Dear Diary,

Dr. Bantam, for several years now, has advised me to keep you as close to my heart and feelings as I can muster. And I've been, I guess, consistent with my efforts. Well, in all truth, there's been an occasional gap here and there...

At our last session, to which I arrived on time this time, Dr. Bantam suggested that capturing moments of my emotional life, be it in prose or poetry, could have benefits other than the obvious. She explained, teacup in hand, that as notebooks pile up, a second book of my musings could be in gestation. Aghast, I opened my eyes! My expression must have alarmed her, for she immediately added that it was not a matter of sharing again a poetic anthology of my intimate explorations of mood and emotion, but rather of using it to write fiction, to create a character and give her life, a life with travails, doubts, and conflicting emotions, and also revelations and even a little light. I left the session feeling playfully interested in the idea. Ellowyne Wilde, a writer of fiction?

What I find oddly exciting, dear Diary, is that since this session with Dr. Bantam, I have noticed that life already resembles fiction...

Just the other day—and what a day it was, as drearily misty as days can be in this almost-always foggy hometown of mine—the greyness flooded the living room.

There is something about this old Victorian house surrounded by fog—cool fog that drifts in from the Pacific Ocean—that does exacerbate my innate moodiness. I let myself fall on the chaise lounge, and simply stared into what seemed to be ever-multiplying shades of grey. Where's the sun? Is there a sun? Just when I was about to shed a tear, I caught eye of a most-magnificent happening! Next to the fireplace, underneath the landscape of Lands’ End, I saw a ray of light divided!

One of my hanging glass prisms had gotten playful with this little escapee of the sun, and they both created a magical instant of seven colors! As small and ephemeral as it was, I understood this moment to be a metaphor for life. Why sit still and immersed in the vapor of sadness when I could be searching for rainbows? No matter the fog or the rain, when least expected, light is bound to appear. Excited, I texted my revelation to Pru! She texted back "Are you okay?" and a winking-face emoji... 

Dear Diary,

Speaking of whom, she and I and Neema, we've gotten quite tight. After last year's misunderstandings with the berries and the ballgown fiasco, we've been able to find commonalities in not only our interests, but also in our personality . Neema is truly talented, and her artistic expression is taking her places. Last week, she invited me to the opening of her first solo show. As I could not be prouder of her, I accepted the invite... only to regret it later. For as you know, dear Diary, I am not a big fan of crowds! In fact, large numbers of gathered people tend to make me want to retrieve, to go home and sit with Sibyl by the fire. But as Dr. Bantam advises, I cannot allow myself to miss out on life. To hype myself up for the outing, I decided to visit one of my favorite hangs on Valencia Street for something vintage for the event. As the evening for Neema's show approached, I started to get the customary butterflies in my stomach, so before leaving I grabbed a bucket hat—a necessity for protecting my hair in the fog and for covering my face in case of an anxiety attack. The gallery was a scene with a crowd that overflowed onto the street. I thought of turning around when suddenly – and it may have been the combination of my plaid get-up and my trustworthy hat – I heard myself whispering: "Carpe diem, carpe diem, carpe diem!" I passed the crowd by, entered the exhibit space, and gave dear Neema a strong congratulatory hug! She had sold every piece already!

Dear Diary,

Are coincidences really accidents, or is there a book or plan written for each of us? And if so, by whom? Are we characters in a story ignorant of our fictional nature?

I am starting to believe that I may be indeed one after what happened to me prior to the fashion gala at the SFMOMA. I felt lost in a whirlpool of doubt as the invitation requested that guests dress in monochrome. I started to hyperventilate, triggered by the assumed limitation. I laid down and closed my eyes...waves of green washed over me, then clouds of orange surrounded my head, then a sandstorm of purple came from behind, followed by a waterfall of blue that startled me out of the hallucination. As I moved frantically around my crafting room, I bumped against a pile of books and folded fabrics. Plunk! On the floor, a forgotten bundle of bright-red pleated Swiss dotted net told me to go red or else! An added bonus: if I dressed in red, I could blend with the carpet and feel invisible and go unnoticed. Alas, no red carpet at this event! So red I was amidst a sea of partygoers who had opted to be clad in the essential hues of evening wear! So many approving looks from black ties and white gowns make me wonder: was that bumping incident mere chance?

An exercise in pathetic fallacy is what I will name this next entry, dear Diary! In my studies of art, I learned that to a certain Mr. John Ruskin, the Romantic painters were making a huge mistake by bestowing nature with human emotions. I'm glad that they prevailed since, to me, nature and I are in perfect unison. For it's not possible that my moods and the weather just coincide day after day! Earlier this spring, Pru invited Neema and I to a concert in Napa Valley at the vineyard of friends of her parents. Classical music and a respite from the fog? Count me in, as I can always lose myself in the melodies and the fragrance of trailing jasmine everywhere. I chose a dress of utter delicacy, as its print, to me, evoked the beauty of Degas' Impressionism! Flowers amongst flowers? Why not! AS excited as I was,  I would have never anticipated what the evening had in store for me. We arrived at sunset and immediately I felt awash with the sun's golden glow, and I couldn't but feel—classical music aside—that "Wildest Dreams" by Taylor Swift was being hummed by the same gentle breeze that played with my wavy curls and the ruffles of my dress. I will go ahead and entertain this moment of emotional alignment as a veritable Romantic possibility!

Road Trip!

Neema invited Pru and me to accompany her on a trip to Denver. But that's not all, dear Diary, for once there, we participated in an exciting scavenger hunt event at Eron Johnson Antiques. I have always loved antique stores, as it's the closest that one can get to time travel. Being in the presence of objects held and appreciated by those who came before us is, to me, fascinating. Moments in time so apart and yet together in an instant. And what an antique emporium Eron Johnson has! Beautifully-curated collections ran the gamut from porcelain to jewelry to books to vinyl records! And of course, paintings and drawings! As I entered this realm of the past in the present, I relived the joy of being in the candy store as a kid.What treasure would I find, and what would it reveal to me and about me? But as I was about to wander off to contemplate a 1960's Luciano Spazzali Modernist painting of a female musician playing a stringed instrument, Neema grabbed my arm! The scavenger hunt was about to start! With list in hand, off we went to find the most amazing treasures. After audibly oohing and aahing, we took a quick cell phone pic, and we were off to the next discovery! Dear Diary, can you just imagine the fun? That night I slept like a log and had dreams of flowered English teacups, a French clock with a bell on top, a ceramic flower-frog sculpted like a frog, a jade Olmec face, and a pair of dancing Rococo candelabra! I'll let Dr. Bantam figure that one out!

Stay tuned for the next entries from Ellowyne Wilde…