The stuff dreams make...

When I was a little girl, I dreamt of things most little girls fantasize about.  It was understood that I would get married.  That wedding would be a very splendid affair with daffodils and lillies.  Or perhaps orchids and roses.  Definitely a bird of paradise or two.  My maids would all be in a row, looking entirely smart in pearly pea green pique.  Teal taffeta might also be nice.  And my beloved would be waiting for me at the altar, his black hair roguishly greased back.  Or maybe his blonde curly hair would be falling in his eyes.  Certainly, though, I'd never let his auburn locks stray all too long because that would be gauche.

Never one to be satisfied with a first attempt, all of these happened.  Except the pearly pea green pique.  Even I knew that was a disaster once I was actually faced with the dresses.

I'm wild again, beguiled again, stealing lyrics from Broadway scribes again...

Today, on a day marked mostly by the pervasive drizzle that failed to fully relinquish control like it kept teasing to, Dublin came courting. It was only a few moments that I suddenly, magically found myself gazing at him in a cafe, but it did my heart good. That brogue...those eyes...thrilling. As always, I wished the encounter could've been longer, that I knew once again what his lips tasted like instead of relying on delicious memories.

I'm sure our time will come again. And I've no doubt it will resuscitate me when I need it most and expect it least, just like it always does. Ah, Dublin. We know we can never hold onto each other, but I treasure those rare moments when I get to hold you.

No matter how full I get, apparently I always have room for another...

I don't know why "You Got Served" is a a feel-good film that draws the teenagers out in droves. Someday, when they get older and have a string of marriages behind them and a missing husband in front of them who ran out in a huff after his wife found an old engagement ring and three weeks later appeared again, only not in person to take back his wife and marriage bed, but in the form of a legal secretary with divorce papers, they won't think it's so uplifting.

Why do I save them all?

Recently, I found the ring Edmund proposed to me with. In an alligator suitcase, tucked against a wall in my attic. I find rings all the time and then put them away again, only to discover them again, later, at other inappropriate times.

This time, it was two weeks after my and Aiden's marriage. We went up to find the suitcase for our belated honeymoon.

Aiden had been working on a film and I was on set with him for most of it, and after production wrapped one day, he proposed. With a six carat diamond ring. How do you say no to that? I didn't. The next day, I woke up Mrs. Aiden Ainsley. He made love to me then went back to the set. I flew home for a performance of my own with the troupe.

Two weeks later, with his movie set to go into post-production, Aiden and I went about gathering our things for a nice, long stay in Maine. In the attic, I found much more than my auntie's alligator suitcase. Mementos of Edmund scattered everywhere. The ring, I think, was the clincher. Aiden has a remarkable ability to ignore anything he doesn't want to think about, and I think he ignored most of what he knew of my past. When one of the rings is gleaming in front of you on the floor, I suppose it's more difficult. Perhaps I should've given him a script to spell out how he should proceed.

Left without lines or clear motivation, he left in a bit of a tizzy.

I do hope I'll see him again. Only two weeks would be a record, even for me.

My method of persuasion.

I always wanted to be a madame. When I was three, I made my cousins address me as Madame Fae. Charles, my eldest cousin slapped me. The only rational response at that time was to leap upon him, knock him to the floor and make him see reason. I was Madame Fae from then on.

Just some idle curiosities.

Isn't it funny how, sometimes, we turn away from the things we want the most? Oh, I know. How original. But really, it's been occupying far too much of my time lately, thinking about how and what makes us abandon the daydreams of another time. For most of us, it's simply that we realize we don't desire such things or events or people anymore. To do so would go against whomever we've become at that point. But what about those times when we decide not to pursue that job we've always wanted or maybe shut out a husband just because he was fucking the butcher's daughter? I mean what makes us apply for another job or pull that knife from our purse and try to carve up some slabs of fresh meat du jour? The manager at Minsky's, my fourth husband and I would really like to know.

One story.

I adore color. The shade of skin under your nails, the color of lust in a lover's cheek. My favorite hue came from setting Celeste Chienne's cape on fire after the class Halloween parade. It resembled the inside of a pumpkin and then suddenly both the joy of an emerald and the fury of a sapphire...all inside a pumpkin. I call that one Celeste's Cape, which sounds like Celestescape when you say it fast, which I don't.

When I got older, there were more and more colors... the stormy gray of arguments in the eyes, the heartshattering death-white, the vivid, sparkling rosiness of sex, that hungry brown. Once though, color left me. It was like swimming with no water, and continuing to swim and swim... Those times are gone and I don't like going back.

Mother and Father were always good to me, even in my "peculiar ways" as they would call them. Elle a des façons particulières! they would say. Pants were a no-no. But he wants them and I let him have them when he asks. Mother and Father never understood me when I said the human body can't hold just one. Like the world can't hold just one color. There's so many. There may be more in me. Faescape is another lovely color. And that is pronounced as one word. But that's another story.