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

Up in the brownstone aerie, experiencing a joyful, pleasant sense of exuberant well-being. I'm in the nude, tapping keys, freshly showered with a new bar of lemon verbena soap, one of my treats that I pick up for myself on my occasional sojourns to the city, which at moments, turn into talismanic treasure hunts. And so, after the Cindy Sherman show at MOMA, I strode down Fifth Avenue in my Dora Maar gear -- stylish, elegant skirt outfit, ruined, most likely, by skechers, rather than elegant sandals on pedicured feet. Or maybe I looked okay -- I caught glimpses of myself now & then, and was surprised to see how shapely my calves are, my whole physique really -- I mean, I'm middle-aged, have pounds to lose from my middle, I'm full-bodied to begin with - but you know? not bad, if I say so myself -- which I hope is saying a lot -- because, as women tend to be of themselves -- I'm my own worst critic! Another talismanic stop, into the side entrance of Saks, and I know just where the perfume counter is that I want, and so I spritzed myself with my favorite fragrance, which I actually own, and had applied after my morning shower, but it had long since faded... And then I dashed out again, barreled on a vigorous walk down Fifth Avenue, finally bailed at 16th Street... I had thought I might actually try to walk all the way home, down many more blocks more, and across a bridge, and down through Brooklyn neighborhood streets -- but I gave out, it was too much, and so I picked up the F train at 14th Street. And am glad I did, that I didn't wear myself out unnecessarily, because I felt very in need of an encounter for myself, especially with a new toy that in my insomnia overnight didn't work out for me. (Sidelight: I love to make love in daylight, during the day, when I'm fresh & awake & happy & vigorous & really able to focus. I mean, in the evening, I tend to have a few glasses of wine (yeah, I know - a shocker!), and I enjoy that as I sit down & type to you... and then afterward, I'm done - I don't drink more than that, I eat dinner... but I tend to be exhausted and done for the day. I'm 52 now, 53 in August, and not to age myself, but it simply isn't for me the way it was in my collegiate youth -- yeah, sure, drink coffee in the afternoon, drinks at night, and then have wild sex in the wee hours... And actually, for too many years, that's about roughly how it went... and it seemed adequate at the time... but things have changed, time has passed, I've become restructured I really love making love when I'm absolutely 100 percent, no artificial stimulant, such as wine... just simply my bodily corporeal self, and my mind truly being able to attend and to focus, including onto you, dearest lover... So I saw a movie this morning ("Hysteria") whose subject was - in essence - the female orgasm, and the psychic necessity of it -- which oddly, I suppose to make the subject even vaguely playfully approachable, lent to the (temporary) desexualization of (as we know now, randy) Victorian men.... And there is something to that. I feel so much better, after such a release -- I look forward to more, and with... I thought of you today, you were in my thoughts... and also I caught -- since my friends have cable TV down here -- a rare treat, Barefoot Contessa episode... I'd had my session with myself (oh effective, thank god!), and then bounded up to check the cat's plate, start preparing my dinner, and I thought --- oh Barefoot! maybe she's on -- moreover, it was a doubleheader, not her best, but ones I hadn't seen before... and sometimes I worry and wonder about encountering a man who seems incredibly sweet & sexy, and I wonder, could our worlds ever mesh -- but then I see Ina put on a beach party -- no kidding, an intimately-scaled oceanside beachside BBQ, a small circle of family & friends on one huge blanket on the sand, and then afterward, as the sun sets, they all make, at Ina's exuberant suggestion, somemores at the grill... and I feel so joyful and happy vicariously witnessing that, as I putter about this apartment, not even, this week my own and I think -- oh! I could do that! I'm not such the recluse -- I love doing that! Maybe if I were to encounter another man's children, ever -- maybe Ina could (in my quieter way) could by my inspiration... because I love to cook, and I love for others to feel welcome and happy, and loved... goodnight for now, launching without proofing - I don't have the energy to proof & edit, the font is smaller, on this computer, not my own all my love, exuberantly so, yours, Belle

Sitting here in the nude, tapping keys, much as my usual, only a hundred miles or more south... there seems to be a sexy theme to my days, these days. I arrived here in mid-afternoon, met with the wife of the couple we're friends with – she, they, are in shock that D and I are on the outs, very upset about it, I can see why, we all lived together in the same building (different apartments) for more than ten years. We were all fixtures. But things change, not all marriages last. Across the street, the beautiful brownstone building, occupied for many years by a couple and their children, whom I had fantasized about -- they seemed like the absolute dream couple, both very educated, distinguished, cultured, incredibly prestigiously employed, in their respective professions, in the fine arts. And they are history. The building has been sold, or is perhaps on the market -- at any rate, it's been vacated, the window boxes - always a glorious exuberant joy, filled with blooms, they had a flair for that - empty, barren. Funny thing is, the neighbor in whose apartment I'm staying didn't know the whys and wherefores. I helped her load her car, for her drive upstate -- to my house! And she gestured and said, oh they got divorced and had to move. I said, I know -- that is, I knew about the divorce, because it had been in the press. And I told my friend the reason why - that he had come to terms, in his late middle age, that he was homosexual. And so now that saga, as I observe it very much from the periphery - but talk about a stage-set - is over. That building is empty. And I never knew them at all, never once said hello, across the street, and yet I saw them nearly every day, morning and night, for many years, and observed their young family grow up too. And will never forget, I don't think, the distinctive sound of their front garden gate, signaling one of the family's arrival, or departure.

So after my friend left for the drive upstate, I returned to the apartment and took all of five minutes to unpack my bags -- a few tees and a couple of skirts, toiletries, etc. I left my "toy" at home, figuring I'd take a welcome, delightful stroll up Bergen Street to the Slope to a woman-centered toy shop, that I just love, and has been a real life saver for me. I confidently strode in, an old hand at this now and said, I'd like a 'nubby G' - which is a rather unattractive bright blue silicon toy, suggestive though not anatomically correct -- but with AA's ever re-charged, and with my mind cached with fantasies -- it's very effective. I have a 'fancier' toy, from that shop, that cost four times as much, and it doesn't do the trick - I don't even use it any more. So when the clerk said they were out of stock, and then graciously volunteered to go through the motions to check inventory of the Soho shop, only to learn - which I overheard, and was then personally informed -- that it's been discontinued by the manufacturer -- that was very very bad news to me - it really was! It had never occurred to me that an affordable, effective toy might cease to be manufactured...

And this bit of bad news came on top of other discoveries I'd made, as I'd simply taken a walk, albeit purposefully, around the 'old neighborhood.' Sweet Melissa's is no more? Are you kidding me? It was a very delightful tiny hole-in-the-wall cafe, with the most amazing pastries & cakes, enticing confections, expensively priced. It seemed like such an institution around here - well, I mean, I personally had always found it unaffordable - but if, sometimes on a weekend, we'd spring for a $5 take-out tiny slice of goat-cheese cheesecake - which sounds improbable, but was divine... as were their overpriced, almond-and-apricot "Queen's cakes" that are like the Polish Easter cake, mazurek. So, I note, a little dispiritedly, that this effervescent, extravagant sweets shop has been turned into a test prep tutoring/coaching center, for all those standardized exams...

And now this - my favorite toy - discontinued! Too much change! And not in the 'positive' column, though on other fronts, I don't know, yes, there is change, in the positive column... so I'm okay. And feeling really happy, and hopeful, even as I told my friend (who's at least 10 years older than me) - Yes - I am feeling really happy, and hopeful - I decided that I wish to live, that I wish to be happy.

I ended up buying a different toy, since "nubby" is no longer available, something that takes AA's.. and it seems powerful enough (more! I want more). And another bottle of lube... all insurance policy against lonely times in a beautifully spankin'-clean house upstate. And yes, maybe I'm becoming a bit more openminded about the idea of light spanking. You know - that youporn? I am learning so much! But I won't feel free to download any on our friends' computer, not my own, with "guest user" privileges, upon which - inadvertently on their part - all sorts of "parental blocks" were going up, the instant I tried to check for email messages from you, dear, or cryptic images from you - dearest (will I see you next month? I hope so, but if I don't, my hopes won't feel quite as dashed as they had been at Christmas. Do you know, I hope one day, that we can be in each other's company, and hold hands, and you can tell me everything that's been going on with you...)

I haven't tested out the new toy yet, and am not even in the mood to, but will note -- well, at last Sunday's service, the Rev M lost me just a tiny bit when in her sermon she started to go on about "signs and wonders..." -- rather more literal proofs of the manifestations of Spirit than I'm ordinarily comfortable with... But on my walk back from Park Slope, over the Gowanus Canal (yeah Canal! now Superfund site!, now might sing Walt Whitman), I crossed from this intimately-scaled yet industrial landscape in a matter of a few steps into a leafy brownstone residential shade..... And someone -- a woman I presume, had laid out a handful of books "FREE!" as a couple of post-its announced… among them faded volumes of Wuthering Heights and Lady Chatterley's Lover. There were no more than a dozen paperbacks in all laid out on the stoop, some having to do with new-parenting -- sign-language with your baby -- I don't know - I don't have a baby - I didn't examine those "what to expect" volumes but another one did catch my eye -- and sits right here on this desk now, as I type to you -- You On Top, it's called -- about skills a woman such as myself needs to know... And so that will make for great bedside reading... learning pointers about getting myself back out there – and not just watching videos (which I can't even, from here) -- but encountering him in all his amazing corporeality... me, thrown if not around his shoulders, then around his face, on top -- okay darling, probably that last line - I know it needs editing… I have imaginings and tomorrow's another day -- many kisses

Hi sweetheart, collapsed here yet again, in my altogether. It's sunny and hot, though quite tolerable as it isn't humid. But I'm beat because I ended up not cleaning the baths today, but instead doing battle, some, with the overgrown lawn. D's been doing some minimal mowing the last week or so -- a little too minimal for my taste, and plus areas he did a week or 10 days ago - needed to be clipped again. I would like to see the beautiful trees we planted stand out as distinct features in the landscape. I attacked one perimeter of our property, where the grass was waist-high, and inadvertently almost plowed over a baby pine tree we'd planted as a seedling -- it was completely inundated by all the tall grass around it --- and then I remembered we'd planted a small row of them, three or four, and sure enough, there they were, absolutely buried in the tall grass. So now they've been liberated, and between D and me, we mowed enough that if our Brooklyn house-swapping friends wish to take a leisurely stroll about our garden, drinks in hand, there is now a mown circuit, in which they can pleasantly revel at how peaceful it all looks --- oh, they have no idea! But of course - that's as it should be, for guests. I would like for them to feel that things are serene, effortless... I mean, that I made an effort for them -- for example, fresh flowers - roses - in vases all over the house -- but not that it was any kind of Major Project. Which it was -- and believe me, though it was a hardwon and exhausting battle, some incremental real progress was made on the house, such as a brand new really lovely Indian crewel-embroidered sheer curtain now hanging at the laundry room window, and so that that room looks a bit more intact from the so-called dining room (since there is no closed door between them), D even put on a coat of white primer on the bare drywall -- so suddenly, at least visually, that room is quite pleasantly tolerable, at least at a glance. Don't look too closely. Oh, at this point I don't care a whit about infrastructure... yes, I want things to look nice. Even if it's just an illusion... oh so what? It's all theatre anyway, a lot of it - isn't it?

I made nice gestures in the hospitality department ... baked cookies (oatmeal raisin chocolate chip, all combined), a plum coffee cake (that is, with last season's thawed plums - no armagnac, or vodka), and even a number of individual little pizzas, all from scratch, including the dough -- that's been rising explosively in a bowl on overnights -- I've found it in the morning puffed up like the top of a chef's hat, plastic wrap clinging to the top of it, the rubber band that was to hold things fast - clear across the room. And it's delicious... we'll all break bread together -- in absentia. I will probably lunch on mine tomorrow, on the train... D might microwave his in whatever vacant apartment he's camping out in... and our Brooklyn friends might enjoy theirs -- well, perhaps after that stroll around the mown garden. So peaceful here, unlike crazy Brooklyn!, I can almost imagine the wife of the couple dreamily sighing.

Crazy Brooklyn! I am looking forward to some serious R&R there, in their beautifully appointed fourth-floor walkup, peaceful treetop aerie -- mercifully, no work at all!

Many kisses, thinking of you, very much....

love, Belle

Hello darling, so I returned to the ice cream shop this afternoon, intent on 'prune armagnac' -- which, to my surprise wasn't even on the board at all today. Pistachio was far from my mind, so single-minded was I in my scattered purpose today -- no, it had to be the prune. And it seemed that it wasn't to be had, until I approached the big counter, with all the gallon cartons of the day's flavors... and there, tucked in, by its lonesome, was a single serving in a cup of the very flavor I was there to seek!

Although I have to say that - not that I was disappointed -- but it just didn't taste like what purported to be. It didn't taste of prune, or plum, or armagnac, or any liqueur at all - just thick, delicious, very sweet cream -- of which three or four plastic spoonfuls as I returned with the prize to my car -- were more than sufficient.

But now, since, I've just, to my very great surprise, gotten the most delightful foretaste of another flavor on the board... oh any of the flavors, really, pick one -- I thought, initially, fig & sweet cream (and said so) but it could just as well be sweet lime

many kisses, this Memorial Day weekend
maybe these are the sorts of wishes that those who lost their lives for us
dream of, from heaven above
that they have a chance
oh to lick that ice cream
or that popsicle
whatever flavor
before it all melts away...

all my love, darling -
yours, Belle

it was such a beautiful day today, in Hudson

Hello darling, it's turned into a beautiful sunny afternoon, humidity's breaking, and so, especially after a short nap, I'm feeling better, refreshed. I overdid it last couple of days with the housecleaning, and it's still not done, but I just wasn't up for any more today, especially with the air so thick. I could hardly get myself to move. But I went through, at least, motions. Edited yesterday evening's post -- what was I thinking? I think that was one of my single worst posts ever. Quality Control was AWOL. An icefilled tumbler of wine on top of my exhausted state didn't help. Also, I'd been in a tumultuous mood, for other reasons, wondering why someone with whom I'd thought I'd hit it off suddenly vanished. But he reappeared this morning... and it was as though the sun had come out. So I had to readjust my mood -- do a 180, like a big cruiseliner having to turn around. I mean, I was happy to be instantly happy again -- but then again, it took a while for the rest of me, somehow, to catch up to that.

I'm watching a youporn now, for my own edification, because I've had such a plain vanilla life, for the most part -- it's high time I find out about other flavors, that I've been craving, and I know others have too. So that's how it's done.

It's funny, having just written that -- this afternoon I was feeling very tired, yet restless - I lay down and thought if I could just fall asleep for real for ten minutes I would feel better, but my heart was racing, maybe too much salt in the packaged cheese tortellini (served with leftover kale-tomato-ground-turkey sauce) for lunch. D came home with the car, I got up and restlessly went downstairs, feeling hot and uncomfortable and out-of-sorts, and it occurred to me that something cool, delicious, and refreshing - an ice cream - might be restorative. So I took the car and drove into town, dreaming ice cream all the way -- pistachio, pistachio, oh that's what I want -- oh, and since I have $25 in my wallet, maybe a coffee too at the divine French bakery, and pick up a multigrain loaf for tomorrow's breakfast... I arrived at the bakery, and bought the bread, but frugality won out and I skipped the coffee -- besides, did I really need coffee in my semi-exhausted state? D possibly had some made, back at home. I crossed and walked a few storefronts up the sleepy, charming main street, to the ice cream shop, where young families lounged around on the steps and on the sidewalk, little children with their first cones. I perused the menu... prune armagnac, banana something or other, coffee of course -- I don't remember what else. But I was fixated on the pistachio - and there was none to be had - I verified with the clerk, who ruefully said "not today," and I said, "oh but that's really the only flavor I wanted right now," and the clerk understood, "I know, I know..."

And so I left the shop, drove back up the main street, and up the main highway, towards home. And arrived back home. No ice cream? No, the multigrain instead. That's no substitute. True, it isn't. But they didn't have pistachio.

I made do with delicious, molasses-infused dark bread, with a small wedge of local camembert pressed between, as I stood at the kitchen counter. Ah, like camembert ice cream.... oh it is divine.

Even if it isn't pistachio ice cream. Which, as I watch the balletic youporn now, which after hours of download, for an eight-minute film, I have arrived at the thrilling inevitable conclusion of -- I can completely see how a man would very very much like to hold out for strawberry-strawberry-banana.

love you
many kisses
hope your ice cream comes in all sorts of varieties darling
including 'prune armagnac' -- now I'm kicking myself a bit for not having availed myself - I wonder if it's anything like the elixir my aunt puts away late summers, when plums are in season, steeping for months, years even, in the recesses of her cool dark pantry, dark luscious fruit, purple-skinned and halved, pale flesh piled one on top of the next, quiescently dissolving, suffusing, letting go delicious flavor, perfume, intoxicatingly transforming, in the alchemy of angels, a gallon-jug of Pathmark vodka...

Hi honey, up in the aerie, nearly collapsed after doing a whole bunch of hard housecleaning, on this dustbomb of an 1885 house. I do vacuum it twice a month, at least, but when's the last time I wiped the baseboards, especially after the winter? Dust is amazingly insidious - it settles on absolutely every tiniest horizontal or angled surface, vertical ones as well, if the electromagnetics are just right. Honestly I was feeling positively forensic in my minute once-a-year passes, in the form of swipes with a wet ‘spic-an-span’ loaded sponge, going after every surface I could find, while I was possibly even remotely motivated -- due to impending house-swap, not that our friends are such hard-asses, but, well one does wish to present one's best face.

Yes indeed, on my hands and knees, darling, scrubbing, and yes it was akin to the Francis Bacon image

and let me say too - in defense of this weeklong onslaught of housecleaning (believe me, this is unusual) - that it is the best workout ever. Never mind my lame ones to Oz or C.R. I keep up this regime -- and I'll be ready for a bikini! Or a thong! Like a Brazilian! and maybe a Brazilian. (Okay, so noted, how you like it - hey I get that, I'm just trying to imagine it, a bit. First of all, I'm going to have to do it myself - am I going to itch forever after? I really don't know the ropes on this stuff, I don't mean to sound like a clod. And obviously, this isn't the sexiest post ever.)

I had a wonderful session this morning, with myself & my imaginings, and I in a walk with weights around here too, as well. So that's good. Not quite the trifecta --- or, yeah - way so, with the housecleaning. The best, sexiest, trimmest, curviest figure I ever had --- was the summer, on the coast of Maine, that I spent as a chambermaid, in a B&B in Ogunquit, Maine. Now that was a workout. And you know -- there was no hanky-panky. Well, one paying guest, a guy, did try, when I entered his family's efficiency - but nothing happened, and I simply backed out. This was - summer 1979, maybe? Though, as a chambermaid whose hours effectively ended at four in the afternoon -- I had plenty of off-site fun, with the deliriously decadent and transient scene of the "below-stairs" types in the Ogunquit environs...

Oh anyway, darling, I only think of this now -- because truly my body -- which if I don't exercise very vigorously I instantly put on weight -- was rarely ever more beautiful than that summer that, days, I was stripping beds, scrubbing baths -- first Room 1, then Room 7, 13, 12, 11 (oh they're checking out today maybe a big tip!), 27, 14....

anyway, sweetheart, I'm fading now -- here is my day, recorded, in the tiniest, most inadequate form – but recorded nonetheless --

ah, tomorrow's another day -- oh, aren't I so fortunate? yes, I do feel that I am so, I am alive, and in quite comfortable circumstances, and with a sense of clarity, and with a loving and intriguing cast of characters around me... oh well, we'll see. We will see, won't we? It simply isn't, in the U.S.A., 2012 -- the previous generation's world anymore.

Aw, not to get heavy, or political. Having a hard time letting go... this message... good night, many kisses, sweet dreams, xoxo...

hitting send, because at this point truly (as I sit here typing) I need a shower...
I will be thinking of you, very much...