Haven't been into blogging much; still adjusting to the news about Craig and my new job.   Hehe, called Chelle.   The house is really shaping up.   She says she fucked Sayler during a moment of weakness.   I kinda suspected it before but didn't have the heart to so much as drop a hint (like, how he was so totally radically UNDERSTANDING about her rent's being over two months late, etc).   But I couldn't resist saying, now that the truth was out, "Gads, stoop low girl."  

To which my friend snidely reminded me of the time I succumbed to Rich's advances.   "You gotta admit Rich was total disgust, Tina, trying to french you with a mouthful of puke."

But at least Rich didn't belch and fart continually while he was screwing me, I pointed out.   Grosso maxo.   "How could you stand it?!"  

"I dunno," says Chelle, concentrating on her cigarette.   It was time to drop the issue.   I really could dig why she did it, though; the chick's honnie, man.

Brett and I spent the Fourth in Mendocino.   He rented an old clapboard whaler's cottage on Highway One overlooking the beach.  Circa 1890, the walls and ceilings (nine feet throughout) were all whitewashed bead board, there was a large bathroom with a chain-flush toilet and claw foot tub, and you had to walk through one bedroom to reach the second.   Half of the full-length front porch had been converted into a narrow sunroom-type den cluttered with maps and a spyglass for whale watching.  The unfitted country kitchen, basically untouched since the 30's, was complete with a maple trestle table and a big white antique china dresser stocked with odds and ends, and had a long Victorian drain board sink and large enamel gas range with multi-sized ovens.   The stove was set right next to the back door so I could see the hilly overgrown unfenced yard while I cooked.   That's right, no wine and dine this time; we just settled in like a regular pioneer couple, lazed around, and toured the sites.   Brett has a friend in the stock car races up here.   I guess the boy thought I'd dig it in view of my intense housefrau behavior last visit.   Only Sunday we did go out for dinner at the historic Little River Inn in honor of my twentieth birthday the next day.   Afterwards Brett presented me with a new leather-bound journal with marbleized edges.  Neat.

It was a grand time to work on my writing.  I could've been Alice B. Toklas, sitting back against the living room wall on the cool hardwood floor in my jeans and one of Brett's tees, the proverbial mug of coffee and cigarette (clove, but what the fuck) at my side, one of Noni's almond biscotti, hard as cuttlebone, humidifying on a pink melamine plate, the front door open wide to catch the quiescent morning tide, a study in sapphire blue.   And my subject, spotted by accident in a crumpled local paper left by the last guests, waiting pensively before me.   A friend of my brother Greg's has been convicted of murder.   Who would've thought it?

Wait a sec.   Why am I waxing literary when there's nothing wistful about Craig's crime at all?  In truth, I was wired from the moment I saw the headline, and afraid to be there alone.   Old houses are evil; they can't forgive the past.   Each wall, every floorboard, every pane of glass is warped with repressed anger.  The tall grass hides snakes; every car on the highway's an intruder up to no good, its red brake lights the eyes of demons, double checking behind them.   I couldn't stand the bathroom window uncovered, view or no; after dark the black reflection hides a face pressed to the glass, a hand feeling along the ledge.   In daylight the face recedes into a window of an unfriendly neighboring house.   The rusty water's tainted from a hidden grave.   The walls encroach, tomblike.  There's a subtle odor of rot.   Pipes and heater registers and floor boards are overloud.   Does the phone still work?   Better check.  While you're at it, lock and bar the cellar.   

Craig came from an old town, an old house.   And to those old haunts he returned, becoming an unwitting avenger of the past. All people possess a demonic half, don't you know?  Nothing was as ever innocent and fun and carefree as it seemed.   They got one by you.   Only through sheer intuition and stubborn self-love did you escape not knowing, but also the luck of the draw.   Cuz it could've easily been you, slayer or slain.  And  now that all the good memories have been painted over to reveal the fine lines and the shadows, which hand of fate hovers over the blank canvas of the future?    

---------------------------------------------------------------

Almond Biscotti of Tuscany

8 oz (about 1 1/3 cups) whole unblanched almonds
4 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon butter flavoring
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
1/4 teaspoon coconut extract
1/8 teaspoon lemon extract
1 lb (about 2 1/4 cups) granulated sugar
1 lb (about 4 cups lightly spooned) unbleached white flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp cinnamon
Optional:  1 egg for glaze

Blanch 2 ounces (about 1/3 cup) of the almonds:  Drop into boiling water.  When skins puff--no more than 1 minute--immediately pour into strainer and rinse with cold water; drain on paper towels.  Pinch skins off between thumb and forefinger and spread on fresh paper towel to dry.  Meanwhile, lightly toast the rest in a 300 degree Fahrenheit oven for about 15 minutes; set aside to cool.

Combine eggs and flavorings in large mixer bowl fitted with flat beater.  Add sugar and beat until very smooth and light in color.  Grind the 2 ounces blanched almonds in food processor or blender with about a cupful of the flour plus the baking powder, salt, soda, and cinnamon. When the consistency of fine meal, add to egg mixture and beat at low speed until just smooth.  Beat in the whole toasted almonds.  Add remaining flour and mix until just smooth.  

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.  Divide dough into 3 portions.  On well-floured work surface, shape each into a thick log about 2-inches in diameter.  Place, one per pan, on large greased and floured cooky sheet. If desired, beat optional egg until very smooth and brush generously on logs before baking to form glaze.  Bake until golden brown, about 40 minutes.  Transfer to wire racks.  

When thoroughly cool, take a large, sharp, unserrated knife and cut diagonally like French bread into slices about 3/4-inch thick. (You may make them thinner to eat plain or coat with semisweet chocolate, but they tend to fall over when toasting and need to be turned).  Stand slices upright on cooky sheet with at least an inch between them and toast at 275 degrees for about 40 minutes, rotating pan from back to front after 20 minutes.  They should be very hard and dry, but only slightly browned.  Cool. Serve with coffee, milk, sherry or other dessert wine, such as the traditional Italian Vin Santo.  Biscotti are best eaten when dipped into liquid, which softens them.  They keep well in an air-tight container, practically forever if chilled.

The fog rolls into the bay like slush,
Telling the errant heat to mush. 
After four days' sweltering steam bath glow,
Fetch my cocoa and cardigan, ho!

Ho, ho, ho.   I have a feeling D.J.'s writing a major piece behind the scenes in my style;  her blogs lately sound more and more like me, carefree and up (whatcha practicin' fo'?), but her brash, schizo personality still creeps through.   At least she's too worried about signing her name to my own writing to blab on me, I gather.   I think she's in my email discussion group, though; a guy in there named Ray keeps posting satirical messages seemingly mixing her and my content each time I blog.

Watching Tokyo TV gave me a yearning for Chinatown.  Besides the charming B-ads, I'm casually studying female Japanese role models--at least what I can glean through body language and voice tone, there generally being no English subtitles.   The new Japanese woman comes across more liberated than American, if you overlook her too tender age.  Since no one has felt like cooking, our house, like most older bay area homes, having no air conditioning, Mom and I did escape for Thai food a couple times this week between shopping at our humongous Cost Plus Imports store and other haunts.  I found some really neat heavy porcelain luncheon plates, onions in sky blue against a checkered blue and white background, sort of psychedelic.  San Francisco restaurant attendance is down, however, says the news.  Dad was furious.   "You give 'em the suggestion and they stay away like silly sheep," he carped at the screen.  "Shuddup."

I might have a new job through, of all people, my honey babe.  His father knows a fledging architect up here in need of a general office girl.   Duties consist of making blueprints, bidding contracts, mailing portfolios, etc.  His wife is the receptionist and I interview with them this Tuesday.   Hope it's not really hot again that day, so I don't walk in all wilted.  Then it's off with Brett for Fourth of July weekend and my birthday.  He says he has a nice surprise.   I can't wait!

Today started out ordinary enough.   Mom, whose car's in the shop (but really probably just an excuse to get me in the right frame of mind for JOB hunting), asked me to pick her up from work; I had to take the old Chevy so we could leave it at the mechanics'.   One of those big classic shark-finned things that floats along on quake-proof shocks and lent new meaning to the term, "boat," she rarely gets any exercise, being stabled out back in the single detached garage, and was badly in need of a tuneup.   Dad bought her to restore ten years ago, but never got around to it. 

From the moment she got wind of freedom, everything went wrong.  First, some tourists had parked in front of our driveway again, blocking my path.  They often have this problem in the business areas, but occasionally some cheapskate who can't endure the thought of paying $10.00 and up for parking makes his way up here.   As much as we hate to tow them ("I left my car, in San Francisco"), being they know where we live and the $100.00 fine, we sometimes have to, and today was such a day.   After seeing the offending car dragged off, Lizzy wouldn't start; as might be expected, her battery was dead from disuse.   By this time Dad was gone, and all the neighbors I knew as well.  So I had to call Triple A and have their emergency tow truck give me a free jump.   Just my luck, they arrived in only ten minutes, but the mechanic had to point out Lizzy's inadequate smog device.   That again?  We already had it replaced twice!   "Sorry, Miss.  New regulations."  As soon as we were off, my foot pumping the soggy brakes all the way down the hill, my eyes scanning the distorted bubbled rear view mirror like a diving mask, I noticed how much gas there was:  about two gallons, fumes to this baby.   Now that was groovy, cuz my wallet was near empty and I'd been planning to stop at the bank for cash!   

I was crawling along on my way back through the narrow bank parking lot, thinking I'd just make it in time before Mom gave up and took the bus to the garage, when I heard the sickening horrendous C R U N CH, followed by the sound of a bull in a china closet.   Before I could even think what had happened, the owner of the china closet, a sweaty bald old man in an old suit with a huge pot belly, emerged from one of the cars parked on the right, his meek elderly wife at his side, fighting mad.  Oh, God.   Despite my "hugging the middle" as Dad had always warned to keep clear of the sides, I'd still misjudged my distance, like a nouveau fat lady who's not used to her wider hips keeps bruising herself on the furniture and door jams.   Or at least this was what I was led to believe from all the man's cursing and threats.   Fuck, my first accident.  They'd probably raise our insurance five hundred bucks.   Not quite the end of the world, but close.   I should've never had that damn car towed; the Powers That Be had seen fit to turn the tables  themselves.   My legs felt like water as I peeled myself off the rotting vinyl bench seat to own up to my responsibility.   Just what I needed on a day like this, a fuckin' record HEAT WAVE.   

"Look what you've done, young lady!"  The blotchy-faced man hollered at the peak of his blood pressure.   "Don't you know how to drive?!!"

Thanks to Lizzy's heavy chromed steel bumpers and unswerving weight, almost all the damage was done to his car, a relatively new economy sedan.  It was as if he'd hit a concrete wall.  The left back corner was badly dented like a beer can, and the plastic signal light cover shattered like colored glass on the ground.   That was how I noticed it, the blinking light; so, the cantankerous codger had been trying to back out!   Right when I was coming behind him, before I had time to stop.   Sure enough, his car was a couple feet out from the curb.  Now, that was rather nasty of him, taking advantage of my youth and gullibility and the fact I was stuck with this fuckin' tank to claim it was my fault!   Getting me all worried and practicing what I was going to say to my parents for NOTHING!  I would've given him a piece of my mind, had it not been for his bad hernia or abdominal tumor or colostomy bag or whatever that big unsightly lump was protruding from beneath his shirt, just above the belt line in the area of his liver.   Poor man; he probably didn't have long to live.   That certainly explained his bad temper and dishonest live-for-today approach.   Feeling sorry for him, I calmly pointed out how, from the look of things, he'd actually hit me.  

Rattled by my legalese, he immediately shut up, exchanged anxious looks with his wife, and barked, "Well, you should've been looking!"   

"I don't think it will be necessary to notify my insurance company,"  I continued with renewed strength and maturity.   "Hope everything works out for you!"   

"Yeah," the wife put in.  "He's not feeling too well."

"Sorry."

Visibly relieved I wasn't going to penalize them in return, the couple retreated to their car and waited for me to pass. 

Last night was interesting.  Brett got in at six with a headache from driving all day and didn't feel like going to the restaurant, poor baby.  I kissed his chest through his moist hot shirt, feeling his heart beat hard and fast like a puppy's.   I wanted to fix him one of my favorite dinners instead, fettuccine alfredo with sour dough garlic bread, stuffed artichokes, and nonfat gourmet chocolate ice cream, but he was so overwhelmed with the hearty Romano cry of "Eat, eat, eat, eat, EAT!", what with Daddy's trying to pressure him to go out over the telephone and Mom's ravaging the shelves for "something light, then," he looked as though he were going to vomit.  So I got him some aspirin and iced tea, swaddled him in a snowy thermal blanket on the fainting couch downstairs in the study, and began making the dinner anyway.  Knowing the Brettster, he'd be hungry as a bear after a good nap, and was.

Dad stopped by at eight just in time to catch him in the shower.  And what was I, young lady, doing hanging around the bathroom with our guest in his "birthday suit?"   He winked.   Huh?   HUH?!?   Mmm, nothin'!   And down in the kitchen:  What's this, domestic Parmesan cheese?   No olive oil on the artichokes?   That much vinegar in the salad dressing, again?   All in his typical brusque, hurried style.   Hadn't he told me......"Nevermind, just don't expect to get a blue ribbon for it," he mumbled, standing over a generous scoop of pasta on a dessert plate, wiped clean with a piece of garlic bread.   "Sauteed garlic, minced.   Not bad, not bad."   He winked apologetically.  "We'll make a sous chef outta you, yet."  

This small gesture of approval was enough to make me happy.   "Mom picked up the mascarpone crepe at ________'s,"   I said, setting it on the snack bar so he could wolf down a piece and evaluate it.   Though he has a bottomless stomach with the metabolism of a humming bird, Dad has only a small paunch to show for all his gourmandising.   He just never sits still long enough to get fat.

"Oh, that."   He frowned, lifting the box by one corner and letting it drop as if it were a piece of garbage.   "I can't stand to look at another dessert after supervising the pastry chef all day.   Save it for me, okay, honey?   I hate to be rude to your friend, but really I gotta get back.   See ya!"

Hugs and kisses, and gone.

It happened that my friend was still quite sleepy after dinner and a cable movie in the study.   Though he was there for me, never fail, he really wasn't in the mood.   I, however, had become totally sex-starved during our one week absence and was all over him.   I knew it was inconsiderate, but rarely do I get to set the pace, and my lover's being so slow had me perfectly primed.   Plus, with his being pinned beneath me on the firm chaise and my getting excellent leverage by placing one foot on the hardwood floor, the position was optimal.   I could really grind, grind, grind.  But "Ooops,"  I heard him breathe, and the exquisite fullness inside me melted right just as I was about to stretch into the finish.

Brett looked up at me in the darkness through droopy eyes.  "Sorry, babe, but you're too sexy," he said, and fell asleep.

Determined to "have mine," we made another attempt at lovemaking in the front room after we enjoyed a midnight snack of coffee with chocolate ice cream.  By then Dad was home and I expected the man to shut himself in the second upstairs bathroom any minute for a good gargle.   Filled with a mischievous spirit, I complained that the sofa was "too squeaky."  We relocated to the Persian rug near the foot of the stairs, my partner unaware of my father's routine.   I knew they could hear my passionate moans and cries echo up the stairwell.   Tina's a big girl now, I was conscious of proclaiming.   Daddy, look down.  What do you see?  But no one came out of my parents' bedroom.   They really didn't want to see.   Not any more.  Damn.   But all for the best!

Not much doing today, but my boyfriend's back to his usual rambunctious self.   After brunching with my parents at the restaurant, in which he was very impressed and Dad just beaming with pride, he wanted me to escort him to the nearest badass hill where he could try to kill himself on his skateboard.   I pleaded too many tourists in the way, so we hanged out in Golden Gate Park.   He left at four.

Just kicking back, waiting for my honey to arrive, and enjoying the finer things about being home, like being super clean, super organized, and being pampered with premium eats.   I know I'm really home when I wake up to the heady scent of real coffee, French roast coffee just ground from shiny black fresh beans, still warm in the bag from the roaster, brewed full strength--none of that noxious toilet water (Daddy:  "That's a sin!  That's no class!  I send you to college and you forget how to make coffee?!!") we get by on down South.  The only thing missing is the buzz; Mom likes decaf.   Home also means the best restaurant food money can buy.   Not just at daddy's restaurant; he has to constantly check out the competition, so he sends Mom to eat out here and there.  Today's assignment was a new cafe in Union Square, the same area where I had one of the best breakfasts in my life, Joe's Special on a garlic crouton with a side of freshly squeezed pink grapefruit juice.   Daddy heard a rumor they make their own mascarpone there (too), in which to fill their delicious strawberry crepes.   We had to procure one in a doggie bag so he could see for himself.  Right now it's sitting like a corsage in a plastic box in the fridge in the butler's pantry, beckoning, but I'm trying to be good.  I'm up in my bright airy room, sucking on one of Elva's nonpareil almonds, working on my window shades instead.   I bragged to my roomies how I've been able to make my own designer shades since age ten, and they called me on it as my contribution to our redecorated dive.   We picked out the fabric together before I left.  If only I can get the sides straight, woot.

Oh, the wedding was fun.   Everybody got really drunk and fell over.

Well, here I am back home, I hope not for the whole summer (IF you could call it that; it's been so fuckin' cold from the good ol' San Francisco fog and the steady ocean breeze, the hottest June day we had was only 75 degrees Fahrenheit).   Brett's working up north for the forestry service is the only reason I decided to give my parents a go; I don't really HAVE to work on scholarship and Chelle's keeping the bungalow open for next Fall--in fact right now they're painting it!   Our room is gonna be a deep turquoise blue, like an aquarium.  It's supposed to be calming.  

Brett promised to stop by on the way up to see me this weekend.   I got a new diaphragm for the occassion.   They're not kidding when they say you need to be refitted if you lose or gain any weight.  Only 105 when we first started dating and I lost all my appetite, the thing fit fine.   I had no complaints about the "inconvenience" when I had one of the best orgasms I ever dreamed was possible with it inserted.  Then I gradually got back up to 115 and it got so tight, the only time it was comfortable was right before we made love.  The next day when I started walking around,  I was getting bladder cramps.  Removing it was like yanking the cork from a wine bottle; all of sudden it would let go, pop out, and go sailing across the bathroom like a little flying saucer, to stick on the tiled wall.   I never thought gaining weight would make me smaller, but that's how it goes inside the body; apparently any extra fat presses around your girl (my new term for the V-word) and there's less room for it to expand.   I mentioned the discomfort to my roommates and they warned me it was probably buckling, leaving enough space underneath to allow a pregnancy.   And here I was assuming we were safe with all that jelly! 

Mom got us a new cat, Chloe.   She actually belonged to one of those eccentric cat ladies until  Animal Control came and cleaned the place out and demanded she give up at least 120 felines.   Mom saw the story on the news, with footage of frightened kitties hiding in empty pots on the stove and between books on the bookshelves, and couldn't resist coming to the rescue.   I could swear Chloe was Kia reincarnated; she's got the same honeydew green eyes, only long calico fur.  Right now she's crawling up my back, trying to sit around my neck, just as Kia used to do when we first got her and she felt insecure and craved attention.   She even has the same flea allergy, with patches of her coat missing around the tail area.   When we first adopted Kia, abandoned when some tenants moved out of the big Victorian apartment next door, she lost almost all her hair living outside while we tried to find her owner.   As soon as we brought her indoors, we bathed her, powdered her for fleas, and put on a potent flea collar.   All those pesky fleas were gone in a month (thankfully for me, who also has a flea allergy and breaks out in ever-itching welts), and after a while--since we never let her out in the dangerous street again--she didn't require any treatment at all.  Oh, she did pick up a flea or two from visitors (you'd be surprised what can hitch a ride on a human coat), but they were caught right away.  We think her being parasite- and insecticide-free contributed to her unusually long life, with only minor health problems.   By the time she was going deaf and blind, she died from old age.

School is actually eating into my summer.  Everyone else in the area is already off.  We're COMPLAINING in hopes they'll have a better academic calendar next year.   And:  Is this final project a bitch or what?   End of subject; I'm needed on the side patio for BBQ duty.   Yeah, I know it's late, but we forgot to allow time for the marinade, what with having our heads buried in books and all......

This is really weird.  I don't know about you, but I've sorta been getting lots of invites to this new blogsite in the UK, 20six.   It appears scores of fellow Xangans are turning expatriot and setting up shop over there--under their same names.   Not me.   I don't wanna seem like a criminal!  Just kidding, but their logo with a huge black FINGERPRINT over the number "20" give me the creeps, even though the only time I ever had a black thumb was when I got my first driver's license.   (I suppose they need everyone's on record at SOME point in case you ever decide to become a baddie.)  But in this case, the site owners are trying to assure aspiring writers that their stuff "has their name on it"--err, is copywrited--over there?......even for NONCiTiZeNs?   I don't think so.   A friend of Chelle's folks had a short story plagiarized and made into a stage play; she couldn't do anything about it cuz they were really clever and released it overseas.  Besides the same old e-props that cause so much trouble, 20six has celebs butting in to add THEIR two cents.  There's a really awesome agreement to sign, too, and they get into things like blacklisting of naughty members.  I don't wanna give up my nice blog name on account of that.  But really, I just started here and, to me, one site is the same as the other, so I might as well stick to my own country.   Maybe all the fancy graphics give a fluffy impression to some, but hell, at least they're available and you don't have to use 'em.   Our site is what we make it.  (kiss, kiss.)

Thursday morning I dreamed I lived in a beautiful palace in an ethereal coastal realm.  It appeared to be the Gulf of Mexico and reminded me of the ocean scenes with Shirley MacLaine and Jack Nicholson in the 1980's film, Terms of Endearment; the water was so clear and gray and serene, like in a bathtub.   However, our dock, a platform made of polished white-veined silver and iridescent marble, was so low--or the water was so high--it was almost level with the sea, which washed gently over it.  Suddenly a ship of ours had come in.  I had an underwater view of the high, wide white hull when big, clear, sharply delineated bubbles started to come out of it as if it were a toy boat being submerged.   I understood this was a normal part of the anchoring process, however.  Though we were flooding and things were going wrong, I felt strangely peaceful, as if I were outside of it all.  (Originally logged Thursday, May 29, 2003 at 8:21 PM EST.   Had to make room to go back and CORRECT some of my recipe quantities, hehe.)

Where are all these beautiful places in dreams, and what do they mean?   Are they glimpses of Heaven to come, or heaven on earth should we choose the right path?  I capture them on paper in case they're a map......Shit, I hardly dream at all since I started college; too bushed.   But in grades six through ten I really got into my nightly sojourns.   It was during one of my creative phases and I was exploring every avenue in search of my muse.   I found her (uh, who?  WHAT?), only to learn she quickly fades if not constantly attended to.

In eighth grade I was kicking around with my best friend Patti in their campy converted garage den when her little brother turned me on to pop singer Matthew Sweet.   I'd never heard of the guy before.  He came on in the midst of some old smelly red 78's we were playing on her father's suitcase phonograph.   We had to listen to Gershwin for our Fine Arts class homework.   I guess Steve, an outgoing but asthmatic tow-headed tyke with a severe stutter, slipped Sweet in there out of boredom.   Hmm, one of those nerdy types.  Not bad, sort of catchy.   Later that week I was meandering around in a record store and decided to check out his second album, Earth.    It was the change I was looking for and really groovy.   That started the dreams, even though I wasn't crushing on Matthew or anything.   I couldn't what with the diehard nad attacks I was getting over Dave S., ninth grader.   In fact I never thought of the man at all once the CD player was off.  But just who was Matthew Sweet?   I needed to know, cuz in my dreams he was the most dazzling knock out dude and my husband.   

The first dream had me preparing for our wedding.   I was actually Suzie Sweet, whom Patti'd said was Matthew's real wife.  I seemed to be just getting out of high school and my parents lived in our cousin's old house in San Carlos they had in the late 1960's.  My father loved Matt, was really impressed with his ambition, and treated him like a son.   Though I was really happy and sure of my decision and looking forward to a brand new life away from ho hum suburbia, I felt swept along by life's powerful current, as if things were inevitable.  I was trying to lose weight to fit into my gown.   Funny, I was wearing two faded blue denim skirts, one over the other, and a white cotton eyelet peasant top.   There was a lot of pre-wedding family activity outside in front of the house, Matt and I getting in and out of the car, a classic VW bug.  Towards the end there was a family room scene with Dad and Matt decorating our cake, not the standard multi-tiered affair but an identical sheet cake I'd baked for girl scouts, carrot and pineapple with cream cheese icing and fat orange carrots I'd piped from colored cream cheese.  The men presented it to me with a laugh.  Weird.

The next dream several months later and as unexpected as the first had us married and established in Hollywood.  Matthew was really busy and hardly around, but treated me like a princess, supporting me all the way in every endeavor; he really loved my writing and was helping to promote me as a screen writer.   I felt on top of the world.  Everything was going so well.   Matt was so secure and savvy and rich.   There was a scene in which I was on the top floor of our penthouse and he came up the elevator and surprised me with a whole crowd of celebs he wanted me to meet who would help me.    

Then I dreamed we were actually filming one of my works and playing the characters ourselves.   Set in Renaissance England, there was a part in which Matt and I made love in a buzzing meadow.  It was located against these rolling green foothills and a step down, off an actual cement curb.  We were rolling around in the grass in a loving embrace with all our clothes on.   Oh, life was grand, life was good.   Good times, good company, good food and finery.  What more could I ask, except how could it all be so perfect?

And whoever you stand for, Mr. Sweet, where are you?

Woncha have my company?
Ye-es, take it your hand.
Go down on Velvet Green
with a country ma-an!
Who's a young girl's fancy
and an old maid's dream.
Tell your mother that you
walked all night on Velvet Green.

Now that summer is nigh upon us, we lowly students are obliged to shut out the humming skies with dry, tedious books.   Even Mother, who called yesterday in praise of the perfectly tuned holiday weather, a fragrant cool breeze tempering the warm clear air, had to dash it all with the complaint that Noni was there and driving her berzerk!