Hello darling, biggest kisses ever, so my dearest in your aeroplane
you're back over -- oh how I wish your work could find your way somehow to the Port of Albany.

Dearest, I'm fading already, fast. I spent most of the afternoon, mostly bare naked, cleaning the house - overdue. I'm not a Miss Havisham... time enough for that. No, not now while I have the energy to do a workout scrubbing - twice a month, or maybe every two weeks - but whatever - today's April 30 -- time

And I have a CL first-and-?- date tomorrow. Which I never hold out such genuine, realistic optimism for things to go - well -- that well.

My day was mostly very physical. I took a walk with weights around here. I downloaded a few youp*rns but found myself curiously not turned on at all. I did laundry.

I didn't have a session, and I didn't have the chance to read the book I wish these days to read.

But tomorrow is another day. The house - and both baths -- so clean, I have a CL date, of which -- well who knows? he seems like
a very pleasant person...

dearest dearest love, wherever you are
now night is falling for sure
and I spent the day cleaning the house
vacuuming, dusting
it's always ------- against dust -

I'm not feeling so terribly coherent at the moment
oh - don't worry I'm alright!
from up here I hear birds outside, as night, for real falls, conversing

well, the house is vacuumed & both baths are clean
and so if my CL date goes really super super well tomorrow
I suppose I could say that I'm in a position to host

though that's not -- well -- what do I mean?
I loved it when you all came over and I had just by pure chance
cleaned the house
and had made pizza dough in a bowl rising

I remember coming down the stairs
and you looking up at me

if I could have my way with that scene
that anything could happen
especially since I've just finished cleaning the house
and vacuuming everywhere

oh yeah, I guess that doesn't help
well I just feel this connection with you
and I'm sure it would be amazingly inacandescently specially unbelievably sexual and erotic

and you know what I love about it, thoughts of it?
because I'm a very erotic, passionate woman
but - I don't know - I need to be seduced - loved on
the way you looked at me -- that afternoon that the whole brood descended

sorry darling --- I am not writing, or writing poetry, here,
I am trying to work out - my problematic

as much as I wish 'hot sex' -- and I do --
no, without a doubt, it has to be within a context,
of mutual connection, emotional availability

Hello darling, in a dreamy spacey mood at the moment, chimes clanging outdoors, wind sounding, up in the aerie, aroma of roast chicken wafting up the stairs. I feel sleepy, I could have done with a short nap, I had a brief lie-down but no sleep. The day was pleasant, fragmented, didn't quite, at various turns, go quite as I expected. As I approached the church this morning -- a matter simply of walking straight down the quiet wooded country road where I live, a less than five minute amble (which I bank on as I'm always cutting it close, leaving precariously late, 9:20 for the 9:30 service though I know that it doesn't really get going til 9:40, but still I hadn't practiced all that much this week, what with my dance card so full of first-and-last-CL-dates, and I was feeling a bit anxious about that, and thought that I should leave earlier and without even turning the organ on, once I'm seated at the wooded keyboarded edifice above which rise Olana-colored (that is, Persian-inspired) pipes in tones - visual - of turquoise, apricot, gilt, and sage -- that I should run through the pieces silently, so as to familiarize, or refamiliarize myself with them. And there was a bit of anxiety too, because at first -- that is, a couple of months ago -- the Rev. M. had asked me to play each hymn straight through, after which point the congregation was to come in. I knew then that that is just too long an intro.... and the Rev came to see that too, and sent me a message asking if I'd play, as an intro, the first line of each hymn, then pause for several portentous beats, and then launch into the hymn. Which I felt anxious about, because the best lead-in to a hymn, or most any song, isn't from the first line -- it's from the last, that feeds, loops back, into the first, setting the tone, and the key...

Anyway, it all worked out -- before the service started I asked the Rev, is it alright if I play the last lines as intro? And the thing is, while I feel that I know what I'm talking about -- and I tried to be firm about it -- "it's the standard intro to such music" -- I don't wish to assert myself -- that is, to clash with the Rev, have a tedious clashing of wills, to no gain for anybody, certainly not the congregation. Anyway -- it worked out -- the Rev agreed, and so, though I felt a little anxious because I was a bit less rehearsed than I have been most weeks, I managed to find the last lines of each (that is, where they begin, not always so obvious) and sail through that, and pause as at a harbor, and set forth at the beginning, small --- especially small, today -- congregation in tow, whom I could actually hear - audibly singing.

Oh but on one of the hymns I made such a clunker... landing squarely on a completely wrong note. I audibly said -- "Sorry." Probably I wasn't supposed to do that.

After the service the Rev & I chatted a bit (it worked out great, the congregation knew when to come in!) -- and I threw my hands to my face and said -- I am so sorry for that wrong note I hit --- aaarghhh. And the Rev looked at me and said, that she's amazed that I hit so many right notes. Perfect!

Ah - an unexpectedness -- on my way in to the church, I was presented (fished out from a church lady's bag) a check -- for services rendered, it seems that the Vestry Voted, and I will receive $25 a week, and they will pay me at the end of each month...

So that was unexpected too. And not necessary on their part, I was happy to do it gratis -- or maybe in lieu of an offering (I'm playing the offertory hymn while the collectors work their way up the pews collecting envelopes & dollar bills) - but they've never approached where I'm seated.

After church (phew) my hope had been to have lunch, do a food shopping, and the like, and then to go to the modernist cafe at the visitors center at the local international arts colony, so as to, without distraction, sit in the sun, with a cup of coffee and perhaps a slice of 'lemon balm cheesecake,' and immerse myself without any distractions in one of the few books I've managed to crack open and actually read, which I did, a few pages of, afternoon before last, and found immensely engaging, and soothing, the writer's voice -- well, just so poetic, unforced, natural... I wish to read more. I wish to read it = period.

I'd heard of the book, a while ago actually, then remembered about it, and recently requested it on reserve, and here it is, brand new library copy, in a glossy soft cello-cover, a "14-Day Book" from Mahopac -- I don't even know where Mahopac is. (Which county? Which side of the river?)

But it didn't happen - I never made it to the cafe, I didn't crack the book. I dropped D off in town, did food shopping, stopped by a strip-mall department store where I was very happy to find what I've been searching for - a pretty summer skirt, to go with a couple of tops I already have -- I scored!

And so, darling -- that's a snapshot of my day. Very many kisses, hope all is well with you.

Hello darling, back from yet another first-and-last CL date, a very pleasant hour over a glass of wine (me) and tequila sunrise (him) at an outdoor patio restaurant in Rhinebeck, on a chilly day, but tolerably warm enough to sit outside, as long as in the sun, as we were. No chemistry, none whatever, but I was very glad for the company, and to meet another person, and get a glimpse of his story. I can see how one would get addicted to this. I don't mean to be facetious, but I'm thinking of this one youporn I saw where one woman is with several guys -- more I want more!, she says, an eternal hunger, as one by one, each guy done, steps away. I didn't watch to the end of the video, but I'm imagining that at the end, she's left utterly by herself. That's not what I'm really trying to say here -- except in the sense that I'm simply enjoying the company & conversation of men these days, I have been so starved for it for so long. And so far none of the men has been 'just right' for me (except that I genuinely liked and was attracted to the Hungarian from Schenectady) -- and so every day, I'm faced with the perpetual gnawing hunger --- more - more!

Or maybe this is how Charlie Rose feels, meeting, often for the first time, and having a conversation with, a new person each day, a different person every day. There has been that aspect, for me, too -- not that in the Charlie Rose high-achievement way, that the men are in that pantheon. But what of it? Do you think I care? No, I don't. I'm not Charlie Rose. I'm me. And I am really enjoying meeting these men, and having an interesting conversation, and marveling - well, it's just so hard to meet anyone, really, in our culture, once one's past a certain age, I guess -- and I didn't have children, so I didn't meet men that way. (Oh -- someone's whispering a prompt in my ear -- oh, one doesn't meet men at after-school soccer games and PTA events? Oh it's the other Mommies you meet -- well who wants that?)

After the drink & conversation -- about creative process, he has written several novels, which he described to me, and I to him my blog -- we amiably parted company, neither of us attracted to the other, but both glad, I think, of a very pleasant hour indeed, comparing notes as to writing & the relief of finding quiet in the country after all the noise (of all kinds, not just aural) of the city...

So afterward, on my half-hour drive back to Hudson, where I had to pick up D, I stopped by a supermarket, in search of a particular multi-grain "pilaf" that D and I are extremely enamored of, that we discovered at our local supermarket a few months ago -- which has since, for some inexplicable reason, stopped carrying it. D loves this product so much -- as do I, it has a magical, absolutely tummy-filling warming from inside-out quality, radiantly satisfying -- that he has been engaged in an email quest with the manufacturer (Kashi) as to why ShopRite no longer carries the 7-grain boxed mix. D does not view it as sufficient that the response he received back from customer service was, essentially 'drive further -- the Stop & Shop in Rhinebeck stocks it.' And D noted too, that he'd stopped by a Hannaford's at the dread traffic circle north of us -- and well, actually, I didn't gather whether that chain carries the pilaf or not.

But if I meet, next week, my date-in-the-wings at one of the establishments I scouted out in advance, maybe I'll pop into that supermarket, since I'm there, and pick up a few more boxes.

Dear M, I did a little bit of scouting today. Nothing terribly exciting to report, though... I checked out the traffic circle at 9 & 9H. McDonalds, Dunkin Donuts, something called the "Columbia Diner" (didn't look too exciting), a Four Brothers Pizza, and in a strip mall by the Hannafords, another pizza place & a Chinese. The end. That's about as far north as I went in my investigations. So if you'd like to suggest a place closer to Albany -- ball's in your court. I'm sure there's no shortage of virtually every chain restaurant there is.

***
Well, darling, for some reason I smell like aftershave to myself - unpleasant - why is that? I had this problem with a perfume I used to wear long ago, that combined with cigarette smoke, ended up smelling like Christmas trees. And where my first-and-last-date this afternoon sat, at a small iron table on an outside patio, downwind of two entire tablefuls of smokers -- wow, does Miss Dior combined with stale secondhand smoke smell like cheap aftershave? Because what else could be the culprit?

No poetry tonight -- just a very, very genuine wish -- that I could meet someone -- you? -- who I would really enjoy hanging out with, or cohabiting with, and feel a sense of connection, and of feeling, the way I've felt, and do now in some ways, only really would like to do so again - corporeally. Is that possible for me anymore? I don't really know - maybe not, maybe I'm too set in my ways. I wonder.

In the meantime darling -- many kisses. Ah good, that's done with, now we can go on - in our separate realms.

Thank you for saying that I don't have to - but I insist - I'll leave the tip.

xoxo

Perusing NW Conn. craigslist postings this morning
('casual encounters')...

Have You Ever Been With? -- m4w - 54
A man of Hungarian descent, just half though. Yes, we are the hot blooded lovers which other groups get credit for. Check out the movies and see who are perceived as the lovers of the world. Some might be sneaky but I am an upfront man. I am a tall, physically and fiscally fit with a great house to enjoy excitement and quiet with you.. I am educated academically and in the art of love making. I have some suggestions and will listen to yours carefully and fulfill your desires and respect your limits.

***
Belle's response...

Re: Have You Ever Been With
a man of Hungarian descent?
funny you should ask -- I ended a years-long sexual drought with one (in upstate NY) a few weeks ago -- though I must say while he told me that he had once fancied himself a potential porn star -- well, no, I would say that he was lacking in finesse & technique

I am responding to your ad really on a lark -- because it's a little too direct for me -- I'd probably just chicken out
and probably I'm looking for more of a relationship than a purely sexual 'casual encounter'

still, I'm intrigued in that you're Hungarian, that is, European
I'm first-generation Polish-American myself
and my parents always used to say how Poles & Hungarians famously get along, due to some fateful arcane piece of ancient history involving a love match between royals of the two kingdoms
plus I like Chopin, & Liszt -- and weren't they great friends?
also - I love chicken paprikash, and the Hungarian Cafe in Morningside Heights
and in high school I had a crush on a guy of Hungarian descent with brooding looks and long black hair, who played awesome air guitar -- alas, unrequited!

so -- I don't know that I would be into acting on any desires right off the bat -- but I do have the car for this afternoon -- and if you're in the Litchfield County vicinity -- and might be free & interested to meet for coffee or whatever -- then drop me a line -- might be fun

I'm sure I'm eminently seduceable -- certainly the Hungarian from Schenectady didn't have much trouble ---

have a wonderful day!

***
kisses, darling

Hello darling, putting my arms around you, kissing you hello. Another day, another date, another first in a chain restaurant, Panini Bread (or whatever it's called). He and I sat in a pair of armchairs by a plateglass window overlooking the parking lot and chatted, mostly about how the physical landscape has changed so much over the decades, and how everything we had worked so hard for -- . It was a dispiriting date, he's a nice guy, but there was no spark between us. I don't mean to be unkind, it's just me typing, but it was like trying to light a campfire on a soggy day -- it simply isn't going to instantly catch & kindle & burst into delightful, crackling, self-sustaining flame, the more one throws on more & more winsomely conversational fuel. It's totally okay. I am getting really good about meeting some of these men, and then in no uncertain terms (though as kindly as possible, of course) letting them know that it won't work out for me. I knew it couldn't, it just wasn't my -- I don't know, habitat, meeting in a place like that. And no, I don't mean to sound snobbish, it's just that I am a romantic, and I'm not inured to the hardscaped corporatized realm -- and have no wish to be.

Anyway, he & I cordially parted company. My head isn't spinning anymore with too-many posts responded to at one time. There's one in the wings, and I know truly nothing about him, except that he has a very modest yet devastating way with words in our brief but eloquent exchanges. Yesterday evening, he charmed the hell out of me when out of the blue he sent a message saying that while he & I haven't communicated much at all, he senses about me, among a few qualities he mentioned, that -- "you seem like a very pleasant person."

Which sounds like the most innocuous, deadpan, noncommittal utterance there could hardly be -- but a lighted match of wonderful associations flared for me -- I instantly connected it with one of my very favorite poems, My Erotic Double, by "local" eminence grise, John Ashbery.

You seem like a very pleasant person.

(I need you as I need salt on my food.)

I said it but I can hide it. But I choose not to.
Thank you. You are a very pleasant person.
Thank you. You are too.

Sweetheart, there were so many other inputs too. I returned home, following back roads snaking southward along the west side of the river - I simply didn't feel like getting back on the Berkshire Spur. At "Panini" I had bought my own coffee, and a loaf of bread. I am truly a cheap date, except from D's point of view -- if I'm not interested -- well, I didn't even want him to buy me a cup of coffee. And he didn't. And so we didn't. (Mr. Titf*cker the other day seemed to begrudge, perhaps, the thimbleful of pinot grigio at the corporate watering hole -- wow!! are you kidding? I mean -- I don't know what I mean -- there's always an economic component -- and yet you're not paying, or willing to pay, for a prostitute, and so -- because I'm a "good girl" - we basically 'go dutch?'" I've never understood that, my entire life -- there has rarely ever been in my life, a man who freely, gladly, 'but of course' with an indifferent shrug, picked up the tab.

So -- no, I paid for my own cup of coffee today. Which is fine. A whole lot of us, at our age, and income brackets, and expectations from life, are feeling squeezed.

Mister "you seem like a very pleasant person" -- I haven't met him yet. And so I tried to check out possible congenial places where he & I might meet, for lunch or coffee. There isn't much around here -- at the traffic circle where 9 & 9H meet, an effulgence of the usual fast-foods -- not, to my mind, ever an auspicious place to meet - but who knows? No, nothing good, in that vein, at least for me, could ever come from meeting at a fastfood chain the likes of which I gave up - seriously - at the New Millenium.

Anyway, I'm just going on & on here --- and sorry -- no great finish.

Wait, no, I should concentrate
dearest - my love - wherever you are on this Friday evening --- or perhaps it's past midnight where you are -- well who knows?

Oh dearest love
I would have given anything -- anything at all
if it had been you
sweet delightful adorable beloved you
sitting cattycorner so near
next to me
where everyone could see
and everyone could see
and I wouldn't have gingerly backpedaled
conversationally
I would have absolutely planted the most luscious
obscene loving kiss on your beautiful adoring self
and I would have taken up the multigrain thick-sliced loaf
in paper bag that I had purchased
and I would have said
are we done here?
because darling -- oh my sweetest darling love ---
touching knees as we had been in that lit corner alcove --
isn't there somewhere we can go?

Oh hi Lenore, a little shout-out to you - don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I know - my blog has been a bit shocking lately, even to me, I hardly know what to say myself. I'm in an awkward spot, doing the best I can. Trying to be sensible, but at the same time trying to get myself out there somehow, best I can. It's hard. And I have to say that most of the individuals I have met, corresponded with for a bit, thus far, have been in straitened circumstances themselves, not easy. I really am here, pretty much on my own. D resents the hell out of me, not surprisingly. I'm stuck. I write this blog, and I'm looking for someone else - in a genuine way, I mean. Most other interests, other than taking long walks & doing home pilates workouts, have fallen by the wayside. I feel very anxious myself, I can't concentrate on anything. I haven't read a book, novel or other, in ages. I page through the NYRB in the bathroom. It's anxiety, and uncertainty. Because actually I feel in very good spirits -- I don't feel depressed at all. Just anxious, because I'm so alone, and without resources, except for what I have in my own person. And if I feel anger -- it's not really towards D, so much, because I know that he's been battling his own demons & anxieties, and things played out the way they did. But do I feel anger? Yes, I do. But mostly I bury it, because there is simply no point, there is no going anywhere with it. The anger I feel is towards the members of my nuclear family of origin. It was a very brutal environment, my parents were in their respective ways brutal extremely damaged people... and I have three siblings, all younger, and I am not in touch with any of them, they are not 'resources' for me. It's kind of awful. So yes, I will try hard to not get myself raped & killed. But at the same time, I don't have a lot of options. I'm playing the buckshot theory -- trying to respond, in a bona fide way to the posts that speak to me. Sure, there will be missteps, misadventures.

These days, also -- just very recently actually -- I've been looking at a lot of youp*rn videos -- and the sheer quantity of it, myriadly categorized, absolutely astounds me. Who are these people? Maybe they're the ones, some of the young women in particular, whom I personally have viewed online -- and become extremely aroused -- to be concerned about.

Because I'll be okay. Mostly I've had a whole bunch, a revolving door full, of first dates, and -- well, nothing yet. And there will be some danger, and even some anger, and not everyone has realistic expectations, for sure.

And I've been able to say, even as I've parted company for good with most of my 'first date' meet-ups, that I could have it way, way worse. My current situation isn't tenable for me, I simply cannot play out the rest of my life in this fashion, along with the sense (because someone asked me yesterday - so why no children? it seems like you would have made a great mom!) that I made a colossal strategic life-choice error in a spouse.

But the fact of the matter is that, as much as the house is aesthetically in many respects unsightly (weeds sprouting out of the old asphalt driveway, for example), I have a room of my own in which I sleep, I'm typing now in my upstairs aerie, ice clinks in my glass, and no one has or is about to serve me with papers.

I am very sorry that where I'm at is at this pass. Also, I don't have health insurance. I haven't been to the dentist in years.

No -- in this New Gilded Age --

the "Gilded" abhor me -- among them figuring my brothers and my sister - who disdain me - word about their town? I'm "needy"

and I'm sure the obese, downtrodden, diabetic T-Party types - view me as "snobbish"

So - yes - this Alice -- in Wonderland -- but not one of Lewis Carroll's creation with Tenniel's illustrations -- you know, I sort of hate that book -- because it's given to girls -- I puzzled over it very greatly in my youth -- and it's only more recently that I understand -- that I don't even need the metaphorical pretext & overlay of the "Alice" imagery -- it is extremely difficult -- speaking strictly for myself -- to be me --

I have a date, as a matter of fact, tomorrow afternoon
we're meeting at a Lowe's, because it's a "big target" for me, I'm more likely to find this one
and then we'll have lunch (maybe) at a nearby chain restaurant

honestly? I don't hold out huge hopes for it
but it's what I've got -- and I'll follow that lead
a sort of Year 2012 Canterbury Tales, maybe?

not that I ever really read the Canterbury Tales

love you sweetheart
oh and yeah -- let me put out a great big shout-out -- if, of my caring readers, you know of a man that you think -- they would be perfect together -- well please by all means -- send him my way -- or I his!

xoxoxo

Hi sweetheart - where have you been all day? Are you in transit again?

I've stayed put myself, except in my mind. Yesterday may have been both my first - and last - time in a beemer. He and I briefly communicated today and while in a previous exchange he had described his physicality as "all muscle" - well, it's not just his physicality. It's okay - better to learn sooner, than later - so we both bailed. There's a certain kind of sexuality that goes with a car like that -- and I'm not the all-muscle woman for it. Also -- I think (or so he seemed to suggest) that he thinks he wants a genuine relationship -- but I don't think so. The guy is very good looking, rich, successful -- but from my point of view, values, what turns me on -- kind of empty and hollow. I don't mean that judgmentally, really, it's more that he wasn't my type at all. But the thing is -- he shouldn't have the slightest problem whatever finding the female counterpart to him -- aren't they all over the place? At least in the mass-media? I wish him well, maybe - probably - he's as divided and frustrated - as all the rest of us. Still -- that was a hell of a car. I felt as though I'd had a chance to go up in a state-of-the-art rocket, it was as marvelous as that. But alas - among other things, his idea of a 'good time' wasn't exactly Sunday drives with me in that spaceship along scenic byways of Vermont. No -- it wasn't likely, even if we'd pursued things, that I was ever going to see the interior of that car again.

I'm glad the chess moves happened as they did! It's totally okay.

Ah sweetheart, is that you lighting now via a hidden proxy hit? Who knows. It's been a chilly day, I'm sitting here in jeans and an old - really old, 20 years or more - black cotton snug pullover, very cozy. Dinner will be cornish hens and vegetables -- asparagus, carrots, zucchini -- all of which D will grill.

No, I'm not a pro. I responded to a small handful of CL ads over the last two or three days, and there was a moment yesterday where I could hardly keep all the contacts straight. Things have settled down, thankfully. There may be a prospect or two in the wings, even now as I type -- maybe more my speed, and I theirs.

***
Dramatic dialogue. (Not, in Frank Langella's antiquarian world view -- of which I have enormous fondness, nostalgia, and sympathy -- for the lofty likes of Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn.)

She: Hi -- I've been thinking about our meeting yesterday -- and am wondering -- if you're free & would still like to -- if you might like to come over to my house for an hour or two, this afternoon or tomorrow afternoon.
I have realized that the idea of your coming over is appealing to me. (I ran the concept by my husband and he's okay with it, and knows to be out of the house - which he would be anyway most every afternoon - but this way, with his being aware, there will be no unexpected quick stops home -- well, you know what I mean.) Anyway, let me know what you think...

He: I would certainly entertain the idea. I would like to know exactly what you would like to happen.

She: Well, we had mentioned t*tf**king... along those lines, and what leads up to it, and whatever after - what would you wish to have happen?

He: t*tf**king, and if that is my purpose for being there i would like the visit to be focused on that purpose

She: I'm a little confused by your tone -- and maybe a little put off -- maybe not such a great idea after all -- I'm not a pro

Okay, granted, this piece needs polishing before it goes on Selected Shorts

all my love dearest
xoxo

Hi sweetheart, today marked a couple of firsts, maybe more than a couple. It was the first time I'd ever stepped into a Beemer (to quote Steve Jobs, oh wow!), and my first time in an Appleb**'s, the "local" one. In fact I was transported in said BMW to Appleb**s Local Chapter # whatever.

Afterward we parked briefly because he didn't believe my stated size, despite closefitting top, and so, with the view of the vast wasteland of a back parking lot overlooking a chain link fence & a whole lot of asphalt, me, fueled on a single tiny glass of Bolla pinot grigio, mesmerized & seduced perhaps not so much by this very all-black spaceship of a beemer-bubble, but having finally entered if only for a moment into an ad for one -- well, there were few cars about, at the edge of nowhere where he had parked, but I was also fearful of being spotted by hyper-vigilant Local Police & Fire -- in this Communist local space, as muraled on the Appleb**s wall -- it's all about Police & Fire. Ah, I miss the good old days when 1.0 & I could quite naturally step into natural areas and have our ways -- no wonder, especially him living in this unnatural suburban rats' nest of an urban plan construction neighborhood -- that he dreams of me.

Anyway, the guy -- I liked him, I really did. But he's not The One, I know he's not. But I have my pride - truth in advertising. It is so a 40DDD bra - and I didn't make it up - I'd been measured.

He copped a feel, and briefly I popped my top -- and he was flabbergasted. Wow, that's more of a minimizing bra than I knew, and I don't recall that I had purchased it for that quality. Because he is very enthusiastic about, and certain that, given his & my coincidentally mutual obsession, what I possess would work incredibly well --

And you doubted! I quipped, as he appreciated, admiringly

I might see him again, I really might.
I have what turns him on... I was turned on by his sleek machine -- and the fact that he wanted to do to me what I want him to do to me

I'm willing to travel

Hi sweetheart, back up in the aerie, home way before dark, after yet another CL date. The guy was really nice, a sweetheart, we strolled around a high-end premium mall outlet in the Berkshires, a place I absolutely abhorred, though it was pleasant enough to stroll around the faux-village of brand-name shops. The place reminded me of that TV series from the sixties, The Prisoner, with Patrick McGoohan, it just seemed so false, and sealed off, and decontextualized from the surrounding breathtaking landscape that one wasn't supposed really to glimpse -- lovely Berkshire mountain views -- all the better to focus on shopping. There was even, my companion pointed out, at the edge of one of the parking lots, a huge empty cage, labeled "Pet Enclosure Area" -- they'd thought of everything! We didn't step into any of the shops - the encounter certainly wasn't about shopping -- not in that sense anyway. We found the foodcourt and he bought me a cup of coffee, and we conversed and shared notes and talked, and then we got up and left the foodcourt, and strolled around the faux-village outside some more.

And it's not even that it was an inauspicious place to meet. In a weird way, it kind of worked. Neither one of us had ever been there before. And so there was this air of unreality to it.

I like the guy, he's a really nice good intelligent man, and good-looking, but I wasn't attracted to him. Absolutely no sparks, no kindling. I wish there might have been, on some level -- oh snap out of it! I can't sleep with every man I meet, for whatever reason. I knew, as genial a time as he & I had, that he wasn't The One. And yes, I am searching for The One, I can't help it. And that's what I told him -- that I need to feel a strong romantic connection -- and he said that he could see that I wasn't exactly the FWB type, which he isn't either. It didn't work, but we had a pleasant afternoon, and at the end I very sincerely shook his hand and even gave him a hug and said you're such a nice guy -- and we wished each other the best, as we go back to CL, him to his postings, me to my perusings.

On the beautiful drive back (about 45 minutes) I felt so happy to be back behind the wheel, obeying speed limits, watching the hilly scenery roll past -- and thinking, again, of you. I thought, in an offhand way, Oh You, you are so lucky that I have romantic feeling towards you, since I feel it towards so very few men, ever -- consider yourself lucky! Which even as I silently uttered this thought to myself, I could wryly sense my own skepticism as to how lucky you might actually feel, about my affection for you... (Sweetheart, I am wrapping my arms around you now, and who knows what else around what else, as I think of this now, up in the aerie).

The man I met with this afternoon though, gave me a great line -- it wasn't all at once, I put it together upon reflection as I drove back through the Berkshire highways to the Columbia County ones --- and burst out laughing with huge hilarity to think of it -- and reflect on it -- again, with a huge sense of irony --

He and I had been comparing notes on our various CL encounters over time, plus comparing our readings of them -- "have you seen that guy from Adams who posts essays about dom/subs?" Yes I have!, I said with a shudder. Did you respond? No! But I sure have learned a lot. I don't think I'm a sub, anyway, or maybe - I don't know - I think it would piss me off....

And I mentioned how I'd met a couple of guys over the last few months, and I've noticed that however 'realistic' I try to be about who I am, what I look like -- they are still somehow expecting a porn star to appear. And I see the disappointment on their faces.

And this is what made me laugh -- my companion this afternoon said, thoughtfully, "Your looks are intelligent... but you have the mind of a porn star."

Oh, aaarghhh! Though I was laughing so hard to think of it, back (to my relief) on my own -- oh man, somehow that sums up my life, in some absurd way!

Oh sweetheart, I suppose the same might be true of you -- so very many many kisses my love, so glad to be 'Back in the High Life with You', the wonderful Steve Winwood song that came on as I raced down Route 22, to get back home to you...

xoxo
and well wishes all around
including to the very charming, wonderful man I met today, off CL
-- we humans ---



darling -- I love you -- I'll post the Steve Winwood later --
many kisses for your flight, dearest Steve McQueen

Hello darling, big kiss hello, I've been thinking about you, mon chère jules dalou, that is, Bacchus. Oh sweetheart, I wish it could be you & me, I really do. But, oh well, c'est la vie. So you get these virtual kisses from me, and very real love messages, and I hope everything is going well for you, & that you're having fun. At the moment I feel a great sense of well-being. Up in the aerie, of course, with an ice-filled glass of pink wine. It's turned into a very rainy, raw, chill afternoon -- which is actually welcome, the rain especially, because never mind Noah's 40 days of rain, we've had 40 days or more of drought -- and this on top of "the winter that wasn't" -- so things have -- for the Hudson Valley -- been quite parched, considering there was no snow-melt. Anyway, meteorological report over. I'm enjoying the chill day though. The pellet stove in the solarium is cranking away merrily, I have various lamps on all over the house, there's a chicken roasting in the oven, along with russet potatoes, and a pan of caramelizing chunked root vegetables plus brussel sprouts. I'm back from an afternoon at the theater -- a small theater in town, near the railroad station, which is to say near the river -- oh what's the word - am I blocking it -- oh yeah! waterfront. Okay upland waterfront, the theatre has no connection with the river or the shoreline or for that matter the railstation at all... Where was I?

But I think of these connections, because I wished a delicious cup of coffee before the play, because it's such a cold, damp afternoon and while I was psyched to be out at the same time I was fighting sleepiness -- and was disappointed to see that a really good coffee place, Strongtrees, across from the Amtrak station, is no more, and has a dispiriting 'For Lease' sign up, with the name of the realty contact person, who I also know is, or has been, a 'life coach.' Life coach -- I wonder how that biz is going?

I am my own mother, I am my own life coach... and maybe I try to help a few other lost wayward wanton souls along the way, as with my date tomorrow, which I'm looking forward tomorrow, and who is positively Nabokovian in his sheer exuberant, over-the-top, ceaseless, pilings on of erotic imaginings, myriad fetishes, and hilariously & evocatively descriptions, along with allusions to helpful reference sources. A truly Borgesian "Library of Babel" of knowledge acquired through the vast sources of pornographic reference materials available now, mercifully, many for free, on the internet. Yes, I'm not the only one learning of new methods, techniques, how-to's --- my online acquaintance cheerfully admits that he'd never heard of many of them.

And so the play I saw was a very minimalist, and very affecting, theatrical staging of the Gospel of St. John. Which I was glad to get from start to finish -- it wasn't a literal reading, at all times, but followed the Gospel very closely, I believe. And it's funny -- an observation I'd make now, in a literary way -- since I've been attending church given my organ-playing service, I've been hearing readings, each Sunday, from various Gospels, and they always strike me -- because I'm so unfamiliar with them -- as coming in at the middle of the story, Cortazar Hopscotch fashion (a book the poet at yesterday's seminar had mentioned, which I'd read a million years ago -- still, it's not the book, so much of the concept of nonlinearity that's what's interesting me, in this context. So yeah, at a church service, these disconnected (to me) fragments of readings -- usually three, one from the Old Testament, and two from the New Testament, interspersed with a Psalm in between -- oh those Psalms, so beautiful, and the congregation gets to incant each one, of a Sunday).

But -- or not really a 'but' - it's the nature of the thing -- I don't, as I'm sitting at the organ bench, Sunday to Sunday, have a sense of the whole story, from A to Zed (yes, darling, I know perfectly well about the being born-in-a-manger part) -- I mean, I didn't quite have the entire trajectory of the Passion in my mind. And maybe I still don't entirely, it's a story that bears retelling (oh duh!) again and again and again.

And so this theatrical piece, however spare, did give St. John's eyewitness account, from start to finish... his deposition, as it were. It was a marvelous piece of writing

and the very final line of the production (and of St. John too? I haven't checked my New Oxford Bible) is the resounding (again, almost Borgesian, to my lit-crit mind) idea, that with regard to this story -- books upon books will be written, meaning the Gospels themselves; meaning the Reverend Mother's beautiful sermon this morning; meaning, even, my blog post this evening.

It was a great day, there was more to it, that I can hardly get to. At church, after the "peace" part, the Reverend Mother asked the congregation if there were any announcements, and there were the usual banal reminders of one drive or another, and then she briefly recounted, standing in her full-bodied self in her vestments before the congregation, some rather general remarks about her week at a priestly retreat. And I sort of felt like, sitting there at the organ, like on a talk show where the band-leader offers a prompt... I actually did! So I asked, from my musical sidelines, "so --- how was it at the synagogue the other week?"

And at first the Reverend Mother was a bit taken aback -- I mean she'd been seriously soliciting -- well, a prompt, ideally -- from her congregation -- and here I was -- I served it. And it's a miracle that I even remembered, at that apposite moment, that she'd mentioned last Sunday that she had been invited to and would be attending a special service at the local synagogue, in commemoration of the Holocaust.

Anyway, this post is getting way too long -- but I'm so glad that I gingerly queried -- so how'd it go? Because the Reverend Mother -- a fantastic, impassioned, kindly, warm, engaged raconteur -- only needed a prompt, a simple tiny reminder ("oh my - I forgot! thank you so much for reminding me!) -- to launch into the most wonderful account of her experience there, and her take-away from it, which honestly is worth a post in itself, it was that full, and meaningful, and moving --

I'm really glad that happened

I don't know how religious I am, and true to canon --

Love one another

Only connect, said E.M. Forster too, which I thought of as I sat at the organ, dreaming about tomorrow's meeting, within that churchly setting, maybe even --- well fill in the adverb -- so

I think that love, Jesus's, comes in strange ways
I know that I come in good faith
however mixed & problematic as they may be to some others

I will never stand you up.

Hello darling, ten to six, expectant stillness in the air, humid gray in advance of a possible storm, and what will be - if it doesn't fall all at once & immediately run off into streets and creeks, not having a chance to soak into the ground - welcome rain. I'm back, hours ago now, from a poetry workshop this morning, fantastic, taught by an area poet (that is, he lives in the area; he has a wider reach than local). I'm very glad I attended. There were 15-20 participants, the vast majority women, which made me feel as though I was back, somehow, at a seminar at my women's college alma mater. There we all were, poised with our notebooks & pens, one woman sporting a Harvard drive cup. (The seminar took place in a library near the MA border, so there were a number of Berkshire residents, as well as New York.) He's a very lively, engaging, wise, unpretentious instructor for this sort of seminar. What I greatly appreciated, for my own purposes, was gaining a renewed, or more formal appreciation for poetry, or for the crafting of it. Which is, perhaps, a funny thing for me to say, considering that I was an English major. But the academic approach in my course of study way back then was highly analytical -- taking a poem or other piece of writing and, without reference even to the poet or author's biography -- simply analyzing the text -- dissecting it, in order to create this (to my mind) secondary work, a piece, however thoughtful & even fanciful, of literary criticism. I was quite good at it, back then, though I have lost all interest in pursuing such an approach anymore, in my own writing.

So I appreciated today, so much, being led through a stepped series of writing exercises, each totally doable, "non-scary," and each one building cumulatively upon its predecessor so that we were as it were creating raw materials for our potential poems, and being given the tools too to start mixing them together. It was quite marvelous, and I took notes, and of course have the products, or some "raw dough" from these poetic exercises -- that also, were very very different in nature from what I do every evening, which is, essentially, to sit down & start typing. No, the crafting of a poem is a different enterprise (possibly the wrong word) altogether -- and do you know, I look forward to reviewing my notes, and a meaty handout, compilation of all sorts of inspiring quotes and poetic exemplars, for me to, quite possibly, try my hand, at some different form of writing -- or not so much form, as "way in."

Besides that I had a bit of a lovers' quarrel with someone I haven't even yet met. The misunderstanding -- I think it really was no more than that -- has blown over. And I look forward to meeting him, because at this point, his having opened my eyes to something I knew nothing about -- well, there is no going back for me, now.

Hi sweetheart, feeling much more on an even keel today, a bit spent actually, and so was at low ebb much of the day, in a "watery" mood. There were just some intense mental inputs for me that made my head explode and so today your Annabel Lee needed to chill, and chill she did. I'm glad this enervation happened today... I hope and plan to be feeling like myself, and energetic, for a three-hour poetry workshop tomorrow morning, which I'm greatly looking forward to. Oh, and what else, on Monday I'll be getting together with someone I've just met & corresponded with quite a bit on CL, so we'll see -- but that's sort of what blew a gasket for me. Just all this rapid change, I feel as though I'm in a spaceship in a sci-fi movie and at first, last Friday, I was on one planet, briefly, that I'll never see again, and then I hurtled through space some more and checked back with "Houston," and then there's a very kind sweet alien with whom I also exchanged messages this week, but he & I are in different galaxies, it won't work, and so I'm hurtling through space and here comes this new Creature, unlike any of the others, who speaks a different language, & I communicate with him, and stuff comes out, & it's kind of free and risqué, and at the same time intelligent & sharp & sweet -- and so these two space travelers will be meeting up on Monday to see if -- well my planet, or his, needs colonizing, at least for a spell.

I think of you, dearest, and wonder where you are, how you're doing. It's Friday afternoon -- are you flying home, from someplace?

I'm looking forward to the comforts of dinner: cauliflower that I've just mashed, creamed with yogurt and seasoned with nutmeg, sea salt & fresh-ground pepper; orange puree from the freezer, that honestly I'm not sure if it's butternut squash or pumpkin - same difference? - doctored with maple syrup and dabs of butter; leftover pork chops; and there'll be green salad too, which I have - fresh greens that is - at almost every meal, breakfasts included, e.g., gently fried (as if poached) egg on baby spinach.

And I baked today... a blueberry coffee cake, from scratch, that sits now, fragrantly cooling, on a cut-glass plate.

The venetian wood blinds gently rattle, and the sun's rays are softening. A bird chirps, I hear distant traffic on the highway. An image of a woman was in the mail today -- quite a siren, with whip, & whippet -- who, when I examine the fine print within the brochure, turns out to be Sarah Bernhardt - so that's what she looked like! – she stares out at the viewer, in quite the indolent pose.

I've seen other images of women today too, in wholly different poses, that I am taken with -- I'm turned on, very much, by visual images as it turns out, it's not just men. Anyway - sorry darling - I'll stop there -- and yet at the same time, I'm glad - I don't know, that -- well, I'm not the only one with huge longings out there, and well - you just never know

Sarah Bernhardt seems flat-chested though. So -- not me. I don't think my new encounter-to-be would be into her either. Probably she's for the forever-posting spank-loving 'Renaissance Man' --

Bernhardt was an actress - that image, I'm gathering - a role. Who was "Theodora"? Well - whoever -- looks either way she could give as good as she got.

Oh darling -- I wonder what secrets lie locked in you, very specific ones I'm sure, that I don't know, and can only, swimmingly, inchoately, intuit, the way one can't hear anything, when one plunges one's self deep underwater, except in muffled glimmerings -- songs between you & me --

oh but I'm back to the surface, kissing you merrily hello, offering you a glass of wine against a soft summery evening -- welcome home sweetheart, it's the end of the work week, let's have a wonderful time --

wheat wheat wheat, outside the open window at this soft gathering hour, a cardinal sings -- in-tu-weet weet weet

and another, in response -- tu tu tu

weet weet

tu tu

Hello darling, beautiful soft golden light, busy writing someone else how the benefits of a stellar education include the ability to admit to not knowing what one doesn't know, and setting about to redress that gap, which is why I don't - ever - write in to my alumnae magazine.

Sweetheart, this blog is starting to feel a little 'too hot to handle' for what I really feel like writing & sharing with you, and I just have to hold back. I've been feeling so unhinged in recent days, making connections here in one way, there in another -- and it simply can't all be blogged about. Or acted upon.

***
oh but darling
I can tell you about my fingers simply tapping here, typing
as I think of you
birds are tweeting
dinner will be kale-chicken sausage sauce on penne

I learned a new concept today -- t*tf*ckng
and given my empirically measured dimensions
surprise has been expressed that that hasn't heretofore been requested of me
which just made me wonder
is that a new form of sex? because obviously I've encountered the pleasure...
but not the Method, ever
well - it looks like fun -- oh, I doubt you're as clueless as I've been --
all of us utterly useless W*ll*sley women
with our
kawony
"grapefruity"
pomaranczy
cytrynki ==

love you, sweetheart,
thinking of you in that crazy kitchen
with Babcia's categorization system

dearest love,
many kisses, wherever you like,
and however you like
your - Canteloupy

Hi sweetheart, nothing new here at all, except on CL, where hope springs eternal. I have turned into such a complete airhead. I have become obsessed with searching out possible ads where I feel there might be a spark, a glimmer. I responded to one this morning, that I would never in a million years have predicted that I might have, as it has to do with a fetish, and an attribute I (possibly marginally, for this man's taste) possess. But I went for it, and got the most amazingly eloquent response back -- you see, after spelling out all sorts of lascivious things I could daydream about -- for starters, that is -- my attributes preceding -- well other attributes -- I threw in about my degrees. Anyway, nice day at the office, in terms of correspondence -- it's not every day that I end a note with "...wow my breasts & brain & nether regions are just tingly in anticipation of your lascivious ministrations," though -- maybe 'lavish' would have been better? Lavishly lasciviously salivating salacious slurping sucking suckling...

Oh sweetheart -- do you see why I have to haul myself out to poetry workshops where I am veritably coerced to write on some subject other than my narrow daily focus?

And I have one this Saturday morning, thankfully, and afterward, if things work out right, perhaps there will be a meeting with -- but I know I'm getting completely ahead of myself.

Ah, but the poet running the workshop will understand, I think, my impulses, from what I've googled of him in advance -- I'm excited. Although also I feel as though I'm two-timing, because I'm actually signed up for part 2 of last Saturday's writing workshop at the Persian-inspired estate... and I'm -- oh I hate that phrase 'ditching it' - but I am -- in favor of this rare opportunity I happened on to participate in a workshop with a poet, who also teaches, who sounds mighty interesting. Or at least current. And published. And it's a writing workshop, for non-professionals (presumably), in a 'community' (even if the community is quite toney) setting.

And I don't really consider myself to be a poet, and don't aspire to be one particularly, and sometimes poetry annoys me, frankly.... and yet there are aspects & attributes of it, obviously, that interest me very much -- and so --

oh right, where was I --

***

...name a place & time, here, Berkshires -- wherever, whenever -- just give me a bit of notice so that I can coordinate about the car --

and I'll be there, with my measured cups (but they overflow) -- which I will be delighted to show -- you

Hi sweetheart, sitting up here in a bit of a resigned mood, I don't know, things aren't going so well. I just saw a CL post, and wondered if it was the guy I saw last week, though he's way over "40." Honestly, I think "coffee and a handjob (I'm kidding well not really)" was all he wanted, plus maybe someone, at least for an afternoon, to listen to his stories. Maybe his therapist was on vacation that week, I don't know. No, I don't mean to be snarky.

I broached the idea of the June wedding to D, as it would constitute an upcoming expense. He isn't interested in attending, he has no connection with my side of the family, any more than I have feeling for or connection with his. He asked the date -- and it happens to be on his birthday. To which he snickered sardonically. Look, I didn't choose that date, I said. I really didn't need the bitter response. What does he want from me? He wants me to leave, is what -- which I mentioned to the guy I saw last week, who answered (sardonically) -- oh and leave the house to him I suppose. Yes, probably that’s the scenario D has in mind.

Anyway, so I suppose tomorrow I'll formally RSVP, and try to figure out about room rates at the hotel where the reception is to take place. And of course immediately -- on my walk this glorious sunny afternoon, as I marched around the country roads here with my weights -- I daydreamed a scenario where you & I can steal away for maybe not even so long from the dancing & partying in the banquet hall - and who knows - have -- well not coffee, and not a handjob -- but just a good quick amazing time just the two of us in the Room of My Own. Do you like that fantasy, darling? I know you won't do it (oh - but prove me wrong!).

Oh what else. Responded to a CL post today, entitled "Must Love NPR." To which I wrote a mini-essay, in which I came clean and admitted that I didn't love NPR so much as the "idea" of NPR... The guy is 100 miles from me probably -- plus I don't love NPR (a must!!) -- so I don't expect a response back.

I've been feeling like a bit of an awkward, insensitive jerk to one guy, who seems to be a real sweetheart, and we connect on some levels, but not I don't think on others, you know the ones. And I think it's accounting for my mood, a little bit, of -- oh where am I going? who do I want really? what is the point of all of this?

Also, I get quite a few page hits from "Schenectady," only I'm not sure it's really Schenectady. I've mentioned this before, and will now again -- if it's this one guy from Litchfield County I went on an ill-fated walk with, listen, if you like my blog so much -- well, I wish you'd end the mystery and just send me a quick message saying that it's you -- it'd be fine with me, I'd be happy with that -- we connected in writing, & not in person -- I totally get it.

But I'm really hoping that it's not this other person, a woman, who creepily glommed onto my blog at one point, a long time ago, and now may be back. I mean, I realize that my blog is in the public realm and all that. But you (if it's you) are reminding me of the sort of repressed character that Judi Dench would play, and has done so, to great effect. Gawd, I've probably just encouraged her.

That's a frustration of my blog, I never really know the small handful cast of characters following it. I mean, sometimes I do. But mostly it's a mystery. Who's "Russia," for example, the veiled pagehits from there this morning? Is it 1.0 -- abroad?

Because it seems that, since my CL tryst -- the one last week I mean, that got consummated -- hasn't actually panned out, I found myself - yes, a little bitterly - returning to thoughts of 1.0, which is just completely ridiculous on my part. What a colossal waste of time.

Oh -- so darling -- are you still with me? If you're not, I wouldn't blame you. It's a snapshot of my mood at the moment, not the best.

Anyway, at that hotel, if we could steal away for a few moments, I would totally give you a handjob, as long as you kiss me -- and -- well that's not a sin that you'd have to confess, is it? so long as it's not "consummated"? I mean, you're the Roman Catholic -- you tell me. But preferably not while we're "having coffee."

Love you, darling
(other angels too)

Writing exercise from En Plein Air writing workshop,
led by Kathe Izzo, on the grounds of Olana, Hudson, NY, Saturday morning

***

Listen to the sound of the earth turning -- Yoko Ono

***

The sound is silent
like the steady revolution
around and around of a turntable
a record centered on the stationary pin
but the needle not yet carefully set at the edge
of the beginning of the piece of music
preceded by faint static crackles

So the earth, like this maternal, enabling phonograph
spins ever so slowly and silently in steady impalpable motion
while all sorts of surface sounds surface
the thrum of heavy bulldozing machinery moving chunks
of the steadily moving earth
the tiptoeing through dry brush, causing a rustling
of a pair of mated geese
who serenely step into the water & silently set afloat
bird calls of various kinds
warbling virtuosic tweets
pensive occasional chirps

I can't hear the sound of the earth move
it's one of those 'sideways' gifts that are simply there
the canvas or backdrop
of all else that goes on, sonically, palpably
on this warm sunlit morning
infrared light heating my jeans
so that my thighs feel pleasantly warm

Maybe it's very very loud and furiously noisy on the Sun
as it burns and boils and erupts in gaseous plumes and quakes

but here it's just placid, soundless light
beaming down on a steadily revolving
from a distance silent
teeming Earth

Hi sweetheart, peaceful hour, the gloaming, or maybe not really, it's just become overcast. I hope you've had a wonderful day, I had a nice one, myself. I've done a lot of thinking, and gears seem to have slipped into place, sprockets into notches (as on a multi-speed bicycle chain). I feel a little more resolute -- though admittedly in a not terribly coherent way. I realize that I'm very badly mixing metaphors here, but it's as though I'm in a manageable body of water, a small lake, or large pond, in a rowboat -- only there's peasoup fog, I can't see a thing, and so rather than just sit there waiting for the fog to clear, I decide to pick up the oars and just row.... plash plash plash.... since it's all mysteriously gloomy and opaque, sounds become attenuated, and I feel my arms move, with strength and purpose, and the boat moves as the oars dip deep into the still water and back out again... and quite possibly I'm simply going around in circles, because I don't know how to row, not really, but it hardly matters, because it's just a metaphor... it's my metaphor and I'll move that boat if I want to... it's not going around in circles, it's moving forward... even if I don't know what's ahead. (Signed, Alice, in Wonderland.)

D's at the movies, has finally taken himself to go see Hugo, a movie I enjoyed very much, and knew that he would love. Really -- at the Oscars? -- as far as I'm concerned, that movie was robbed. It's beautiful, and magical, and brilliant, and I'm sure that D will come back completely enthralled and buzzed about it. I can't remember the last time he went to the movies... so I'm glad he was able to catch, like a Scarsdale train from GCT (or the Paris train station in Hugo), the 5:05...

I woke up, wakefully, very early this morning, before six, and got up, and so managed to get in a good brisk walk before church, where a bit later, I capably played the organ (I really enjoy this gig). Then, oh what then, my mind got to 'wanderin' and 'ponderin', to borrow from the singer-songwriter Laura Marling, aimlessly adrift, well not completely aimlessly, more like on the locks of the Panama Canal, transitioning from one phase of thinking to another...

I've just come back from a very charming and beautifully done poetry reading, in Hillsdale, a hill-town east of here, near the MA border. In the middle of a vast empty field there they've built a low-rise brand-new community library building -- it's quite nice, state-of-the-art -- architecturally a little cold, like a "modern" building on a venerable Ivy campus -- oh whatever -- it was nice. The reading was of love poems -- "love" defined very broadly, to encompass all sorts of love, not just romantic (to which of course poetry is justly & aptly suited). The readers & interpreters were marvelous; he, an erudite literary academician, who at least once upon a time had specialized in Henry James (and spoke in perhaps roughly the same gentle yet magisterial cadences -- unpretentious though!! -- as that -- well, we think of Henry James as an Old Master -- but I'm sure (or am I?) that he didn't to himself) -- and a woman, older, slim, fashionably appointed with lacquered nails, gray hair pulled back in a velvet clutch, dark lavender & black striped tunic dress paired with (aha! in mid-April!) opaque dark hose --- hopelessly chic -- and she read her verses -- they each took turns, including within some individual poems -- sounding very much --- well she had an English accent -- like one of those voices on a radio program that one hears Isaiah Shepherd [sp?] introduce, who will read aloud a short story one hasn't previously heard of, but once one hears the cadences of this confident, beautiful, expressive - just exactly right - voice launch into the preliminary lines -- one can sit back and relax and simply savor the telling of a wonderful tale - or in this afternoon's case, poem -- and know that one is in deft, expert, musical, theatrical, fantastically, unvainly declaiming hands.

Ah, darling, which only reminds me --- as you lie against me, listening to me tell my story, and you close your eyes (perhaps) against my breast and listen to the beat of my heart pounding as I go on & on, or perhaps in idle moments as you listen you get busy at my breasts, and do you know I really like a bit of a sense of teeth, not too hard, but not too soft either

oh darn - I've forgotten my thread!
just remembered - oh it wasn't such a great thread --
anyway, yesterday at the 'international' literary reading, there was a young woman writer from Poland, who’s written a book published not only in Poland -- but translated and published in England (quite an achievement). She was about to start reading, in front of the rapt group assembled in the top-floor loft space – when she asked, is there anyone Polish here? Because, you see, the writers each read aloud in their native tongues, and then the same pieces in translation --

but she was the only one who uncertainly thus queried the audience -- is anyone here Polish? I raised my hand. And she, at the small informal podium, at the front of the skylit room (outside the window the backdrop was of exquisite wedding-cake-like decorative cornices at the rooflines of the sunlit Main Street buildings), beamed with surprise and delight. Polish-American, I clarified...

And then she launched, in a very very low, soft voice - and at quadruple-speed – into reading from her piece.

Which I was dying to hear -- in Polish! I really wished to hear it!

So I said, politely but pointedly raising my voice from the back of several rows of plastic chairs -- proszę głośniej-- which she understood. She smilingly stopped, and suggested that I sit closer, in a front row, so that I could hear the Polish...

No, it wasn't about that, I stayed put – and I understand that she's a writer, and not a professional reader or verbal storyteller --

but it’s too bad
I missed the whole thing (as did the rest of the audience, I’m sure) - both in Polish, and in translation
because she read so inaudibly & at such speed that the meaning was completely lost

I mean -- it's really nice to be a writer --
and I can respect performance anxiety -- and nerves
but if you're reading aloud to people who genuinely would like to hear what you have to say -- then please try to utter it in a way that there’s a hope of being understood

and so --- well, that's the contrast between this nervous Polish young author, and the seasoned actress this afternoon, with her mellifluous & exquisitely polished cadences, declaiming poetic lines, in a most expressive, alive manner, her delivery itself -- poetry

I didn't stick around to meet/greet the young Polish writer at the elegant loft space in town
nor did I comment at -- as much as I enjoyed -- the poetry reading this afternoon, in an entirely different setting, spare modernist structure set in vast open space

I think too, from this morning, of my experience in church
I really love it when lay 'celebrants' are able to read, not vainly, but with comprehension and feeling -- the readings (unfortunately the gospels are too often garbled)
because it's not about 'you'
nerves shouldn't --- at least philosophically -- be a part of it
Read it -- tell it -- say it -- like you mean it -- like you feel it
like you want others to hear what you're saying
I want to hear what you're saying! and understand it too! whatever tongue -- including one -- Polish -- that I can understand --- as long as you're reciting it slow enough, for me, like a bird to catch your morsels...

Anyway, that's that, darling... three-D snapshot of my day... and I lack stereograph vision... but maybe -- I make up for it in this way

xoxo
love you

Hi honey, I'm missing you, I'm back home after a very literary day, a writing workshop this morning at the Persian-inspired estate, and just now a reading by a cast of young international writers, from the 'local international arts colony,' at a wine & cheese reception in a lovely upstairs brownstone space in town. I'm alone as I ever was on a Saturday night, or any night. It's okay, I'm not in a bad mood, after all I'm nicely dressed, and sated on nibbles of divine fancy crackers & a selection of perfect cheeses, hard & soft, not to mention bites of foccaccia, soppressata, and green olive, served with various wines (it was a wine tasting too), of which I chose a minerally rose. My kind of party food -- oh, and the readings were very good too, though by the end, with ten readers -- it turns into a bit of a marathon, and I was getting mighty restless. But I stuck it out, and am glad I did, and not only so that I wouldn't look like an inconsiderate idiot for leaving.

I am missing you. I'm reflecting more on personal turns of events in recent days, and my gut is telling me it's not going to be satisfying for me... I like the guy and everything... but --- he doesn't really seem all that interested in me, not really -- well, he is consumed with his own problems, which are not inconsiderable, that's for sure, he's a good guy, but very very preoccupied with his own stuff -- there's hardly room (if he's the type at all?) for him to really be so interested in who I am, how my mind works, where I come from, even my blog. I mean, he is dyslexic, so it's kind of ironic that he's such a loquacious storyteller -- and I'm a writer, and he can't read my stuff, not easily anyway, and I don't have the 'gift of gab' at all, so I can't regale him back with story after story about myself, not that I'd even want to. Still, though, I am feeling this lack of balance, of the relationship (if that's what one could call it) being on equal footing, reciprocal. I don't know. It's not easy. I'm going to be taking some wrong steps, not that I regard what's happened as that, it's just that I don't really see him being as the solution for filling the gap in my life -- though I may very well be precisely what he's looking for to fill the gap in his. Oh, anyway. So, yeah, I'm back trolling CL ads, even halfheartedly responded to one this morning, which is making me feel a bit... loose? Which I'm not -- it's just this preliminary trial & error thing going on, right now.

I know I'm just babbling & belaboring, but I was thinking about those flowers, tulips as it turned out, that I had been so completely intent on bringing to the apartment, just as a way to make the place, for even a couple of hours 'our own' -- as opposed to 'some guy's apartment that had been abandoned and will soon be flipped & re-rented.' I pretty much ditched the flower-project in the kitchen sink, the buds had been tightly closed when I left the house, but by the time I arrived in the city, they had blowsily bloomed wide open in the hot car, almost to the point of explosively losing their petals. I think I was just trying for a gesture of romance, of poetry, of slowing things down just a bit, introducing another sensual element. I don't want a relationship where I drive for 45 minutes only to arrive in some indifferent place and somehow I'm supposed to be fully turned on already. Don't men know anything about women -- yet? I mean, men of a certain age? Of course I'd like to share a bite to eat, take it slow a little bit. And if you only have a two-hour lunch, and you feel the clock is running -- is that really my problem? Or do I wish it to be? No, I really would like something more than that.

Maybe I'm being a little too hard in the cold light of the day after, but I don't know. I think it explains some of the performance anxiety -- on both our parts -- because the moment was rushed, a bit -- though it's understandable, especially with nerves, our first time, stakes high, and all that. Still, I have to wonder how romantic, or seductive he might actually be capable of being in any future encounters -- I'm not quite seeing it, he's like this wonderfully charming, warm teddy bear (sexy, handsome teddy bear). But very much, I'd say, a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy -- not an International Man of Charm & Mystery, such as ahem.... sweet darling.

Well, at least I was able to sublimate today a bit today, what with scribbling notes about dandelions, and about listening to the sound of the earth move, this morning -- and delicious bites of -- I have no idea what those cheeses were, but oh they were divine. Fortunately, this woman of voracious omnivorous appetites can manage to get it on for herself somehow. It was lovely leaving the reading just a little while ago now, twilight descending on busy, stylish, hopping Warren Street, Saturday night restaurants in full swing, including sidewalk tables. It's such a mild balmy evening -- it's only mid-April, yet it felt festive & mild & magical as a midsummer night's eve -- which is when I might see you again, so isn't that a nice sustaining thought to buoy us both, maybe. Til then I'll live on hopes & kisses & dreams & pink wine & awesome cheeses & roast chicken & vegetables, the aroma of which is wafting up the stairs, I thought I wouldn't be hungry but now -- gee, I don't know, I think I could go for some...

Sweet dreams, darling, wherever you are
I hope you're having a wonderful weekend
xoxo
love, Belle

Hello darling, back from my afternoon tryst, I had a delightful time. It is so gorgeous out, just this moment, the sun bright & shiny, so much in bloom -- flowering trees in various shades, plum, white, hyacinths, daffodils, tulips, & scylla all in jumbled bloom at once, lawns greening. I just flew down Route 9J, which hugs the river, which was sparkling & shining in the late afternoon light, with the most gorgeous backdrop of picturesquely undulating blue-gray Catskills ridges. I wish I could have stopped the car... but the road in just that spot seems designed almost to discourage view-stalkers -- there was hardly a shoulder, and it dropped off into a steeply rolling lawned embankment. Ah, another time, I imagine that there will be another...

Afterward, after my tryst that is, I drove a little bit within Albany, and felt so fortunate and happy to be there, what an escape & reprieve for me. The neighborhoods that I passed through & stopped in this afternoon reminded me very much of Brooklyn, which usually I really don't miss at all, but suddenly in Albany, a wave of nostalgic feeling came over me as I admired the handsome brownstone blocks of Madison Avenue, on the other side of which lies the resplendently blooming Olmsted-designed Washington Park. That stretch of town reminds me, perhaps, of Fort Greene. It's funny, it was a bit dreamlike, the resemblance to Brooklyn so palpable, yet it wasn't Brooklyn -- the way, in dreams, familiar places become transfigured, familiar & at the same time strange.

It was "April in Albany," indeed, it might as well have been Paris for me, as I made my way, in my casually elegant skirt outfit (I opted for bare legs & low heels), along Delaware Avenue, where I tore the end of a loaf of Italian bread and interspersed it with bites of savory Trugale, a small wedge of which I bought after sampling a half-dozen teeny samples of various cheeses from a generous, artisanally arrayed -- wood boards, baskets - shop display.

Ah, so my Last Tango in Albany. Well neither of us is young anymore, we're both in our early fifties. And so maybe that says something about anticipation versus actuality. I don't know what to say. I mean, was it hot hot hot -- like what I'm able to whip up with one of my battery-operated not-anatomically correct toys? No. It was nothing like that.

I don't know. Am I too staid? (Well -- what is "too"?) I absolutely loved the intimacy, coupled with the comfortability. It's pretty amazing that he and I met only last week. Because we just fall into each other's arms very easily and warmly -- and stay there. So fireworks were dispatched quite quickly, and the next couple of hours we simply lay in each other's arms while he told me stories, and mostly I listened, and I answered a few questions -- but do you know, darling -- I am not, in person, a great conversationalist, at all. You might think that I would be, from reading this blog. But that's just me, as it were, downloading my mind. I'm not a stutterer or stammerer (actually - at times I am) but my brain is always faster than my tongue, or something gets jammed or tripped up between my thinking it and trying to utter it.

If, without saying it quite so directly & bluntly, we can help each other in this way, just connect physically, and also simply enjoy each other's amiable, accepting, warm company -- a safe haven -- how wonderful is that? And there are issues of ageing involved, he doesn't have the libido he had decades previous -- and that isn't because - I'm 'not all that.' I don't know, it's an odd age, I think, being our age, it's like starting all over again -- our bodies familiar, yet changing, unfamiliar --

The tulips were useless, as was my pretty underwear. No, all that transpired, did so very quickly soon enough between sheets on a bed in a sparsely furnished ground-floor apartment, shades drawn, the place intimate and to ourselves as a spare stage set in a fringe-theatre production -- he & I creating our lines as we moved along, sometimes in bed, other times he'd get up & use the john or grab a paltry snack -- I was full, having lunched on Spicy Sicilian Chicken earlier -- and then he'd lie back down again and take me in his arms and stroke my back and I'd ask him a question & he'd tell me a story & then we'd kiss & try again & give up & acknowledge well maybe that's what Viagra's for -- it's okay! that first time was just fine - I'm not expecting it again, and again, and again.

I think we're going to get together again -- it was the first time, for both of us, in a long, very very long, time, and while it happened quickly it wasn't precipitously, or lightly. I hope we do. I think – do we have to adjust expectations? I don't know what I mean by that. I'm confused, myself. I am attracted to him. Yet, mostly I felt really cozy & comfortable with him. I just don't know.

He told a charming, original story (as we lay naked together on the low bed, in each other's arms, him stroking my back the entire while, as I lay against his chest, closed my eyes, and listened). It involved a grandparent, or great-grandparent of his, from "the Old Country," in middle-Europe... the very old-country, in fact, that I was led in girlhood to believe that due to some alliance between a Polish princess with this paprikash-loving-kingdom king, there is always a natural affinity between the two nationalities -- so -- man, is that what this is about, the instant, if not absolutely exaltantly perfect perfect perfect, rapport?

Do you think in the 'old country', when the likes of our babcia’s and dziadziuś’es got together --- already ancient by the time, in America, we as young children came along -- that they were so concerned, when they connected with each other, about 'performance,' and doing it 2-3-4 times in one session...

and not that I wish it to be sexless, I absolutely don't
I loved that all my exercising & walking have paid off
I had no problem assuming whatever position (honestly - I astonished myself!)
but boy, did I love that we could rest in each other's arms, and just talk, and talk, and kiss, and talk, and listen, and maybe that's a bit of something that ancient ancestors, from millenia back even, from both kingdoms, enjoyed so much about each other

Happy Friday the 13th, darling. More later...

Come be my April Fool
Come you're the only one
Come on your rusted bike
Come we'll break all the rules...

Hello darling. You know, there's so much that goes on in my life that never goes into my blog. So while I'm waiting for my toenails to dry, let me tap out a few items at random. Such as that I've been greatly enjoying the madcap & wonderfully wry, witty, & well-observed Modern Family on Netflix. That an extremely highstrung tiny yapping terrier – leashed – nipped my hand the other day when I reached down to pet it (No, owner, clearly it’s not okay to pet your dog!!). That I made a huge pot of Sicilian Spicy Chicken this morning. That I've been googling to try to figure out if I should wear bare legs with my black skirt tomorrow, or opaque black tights, even though it's April, and I've found out that I've been committing a fashion faux-pas because my skirt is knee-length, or maybe slightly below, so I may have strayed into frump territory completely inadvertently. There's a part of me that could have been, would have enjoyed being a bit of a fashionista. Let's see, what else. I'm reading a memoir about a woman who placed a personals ad in the NY Review of Books, because she wanted to have sex, & a lot of it, with a man she liked, before she turned 67. I think that I grew up in a family largely of narcissists, a very damaging dysfunctional dynamic; I think about this a lot, actually, but rarely blog about it, because it's too painful, and negative --- and really the glory of this blog, and my life now, is that I was able to get past all that, at long last, finally. There won't be freesia or fragrant roses tomorrow, I didn't see any in either supermarket I stopped into today; instead there will be two glorious bunches of dark-rose tulips, that I've sort of hidden away, so as not to cause a fight, and really I could use a bigger jug or vase for these handsome blooms but whatever, it will hardly matter -- any more than it will matter if I wear opaque tights tomorrow or not -- I will be wearing very very nice black lacy lingerie -- underneath, I mean, of course. Oh, what else, of obsessions or whatever that could use airing, while I'm standing at the sunlit porch door with my broom taking in the sun's lovely golden rays? Well, now my mind is inconveniently going blank... Bless me Father for I have sinned... you know, I don't see, in the church services, such a difference between the Episcopal and the R.C., but now that I think of it -- there's no confession. I think I vastly prefer the Episcopal -- nothing needs to be confessed, perhaps - as long as, in its ambiguous way -- well, there it is -- best left unspoken. Oh what else. I would love to get my teeth cleaned; I used to be religious about it, twice a year, I loved our dentist in Greenwich Village, and he loved us, he even once invited us to stay a weekend in his Greenport, Long Island charming home on a street in town. I am done with 1.0, but uncannily Mr. Albany resembles him, so possibly I do have a physical 'type'; though I like the latter for entirely different reasons, he's just a completely different person. Oh what else can I scrounge up? I have writing workshops to attend the next two Saturdays, very welcome, it will nice to focus on prompts from nature... I came today, I've gotten really good at it, and it's good - assuming it works out which my sense is (unless there's some huge surprise) that it will - that I'm about to have an amazing lover, because one of my blue toys wore out, and the other is faltering I think, and I'm out of inorganic lube, which is all I need for myself. And that's it, that's all I can think of for now. I think of the guy I had breakfast with in Lenox only two Fridays ago -- is that possible? it wasn't three? was it? seems like yesterday -- and a whole lot has changed, and I'm sorry that any feelings got hurt, especially given the very tender situation, but - amazing, I held out, and wow, on the eve of what Mabel Loomis Todd referred to as her "Rubicon" -- well, I'm glad I held out for what - or who - I desire. We're over 50, things cut to the chase quicker. Even if they're meaningful; it's just that, for most -- who has the time? Anyway, I'm just typing and musing here, and I look forward to tomorrow, it will be a Rubicon of sorts -- assuming one of us doesn't wake up with flu or toothache -- and I'll try to look my best, and I've been denying myself spritzes of Miss Dior all week so that I can spritz on extra tomorrow.... and so perhaps tomorrow when I'm standing around in my black lace panties & bra, and heels, arranging tulips in a vase, intent on my task while he sneaks behind me to bury his mouth on my neck, and I tilt my head to accommodate him, and he turns me around or not, and burrows

You know, with bright polish on my toes, my feet actually look quite nice -- teeny splashes of hot-pink, contrasting nicely with dark indigo jeans. I am so looking forward to Friday, I can hardly wait. Trying to figure out what to wear, still -- and then I was rummaging around in the bathroom cabinet and came across a Clinique 'free with purchase' ancient cosmetic bag, stuffed full of old bottles of nail polish. I used to regularly get mani-pedis in Brooklyn, and bring in my own colors. But since we moved up here I haven't painted my nails, and honestly pretty much forgot about the idea. It would be nice to have lacquered fingernails, I suppose -- I'll bet anything Dora Maar's hands were always exquisitely done - just so -- but it's too impractical for me, I'd have to be a slave to my manicure, of which I have no interest. I can't very well not be able to seize a passing thought and wish to jot it down -- but rats! my nails are wet! No, that's not for me. Toes, on the other hand -- that's a different story. There I can afford to offer a surprise. I may look like a bit of a church lady with the, I'm afraid, fairly staid-looking outfit I'm thinking of wearing (I simply don't own anything 'hot') -- oh, but when I kick off those low, flattering, cut-out heels -- won't you be surprised at the bright pink glamour 'for eyes only' beneath! What shade is that, I imagine him asking. Oh no I don't -- what red-blooded male would possibly ask such a thing, who cares?! But I imagine such a question - because I don't have a ready answer. You see, the ancient bag of myriad polish -- some of the bottles were glued shut, I would have needed pliers to pry them open -- the long & short is, I wasn't crazy, all these (seven-plus) years later, about any of the shades. So in mad fashion, I started to fiddle with the formulas, mix my own shade, pouring a bit from this Opi bottle, into that Essie...

Coney Island Cotton Candy plus Matterhorn Mauve (think: Raving Raspberry) plus a label-less overly-white cold pale pink... tweaked, poured, from flagon to flagon, and back again, shaken, stirred, tested on one toe then another, considered and compared, has yielded a rich, exciting but not overly LOUD! shade == that I might call --

well, not Botticelli pink -- that was the initial extremely timid shade I started with, in my initial doctorings, my painted nails looking hardly any different from au naturelles -- ah, but in my magical thinking, I am so looking forward to completely losing myself, and giving myself, and giving all, and receiving all -- I am 'making an effort' - by the mere gesture of painting my toes, even if the color hardly registers

Ah - that was just a phase in my little pedi-philic journey this afternoon == I have since abandoned the prim, for a far more vibrant color -- befitting, and perhaps reflecting more accurately - if polished toenails are a reflection of mind -- of my highly libidinous state ---

with all my experimentations & concocting of colors & testing on one pedal digit or another -- my feet are a bit of a colorful mess at the moment -- I realized that, for all my bottles of enamel -- I was out of nail-polish remover -- and so I emailed D, on the road, somewhere, who just valiantly flew up the stairs stating that he'd bought acetone with respect to some carpentry-related...

So -- I will do over my nails, perhaps right after I launch this post. And the name of the fresh, unique, lovely, mellow yet bright sexy color? Perhaps we can call it -- move over, Paris -- Albany April. Sigh!

Hello darling, ah what a difference a bit of certainty makes -- he & I are on for Friday, and not in some motel on Route 9 either, but in a pied-a-terre, presumably only temporarily available, that has fallen into his lap. Now such a Slaviansky-Bazaar furnished room I will make a gesture towards decorating (since he, this week, is laundering everything there is in there to be laundered). I will bring flowers, I replied, in the wee hours when I woke, seeing with elation & relief his message. Possibly the place doesn't need flowers, and what if we're only there for a few hours, though if things go well I imagine there might be a subsequent time, assuming the place is available. What is it about me & flowers? And I have a set program in mind too - the flowers must be fragrant -- I'm thinking freesia perhaps, or roses, if I can possibly find affordable ones that have any scent to them. I know I'm being silly. But I've pulled out a couple of vessels -- a pale-green beveled drinking glass that our B'klyn friends found for us at a tag sale on one of our weekend house swaps when they were up here (I never, I mean never, find anything at such sales -- true, I don't attend or seek them out, either, but I should, I know one really can get wonderful offbeat imaginative treasures that way), and a very pleasingly shaped rounded jar that once contained expensive oil-packed olives. I figure that these vessels are so neutral, and little-used, they have no special emotional connection for me, that if he & I in the little sunlit (I hope?) flat wish a conversational preamble and I wish to decorously & decoratingly keep my hands busy for a few moments -- then I might as well unwrap some flowers, arrange them in a couple of vases, and set them about, where if our glances should just happen to fall, later, on something other than each others' splendor, well then -- it will be the personal, fragrant, lovely, blooming touch that is all our own. Not that I mean to get the slightest bit 'twee' or coy on you - I hate that - it's just that -- well, one might as well personalize. Or make it romantic already (which I feel it is, actually). Or just make it extra special, a gesture towards the sublime --- since we're seeing the light, and not just the shadows...

In the meantime, today -- back on Planet Earth -- I had the car for a spell in the afternoon, so I took advantage and, after a trip to the library, rendez-vous'ed back down these parts for a walk at the conservation area, where I haven't been in several months -- oddly, really, considering that I used to go there Every Single Day, almost without fail. Something about that place got jinxed for me sometime last year, when the whole dog-walking-on-required-leash flap ensued, and the Conservancy director himself showed up one Saturday, and we chatted, and I said to him (as he was trying to gauge me, professionally) that I'm a regular, there almost every day -- and the moment I uttered such words to him, I found something in me shutting off -- that I had somehow - not jinxed it exactly - but suddenly now, I wasn't going to be there every day. And that weird twist of gut intuition proved true (mostly because D has, out of economic necessity, become much more serious about commandeering the one car -- I had no idea that my conservation area walks, all those months if not years, had had such a hidden price tag).

Anyway, darling, I'm tapping, babbling really, but happy to be happy, that -- well, that. That I have Friday to look forward to -- and flowers to dream about, and strokes, and kisses --