Hi sweetheart, I'm so glad you're back, or landed, well back here anyway, I missed you so much, and was absolutely elated, dearest Bacchus, when I saw you again. It is the most glorious moment just now -- that tranquil golden honeyed still poised moment -- windows open -- cardinals outside vocalizing - tu tu tu. And I'm admiring a new pair of shoes, that I've placed on top of the library book Maid as Muse, silvery (or 'pewter'-colored ones) that will serve well in warm-weather months. Which suddenly one has to think about in these parts -- it's March, but feels like May. I remember well, as a very young girl, in Marches, trudging home to feel delight to see crocuses poking shoots up through the scrabbled edge by the stoop. But it would be so cold! and damp and chill. And this might have been past March 21 even - the official start of Spring -- and it would be anything but that - in the chill gray drear -- as a girl, in my endless exercises of self-mortification, as much as I craved light, & warmth, & sunshine, I had to train myself to disregard the calendar date & whatever astronomical technicalities attended to formal season changes, and simply resign myself that March truly belongs to Winter, and not at all to Spring, and that It's Simply a Month to Be Suffered Through, until -- oh happy thought!, and cheerful kindergarten song -- April Showers Bring May Flowers.

I think that's about all I have for the moment. I'm fooling around again, on CL. Going fishin' has perhaps produced a (welcome) bite -- though I suppose it's debatable who's the fish & who the fisher. (Clue: this fish went for the 'hook' -- twice -- and finally got yanked up.)

If I'm sounding elliptical & enigmatic along the lines of you-know-who... perhaps it's because I continue to follow closely the daily effusions as found on the Secret Life of E.D. page... which prompted me to reserve from the library, a biography of Joseph Cornell, entitled Utopia Parkway.

Dearest, I have the idea that it is very late where you are. I assume you are in bed by yourself, in a dark room, but much as you do for me when I wake in the wee hours... scoot over darling, my love, in that lone bed of yours, let me lie down beside you, we'll regard each other in darkness, stroking one another's heads, faces. I hear your murumuring voice (and the cardinal sings tu-tu-tu), and we understand each other quite well I think, there's so much history there that doesn't need to be spoken, or explained, and I wasn't always the dzika one -- and neither were you, always, solely --