Are Haints Attracted to Foie Gras?

Psychically this was a very strange weekend.

Friday night, I dreamt about a writer friend, S, whom I hadn’t written to in some time. She was wearing a very specific corset in the dream. When I wrote to her two days later, it turns out she’d just worn that corset for the first time in a long time the night before.

Saturday night, I dreamt of a deeply unhappy woman breaking into my house and doing things for me. This morning I open my Internet connection to find that, sorrow of sorrows, Charles Grant had passed that night, survived by his wife, the ever marvelous and dear Kathy Ptacek, who has many times been a help to me and the rest of the HWA with her tireless service. Of course, today I’m thinking about her in her grief.

Gawd, the antennae are just waving high and bare in the psychic winds, ain’t they?

Last night was about as romantic as it can get. After a long hike in the wilds of the surrounding properties, where we discovered a very old aquaduct, we came back to the mas and picked all the burrs off of The Frenchman’s sweatpants. Yeah. Our Satuday night thrill — woo!

Today was very nice. We saw a French dubbing of Miyazaki’s 1984 Nausicaa. Although not as refined as his other films, it was still packed with the same messages Miyazaki is famous for and had his trademark posse of kick-ass heroines. I didn’t understand great chunks of it, but I got the gist as The Frenchman whispered occasional translations as needed.

I hiked alone today. I found a path that I call “The White Path” because it’s littered with white rocks. The next time I go out, I’ll take the camera and get photos of the old ivy-smothered aquaduct and The White Path. On my way back, I found real, honest-to-goodness wild black grapes. OOOOOH! I had to chase off the wasps, they were so juicy.

On the big stompy boots front, one of The Frenchman’s co-workers, K, told me there’s a gosh darned, for really Goth bar in town. As soon as I find it, I’ll report back. I might go with K, or some other way.

Maybe I’ll go downstairs now and pick imaginary burrs off of The Frenchman’s pants. Hee!

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