy being housebound. I mean, it's not so bad either, but it's not always easy figuring out what to write, and my imagination runs amok in the amour department - to what avail? It's cold comfort to think that it might not be so different, in some ways, for you. Elvis just sang something about - as long as he can dream. Maybe somewhere birds fly in heaven.

I don't mean to wax melancholic, I'm actually in a good mood, feeling fit, ash roses smoldering on my cheeks, managed to get in a long walk with weights on the plowed roads around here.

It's not so easy to write to more than one preceptor at the same time. Sort of like Big Love (the HBO epic drama-comedy series of suburban Utah Mormon polygamy), only with Northeastern progressive female protagonist up in her aerie with small swirling cast of beloved men forever out of her reach.

I'm not going to strive for anything literary tonight. Not that I do usually, but sometimes the pressure feels a little more so than other times. I'm going to write as though I have but one beloved preceptor. Even though I have - I'm not going to count right now. One, or two, or two-and-a-half - maybe. And I don't mean that silly series.

You see this is the epistolary equivalent of you and I out on a date, say at (p.m.) for a drink, or a nice shared pasta at a neighborhood trattoria, this would be the quiet interlude moment that we touch hands across the little table, in soft votive light, while waiting for coffees and our check. I reach across to lightly touch your hand, regard your beloved face, your eyes downturned, your smile absent and content as a cat's in the flickering light, while waitstaff swirl around and about offering parmesan and pepper to the table next to ours.

Maybe one day my dream - yours and my dream? - will come true. In the meantime it's silent up here in the aerie, wind chimes clang outside in some rising wind, chili mellows on the stove, I am alive, you are alive, I think of you, you think of me, I love you very much, and now one of us must reluctantly release fingers because the cheery waitperson has arrived with our check and we busy ourselves to pay, and to leave...

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