My dearest Branwell, sorry to be so scarce yesterday. I sat down intending to write but somehow nothing came. The day had been very rainy and gray, the world seemed to be melting and washing away, flood warnings were in effect in the region, and the whole sodden thing had a dispiriting effect on me. I felt as though I hadn't done anything much in the day, and hadn't really - did my exercise regime (amazing, I feel flatter & more taut just in the few days since resuming it), went for a walk, got hit up for bread by a triad of brown mallards that seem have taken the place of the white snow geese. They hang out in the very same spot, waiting, not for me I hope because I don't come by every day. I idly wondered if à la fairy tale or myth, the geese had somehow metamorphosed into these ducks. We had leftovers for dinner, the ginger-cilantro chicken, and as I sat trying to think what to write I thought, ah I didn't do anything today, didn't even cook. Which wasn't actually true, for lunch I made a pasta sauce that came out incredibly delicious, much better than I had expected, of chicken sausage, sauteed onion & garlic, canned tomatoes, chicken stock, a handful of lentils, and a head of chopped kale, the ingredients coming together in that order, stewing for about a half hour, and served over penne.  It was flavorful, rich, and satisfying on such a damp, chilly day - there was an almost sweet note that I can't quite place, maybe the lentils? Or maybe the kale. I make a similar dish but with broccoli rabe - which I like but is quite bitter, an acquired taste that perhaps after the kale, I'm unacquiring.

Besides that, I read more of "Walter" and seriously wondered if Nabokov read him and felt inspired. Walter very much reminds me of Humbert Humbert, in his frenzied salaciousness, dry wit, and mad philosophizing. Walter even has a cunning and clever way with words. Nabokov is obviously the sublime stylist, but in terms of monstrous lechery, I don't know -- H.H. pales! Lolita herself could be one of Walter's coquettish conquests. I'm not in a position to do it, but I think it would be an interesting bit of literary detective work to see if Nabokov could have been acquainted with this text. De nada, James Franco, in case you run out of ideas at Yale.

My darling, I hope you are well. I missed you all day and when I woke up at night I thought of you too.  You were even in my dreams last night, which is why I'm up now before six typing this for you. I just remember snatches of my dream.  A young woman was packing up and moving out of her house.  She was leaving me her bees, which she carried in large bags to the hive out back. I followed her and we juggled with them and she said that they're very low maintenance and I said that's good that's what I like in a pet. She also left me a stack of Life magazines that had to do with Elvis Presley's beekeeping (in my dream). I told her that I wasn't interested and then changed my mind, thought it might be interesting to page through iconic Presley images.

So I took the stack from her, about a half-dozen magazines, and a back cover caught my eye. It was a full-page advertisement for French perfume, in black and white, a stylized retro drawing of Elvis and a woman, merged together to suggest the sinuous form of a perfume bottle with a tall stopper. Elvis towered in an intoxicating plume over the woman, his head at the very tip, and at the same time, below, there was another image of his head, his face kissing hers (her expression, eyes closed, enraptured), and a repeated image of his head, at her nether regions. I looked at the compositions, including a variation on the theme on a second magazine cover, and was struck by their ingenious artistry and subtly powerful eroticism. "Wow, these are really hot," I said. You stood next to me, your interest piqued, and I handed them to you.

You were standing by some sort of column or pillar (my dearest Branwell), and it was all quite shadowy, and there were a few people about, people we know. I stepped towards you casually, as if just brushing past you, and we stood together for a moment, as close as we could momentarily dare. You touched my back, your fingers gently grazed my breast, you inhaled and kissed the top of my head, letting yourself linger for a moment. No one would have noticed that we were touching, that there was anything passing between us, except for maybe the kiss, and I was a little nervous that someone might wonder at our intimacy, only no one did, if only in part because they would have dismissed it - they hardly know each other, have rarely seen each other, how could there possibly be anything between them? And so you and I stood there together, just barely touching in the shadows, but it was delicious to be close as that to you, to feel your longing, your heartfelt touch, however fleeting and glancing.

And that is a bit of eau de parfum for you this morning, my darling. I hope you slept well. Kissing you, and inhaling you deeply.

image:
Pierre Bonnard, Reclining Nude (1909), Städel Museum, Frankfurt, Germany