Dear love, gray day, on & off dashes of rain, nothing major, just enough damp to send neighbor's chickens onto our porch, along with our cats, quite the peaceful menagerie. I don't really mind the chickens, I find them colorful, but they do leave a mess, so one has to watch one's step, which I do, because I don't feel like spending my time hosing off the steps. Posted this morning, photos that I'd taken a couple of mornings ago on my walk at the conservation area; took a walk around here, leaves turning gold and falling - some trees bare already, others still green. It's an in-between time, mild. The annuals on my desk are spent. I've got a mosquito bite under my chin, venom coalescing & hardening beneath thin tender skin. I've got a fleece draped over my shoulders (clothed - tee topped with cotton blouse) for a bit of cozy warmth. Dinner will be baked cornish hens, which will probably come out delicious because it's pretty hard to mess them up - but I may have, in misremembering a use for chutney. I was trying, from memory, to duplicate what I recalled of delectable seasoned skewered chicken tidbits I'd sampled last spring at the L.In'tl Arts Colony. I thought - ah, mango chutney (I had a bit left at a bottom of a jar), fresh ginger perhaps, mayo - yes, I'm sure there was mayo - and - weren't there sesame seeds for crunch? And so I madly made up this marinade... and later checked the recipe. Dear me, no - tenders dipped in a sauce of mayo, curry powder & turmeric, then rolled in dry roasted peanuts. The chutney? That had to do with a cilantro-parsley dip - that would have been as exciting as a wheat-grass drink save for the secret ingredient - mango chutney.

I'm not feeling very inspired at the moment, dearest, though I'd still like to write to you. I've been thinking about inspiration in writing - a woman I briefly met at one of the plein air writing workshops the other week, is trying to organize a way that those of us who like that format/setting can get together on a more regular, say monthly, basis. I can't help but think of E.D. in this regard, that she was very self-motivated in so much of her poetic inputs - a very complex person, to be sure, but still, could apply herself. Well, I once was able to apply myself, very much so. This isn't meant to beat myself up. Where I'm going is that this woman I met too finds the writing "prompts" (the little exercise assignments we're charged with before we're sent outdoors to write on the fly for a few minutes) do seem to force something - certainly, in me, another aspect of myself, that I don't normally readily have access to. It's as though those prompts almost give me permission, or a raison d'etre, to tap into a particular mode. It's okay, I don't feel a need to dwell on it very much, I don't know that that form of writing all the time is something I aspire to, that it's something that I "should" be doing. But it would be nice to be with simpatico others, and to access that...

That reminds me, here's something that sounds like fun - sort of! Except that it would completely interfere with my icefilled pink-wine routine. Oh dear, do you suppose I have a problem? I simply don't go there.

Still, it does sound like fun... I've been toying with the idea of contacting the local international arts colony - perhaps they might consider fostering a little writing workshop for interested literati of Columbia County, who might find inspiration, as at Olana, in their beautiful sculpture fields, and sustenance, and gathering space, in their airy relaxed cafe, and who knows, maybe we could be led by Kathe herself in en plein air exercises, and more daringly, some other time, in a poetic hypnotic transportive journey underneath the stars, where we'd go to sleep sated beautifully on properly marinaded tenders & expertly deployed chutney-infused nibbles, along with local camemberts... and, oh yes, of course, poetry & poetic prose... and in the morning there'd be hot-coffee & I can hardly imagine the amazing pastry that that inspired cafe might be capable of conjuring.... and we'd all wake up groggily from a night of dreaming and rouse ourselves, and be led through some writing exercise at dawn, and no one would be grumpy or grouchy because you know there's awesome strong delicious coffee that they brew, and we write our beautiful little pieces, scribbled in longhand, as we're sent out in parkas & scarves & hoods over pj's, into the snow-covered fields where animals overnight beneath the stars while we were sleeping (some of us unfortunately snoring) left their tracks, and mitten-handed I jot down a few thoughts, curiously clear since I had to utterly behave in the wine-consumption department, never mind Tea-Party - Tee-Totalers more of a threat to me, at cocktail hour...

Darling, throwing my arms around you, wishing you a very good night. Time to preheat the oven to 425 (I think?) and see to those hens. Cross your fingers for me.

xoxo