Darling,
I've had the loveliest long vodka morning with Andrea since before the sun came up; actually, it's not ever as if I noticed it going down. It's been the most- being with Andrea and not sitting my corona no. 3 on anything flat so as to type a story to the Post in the longest of times. Laughing and lounging, the two things I love best are in abundance whenever he's got me in rapt attention.
France was spellbinding, but Spain seems reverentially sunny and soft day after day. As if I could go on forever.
I find him hot to my cool.
ciao
-Jacqueline
Saturday, April 9, 2011
SPAIN FRANCE SPAIN
HOLIDAY FROM MYSELF
Leading to my upcoming July in Pamplona, I surrendered myself respite from anticipation and joined a dinner of men. One had the delusion I was his when I opened my Kelly bag. He reached over and took my hand and said, "Here, let me." Amazing my chin held up the way it did. In silence, he began to unbutton first my right glove, then my left and proceeded to unglove me!
Never in my life has a man looked so fearless at the prospect of dismantling my wit; leaning into me, only to place them (my wit and gloves) in my Kelly bag and snap it closed. Loud in their exit, I was speechless in his moment.
That snap might well have been the shot heard round the world, as the entire dining room of people went quiet and turned round to stare at me! Darling, on cue, I was toast to his buttered knife. It was killing.
Of course I'm just wild about manners and he was the tops. Perfectly beyond casual limits. Every word after my ungloving, I stumbled; but being so charming and all, he played me without notice.
Two martinis (extra dry) later, he whispered in my ear that we were taking the train to Madrid. I smiled. He picked up the check and took my hand. I lost my heels as we ran to the train. As you can imagine darling, I never even noticed Madrid.
-Jacqueline
Postcript:
Of course Andrea hasn't a clue, but then I'm the one keeping clues.
BLACK BIRD
Andrea wired an URGENT cablegram:
JACQUELINE:
STOP MOMENTARILY TO TAKE MY CALL THIS EVENING.
FRANK’S WEARING YOUR GLOVES.
HARRY'S SUSPECT.
DON'T JUMP FROM YOUR CASA OFF ROCKY RIDGE.
-ANDREA
Darling, having only arrived back in Cuenca this morning, I hadn't the chance to climb to the top of the stairs till after I'd finished Andrea's cable. So by the time I opened my door I was fraught full of spooks from his dramatic tone, that when a black bird flew past my head I ducked for cover and spotted an envelope of white on the floor that wasn't addressed to any one particular; and assumed it quite my right to open, finding it in my room and all. It held only a small slip of paper like the kind found in Chinese cookies. It read:
Something you lost will soon turn up.
First of all, Frank's not wearing my gloves. They’re in my Kelly bag with the pearl handle gun tied in red ribbon from the antenna of Andrea's Aston Martin. What gloves Frank is sporting, I haven't a clue. But not mine.
And the only thing Harry's suspect of is his raucous covet of a queen's crown.
It's rather presumptuous to think I'd not jump from the casa, other than a different way more splendid than the first.
Darling, it's thrilling having found a black bird in my room, you know. It's an ominous premonition of favored luck, I'm sure.
Not but a moment after I'd rang for a drink from room service did Andrea dial me up in hushed tones that he’s catching the midnight train and will arrive in the a.m. to discuss our next scene as we're expected to appear before Inspector Clouseau in Paris, France on Friday the 13th.
Andrea is just mad for salty capers with twisting plots, you know.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Hasta mañana-
-Jacqueline
OVER THE MOON
Andrea arrived looking bright as the morning he brought with him. It was as if a million long nights hadn’t passed that we weren’t together. I'm over the moon and delirious with him by my side.
No, we haven't discussed Inspector Clouseau, but I've arranged a time in the afternoon for him to watch me try on several perfect outfits to determine which I shall wear when we arrive at the police station in France. There seem far too many choices.
-Jacqueline
LT. JOHN KIRK
Andrea promised we'd be back in Spain before nightfall so I let him persuade me that I looked best in Valentino, that I myself think doesn’t say enough about me. But, it wasn't about me, truly darling. I suspected that Andrea wanted to steal the show, so I let it rest. You know how he is about his movie scripts and all.
Inspector Clouseau went beyond his self, as his grin spread miles past his face in the biggest of smiles when I entered his office and reached out to let him take my hand in hello. Many impressed raves over my stunning attire later, he fumbled through a disarray of documents littering his desk to the floor and followed his way to a file cabinet where he pulled from a drawer a pair of my earnest heels.
He asked if the shoes fit me, and of course I said, "Yes". He replied that he'd rang a shoe smith who was coming straight over to fix one of the sole’s broken heels, then held his hand to his heart and proclaimed with a mischievous grimace that he was quite intrigued with dismantled souls.
I assured him he needn't bother, as soles weren’t made to last forever and if I wanted heels same as in his hand, I’d ring Jimmy Choo. He said it was a delight for him, the prospect of cobbling me back together.
A man is at his worst when he plans on saving my soul. Being the Inspector and all, I played along and accompanied his lines.
Moments after having relented to his soul fixation of me, the most brilliant of men walked through the Inspector's door. I was to find treasures in the intriguing Lt. John Kirk over the next several days. Beginning with the fact that I don't believe he's of French decent but from the highlands of Scotland. His constant devotion to the Inspector was never suspect as he seemed such the braveheart! He's quite debonair, what with the way he holds himself from the crowd, with eyes void of suspicion and a quiet smile atop an alluring sort of gait. He's fresh from the start. Rather front and center, but outback.
He seemed destined to help build my triumphant story and didn't mind a bit that he's not the star because he appeared content he was becoming my main character. As if there’s a difference.
The lieutenant will have to compete for the starring role in the remake of Steve McQueen’s Getaway, as Andrea wants that part more than ever.
Ciao
-Jacqueline
THE LOVELIEST
Oh, darling, Andrea and I met the loveliest young girl. She's a photojournalist named R. Kate covering dramatically romantic scenes in the avenues of Paris and is the sister of Lt. John Kirk.
During an afternoon of scouting uncovered drama with the Inspector playing leader, the dashing lieutenant maneuvered our little group to his sister’s loft on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, south of the Seine, where she welcomes fishermen as gracefully as the titled.
She's magnetic, really. That she shoots the perfect picture at narrow range in wide ease is just the beginning of her assuming character. And the way she wears her jeans loose round her thighs illustrates a spirit primed to cover noon stories, and even more so on balmy nights.
She's not at all a bore telling you how she really is when one asks her, but always replies she's nothing less than swell. I love her spirit full of optimism and bounce. R. Kate's the type who if she smells smoke brings out marshmallows arranged on a tray to roast!
She's Paris's most famous open secret! And what with all the recent revival of French espionage that seems to have no conclusion, it was more than refreshing to find a girl who represents that oxymoron best.
She looks practically royal in her subjective opinions so that she seems her own institution.
A spectacular girl.
Lt. John Kirk told me he employs a small army of men to follow his sister when she's covering opposition scenes in quaint quarters of Paris, as he can’t ever be too certain that her ballerina flats will pirouette her out of a jam. It’s sub rosa, as he suspects she'd most likely run to one in a million French lovers in the country were she to find a brigade of men dressed for war close behind because she’s monogamous in her love affairs, you know.
He’s all about gallant family obsessions.
R. Kate’s in search of a positively neutral destination without the possibility of a fine mess to stumble into, as we've become the fastest of friends and want nothing more than to talk endlessly all about ourselves!
-Jacqueline
Postscript:
Her eyes are as big as moon pies and as bright as banana flavored ones.
BRIGHT PEOPLE
Darling, Andrea wasn’t able to keep his promise of returning to Spain in one day, as we were asked by Inspector Clouseau to stay over for further questioning, which by the way, he frankly dismisses as answers not true that are subliminally false for confusion unless constructed otherwise, so his request wasn't imperative, but disarmingly macramé none the less.
Most inviting of all was that we'd found ourselves enthralled with Lt. John Kirk's band of sisters.
He encouraged we spend a long weekend at their grand family estate in the country before we travel to Pamplona to see the running of the bulls. We met up with R. Kate and two more quite not like her. Alex M. is the oldest of the girls and no doubt a masquerading duchess, as she presented herself amused with our zany laughter, but not much. And she's rather intellectual, as you’d expect, but doesn’t share much of herself, as she prefers to paint her tomorrows endlessly today. The youngest is Rory, a true grit sort of girl, who has an eternal list of unknown friends in never ending supply and who were forever part of the revolving scenery, more so than the scads of servants who scurried to provide our requested whims.
It was a brilliant weekend of sporting events what with riding Rory's many thoroughbreds she keeps warm in the stables with her own imposed sunshine and games of tennis in between long swims in the shortest of pools, which caused no termination in a trail of swimmers requiring first aid after they'd bump their heads on one end then the other.
Their mum is just wild for bull runs, but the siblings say she's been stampeded too many times through the years, so that they feel most protective of her and insist she stay in France where she plays Joan of Arc in the fields behind their estate, which she does best when left to her own devices.
However, she doesn’t appear trampled and fell gracefully into my stories without requiring a rehearsal of information I dread sharing with unknown characters. She applauded the backdrops of my adventures, which are nothing more than tossed chapters of my unfolding drama that keep the Inspector’s brows high in suspicion of me!
Their father's been dead for years and no one seems to recall his story, but Rory told Andrea in secret amongst her many scandalous friends that her father had been a bad artist who went mad from the fumes. Their mother forbids the mention of his name as she becomes extra un-ordinarily excited with fond memories of turpentine so that she can't stop a sentence without becoming overwrought with eccentric joy in the memory of her late husband's death.
Oh darling, I'm more than excited to join this cadre of bright people at the running of the bulls in Pamplona.
ciao
-Jacqueline
Postscript: I wired the Inspector he will find me in Spain should he wish to submit to more of my eternally varied stories.
Leading to my upcoming July in Pamplona, I surrendered myself respite from anticipation and joined a dinner of men. One had the delusion I was his when I opened my Kelly bag. He reached over and took my hand and said, "Here, let me." Amazing my chin held up the way it did. In silence, he began to unbutton first my right glove, then my left and proceeded to unglove me!
Never in my life has a man looked so fearless at the prospect of dismantling my wit; leaning into me, only to place them (my wit and gloves) in my Kelly bag and snap it closed. Loud in their exit, I was speechless in his moment.
That snap might well have been the shot heard round the world, as the entire dining room of people went quiet and turned round to stare at me! Darling, on cue, I was toast to his buttered knife. It was killing.
Of course I'm just wild about manners and he was the tops. Perfectly beyond casual limits. Every word after my ungloving, I stumbled; but being so charming and all, he played me without notice.
Two martinis (extra dry) later, he whispered in my ear that we were taking the train to Madrid. I smiled. He picked up the check and took my hand. I lost my heels as we ran to the train. As you can imagine darling, I never even noticed Madrid.
-Jacqueline
Postcript:
Of course Andrea hasn't a clue, but then I'm the one keeping clues.
BLACK BIRD
Andrea wired an URGENT cablegram:
JACQUELINE:
STOP MOMENTARILY TO TAKE MY CALL THIS EVENING.
FRANK’S WEARING YOUR GLOVES.
HARRY'S SUSPECT.
DON'T JUMP FROM YOUR CASA OFF ROCKY RIDGE.
-ANDREA
Darling, having only arrived back in Cuenca this morning, I hadn't the chance to climb to the top of the stairs till after I'd finished Andrea's cable. So by the time I opened my door I was fraught full of spooks from his dramatic tone, that when a black bird flew past my head I ducked for cover and spotted an envelope of white on the floor that wasn't addressed to any one particular; and assumed it quite my right to open, finding it in my room and all. It held only a small slip of paper like the kind found in Chinese cookies. It read:
Something you lost will soon turn up.
First of all, Frank's not wearing my gloves. They’re in my Kelly bag with the pearl handle gun tied in red ribbon from the antenna of Andrea's Aston Martin. What gloves Frank is sporting, I haven't a clue. But not mine.
And the only thing Harry's suspect of is his raucous covet of a queen's crown.
It's rather presumptuous to think I'd not jump from the casa, other than a different way more splendid than the first.
Darling, it's thrilling having found a black bird in my room, you know. It's an ominous premonition of favored luck, I'm sure.
Not but a moment after I'd rang for a drink from room service did Andrea dial me up in hushed tones that he’s catching the midnight train and will arrive in the a.m. to discuss our next scene as we're expected to appear before Inspector Clouseau in Paris, France on Friday the 13th.
Andrea is just mad for salty capers with twisting plots, you know.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Hasta mañana-
-Jacqueline
OVER THE MOON
Andrea arrived looking bright as the morning he brought with him. It was as if a million long nights hadn’t passed that we weren’t together. I'm over the moon and delirious with him by my side.
No, we haven't discussed Inspector Clouseau, but I've arranged a time in the afternoon for him to watch me try on several perfect outfits to determine which I shall wear when we arrive at the police station in France. There seem far too many choices.
-Jacqueline
LT. JOHN KIRK
Andrea promised we'd be back in Spain before nightfall so I let him persuade me that I looked best in Valentino, that I myself think doesn’t say enough about me. But, it wasn't about me, truly darling. I suspected that Andrea wanted to steal the show, so I let it rest. You know how he is about his movie scripts and all.
Inspector Clouseau went beyond his self, as his grin spread miles past his face in the biggest of smiles when I entered his office and reached out to let him take my hand in hello. Many impressed raves over my stunning attire later, he fumbled through a disarray of documents littering his desk to the floor and followed his way to a file cabinet where he pulled from a drawer a pair of my earnest heels.
He asked if the shoes fit me, and of course I said, "Yes". He replied that he'd rang a shoe smith who was coming straight over to fix one of the sole’s broken heels, then held his hand to his heart and proclaimed with a mischievous grimace that he was quite intrigued with dismantled souls.
I assured him he needn't bother, as soles weren’t made to last forever and if I wanted heels same as in his hand, I’d ring Jimmy Choo. He said it was a delight for him, the prospect of cobbling me back together.
A man is at his worst when he plans on saving my soul. Being the Inspector and all, I played along and accompanied his lines.
Moments after having relented to his soul fixation of me, the most brilliant of men walked through the Inspector's door. I was to find treasures in the intriguing Lt. John Kirk over the next several days. Beginning with the fact that I don't believe he's of French decent but from the highlands of Scotland. His constant devotion to the Inspector was never suspect as he seemed such the braveheart! He's quite debonair, what with the way he holds himself from the crowd, with eyes void of suspicion and a quiet smile atop an alluring sort of gait. He's fresh from the start. Rather front and center, but outback.
He seemed destined to help build my triumphant story and didn't mind a bit that he's not the star because he appeared content he was becoming my main character. As if there’s a difference.
The lieutenant will have to compete for the starring role in the remake of Steve McQueen’s Getaway, as Andrea wants that part more than ever.
Ciao
-Jacqueline
THE LOVELIEST
Oh, darling, Andrea and I met the loveliest young girl. She's a photojournalist named R. Kate covering dramatically romantic scenes in the avenues of Paris and is the sister of Lt. John Kirk.
During an afternoon of scouting uncovered drama with the Inspector playing leader, the dashing lieutenant maneuvered our little group to his sister’s loft on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, south of the Seine, where she welcomes fishermen as gracefully as the titled.
She's magnetic, really. That she shoots the perfect picture at narrow range in wide ease is just the beginning of her assuming character. And the way she wears her jeans loose round her thighs illustrates a spirit primed to cover noon stories, and even more so on balmy nights.
She's not at all a bore telling you how she really is when one asks her, but always replies she's nothing less than swell. I love her spirit full of optimism and bounce. R. Kate's the type who if she smells smoke brings out marshmallows arranged on a tray to roast!
She's Paris's most famous open secret! And what with all the recent revival of French espionage that seems to have no conclusion, it was more than refreshing to find a girl who represents that oxymoron best.
She looks practically royal in her subjective opinions so that she seems her own institution.
A spectacular girl.
Lt. John Kirk told me he employs a small army of men to follow his sister when she's covering opposition scenes in quaint quarters of Paris, as he can’t ever be too certain that her ballerina flats will pirouette her out of a jam. It’s sub rosa, as he suspects she'd most likely run to one in a million French lovers in the country were she to find a brigade of men dressed for war close behind because she’s monogamous in her love affairs, you know.
He’s all about gallant family obsessions.
R. Kate’s in search of a positively neutral destination without the possibility of a fine mess to stumble into, as we've become the fastest of friends and want nothing more than to talk endlessly all about ourselves!
-Jacqueline
Postscript:
Her eyes are as big as moon pies and as bright as banana flavored ones.
BRIGHT PEOPLE
Darling, Andrea wasn’t able to keep his promise of returning to Spain in one day, as we were asked by Inspector Clouseau to stay over for further questioning, which by the way, he frankly dismisses as answers not true that are subliminally false for confusion unless constructed otherwise, so his request wasn't imperative, but disarmingly macramé none the less.
Most inviting of all was that we'd found ourselves enthralled with Lt. John Kirk's band of sisters.
He encouraged we spend a long weekend at their grand family estate in the country before we travel to Pamplona to see the running of the bulls. We met up with R. Kate and two more quite not like her. Alex M. is the oldest of the girls and no doubt a masquerading duchess, as she presented herself amused with our zany laughter, but not much. And she's rather intellectual, as you’d expect, but doesn’t share much of herself, as she prefers to paint her tomorrows endlessly today. The youngest is Rory, a true grit sort of girl, who has an eternal list of unknown friends in never ending supply and who were forever part of the revolving scenery, more so than the scads of servants who scurried to provide our requested whims.
It was a brilliant weekend of sporting events what with riding Rory's many thoroughbreds she keeps warm in the stables with her own imposed sunshine and games of tennis in between long swims in the shortest of pools, which caused no termination in a trail of swimmers requiring first aid after they'd bump their heads on one end then the other.
Their mum is just wild for bull runs, but the siblings say she's been stampeded too many times through the years, so that they feel most protective of her and insist she stay in France where she plays Joan of Arc in the fields behind their estate, which she does best when left to her own devices.
However, she doesn’t appear trampled and fell gracefully into my stories without requiring a rehearsal of information I dread sharing with unknown characters. She applauded the backdrops of my adventures, which are nothing more than tossed chapters of my unfolding drama that keep the Inspector’s brows high in suspicion of me!
Their father's been dead for years and no one seems to recall his story, but Rory told Andrea in secret amongst her many scandalous friends that her father had been a bad artist who went mad from the fumes. Their mother forbids the mention of his name as she becomes extra un-ordinarily excited with fond memories of turpentine so that she can't stop a sentence without becoming overwrought with eccentric joy in the memory of her late husband's death.
Oh darling, I'm more than excited to join this cadre of bright people at the running of the bulls in Pamplona.
ciao
-Jacqueline
Postscript: I wired the Inspector he will find me in Spain should he wish to submit to more of my eternally varied stories.
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