the writers all ate a flourless chocolate cake with strawberries in vanilla rose sauce. They actually didn't speak for a while because they were having taste bud orgasms. A friend gave Ramey a week of her personal chef and the fridge is stuffed with deelicious food. I mean, oh g-d, we will never be hungry again. and that's where the chocolate cake came from. it was enormous and it could not live here, it really couldn't so I lavished it on the writers and eventually the neighbors.
when I listen to any music with words I get sad. especially Cat Stevens. And a lot of other artists. John Coltrane is perfect, complicated, smokey and sinuous. And no words.
Lola is snoring. I think the cats and I should have a spa day. They can get groomed and I can have all my skin cells scrubbed off. Then I'll lie in the salt room and bake. Then I will gas up the car and begin driving. I think Utah would be nice this time of year. Not too many people and the Great Salt Lake. I would be sure to bring binoculars and a bird book. And a few peices of flourless chocolate cake. with strawberries. I could change my name and disappear. It would piss off my kids. But I could write a buttload of poems and become posthumously famous. I'd live in a little cabin beside a marsh, cattails waving with redwing blackbirds, smell of bubbly muck. Waldenesque. I wouldn't go into town for dinner however when I was tired of the country life. I might have a few goats too. I could cultivate vertical eye slits and the townsfolk would leave me the fuck alone.