Everything is a Dream

It's April and there is a deer who naps on the hillside in the long grass. We see him in the mornings when it's still dewy. The dogs are surprisingly respectful of his morning routine.

There are four dog-mad teenagers (age range 11-18) in the house, each determined to make Thistle love him/her. Thistle, a fickle lover, is warming up. But not half as much as me, who really, had I the choice, would have rethought two children and hatched a brood. To see four mottled, pale, snow-bound for 10 weeks teens frolicking together in a warm pool, joy spread across their collective faces, dogs driven mad by splashing, puddles of stripey wet towel distributed evenly across the deck, wet footprints throughout the house, does a woman good, let me tell you. After nearly a year and a half of miserable miserableness, THIS is a tonic. And when I say tonic, what I mean is that every other thing melts into oblivion. The true purpose of life is to love and to pursue a modicum of happiness and this bliss, surrounded by the buttery yellow mimosa, the apple blossom branches that fill the house, the yellow ranunculus, white hyacinth, bowls of chocolate eggs and orange kumquats, wet dogs, wet children, endless cups of tea and PG-tips runs from the Canyon Store, games of Banagrams and people with books half naked in the sunshine with the green and sunny glow of Lookout Mountain which looms encouragingly above us, "This. Could be Something Like. Being in Love." as my drama teacher, Mrs. Boylan with the red lipstick used to say.

Roses at the LA Flower Mart

Blossom in my hallway

I've been dreaming about a mystery man I don't know. Three nights in a row. He is kind and protective and familiar. And he has shiny dark hair. I don't see his face but his presence is soothing. He could be my Jungian "other half." He probably is. Because when he is around I am completely myself. My dreams are a pastiche of cheesy music videos: we tinker under the bottoms of cars together, and come out with smiling, oil-smeared faces and wrenches in our hands; we make sandwiches together in domestic bliss; we read books in the sunshine occasionally stopping to look over the top of our pages at the other and smile beatifically; we speed our bicycles down hills with our legs out at right angles and enormous grins on our faces. Oh yes, even in my dreams, I am a cheese ball.

Minky & cousins, Disneyland

Minky is staying in my bed while her cousins are here. It's a large bed, thankfully, as it houses not only us but three dogs who consider it home. She comes in late and says "I love you Mamma" in her sleep. Clever, clever thing has gotten into her top-choice college, so All Is Well in the world. She was the Disneyland tour guide yesterday and came home with Mickey ears with "Honzy" embroidered on the back in curly script.

Thistle at the Salon

Friends have been sending me links to OK!Cupid! and a scholarly dating site for people who like books. These things remind me of the Horses For Sale pages of Horse & Hound that I would pore over as a pony-mad child. I wish it were so easy. 16.1hh, preferably not a gelding, easy to handle, good under saddle, soft muzzle. I can't bring myself to sign up. What does this say about me? I cannot bring myself to fill out the questionnaires and reserve judgement long enough. Is there an irony column? Is there a column for "allows the possibility of good, old-fashioned fate"? Is there a "trial offer"? I deserve a good slap. I do.

In other news, James Salter has arrived.

This is from today's NPR piece:

"There comes a time," James Salter writes in the epigraph for his new novel, All That Is, "when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real."

 More here.