Hello darling, a quick hello and a kiss, back from a jaunt east over hills and dales (and past Hillsdale) to Great Barrington, Massachusetts. I had dropped D off at a job in the morning, so I had the car all day. There was a double purpose (at least) to my trip, besides simply getting out of the house, into the world a bit (if only to escape into a movie) - to catch an indie that's unlikely to find its way here, and to score some especially high-quality local organically sustainably produced bacon - applewood smoked as it turned out - at D's request, for BLTs since the L & T from the CSA are so magnificent, the Ts acidic and sweet and bright bright red, L fresh and minerally green.

I put on my 'Sunday best' (the very same as yesterday afternoon's outfit), and I enjoyed flying over the roads east, such a sense of freedom, thinking about you the whole way, my dearest. What would I do without you, without thoughts of you? I don't know. You had to happen, for me. I wonder if it's similar for you, in some sense. And I'm not the greatest compartmentalizer, but I don't know, I guess I've become pretty good at it. What's the alternative? Well, nothing else that's come to me easily, or that I would find palatable, or realistic.

Sorry, I'm just typing here, it's very muggy, and I've got a fan positioned at the bottom of the stairs, blowing cool air upstairs, and hopefully not yet another sparrow - there have been four in the house in the last 10 days or so, one this morning too. I returned from a walk at the conservation area to find the poor thing flinging itself haplessly against pane glass in the living room and the solarium, and the northfacing kitchen window too, Gwynnie's current breezy hangout. It tried to find an escape route there, only to be swatted by Gwynnie, who thought it was the greatest game ever - bring a bird into the house for me to play with & kill and I don't even have to move from this windowsill - cool! I finally managed to get the sparrow out, and off it flew, stunned, I'm sure. How are they getting in, I wonder? D thinks there may be a gap in the siding someplace, where they've built a nest, and somehow they venture into the walls, and come out the hole in the ceiling of the laundry room - such is the state of disrepair of our house, whether or not his theory is correct.

So in G.B. I caught a delightful movie, truly about nothing but hilarious, and it made me actually feel better about my own blogging. Not that I've been feeling bad about it, but sometimes 'literary pressure' can get to one, and it's perfectly okay, I believe, to simply set down (as best one can) how a real life is going, with its mundanity, absurdity, loose ends, pissy moods, bad jokes, and all. I really enjoyed the vicarious road trip with these two not-terribly-close friends, who spend a week together touring high-end restaurants in the North of England - a sort of English My Dinner with Andre on wheels, only sillier, in a nice way. The movie doesn't take itself seriously. And there was seriously spectacular scenery of the Lake District, glimpses into the homes of Coleridge and Wordsworth, a peek at the Brontes' moors. I loved that backseat travel expedition, in a certainly non-documentary way. No, it was very real and amusing, to go along on their ride, where they would amuse themselves, and compete against one another, with dueling Michael Caine impersonations. Dearest, if it's very very hot where you are & you're bored & just need a little lightweight escape, like a fun conversation with you-know-who - then I recommend this film.

And that's it really, for now, darling. I had a beautifully effective time with you earlier today, grateful for that after a frustrating endeavor yesterday, I don't quite know what the difference is - well, sometimes the batteries, sometimes my head. I wish Pablo or Dmitri would drop me a line sometime just to let me know how he is. They don't have to but it would be nice to know. I would be elated to know, and it's not a literary competition either. Just a ping-pong ball, returned.

Dinner will be leftover roast chicken with a bit of pasta tossed with basil pesto sauce. I am feeling pleasantly sated now after a stop in the cheese shop where I purchased the smoked bacon, sliced thick. I also inquired if they had a French camembert but the clerk informed me, pointing to an empty wood round in the case, that they had just sold the last one. C'est dommage. While she sliced the bacon I wandered over to where they have samples of different cheeses that people can taste. There was a bit of the French camembert. I managed one tiny morsel, melted redolent orgiastic mouthful - and this overly-efficient clerk whisked the remaining smudge away, since they could no longer offer it for sale. Darling, it is a testament to the remaining shreds of my sanity that I didn't offer to purchase that remainder, that had been gone through by who knows how many hedge-funded grazers - which is why I wouldn't have been worried about germs from this unpasteurized cheese. All I could do was to look at it wistfully & longingly as she absconded and disposed of it with amazing alacrity. Ah well. I did try some other cheeses as well, though, whose wonderful nutty flavors resonate with me. I think I may return to G.B. sometime in the not too distant future. I'm always a bit cowed by the shop (sticker shock) but some of the cheeses I tasted weren't so outlandishly expensive, and I reflect now too that they had affordable pieces of each already wrapped in little paper packets - so next time I sample, I'll go ahead and purchase one, at least.

And that's it dearest, waving my fingers in the air around me to send a tiny sweet cloud of Miss Dior your way, mingled with the mysterious alchemical chemistry of my own pheromones and the perspiration from my dewy bare skin, yes bare. Darling love, I should run now, and go make croutons or something. The cheese clerk rang up my purchases, the pricey (though fairly priced I believe) bacon, plus two day-old baguettes. I shelled out $23. And exited the store going - wait a second, that's too much. She was busy helping other customers and I waited patiently at the front of the store, and inquired of another clerk - how much are day-old baguettes? Half-price. Which is? She had to consult with someone - they're normally four dollars. I believe I may have been overcharged. (And I completely realize that the clerk didn't realize that I'd plucked the day-old loaves from the enormous market basket at the front of the charming wood register). Anyway, it all got sorted out - the owner himself (I believe it was him) not only corrected the difference - four singles - he counted out three more on top of that - saying that he wouldn't have charged me for the bread at all at that point, so late in the day...

And so between kissing you in my imagination and dreams, and taking a long walk and running into familiar friendly faces, what a portrait - three gentlemen fallen for a moment in conversant step together, each with his dog: golden lab 'Chet' ambling ahead to greet me, white Pekinese 'Barbie' like a tiny lamb in one man's arms, and 'Beau', the older gentleman's dog, poodle mix? - I wish I could paint. We come upon one another, me pink minotaur in skirt pumping hand weights, and exchange greetings in friendliest fashion. Later I enjoy a lovely drive eastward & back, and music, and tunes, and kisses because I know you're with me, and at one moment samplings of amazing diverse cheeses, and at another, soon after, having exited the shop purchases in hand, making my way back to the car, past the cafe with casually amicable couples lounging, two long white-papered baguettes in my arms, and a close-wrapped package - no I didn't need a bag - all the while as I step, a vision perhaps - longing thoughts of you.

I'm lying in bed with you now, darling, face to face, looking into your eyes, you look into mine, I run my fingers through your hair, you touch my cheek, we smile, we laugh - and off we go -

Fled is that music...

My darling Captain, Mrs. Muir here, back at Gull Cottage a bit sooner than I expected having been out in the world for all of twenty minutes just now. Ah no matter, mostly I spent a delightfully languorous afternoon up in the aerie, gentle rain pattering, reading and musing while the 1947 classic, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, starring Rex Harrison and Gene Tierney, played on TV. Oh dearest, in my mind it was completely you and me. I was going to be good and do a workout, but couldn't bring myself to do anything as efficient as that to such a romantic film. So I went with the dreaminess, and during a commercial break showered, and at a subsequent one dried my hair (shoulder length waves), spritzed Miss Dior - so sweet smelling, later now as I type - and dressed in my lovely formfitting subtly ruffly print blouse, black skirt, and

stylish black sandals. I was readying myself - the Captain and Mrs. Muir making love with words and longing looks all the while - for a live concert of new music at five at the local international arts colony up the road.

And was back home at ten after five. I am so spoiled. I arrived there expecting to be able to avail myself of a plastic cup of white wine and delectable savory cracker with melty sheep's milk camembert. But today - no refreshments! The musical performances were to take place in an enormous pavilion set up outside in one of their vast green fields. I took a seat in the tent, the concert hadn't yet begun, there was quite a crowd. And I realized that I was just plain hungry at this moment, and really wishing for a sip of wine, and that without such refreshments in hand I simply wasn't in the mood for the concert.

So I got up from my seat, passed through a milling crowd, headed back to my car - fled the music, as it were - and drove home, where I have just now very happily availed myself of a smudge of camembert on sourdough toast and a glass of icefilled pink wine. And caught too, standing in the kitchen sharing refreshments with D, the end of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, both of us looking at the small-screen TV, me gamefaced trying not to burst into tears at the excruciatingly romantic ending. I managed, then fled upstairs, and D commented about the lush score, which I soon discovered is by Bernard Herrmann. Tonight on the radio will be a broadcast from Tanglewood, another opportunity for a live concert, even if I fled one here at five. So all in all - very satisfying!

***

... Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn...
-- John Keats (1795-1821), Ode to a Nightingale

Darling, I do feel like a Mrs. Muir here, communing with you so vividly - all this without your portrait on my wall. (Though I have, by the way, taken down the beautiful woodcut of E.D., not only because it was improperly framed, without a mat, but because - well, I don't always wish E.D.'s eyes aslant at me, in my moments with you. It was just playing with my head a little too much.)

***
Come, you'll never be tired again...

***
I include the following montage with hesitation - it is neither the wondrous film itself, nor my own response - but if you haven't seen the 1947 original, and aren't in a position to do so anytime soon, this is a nice dreamlike homage (with, blessedly, an embed code).

xoxo
my darling darling Captain

Darling, tomorrow would be a wonderful day for you to all come over. Ah I wish. Well I never know, I certainly didn't then. But the house is all clean, top to bottom, baths too. There are flowers all over the house, thanks to zinnias D brought home for me from a farmstand (awww!), that now grace a mustard jar on the kitchen table and fluted glass vase on the sideboard. I'm just back from the weekly CSA run, too, where I clipped several stalks of sunflowers with enormous heads that now sit in an earthenware jug on the fireplace hearth. I love it when the house is so freshly tidy and there are flowers all around. I was feeling more than a bit Cinderellaish as I went about vacuuming and scrubbing, not so much that I minded the chores - I didn't, I actually got into them, except that I was getting into a broody mood in my mind, over all sorts of things, completely unrelated to the tasks at hand. No matter, I cheered up, maybe just had to let off a little steam, or tears, like the Holly Hunter character in Broadcast News, who allows herself a good private sob once a day, then dries her eyes, adjusts herself, and is off and running.

Beethoven's Eighth Symphony on Tanglewod tonight, if I make it. Do I know that symphony? Probably I do, but maybe not as well as some of the others, I can't seem to conjure any of it.

So glorious at the CSA farm this afternoon, dearest. A spectacular sunny day, the very height of summer. And the produce is abundant and perfect and gorgeous. Today's share: peaches, corn, canteloupe, cucumber, yellow squash, zucchini, tomatoes (tiny plum & a quart of lush ripe ones), broccoli, broccoli rabe, mesclun lettuce, parsley, green pepper, eggplant, sweet white onions. Plus a bunch of thyme that I clipped from the herb garden (with tinkling fountain and sweet cat that abandoned chasing a butterfly to march up miniature path for a pat from me hello), plus the flowers. What a bounty! I was in heaven. It reminded me of Brooklyn days when I used to enjoy going to various farmers' markets around the city, in Union Square, Boro Hall, or Grand Army Plaza. As much as I enjoyed doing that - well, I was younger then, it was always a schlep, on foot, or subway, or bus, with my hauls - but oh the produce and flowers were always glorious. And too, as I was putting away the week's "share", so fragrant all this incredibly fresh produce - I remembered what a revelation foodstuffs were when I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area right after college.

That was a wonderful education for me, the three years I spent there, living in Oakland (across the Bay Bridge from S.F.) and working as a paralegal on an upper floor of Embarcadero Center 4 (actually that came a bit later, that solid job, after I'd done many months of temping at Shell HQ). Growing up, the cuisine in my parents' house was limited, limited to the Polish dishes that evidently my father insisted my mother prepare, the only dishes that were to his liking, and he didn't venture far from the tried and true. I liked those hearty dishes too - golompki, bigos, kotlety, roast chicken, various soups - rosu (chicken soup) and barszcz, and soups with cauliflower & potato, and odd very white dishes of boiled chicken in a white sauce served over rice. There were others too.

But while Polish-American in upbringing, I was interested in all sorts of influences. I discovered lasagna, for example, at the annual Christmas fairs held in the basement of the Catholic church school across the way from us. Oh my goodness! Those weren't even very good lasagnas, by my standards today that is, but then - they were such a revelation, so different! I fell in love, and became interested in cooking - if only to try to duplicate such delectable dishes - as a girl. Which my mother and my siblings appreciated, they loved diverse dishes too - but my father professed to hate Italian food and would never touch it, which would force my mother to have something else on hand for him. What a pain. The thing is, too, that I suspect that my father actually would have liked the stuff - he just had some "idea" about it - what the idea was, I really don't know. It was some form of, I don't know, stubbornness. It doesn't make sense to me. He liked his very narrow, circumscribed comfort zones (in a scary, uncertain, unfriendly world) and his cuisine at home is where he drew a firm line (by no means the only such firm line).

Growing up in the seventies, and going grocery shopping with my mother at the A&P - this was the era when produce - what I vividly now remember - involved cello-wrapped packages of wan hard tomatoes, and iceberg lettuce. The only lettuce to be had, seemingly, was iceberg. And there were plastic lemons, with fake lemon juice. And parmesan cheese shaken out of cardboard containers. And jars of marshmallow fluff and peanut butter, which combined with Wonder Bread, made fluffernutter sandwiches. And there was Shake-a-Pudding. And instant mashed potatoes.

My God, the processed bad food I ate growing up! Put in this context, the hearty Polish fare, made from fresh cabbage or canned sauerkraut, root vegetables, and various meats stewed to a chewable state - probably saved my life!

But it was limited nonetheless.

As I grew older - met 1.0 and his family and encountered such delicacies as (favorites of mine to this day) avocado, acorn squash, boeuf bourgignon, croque monsier, lobster with drawn butter, beaujolais; then went away to college where the dorm food wasn't so bad, though not so adventurous either (though I loved Sundae Nights, on Sundays, enormous vats of all sorts of flavors of ice cream, along with a dizzying salad-bar array of toppings, walnuts, sauces, "jimmies" (because this was near Boston), hot fudge, butterscotch, whipped cream, cherries, bananas)

--- darling the foregoing made me suddenly feel amorous --

After graduation for many wrong reasons I boarded a plane and moved to Oakland. It was a roller coaster time, my three years there, but I so enjoyed the pleasure of encountering wonderful foods for the first time, in Berkeley, maybe especially. The gourmet revolution was just getting underway there, and I was a little too young for it, and also didn't have money for luxury items such as chocolate truffles. Well, maybe I'm conflating periods of time that I lived there, and later for a time, visited. Coffee drinks, for example, so incredibly fantastic after anything I'd ever had before - I quickly formed a 'large latte no foam' habit. And spent lots of times in cafes, writing letters -- alas, not to you. And I discovered, I don't know, romaine lettuce, and Szechuan food, and wonderful California wines, and cheeses, and basil pesto (a favorite to this day), and olives...

oh I could go on and on, but won't for this evening, darling - enough for now
I'm surprised my self that that vein of happy sensory memory opened up like that, and another day, perhaps my writing could do it more justice

for now will run, with many kisses for you
and I didn't even mention that today I also roasted a chicken, and baked chocolate chip cookies from scratch, and stirred together pizza dough

so if you come over tomorrow I could whip up a pizza very quickly
or pissalediere, since I have a good supply of onions, olives, and anchovies
and spinach pie in the freezer
though no cake, in case it's someone's birthday

well, I'm sure we could always prop a candle into a cookie, and birthday person could blow it out

blowing one out now, even though it's not my birthday, shutting my eyes tight, making a wish

love you
hope you're having a wonderful day wherever you are
xoxo

Hello darling, it is just such an afternoon here as depicted in this beautiful painting. The view is reminiscent of those that one sees from various points in Columbia County, looking westward to the mountains. I'm idly wondering what particular vantage point this painting depicts - it doesn't look like the Hudson. Is it Catskill creek, in a far more bucolic era? Or perhaps the East Branch of the Delaware River, near Margaretville, in the Western Catskills? I don't know. But the light is timeless as ever, as are the immovable crests of oceanic hills.

My darling, how are you? I'm feeling a little restless myself. If you were here, I might suggest we go out. On a number of Thursday evenings over the summer here are tours of Olana, special curator-guided ones at sunset, accompanied by wine tastings. That sounds like a lovely hour to spend, getting an informed behind-the-scenes glimpse of the place, as well as taking in panoramic vistas from Church's eye of the world, at the time of day when the light (other than at dawn, perhaps) is at its most exquisite, the late afternoon hour when the day hasn't quite tumbled into twilight yet, or evening, a silent balancing act when time and temperate air seem to stand still. Perhaps there's a peep of the moon somewhere in the sky, behind the scenes, in its plein air dressing room, awaiting the evening's debut.

And then comes a later hour, when all the colors deepen and redden and darken, alchemically. Oh to be there with you, sipping cool white wine from a plastic cup, smiling at you, basking in the presence of being with you, and with Church, and the moon, and the setting sun, and the mountains, and the prospect of your kisses later in darkness, langorous entwined moments when all earthly light has gone out, just you and me in the car, before you start the engine and we head back to town.

images:
Thomas Cole (1801-1848), River in the Catskills, 1843, oil on canvas, (27 1/2 x 40 3/8 in., Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

view from Olana at sunset (via)

***
P.S. to 'Lovely Evening' -- I would have embedded the Windmills of My Mind youtube with its haunting imagery and song, but the embed code had been disabled. I for one couldn't figure out a way around it.  Je ne regrette rien - except perhaps that. It would be wonderful to have that clip forever embedded (oh that very word!) in my original post... xoxo

My dearest, the air is close and still, the sky a blank pall, it seems to be getting more humid, perhaps rain is coming, which would be welcome. I started out the day feeling anxious, it took a while to wear off. Amorphous anxiety, something that has plagued me my entire life, perhaps my main problem. I seem to have lost a 'follower' overnight, which shouldn't bother me in the least, I have no idea who the person is, why he decided to formally follow my blog in the first place (over a year ago I think, though I've lost track). It shouldn't make the slightest difference to me. And yet it was a tiny shock to see the (4) turn into (3). So, my response, in having as usual, no clue, no answers - vague anxiety. My blog is what it is. He may have chosen to formally follow it on some whim at the time, and then stayed out of politeness. Perhaps my blog was too much. Perhaps I do write too much. I am a little "out there" I know. I'm not for everybody, to say the least. Even now I don't know why I'm going on about this. Well, of course I wish whoever it was well, I hope he enjoyed what he read while he was around, and that's that - I hardly knew ye!

It's okay. I write for my beloved(s), and if others find any interest or enjoyment in my personal writing, that's entirely fine with me. I write under a pen name, though I suppose anyone who cared to dig could probably figure out my identity if they wanted to. It's a shred of privacy I retain for myself. I realize that I sometimes go out onto the far end of the very high diving board here, and that it may be shocking to some. But there's a part of me that, in fact, is affronted by the crudeness of much in our culture, and its concomitant repressedness - porn culture as the flipside of overly buttoned-up societal propriety. Or not so much buttoned-up - as false, that there's a denial of healthy instincts - that leads to the undergrounding, and raunching, of loving instincts. Anyway, I'm certainly not here to moralize or to set an example or anything of that nature. I'm simply here to try to put down what I'm feeling on a given day, going through, and I myself perceive my own experience, and what I write, as a contrast to what is fed to us daily by mainstream media.

Darling, I am so sorry I am being unclear. I am feeling particularly inarticulate at the moment. Another thing that really bothers me in our culture today is the hyper-polarization of the political parties, particularly the truly frightening extreme far-right wing. I could be wrong, but my instincts about them generally (aside from the obvious puppeteering by bottomlessly cash-rich corporate interests) is that their minions, at any rate - I tend to view them as a bitter, repressed, narrowminded, provincial, meanspirited, hatemongering, loveless lot. To me they are akin to terrorists. They seem to be a very different species of human being from me. I mean that figuratively - except that viscerally I feel it quite literally. So anyway, without being overtly 'prescriptive' - my blog isn't about anything than myself, I'm not selling anything, not even an idea - but if I wish to resist in some way this species of human being that I find, frankly, psychotic and demotic, bent on twisting and destroying gentler ways of life that I hold dear - then all I can do is to try, as truthfully as I can in my own way, for my self, and for my beloved muses who I feel sure love me back - that's all I can do, just be this presence, who amid all the noise, and acrimony, and dysfunction, says --- how was your day dearest, I hope you are doing all right, and I thought of you very much today, including effectively, and I'm putting my arms around you and kissing you hello. Take my hand, and too this delicious glass of something, and follow me, let's go out into the garden, tell me about your day.

XOXO my love

Hello my darling, placing my hands in yours, reaching up to kiss you. I've actually been communing with you for a while now, trying to figure out what to write. It's a beautiful hour, crickets ring, a breeze moves through, rattling the blinds, whooshing in trees, stirring the wind chimes hung from porch eaves. I've felt low energy today, perhaps from weeding yesterday, who knows. I did go for a walk at the conservation area, and worked out to C.R. Otherwise though, I just felt like lounging most of the day, which I gave into a little bit, to get some rest, but mostly resisted, trying to keep myself moving. Or at least reading. Books I've renewed twice now (the system won't allow me to renew them again) are due this week, so I've put E.D. aside for a spell, to try to speed-read through a couple of volumes before I have to return them. So I've dipped into the James Lord memoir of Dora Maar again. In 1954, at age 46, she does calisthenics too, Lord reports, behind closed doors, in order to maintain her figure, "always... ample, a feature very attractive to Picasso" - but inevitably ampling in middleage - and so Dora took to the mats or bathroom floor in rigorous exertion to fight the tide.

Dearest, I have so little to report tonight, and let me not become cowed by coming fresh off Lord's lyrical prose. Which I contemplate including here, but why would I wish to do so? I can't have his prose take over mine... or mine to then seem lacking in comparison to his rapturous flights! I'm fine, just flailing about a bit...

I also paged through, and finished, a novel by a writer whom I'd heard read from her work a few months back. The story involves the callous deflowering of the protagonist, a naive, sensitive, unworldly teenage girl. The novel is beautifully written, dreamlike, creepy, realistic - and dark. Despite my physical fatigue my mood is sunnier than that (I hear children's voices babbling next door, a mower running, birds at the feeders chirping). Reading of the protagonist's heartless deflowering reminded me of how very, very different my own 'coming of age' had been. Really, it was the most exquisite experience, drawn out over several months - dance, seduction, initiation, progression, all incredibly lovely and exciting, yes scary & uncertain of course, but at every step over that time it was at a pace I could deal with and absorb. And there was a period of months when I, having been taught how to fly, flew, and loved it. All in all, it was one of the most incredible experiences I ever had, over that time, and afterward encountering, serially, one by one, subsequent lovers, particularly when the memory of him was though time had passed, still vivid - disappointing. What a difference, to have been so beautifully introduced. It has to have been a formative experience for me, of course it was. The shock & pain came when he left - conclusively if not abruptly, there was confusing talk of our being engaged, but it wasn't really the case. We were done. Although not entirely, I seem to have meant quite a lot to him too - though - well, it never did work out. But I think of this now - my gradual, very gentle, patient, and beautiful education - in light of this novel that includes scenes of base, malevolent taking. There is a huge difference.

And that's it for now, darling. I'm feeling off my game this evening, as far as posts go. I wonder about your own experiences, how things went for you, in formative stages, and later. Those moments are so important, aren't they? Yes of course they are. I don't have any big lesson to impart or anything like that. But I am grateful, all these years later to this day, that I can look back to a marvelous chapter in my life, that has essentially, all these years later, served me in good stead.

My dearest, my life here is quite slow, seemingly uneventful, leisurely paced. And yet sometimes my perceptions are so vivid, cinematic, changing frame by frame, second by second - it's hard to keep up with it all, savoring a particularly wonderful moment as it's happening, and at the same time thinking of you, and wishing to note it for you, for later, and then the image or sensation is gone, replaced immediately by another, as time careens forward & forward, leaving the immediate past in its receding wake. Yesterday was such a day, when I felt this sense - not of heightened senses, it wasn't that. (I'm not going mad.) It was a particularly fine day, clear, sunny and dry, and at the conservation area so many wildflowers were in bloom, and wild raspberries - every step I took I encountered the most exquisite impression or scene. I just couldn't keep up. Yesterday I had taken some photos, and also dashed a few lines off to M.F.I.F. I thought I might make them a preamble to today's post, but they seemed so literally yesterday - that though I assembled the post today I backdated it - to yesterday.

My darling Prince Albert, I still don't know what's in your laundry, but I suppose it's good we retain a few secrets from each other. I hardly ever imagine you in either boxers or briefs - they're entirely beside the point in my fantasies.

And thank you, darling Dmitri, for listening (hand to your ear) and you're at my kernel too, though I tend to wear my kernel on my sleeve. At least here I do. In Vienna, at a holiday soiree, all would be very buttoned-up kernel. I can keep a straight face, except with you - I smile now to think of your beaming face!

Enough cryptic talk! Either those were your page hits & google searches or they weren't - and I'll let scholars figure out two hundred years from now what I meant. Secrets of the Dead. Ha! I'll never tell.

Oh kisses, darling.

Today was another fine day. It started out rough, with D and me coordinating to shove each of the three cats into carriers for their annual shots at the vet. Claire nailed my wrist as I grabbed that little heifer and tried to drop her in the carrier that stood vertically on end. Forget Alan Ginsberg - boy can Claire howl. The affrontery of having handled her! Gwynnie's a sweetheart - she's always a little late to figure things out - like a sweetnatured stoner - say, whaddup - thunk - in you go, with Claire. Penelope sat on the windowsill in the solarium regarding all this human v. feline commotion. Then it was her turn. She is one smart cat. She didn't struggle so much, but spread her hind legs wide so that it was very hard to get her in the carrier. Strategic! In she went too, though, forthwith, like a toy Jack in the Box whose head you push in and close the lid.

Ah, and then I had the house blessedly all to myself for several hours and took the sweetest advantage with you, darling. We were slow dancing and neither of us could stand it anymore so we went to the Bunny Ranch motel where of course you picked me out...

And then I was up, and in my summer pink leotard/skirt uniform, and was going to go for a walk around here, but the weights were in the car, and without weights that mean business I feel a bit too much like a streetwalker wearing such a pretty outfit for a casual walk. (I don't have workout clothes, or shorts - I'd say I've forsworn them at this point - and it's too warm for jeans. Plus I just love skirts these days. But I have only two: my everyday pink minotaur outfit, and then my "Sunday-best" Pucciesque blouse & black tulip skirt outfit. The End.)

It was overcast, clouds were gathering, so I entered the raised bed corral and in desultory fashion started pulling a few weeds. And then really got into it, and pulled about two wheelbarrows worth - which tells you a lot about the overgrown, neglected state of our garden. And this little area, for all my effort, still isn't completely weeded, though it looks neater. I'm really discouraged that it wasn't planned/designed/hardscaped/whatever right so that it is easier for me to maintain. I was quite hot & bothered by the end, and complained to D when he came home with the liberated cats, I used to love gardening (true!) and now I hate it. Just because I'm overwhelmed, can't keep up with it. Black landscape cloth, for example, that D and I had put down a summer or two ago against weeds - is for the birds. Weeds punch through it. I don't know, the paths between the beds need to be bricked, or cartloads of pine mulch put on them -

oh whatever. Good deed done. Some weeding.

Then I had the car for a bit because D finally had a chance to weedwack the ditch and trim the privet hedge (OMG how overgrown that had gotten, but now it's looking tamed & contained) so I went to the conservation area and marched around with weights.

Came home in time to possibly work out to C.R. but at this point I just about collapsed. There's no way I could do a workout after all that weeding (that was the workout). I lay down - looking exactly, uncannily so, like that Bonnard Siesta painting I always laugh when you signal me with, and fell asleep just like that, naked, face down in the sheets, the furnishings of the room in just those gold and green colors, though no white dog by the side of the bed, though Penelope (mostly white haired cat) snoozed in the window.

And after a nap with fitful dreams that I no longer remember, and waking with a feeling of complete exhaustion, somehow I regained my energy, rebounded to do a whole lot of cooking & food prep in the kitchen. This I did entirely in the nude, while a rainstorm raged outside, pummeling and pounding the tin roof of the solarium next to the kitchen. I love the sound of rain, there was no way I was putting on Ken Burns when I could listen to the black magic of the black rain. And I love going about the kitchen and prepping food in the nude. Who cares if I splash anything (though I'm more careful - experienced now - than I was last summer - you can put on my tombstone - 'don't fry eggplant in the nude.')

Oh what didn't I do in my buff buff state? I clipped two quarts of green beans, blanched them, and wrapped and put them away in the freezer. Baked - not fried - a single eggplant, puzzling what to transform it into - finally it came to me - baba ghanoush. Made more salsa with cherry tomatoes. Whipped cream with superfine sugar & vanilla to go with the peach tart that I baked yesterday that no one's touched for want of whipped cream... sliced baguettes and garlic & tossed with EVOO and baked as croutons... made a pitcher of iced tea with the last of the local honey...

and that's it sweetheart, read more about E.D., am grateful myself for my fine education, even if I can't use words such as 'parallax,' 'corolla,' and 'perihelium,' with her ease & alacrity, though, who knows, they may be coming darling, I have since looked them up in the dictionary and had 'aha' moments.

Throwing my arms around you sweetheart, imagining your wonderfully handsome sweet smiling face, and hoping all is well with you, and that you think of me often, even if you have no idea what sort of underwear I wear, which may be just as well - well, no it's kind of cute actually...

love you
xoxo