Hello darling, a quick hello and a kiss, back from a jaunt east over hills and dales (and past Hillsdale) to Great Barrington, Massachusetts. I had dropped D off at a job in the morning, so I had the car all day. There was a double purpose (at least) to my trip, besides simply getting out of the house, into the world a bit (if only to escape into a movie) - to catch an indie that's unlikely to find its way here, and to score some especially high-quality local organically sustainably produced bacon - applewood smoked as it turned out - at D's request, for BLTs since the L & T from the CSA are so magnificent, the Ts acidic and sweet and bright bright red, L fresh and minerally green.

I put on my 'Sunday best' (the very same as yesterday afternoon's outfit), and I enjoyed flying over the roads east, such a sense of freedom, thinking about you the whole way, my dearest. What would I do without you, without thoughts of you? I don't know. You had to happen, for me. I wonder if it's similar for you, in some sense. And I'm not the greatest compartmentalizer, but I don't know, I guess I've become pretty good at it. What's the alternative? Well, nothing else that's come to me easily, or that I would find palatable, or realistic.

Sorry, I'm just typing here, it's very muggy, and I've got a fan positioned at the bottom of the stairs, blowing cool air upstairs, and hopefully not yet another sparrow - there have been four in the house in the last 10 days or so, one this morning too. I returned from a walk at the conservation area to find the poor thing flinging itself haplessly against pane glass in the living room and the solarium, and the northfacing kitchen window too, Gwynnie's current breezy hangout. It tried to find an escape route there, only to be swatted by Gwynnie, who thought it was the greatest game ever - bring a bird into the house for me to play with & kill and I don't even have to move from this windowsill - cool! I finally managed to get the sparrow out, and off it flew, stunned, I'm sure. How are they getting in, I wonder? D thinks there may be a gap in the siding someplace, where they've built a nest, and somehow they venture into the walls, and come out the hole in the ceiling of the laundry room - such is the state of disrepair of our house, whether or not his theory is correct.

So in G.B. I caught a delightful movie, truly about nothing but hilarious, and it made me actually feel better about my own blogging. Not that I've been feeling bad about it, but sometimes 'literary pressure' can get to one, and it's perfectly okay, I believe, to simply set down (as best one can) how a real life is going, with its mundanity, absurdity, loose ends, pissy moods, bad jokes, and all. I really enjoyed the vicarious road trip with these two not-terribly-close friends, who spend a week together touring high-end restaurants in the North of England - a sort of English My Dinner with Andre on wheels, only sillier, in a nice way. The movie doesn't take itself seriously. And there was seriously spectacular scenery of the Lake District, glimpses into the homes of Coleridge and Wordsworth, a peek at the Brontes' moors. I loved that backseat travel expedition, in a certainly non-documentary way. No, it was very real and amusing, to go along on their ride, where they would amuse themselves, and compete against one another, with dueling Michael Caine impersonations. Dearest, if it's very very hot where you are & you're bored & just need a little lightweight escape, like a fun conversation with you-know-who - then I recommend this film.

And that's it really, for now, darling. I had a beautifully effective time with you earlier today, grateful for that after a frustrating endeavor yesterday, I don't quite know what the difference is - well, sometimes the batteries, sometimes my head. I wish Pablo or Dmitri would drop me a line sometime just to let me know how he is. They don't have to but it would be nice to know. I would be elated to know, and it's not a literary competition either. Just a ping-pong ball, returned.

Dinner will be leftover roast chicken with a bit of pasta tossed with basil pesto sauce. I am feeling pleasantly sated now after a stop in the cheese shop where I purchased the smoked bacon, sliced thick. I also inquired if they had a French camembert but the clerk informed me, pointing to an empty wood round in the case, that they had just sold the last one. C'est dommage. While she sliced the bacon I wandered over to where they have samples of different cheeses that people can taste. There was a bit of the French camembert. I managed one tiny morsel, melted redolent orgiastic mouthful - and this overly-efficient clerk whisked the remaining smudge away, since they could no longer offer it for sale. Darling, it is a testament to the remaining shreds of my sanity that I didn't offer to purchase that remainder, that had been gone through by who knows how many hedge-funded grazers - which is why I wouldn't have been worried about germs from this unpasteurized cheese. All I could do was to look at it wistfully & longingly as she absconded and disposed of it with amazing alacrity. Ah well. I did try some other cheeses as well, though, whose wonderful nutty flavors resonate with me. I think I may return to G.B. sometime in the not too distant future. I'm always a bit cowed by the shop (sticker shock) but some of the cheeses I tasted weren't so outlandishly expensive, and I reflect now too that they had affordable pieces of each already wrapped in little paper packets - so next time I sample, I'll go ahead and purchase one, at least.

And that's it dearest, waving my fingers in the air around me to send a tiny sweet cloud of Miss Dior your way, mingled with the mysterious alchemical chemistry of my own pheromones and the perspiration from my dewy bare skin, yes bare. Darling love, I should run now, and go make croutons or something. The cheese clerk rang up my purchases, the pricey (though fairly priced I believe) bacon, plus two day-old baguettes. I shelled out $23. And exited the store going - wait a second, that's too much. She was busy helping other customers and I waited patiently at the front of the store, and inquired of another clerk - how much are day-old baguettes? Half-price. Which is? She had to consult with someone - they're normally four dollars. I believe I may have been overcharged. (And I completely realize that the clerk didn't realize that I'd plucked the day-old loaves from the enormous market basket at the front of the charming wood register). Anyway, it all got sorted out - the owner himself (I believe it was him) not only corrected the difference - four singles - he counted out three more on top of that - saying that he wouldn't have charged me for the bread at all at that point, so late in the day...

And so between kissing you in my imagination and dreams, and taking a long walk and running into familiar friendly faces, what a portrait - three gentlemen fallen for a moment in conversant step together, each with his dog: golden lab 'Chet' ambling ahead to greet me, white Pekinese 'Barbie' like a tiny lamb in one man's arms, and 'Beau', the older gentleman's dog, poodle mix? - I wish I could paint. We come upon one another, me pink minotaur in skirt pumping hand weights, and exchange greetings in friendliest fashion. Later I enjoy a lovely drive eastward & back, and music, and tunes, and kisses because I know you're with me, and at one moment samplings of amazing diverse cheeses, and at another, soon after, having exited the shop purchases in hand, making my way back to the car, past the cafe with casually amicable couples lounging, two long white-papered baguettes in my arms, and a close-wrapped package - no I didn't need a bag - all the while as I step, a vision perhaps - longing thoughts of you.

I'm lying in bed with you now, darling, face to face, looking into your eyes, you look into mine, I run my fingers through your hair, you touch my cheek, we smile, we laugh - and off we go -