Hi sweetheart, up in the downstate aerie, a very sweet peaceful tabby, 17 years old, fast asleep a few feet away, distinctly smiling -- she looks as though she's experiencing pleasant dreams, on several levels - in her own feline unconscious sleeping mind, and also in the idyllic unchanging environs, this tiny airy study, upper screened window opened, emitting the ongoing rhythm of street noises, gentle up here, three flights up, the occasional whoosh of a car passing, voices in conversation, indistinct, and now a whistling, an infant crying. Fans about me circulate the air pleasantly - it's warm today, but not humid at all, so perfect. (And now a siren, and another car passing, and the soft whir of fans). I had a very enjoyable day, though it didn't go quite as I'd expected. I luxuriated around here this morning, simply enjoying being by myself in this comfortable private space, and so very meanderingly went from one moment to the next after I woke, after sleepless hours in the middle of the night, but then restful sleep, waking past dawn, lying in bed resting for a while, very peacefully, and then feeling nicely rested and ready - I got up around 6:30. (Isn't that what each of us does, every day, rise up, as if from the dead - a gesture of hope, on each and everyone's parts, if ever there was one.) I woke at the computer, scrambled soft eggs for breakfast, and then the morning seemed to suggest itself into... oh, why don't I give myself the spa treatment. And so I gave myself a bit of a home pedicure, neatened up my toenails and carefully dabbed on fresh coats of dark pink lacquer; our friends have a very brightly lit bathroom with a built-in magnifying mirror - so I could see in what a horrifying state my eyebrows are in -- it hardly matters! because my brows are so light, and I'm blind, and I assume that most men in whom I might be interested, who might be interested in me - wouldn't be so concerned about the state of my eyebrows, since they aren't dark dramatic arches -- still, it felt nice to, now that I could view them as if under a microscope, trim the faint underbrush a bit. And I shaved my legs with a cheap plastic razor that I'll confess I rummaged in their pharmaceutical pantry of a closet to find -- I'd been so busy with housework upstate that I realized to my horror that I'd neglected to shave my legs before My Big New York Trip. Though again -- no one would ever notice, the hair on my legs is so scant, and light -- and yet -- it's psychological. And so too, I contemplate shaving other areas - but I figured - not today - I do so much walking in the city - I don't need to be in some public place - say strap hanging on the IRT - seized with an uncontrollable itch. And I carefully let my toes dry, and straightened up the place, and shampooed my hair, and combed it out with conditioner while standing in the bright white tiled shower, and rubbed lotion on myself, and stepped out of the tub, and placed a towel around me, and let my hair dry naturally, it's light brown or dark blonde, and it dries in waves, reminding me, when I look in the mirror, of that "Slavic Venus" image. But then I took a brush to it, and a hair dryer, and blew it dry. Dearest -- I could go on like this forever, would much rather murmur such inconsequential details in your ear... I really do have to cut to some sort of chase... I ended up spending the afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum... and I can hardly contain myself in joy - could hardly, there - I saw - in person - I had no idea beforehand that it would be there - the magnificent painting by Pierre Bonnard -- Siesta. I was so excited that I whipped out my camera (whipped out probably isn't the word, my bag has so many zippers whatever it is that I'm looking for - wallet, readers, hairbrush, pen -- takes three or four passes to find. Which of course attracted a security guard's attention. But I did manage a shot of it, just to prove that I was there, in the very presence of the actual painting. I was so thrilled, I can hardly tell you! (I wish I could show you the painting here, but I'm not at my own computer -- but it should be easy to find --- 'pierre bonnard siesta' ought to do it. And I'm going to sign off here, darling. Not a poetic post at all, just a very longwinded one, so many sensations to try to impart to you. And there is more I would like to say about my absolutely marvelous experience at the Met today -- but -- I would just be going on too long. Dearest love, many kisses, oh - I'm so glad that for some strange reason the 1 p.m. matinee of Exotic Marigold was inexplicably canceled! Yours, in recumbent face-down splendor, as in that beautiful Bonnard - Belle