Dinner is black bean soup with toasted cumin seed creme fraiche, yogurt marinated chicken kebabs with aleppo pepper, and more caesar salad and crusty bread.
Thanks, Smitten Kitchen.
And the Woman on The Verge.
What I love about the Woman on The Verge is that she is as strong and independent as an oak. She makes me feel better when I look at her. So strong. So alive. So creative and single-minded. She’s out in the studio right now making a brown velvet coat lined with a blue fabric with white dots. Yesterday she finished her drapery coat with feather boa.
Ever day it’s something new.
And the great good luck of my life is that she loves me. Despite how well she knows me.
She is my true north, my true heart, my true love.
I will die a happy man no matter what befalls me, because I found her and gave myself to her. She is my practice, my religion, my salvation.
And yet a billion, billion lifetimes of loving her is insufficient to my needs.
My dream life is so rich of late, it threatens to overswamp my waking life. The other night I was a kind of vampire hit-man. Immortal because I was already dead, and pledged to bringing back to life all those murdered by the living demons of the world.
The thing about dreams is not the plot or images, but the way emotion sweeps through you like a great, lost music.
That’s why no one gives a shit about listening to someone else’s dreams. You might as well describe Glenn Gould’s Goldberg Variations to a deaf mute.
It’s the goddamn feeling of the thing that can’t be conveyed.
But it lives inside you.
It is your secret life, a second life given to you at no cost.
Do with it what you will.
Just a reminder, the world doesn’t have to get any stranger than it is.
You need only to regard it.