Tuesday, November 1, 2011

My dearest, I take it les demoiselles are dragging you around shopping? Poor Minotaur. Even if they're grateful, which I'm sure they are, they can never, in the eternal self-centered obliviousness of youth, be grateful enough...

Well, I'm here thinking of you as I page through a catalog, circling items. No darling - just kidding - truly!

It's a beautiful moment just now - the sunlight turned pink for the briefest instant before setting behind the hills. There's a wonderful aroma up here of a savory melange braising on the stove - onion, cabbage, red potato, cider vinegar, and apple.  Which, for dinner, will be topped with sauteed livers, which I've been collecting from whole chickens prior to roasting, and saving in the freezer - finally there were enough for a meal.

My dearest. Ahhhh. Exhaling. My muscles hurt. Did I overdo it on the workout? It didn't seem as though I'd done anything different. Who knows. I went for a long walk. What a strange mix of seasons we've been having - a blizzard the other day, on shaded northfacing slopes occasional remnants of white still visible. But otherwise, it's all melted away, and the sun was out today, bright & shiny, and the air is mild, and strangely, many trees are still in full-leafed green - yes green, not even seasonal reds & golds. So I had this sensation, as I marched with weights, greeting along the way a couple of cats that have come to know me on my daily perambulations, that it was actually balmy longed-for springtime, after what is usually an interminable winter, this one cut extraordinarily short.

My dearest, such a mix of sensations and thoughts at the moment. Continuing on my Janet Malcolm kick, I'm immersed in her journalistic foray into investigating biographer-flies, various ones, caught up, and unwittingly caught, in the spider web traps of the Plath-Hughes legacy, fascinating reading.

Up here I suddenly heard pounding on the door (do we have a doorbell - no of course not). So I ran downstairs (glad I'm dressed - it's 'springtime' not summer) and at the door were a pair of elderly men, self-identified R's (which I could tell by the very cast of their faces - how is that?) who are running for town office. Our silly little tiny town, with a contested race. Well, actually, now I'm glad I've met the opposition. That there even was an opposition. Because a mixed-ticket "dream team" had smilingly pounded the door a couple of weeks ago - with such energy & high spirits & bonhomie that you'd think they were running for higher office than our sleepy little burg - and I had actually leaked out my political views & skepticism to them - as they stood, the three guys, a little amazed I think that they were getting the teeniest bit of pushback. I'm not sure I believe in little town governments... they give us that behemoth paved over superstore B.S. that supposedly went through a town board..." And I have to say, that the guys - and it was a coalition team, they readily said - while not responding directly to my comment (and I confess, it was just this hour, I'd already imbibed a glass of pink wine) - that they "weren't like that" - that they had huge visions for our little town government - such as a functioning website.

So now I can look at that 'dream team' with a bit of perspective - at least, quite obviously to me now, they weren't T Party.

Maybe coalitions will work, as those three guys on my porch seemed very enthusiastic to communicate - they introduced themselves as a Republican, a Democrat, and - either the third guy said Independent - or I don't know. If he didn't say, then he's probably R. But whatever. They seemed okay. Here's where it starts.

Other than that darling, I had a wonderful time with you (oh thank you), and am plotting out my upcoming weekend trip to the city...

Dearest, I'm crazy about you my dearest Minotaur. Even as you're being driven crazy perhaps (and I hope in an exasperatingly delightful way, for your sake), I'm here thinking of you, dreaming of you, lying back against the covers, fairly quivering at your touch.


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