I've got this strange feeling. Lately, there are activities which all at once intrigue the mind and warp the heart. Step back across a continent to study panoramic views of the vine-like entanglements that steadily grow. In a Laurel Canyon guestroom, I pace across yellow pine floors and sniff at sweet citrus hanging just outside my window. Pick a ripe lemon, cut and squeeze over gin and ice. Am full of imaginings of old Los Angeles. Fatty Arbuckle seems nearer with each slow sip. Color fades. Cue subtitles.

Also, imagine the remote manor house that is my existence. A cavernous home where visitors rarely make it past the magnificently tiled foyer. An isolated, ivy swathed place where I live in hermetic splendor. And then sometimes there's a person who manages to make their way through the sprawling floor plan. Room by room. Up the steep creaky stairs into dark attic spaces, replacing lightbulbs long burned-out, illuminating rooms I've never seen. This, I like.