Suddenly Ellie.
Indeed, that's how it was.
Astonishingly Ellie. Inevitably Ellie.
 There was a conversation with Sam a few days ago. One of so many. He's such a bright fool.
Like Coyote.
Like Loki.
"Are you jealous?"
"No. Maybe a wee bit. You know. It's lovely here, but it would be so good to be between the mountains and the sea."
"Nick, that's not what I meant."
"Of course I'm not jealous. Why would I be jealous? Even if I am jealous, I don't have any right to be jealous. Don't be bête."
"I'd be jealous."
"Well, I'm not!"
"La Corse! So beautiful, the sun, the air, the warmth, the white cemeteries ... the sex..."
"Ne me torture pas avec mes souvenirs! In any case, she's just with friends. Plural."
"Do you know that?"
"Yes. No. Yes, of course. She is."
"Of course she is!"
"Alors."
"When's she coming to the pizzeria again?"
"I don't know."
"Soon, I hope."
"So do I."
 But we don't want it raining hard in the garden, do we?
No long low heavy skies. Just cumulus clouds in the blue, a shower storm or two, enough rain for the plants.
They're still so young and fragile. A good shower.
If heavy rain comes, it should be like African rain at the end of an afternoon, the kind that makes you want to rip everything off your body and dance on the grass, looking up at the sky with mouth open and eyes closed, feeling the big drops cool and stinging sweet and luscious as they burst and turn your skin into valleys and hills.
Natural fertiliser.
The hosepipe and the big plastic bags of stinking manure are kept close to the kitchen, by the Front Door, along with the crossbows and the handmade grenades.
They're reserved for people who come in that way and don't know about Ellie's garden.
It's in the public part of the house that the cupboards are, full of ideas, jokes and traps for the unwary. The Insult Cupboard. The Disagreeable Notions Cupboard. The Metaphysical Cupboard. The Diatribe Cupboard. The Brickbats Cupboard. The Armoury. The Funny Hats and Silly Walkingsticks Cupboard.
The Visitor's Entrance, open all year round, for those who explore, at their own risk. At their peril.
That's where I keep the News, the Reviews, the Gossip and Acid, other Dangerous Chemicals, the Bleach and no Whitewash.
No heaviness in the garden; it's a place for fresh air and imagination. Just being and the lightness of being.
So the thinking stops and and the words are blown in by the wind.
Yet this garden began, Ellie, in thought and in words posted up in the other side of the house, accessible by the Front Door.
It's been so long since you've been able to tell that I found just the right tone, but I'd like to play those notes again and stay with that music until you are smiling and laughing once more.
Wearing just as much as you choose.
May I tell you what happened?
Before you inspired me to make a garden,
there was my first letter to Ellie.
After my last one to Eleanor.
It was in four parts.
I have kept 'Thinking', to serve as encouragement to the Wildcat when next she becomes insecure and self-conscious and wonders: "What's the point of going on with my novel?"
From London, she mailed me the start of her book, saying that as long as I didn't read it and tell her what I thought, she'd feel like she was standing in the street with no clothes on.
I told her that apart from spelling mistakes and errant punctuation, it was "very good. Honestly."
"You're not just saying that?"
"Me, you brainless bitch? Really, sometimes you're a silly cow and a twat and a half, Emsie."
Since she was comfortable in London, I told her what she was in real English.
She got dressed and has written much more since.
The second bit, longer, was 'Gifts'.
It was about gifts. Yours, Ellie, and mine. I don't know whether I shall keep it, but you won't see it, not in writing, there are better ways.
The third bit was "Sex, lack of sex ... and creativity'.
It was short; under that title I never wrote a word.
It would have told you the two simple reasons I decided to forego a "relationship" with a woman for so many years.
None of that matters now.
Marianne has her first boyfriend, her mother has stopped doing everything which made me renounce sex, and the dark days are over.
And I see no pressing need to write to you about creativity, unpacking ideas best considered in the fullness of time and friendship.
 The last bit was 'Wise' and might have been the beginning.
It consisted of one sentence:
"You must, please, stop hinting that you think I'm so clever and wise and understanding, after doing it again now that I've asked you whether I can call you by your name."
When I replaced my August 1 blog entry with a brief note, it led to this exchange in 'Your views':
"Comments in response to this post:
"I'm sorry you've felt the need to do that. No one should feel censored or censured for what they write on their blog. It is an unspoken rule within the Blogosphere that the blog is one's own private kingdom and to hell with what other's think. I hope this event won't force you to stop blogging and continuing to write about subjects and events in the way that you do. If so, I for one would feel the loss.
Lynn • 8/3/04; 9:58:59 AM"
"Dear Lynn. At last, heartfelt thanks for this comment and encouragement.
I have no regrets about the self-censorship, since I went too far. While the reaction from somebody who remains a close friend -- and not the 'object' of my deepest affections, who was oblivious to this episode -- was equally misplaced, I guess I deserved it somehow.
In another letter, somebody else asked me to reinstate at least what I said about a couple of poems by W.B. Yeats. Here you go:
In roughly the same period, more than a century ago, that Yeats wrote 'He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven' (Greatest Love Poems), which ends with one of his most renowned lines, he also penned 'The Cap and Bells' (Bartleby), which is also a favourite of mine.
What I didn't know, but should have done if I had any sense, before reading Warwick Gould's commentary in the appendix to 'Yeats's Poems' (the lot, ed. A. Norman Jeffares), was, as Gould put it, '...the jester offers the lady his soul and heart; she is not affected by either but by his cap and bells. Yeats later said this poem was the way to win a lady, while "He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" [...] was the way to lose one.'
Now there was one piece of advice I am belatedly but strongly inclined to heed!
taliesin • 8/10/04; 11:51:47 AM"
So it's suddenly Ellie.
 With that, my life has begun to make sense again.
I'd like the garden to be a place for sharing and poetry.
I shan't ask you to bring your own wine.
But I dream that you might like to plant seeds of your own.
The way the garden has to have a fence, it has to be my place for you.
But you're smart enough to learn to fly over the fence, so that you could be a full partner in the friendship here, with a free hand of your own in the design.
12:45:02 PM 
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