My dearest Branwell, up in the aerie, feeling exhausted, overtired, contemplating not posting at all, so this is just a quick hello, a big hug and kiss on the cheek. I went to bed too late last night, got home after the play and couldn't seem to settle down, drank some wine, a little too much especially given the late hour, before finally feeling wound down enough to go to bed. I'm still feeling a little out of sorts, or maybe I just needed a day to crash, a bit. You've been so scarce today, but my imagination has been taking leaps and connecting dots, and I'm guessing you're not alone, and that there's a pilgrimage, perhaps, to a museum town. Ah, I don't mean to be unnecessarily cryptic - well, either I'm way off the mark, or I'm not. Is it you who landed on the Ovid poem I'd once posted? That really is lovely, isn't it, and I found myself rereading it, and googling "elegiac couplets," of which that poem is an example, and a term that confused me because I thought that elegies were sad, remembrances of things dead and gone. And I thought, I would like to write one of those, but I have only love to look forward to, not, at this point, to reflect back on - so how am I in a position to write a series of elegiac love couplets? (With 1.0 I more than exceeded myself - expressing myself voluminously - elegiacally - though never, I don't believe, in the form of couplets.)
It is very tempting to me to try my hand at one at some point, but this evening isn't the moment, I'm much too tired. The sun is shining, it's a beautiful day, even though I was feeling a little hung-over (yes - that) I did do a workout and took a long walk. My new workout M.O. is to do it at nine in the morning. I was getting so bored with the routine I just needed some other input. So now I do home-pilates to reruns of Law & Order Special Victims Unit on Fox. Which is a little warped, the scenarios on that show (I've watched it three times this week, while crunching, stretching, leg-lifting, push-upping, and the like) are so extreme. I don't wish to admit impediments into my serenely above-it-all salaciously lurid thoughts, all so clean and delightful and scented with lemon verbena.
My darling, I took my big journal notebook out onto the porch this afternoon in an attempt to perhaps sit in the sunshine and try my hand at an erotic elegiac love couplet starring me & you. It didn't work out at all, the cats wanted in and to be fed, so I left my notebook, and when I came back outside the rough wind had riffled the pages and snapshots and loose papers were flung like leaves all over the porch. I gathered them up, including pics of you & me et al., and thought I was missing one, and thought that perhaps - just my luck - it had slipped through a crack between the porch floorboards - but somehow it turned up again, and I gathered all the papers together, but then found that I had, in sitting on a cushioned chair on the porch, sat in one of my cats' recent hairballs, and I had just put on a clean pair of jeans fresh from the drier. So curses abounded, and I scrubbed my seat, and threw the cushion in the wash - and well, no, "siesta time in sultry summer" reveries were about to issue forth, not from me. I did, however, go online and reserve the Guy Lee translation of Amores, the single copy of which in the regional system resides in Kingston, and that I'm sure will be waiting for me in K'hook early next week.
And so that's it for now, darling, I hope wherever you are you're having a very nice time. Sweet dreams, sleep tight. Love you. XOXO