A Country of Ice Cream, a Copper Lamp of Crap Design...

Dear Juliet

I'd like to buy you an ice cream!

Not Ben & Jerry's, admittedly.

In The Way We Were, Hubbell Gardiner's first novel was called A Country Made Of Ice Cream. Maybe that's where I got the idea from.

I was going to joke about going to London, not mention the Carmelite Monastery or the Point, but I don't think I'm going to do that now. I really like Gibson beach and a pivotal part of Drusilla's Roses is set right there. The sky above the bay's the brightest blue I ever did see. Surf rolls and sparkles like a liquid diamond sea, light's etched hard on the rocks to the lee. Sure I'd like to go back. I never visited the monastery or the Carmel Mission either, and I'd like to do that, too.

If America's made of ice cream, Monterey County's a confection of cookie dough!

For now, though, there's another Lady Chapel in Southwark Cathedral, renamed the Retro Choir, and instead of bantering about being blown up by unexploded WWII bombs and/or bringing down the British government, I'm going to sneak off sometime during the SoA summer party, find that "beaten-copper lamp of deplorable design" and make sure its flame darn well does burn anew.

Yes, all for you.

And if that doesn't convince you you're worth it, then I don't know what I'll do!

Dear Rose, I did it before, too.

Perhaps pilgrims on the road to Calvary had indeed felt the way I did that day on Fremont Street. Perhaps there'd been a need to go into battle once more before it was too late. Perhaps I did want to stand before my lady one last time, before accepting the fading of the light.

Those were other days but here - today - the Thousandth Man still stands by your side.

To the gallows-foot - and after, so Kipling says.

Not everyone's worth such sacraments. You always were and always will be.

I'm going to do something else, too. But you'll have to wait 'til tomorrow to find out what I'm up to!

Love,

James