It's still too cold for me to wear one of my wife-of-a-chicken-farmer dresses. That is lost on you, no doubt, for what does the wife of a chicken farmer wear? Probably nothing at all like I imagine myself to be should I run away and start a chicken farm with the man that I love yet I tell myself one day, one day, I will do this. We will simply take off and go to somewhere in Sicily and start a small no-kill chicken farm where the chickens can run around free-range and we will simply sell the eggs and live a poor but sated life.

In this fantasy of mine, for I do realize the absurdity of it, yet I am also serious about it so go figure, I have long hair that I wear in two wheat colored plaits, pretty old-fashioned and worn thin cotton dresses that show my shape in the sunlight as it shines through, and my husband, my lover first and foremost, we make love every afternoon and I make him food and I love him and I nourish him just as he nourishes me in every way. We laugh together and that is food enough - for joy, true joy, one can almost live on that alone. So when you see me walking down the street in a pretty silk dress with delicate blue cornflowers and a scoop-neck, my hips swaying from this way to that, my breasts moving beneath the silk, know that I am preparing the ground for my chicken farm. That this is me, this is how I will dress for my lover because he is fine and graceful and full of ease of love. He knows things that I do not. He tells me "There are so many ways," and then he shows. That is my chicken farm.

Of course, it would mean unplugging, no wireless, no WiFi, no cellphone, no computer, no Tant Mieux, no Google, no nothing and those who know me laugh at my dream and tell me I would last five minutes without my computer and my web site and maybe they are right. It's entirely possible that they are right. But what are dreams for. They sustain us when we are doing the ironing. They sustain us when we are doing the daily-do. They sustain us through the most difficult times because we hold on tight to our illusion or delusion because it is all we have and in this case, it is harmless and charming in its way and threatens no-one, so I hold onto it and cherish it.

One late summer afternoon, I passed the perfect chicken-farm house in the most unexpected place. It was in Spuyten Duyvil near Riverdale, that area in the Bronx (the greenest borough in New York, mind you), and there were trees everywhere and the scent of the musk trees filled the air and the linden blossom and the waxy, leafy scent of privet and I swear I was transported. I was elevated to a "thin place". It was akin to what William James would call the ecstatic experience for on that day, everything was right with the world. Everything was Good and True and Right and all of the Platonic capital letters you can apply and say what you will but you are likely wrong if you question for you don't know me and you cannot possibly understand the situation so I won't go into any more detail other than to say it was to me, perfection.

I was always told I live in a dream world, although I occupy this world and try hard to eke out the joy that I can - or as much as one can find in this world, as my friend Hans Koning used to say. We do the best we can and if we are lucky, we find a kindred soul who will be with us on the journey and will not laugh at our chicken farm or running away to the circus or whatever your particular fantasy is - a hike through the Chung Nan mountains in China to visit the Taoist hermitages. I've thought of that too, but no... I want to be the chicken-farmers wife on the no-kill chicken farm in Sicily. If you want something badly enough, they say you'll get it. So how much do I want it? A lot... People laugh, but how odd it will be then for them when one day they receive an air-poste letter with my tiny Hebrew-looking handwriting that reads quite simply, "It is Spring here. I have never been more in love..."

Such things do happen. One can be almost there... I begin, "It is Spring here...are you listening? Es'que tu ecoute ma voix? Je suis ici."

I am here. I hear.

Thanks for listening,

s.r.p.