Fled is that music...

My darling Captain, Mrs. Muir here, back at Gull Cottage a bit sooner than I expected having been out in the world for all of twenty minutes just now. Ah no matter, mostly I spent a delightfully languorous afternoon up in the aerie, gentle rain pattering, reading and musing while the 1947 classic, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, starring Rex Harrison and Gene Tierney, played on TV. Oh dearest, in my mind it was completely you and me. I was going to be good and do a workout, but couldn't bring myself to do anything as efficient as that to such a romantic film. So I went with the dreaminess, and during a commercial break showered, and at a subsequent one dried my hair (shoulder length waves), spritzed Miss Dior - so sweet smelling, later now as I type - and dressed in my lovely formfitting subtly ruffly print blouse, black skirt, and

stylish black sandals. I was readying myself - the Captain and Mrs. Muir making love with words and longing looks all the while - for a live concert of new music at five at the local international arts colony up the road.

And was back home at ten after five. I am so spoiled. I arrived there expecting to be able to avail myself of a plastic cup of white wine and delectable savory cracker with melty sheep's milk camembert. But today - no refreshments! The musical performances were to take place in an enormous pavilion set up outside in one of their vast green fields. I took a seat in the tent, the concert hadn't yet begun, there was quite a crowd. And I realized that I was just plain hungry at this moment, and really wishing for a sip of wine, and that without such refreshments in hand I simply wasn't in the mood for the concert.

So I got up from my seat, passed through a milling crowd, headed back to my car - fled the music, as it were - and drove home, where I have just now very happily availed myself of a smudge of camembert on sourdough toast and a glass of icefilled pink wine. And caught too, standing in the kitchen sharing refreshments with D, the end of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, both of us looking at the small-screen TV, me gamefaced trying not to burst into tears at the excruciatingly romantic ending. I managed, then fled upstairs, and D commented about the lush score, which I soon discovered is by Bernard Herrmann. Tonight on the radio will be a broadcast from Tanglewood, another opportunity for a live concert, even if I fled one here at five. So all in all - very satisfying!

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... Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn...
-- John Keats (1795-1821), Ode to a Nightingale

Darling, I do feel like a Mrs. Muir here, communing with you so vividly - all this without your portrait on my wall. (Though I have, by the way, taken down the beautiful woodcut of E.D., not only because it was improperly framed, without a mat, but because - well, I don't always wish E.D.'s eyes aslant at me, in my moments with you. It was just playing with my head a little too much.)

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Come, you'll never be tired again...

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I include the following montage with hesitation - it is neither the wondrous film itself, nor my own response - but if you haven't seen the 1947 original, and aren't in a position to do so anytime soon, this is a nice dreamlike homage (with, blessedly, an embed code).

xoxo
my darling darling Captain