Scott Dodgson – My Dearest Celia
an epistolary play

Dodgson LE P&W January 2024

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Live Encounters Poetry & Writing, January 2024

My Dearest Celia, a play by Scott Dodgson.

This is an epistolary play. There are two characters The Writer also referred to as S and Celia. They are two people who have experience in life. Actors may be interchanged to allow a more universal appeal to the commonality of the love letters.

The set is open with a minimum of props, a chair, a desk, and a chase lounge.

Video screens form the backstage where certain pictures and videos play supporting the mood, technical realities of our modern world, (Skype, Texting, etc.) while the letters are recited.

The Writer and Celia are a continent and nine hours apart.

Photograph by Scott Dodgson
Photograph by Scott Dodgson


My Dearest Celia,

I learn. I learned that I have little control over my emotions for you. What I know is even though I have had my heart broken many times, as you have had, I have a tremendous desire to take the risk of loving you completely and forever. I have believed for many years that I would never love in the whole-hearted way I have when I was young and yet even though all the signs point to our time together as an interlude of passion and lust, “vacation sex/romance” I ignore the signs that may cause me fatal pain!

Maybe in a love letter it is best to keep to the titular passion fueled by our erotic and lustful desires for each other, but I feel an uncommon bond with you. I believe you feel the same. You and I can take lovers and enjoy their bodies and Eros angels for a while then slip back into our safe worlds of writing and school. But what if these last two weeks were a sign that we may be able to save ourselves from our otherwise sexual adventurousness? What if the other more mundane qualifications so prized by the normal partners were precisely what we have been searching for all our lives? There are very good reasons why we are single almost none of them have anything to do with our sexual appetites. None of the reasons have anything to do with our deep seeded need to be loved without hesitation, without a second thought to devotion to one another, or thoughts so negative they blacken the sea clouding reason and truth. What if you were to wake up and say to your very inner self, the “beast” I call it, Beast! Don’t bother me! I am with my man! I am with my woman! Go away!

And now if what we feel for each other, forged by qualifications; Princeton, law, books, intellectuals, great conversationalists, easy demeanor, precisely perfect sex, wonderful playfulness, warm security in each other’s arms, comfortable management, love of bodies, loyalty, and deep respect have been antithetical to our darkest desires in the past, are exactly what makes you and I so close?

I beg you not to be afraid to give yourself to me. There were moments in these last two weeks when you gave yourself, not to lose yourself, that will never happen, because it is your “self” I prize so much. I respect so much! You gave your heart to me, and I held it gently and with great care. When you did you became frightened. Of what? What is the fear? What does the beast say? “You will be hurt?” Love and trust equal freedom. Fear not my love we are one. We are young and free together. Forever.

When you wake from your jet lagged dreams and read this letter you will find it complicated and difficult. I know. Love letters are to be read over and over again. I choose my words carefully and made the construction of the ideas in this letter with great thought. I have a great power to write. I am using it to describe the great power of your love on my being.
You opened your mind and heart here in California and I stepped in. It was fate and it is truth, and I will not leave forever.

Love always, Your Man,



My Dearest Celia,

The inner world is majestical. At the center of this great cosmic spectacle, somewhere beyond what we know, beyond what we think we know, and even further into what we don’t know we know lies our soul. Religion tells us one thing. Another religion tells us another. The artist’s instinct suggests the unknowing and the existence of unknowable things. We take the dirge of speculation and make it, fold it, anneal it, forge it into something our less majestical self can understand. The outside world is scrap. Used and useless things once shinning with hope that we have understanding. It is this scrappy, dirty, musty world that reminds us that the inner world is our only sanctuary for a life of unbounded love. How do we know what love is? It comes from the inner world without warning. It comes through gestures so subtle as not to be noticed. Can it be cultivated as an orchid? Or is it likely to be a field of sunflowers following the sun across the sky? Is it a moment when the moon is so close that we can wave our hand and move the ancient glittering dust into a weightless cloud?

Love is majestical. It is the unknowing knowable.

When you first kissed my cheek three times I could almost feel your lips as if they were mine against my scruffy beard. I could almost taste the smoke on my skin as you did. I was not in my outside self; I was whirring in that undefinable spectacle changing places with you being in you. We both love to love. We give pleasure because it is where we get pleasure. My caress is your caress, and your caress is my caress. The simple gestures and acts of sex feed only the roots of our being. Like the roots of the sunflower deep in the soil so aware that the earth is spinning that they grab hold hard as we did to our shoulders, our arms, our thighs, and our hands. Somewhere in the fantasy, between the animalistic drive and the emptiness of our mind as we kissed, licked, sucked, spanked, pulled, drove hard toward that freeing and wonderful sensation…. Orgasm… is the majestical inner world.

Will we find the wisdom to nurture the beauty of the orchid? Will we allow ourselves to accept the gestures from the inner world? Will we even know what gestures the talisman of our inner self are.

Kissing you after we make love and tasting your simple musk is this a gesture to help us tap our inner self? Is it the warmth of my hand or the gentle cupping of your breasts signal something? I don’t know. What I know is the unknowable when you cried. I felt it. I thought I recognized it. Whatever it was or is comes from the majestical inner world and it shone as bright as the biggest moon casting light on the outside world as meaningless.

Even four thousand miles away I feel your inner world in me, and I don’t want it to be a weightless cloud of ancient moon dust forgotten in time. I hope it reminds us of cosmic gestures come from the majestical inner self.

Good morning.



My Dearest Celia,

You are sleeping now. Off in a faraway land you call home you lay on cool crisp sheets and a pillow scented with that rarified perfume of Andalusia. So close to the ocean I love so deeply and know so well I can feel the gentle roll of the Atlantic Ocean. She is mighty. I have known her for many years. Rocking gently in my berth she has caressed my dreams many times. I have felt her wrath as well, but we have an understanding her and I. It lies in the greatness of her nature. I call to her. I live so far away on the shores of her sister Pacific. I know her sister well also like I know my youth. I sailed the Pacific when I was a young captain just learning my trade. Our relationship was tense, filled with misunderstandings and sometimes lessons taught with severity. I learned the Atlantic in middle age, a time in a man’s life where the lessons are more noted and loved than the sharp stick of youth taught to me by the Pacific.

I call on my dear friend to call to you. To embrace you as I would in your slumber. I lay next you with my surest belief her gentleness will love you as I do. Her zephyrs will touch your neck as my warm exhale when we slept together. Her soft breeze will kiss your shoulder. Her warm waft will press against your back as I would be pressing. We are one in the same. When you roll over to find me to hug me, to hold me she will be there to remind you that I was there. I hovered over you. I watched over you. I assured you everything would be all right. I kissed the tears from your eyes. She will dry them for me with a gust of care. When you wake open the window. Open the window as you have for me many times and taste the kiss I send across the ocean to you. Look far onto the horizon and know at many times in our lives I have sailed those very waters. Literally my course has past the shores you stand on now. But through life and all the courses I have set and all the ports I have visited, I’ve come to you now as a gentle breeze upon which I whisper, I see you. I feel you. I am touching you.

When you walk along the water’s edge know that somewhere a drop of the great ocean has touched us both. Put your hand in the surf and smell my scent. It is me! I am here with you!

Good Morning.



My Dearest Celia,

We rest like two beasts in the Savanah young and free. Giant oaks protect us from the sun and the luxurious full moon and dapple us with countenance. A coyote wanders past nose to the ground following a secret scent. We merged our scents first without as much as a second thought. We mingled, embraced, passionately without caution. There were obvious signs on the path; a bent twig, stones stacked like little temples. The red dirt path called to us; this is the way! Yet we paid no attention. We made our own way. We shared discoveries. Our histories were more similar than imagined and more dissimilar than we hoped. Yet we still forged our way over the rocky ground, through fields of sun burnt sage to this savannah where the shade painted coolness like a soft brush on our tender skin. The shackles of our normal life, we pushed away like the empty plates from our dinner, with their wipes of scented olive oil, and broken bread. In the silence we listened to the tomato seeds converse with the butter dish. “What next?” We observed forks and knives laying on the table like soldiers fallen on some far away and exotic battleground. Flies lit like an unseen air force of scavengers dressed in glittering rainbows. Bees with their natural maleficence circled in a dizzying dance fueled by their hunger and our unspoken fear of them and of what was next. We conversed cautiously, histrionically, seeking to entertain and inform for the moment only. We are skilled in irony, knowledgeable in life, patient in some but not all things yet the words and skill to use them fell haplessly like a leaf from the great oak. In our savannah the intimate came first now we try to build outward. We are still young lovers for this moment; laying, lying, laid, naked against the warm mountain breeze tumbling down the mountain after its climb from the cool Pacific into our canyon a sort of extended conjugation.




My Dear Writer,

Good morning. Thank you for all the wonderful letters. I love to read them. It is hard for me to write you. You have the advantage of language. You asked me to write to you in my language so I could express myself more clearly, but I can’t. You are the writer. I find it hard to write about my feelings for you. I would rather not. You seem so sure in your feelings for me, but I don’t believe you. In your letters you ask many things of me, and I am not ready to give them to you because I don’t have those feelings. We are two very distant people. We are separated by an ocean and a continent. We are separated by nine hours. I am awake when you sleep, and you are awake when I sleep. We should talk like two distant people.
I don’t want you to take what I say the wrong way. I shared with you a wonderful time. I told you my heart has been broken recently. I may be too cautious for you, but I beg for your patience. This morning I woke, and I was happy and relaxed. I have been caressing my body as if it were you.

As you know I leave for my village today. I haven’t been there in twelve years. I won’t be able to write to you for a week. I will have no time or privacy. I won’t be able to receive your beautiful letters. I will return home when I hope to find your letters waiting for me. I start the semester teaching after I return. This is my life, and I can’t imagine how you will fit into it. I am listening. I am waiting to see if this fades. You asked me if I think about you. Yes. I do. I think of you holding me. I think of the way you look at me. I think of the way you touch me. I give you many kisses.



My Dearest Celia,

Today a young Hindu man dressed in a finely pressed dhoti knocked on the door and asked me for directions to the temple. It was an unusual experience even for Southern California. I gave him directions and he thanked me. Just before he left I asked him why he stopped at this house. He smiled and said, you are a Buddhist, no? The house has Buddhist prayer flags all around as you know. He looked puzzled for a moment. Why would I even ask this kind of question? I wished him well on his journey.

A few moments later a neighbor stopped by to borrow a toilet plunger. I found one and gave it to her. She promised to return it quickly.

Do you remember the little bird’s nest outside the back door? Remember there was a little bird following its mother. It kept coming into the kitchen. I chased it out many times. I was thinking I would put some seeds out so it could eat. I think the mother is long gone. Just when I had this thought I heard a dink on the front door. I thought it might be the plunger returning as the woman knocks very lightly, but it wasn’t. The little bird in a panic flew into the glass. I studied him for a minute or two. I had hoped, even prayed he just knocked himself out. I picked up his little body. It seemed lighter than a creampuff and laid him outside next to the big rock. He was hidden from predators, yet I could still see him. I checked several times to see if he would wake up. He didn’t.

The worshipper, the plunger, and the panicked little bird showed me a lesson. Faith, the practical, and the fragile spirit all come to your door. You must be ready to accept it and learn from it.

I hope you find a balance between the three: Have faith in me, don’t let the practical dictate your outcome and above all remember the spirit we shared is fragile and we shouldn’t fear its ending. After all a Buddhist answered the door.

Good Morning.



My Dearest Celia,

I woke this morning, and it was very cool. I pulled the covers over my head and wished you were beside me. I ran my hand over the curve of your hip. I pulled you closer to me so your butt cheeks would press against the mercy of my hips. I let my hand slide softly over your hip and onto to your velvety softness. I felt you vibrate from deep side. My face pressed against back between your shoulders. I kissed your back softly. My hand traversed over your soft belly. Touching you was electrifying. You touched my hand. You rubbed it softly outlining the bones on the back of my hand. You sighed. It was a satisfying sigh, a long-awaited sigh. Your sigh was deep, that only comes from morning sleep; heavy and luxurious like a theater curtain when it is opened to begin a play.

You guided my hand over your ribs and onto your breast. It seemed as if there were zones of heat on your skin and your breast exceeded all zones. Your nipples stood hard against my touch. I cupped your beautiful breast and pondered the deeply erotic weight of them, as if I were weighing some precious stones; diamonds and rubies resting in a silky sack. I find holding your breast so gently a profound experience. While cupping your breast I let one finger, I think my index finger, run around and around letting the shoulder on the very tip of your nipple sing, For Joy! You eagerly pushed closer even though every part of our body that could touch was touching. You reached behind and grabbed my cock. You lifted your leg and placed it next to your pussy, then slowly lowered your leg locking me in place. I could feel you lips kissing my cock. There were small vibrations and contractions, yet you hadn’t moved. I held you for a long time. I kissed the back of your neck. I smelled your morning musk. Good morning, I whispered. Buenos Dias you replied.

There was nothing more to say or want to say. We laid in perfect intimacy. As this erotic morning fog lifted from my mind, I sighed with frustration. I wanted this fog to stay with me always. I had no need to see beyond the gentle curve of your neck. But this was a dream and I had to get up and start my day. Without a thought, I changed my normal morning ritual of coffee first above all else and ran into the shower. I had a strange hope I would find you and my foggy eroticism in the warm water falling on my shoulder.

The vivid memory of us standing in the shower holding each other while the water formed a little pool in the cleavage of those magnificent breasts rushed at me. When you washed me. Soaping my cock and looking into my eyes for my expected reaction you smiled mischievously. It wasn’t long before I realized the warm water had given out and I took leave of the shower.

I made my coffee and checked my mail. I found your letter with this line. “This morning I woke and caressing my body as if it were you.”

It was.



My Dearest Celia,

Today I waited with anticipation for the night stars to shine down on me. These are the same stars you and our friends howled too. The circle of friendship over my dear Atlantic ocean and this bountiful continent closed like a great spiritual fist. I waited to see the very stars you stood under in you little Spanish village celebrating a fiesta if they would pour down your love, their love

in the soft glittering light of the infinite on me. We both knew this moment would come. When our friends unknowing of our blossoming relationship when they left we were strangers. They found out later we had forged a path together in their very home in the mountains. They were surprised and delighted. Now they had their first opportunity to look into your eyes and ask if we were real.

Although as I write this I am ignorant of the answers you gave them. I surmise from comments our other friends have made that we cannot hide our relationship. Even without us overtly or secretly revealing our true purposes with each other they felt the trueness of us.

So, the stars tell me. They sent their gleaming light on you. When our friends asked. You laughed. You cast your eyes to the side. You let your soft embarrassing sigh exhale onto the village square. You tried not to reveal your feelings for me. You shuffled your feet as if to say I have doubts and fears. But the stars know. The stars like the great warrior Orion who hosted many celebrations for his great victories, knew who the lovers in his midst were. And his loyal canines know like the village dogs know darting through the shadows, to find the freshly cleaned bone they covet so dearly. Sirius the brightest star in our night sky saw all. Andromeda, Lira, Sagittarius, and Cassiopeia with her gentle smile spoke to Zeus the king of the ocean as they crossed above, and he raised his great trident into the sky and rejoiced.

The gods are happy. I am happy.

The night lily in the garden laid open her marital white bloom. I have tended to her. I have watered her with words, phrases, paragraphs, and letters. These are her nutrients. Tonight, the star light feeds her as it feeds me knowing feelings cannot hide from the trueness of the universe.

The last star in the morning sky, Sirius will wink at me as the morning sun rises. The sleepy dog will say before sleeping that love is when it is in the bone.

Good Morning My Pretty



My Dearest Celia,

I ventured out of the house this evening to take some fresh air. The beach is not far so I went to see the ocean. The surf is very big to the delight of the surfers. I stood next to a couple of guys who sat with their surf boards watching the surf. It turns out the beach was closed as the authorities determined it was too dangerous for them. The waves pounded the shore so hard that if they had been near the house they would have shaken the pictures from the walls. The waves rolled in and licked the underside of the pier. Big. Big waves for Southern California.

The waves were coming from two hurricanes long since petered out from Hawaii. Our conversation drifted to a news story about a sailboat that need rescuing because of winds and waves. Yet here the ocean was flat and docile on the surface. Beneath the rolling energy from these far-off storms rumbled into the incline of the ocean floor and crashed upon the shore. A death was reported yesterday. They thought the people in the sail boat to be foolish for getting caught in the hurricane. Yet, even as they quietly admonished the captain they stood wearing wet suits and their surf boards readied.

When I stand on the beach any beach I feel melancholy. A captain’s life is on the deck of his vessel. On the beach we are a sad lot longing to be in our place. I have endured five hurricanes in my lifetime of sailing. So, I endeavored to explain the logistics of facing a monster weather system. They listened and understood the lack of choice a captain has. The skill is to find the soft spot and not face the monster head on. You must allow the energy to work for you. If you can imagine the dial of a clock. The storm travels toward twelve o’clock. Between twelve and three o’clock the winds and wave are more intense and more deadly. The counter clockwise motion of the storm drives directly toward you with the addition of the speed the storm is traveling. Between three and six it is still rough, but the winds are like a passing train rushing past you on your beam. Between six and nine the winds follow you. This is the safest quadrant although the swell is gigantic usually for a big storm forty feet in height. Between nine and twelve o’clock you are pushed along at a speed exceeding your hull speed. If you combine this with the swell you surf down the mountains of water pushed by a relentless wind into the trough between waves where the wind dies and then lifted like an express elevator to the top where the wind meets you with vengeance. All this lasts about twelve hours, but during that twelve hours you are fighting to be precise in your steerage, pray nothing breaks, and as an added problem you can’t see because the spray of rain and ocean sting your eyes like bullets hitting your face.

They understood and adopted a new respect for the captain left with little or no choice but to face the beast with only his skill and endurance. I had a special feeling every time I was in a hurricane. I was more calm then all the mediation could ever claim. I was exhilarated beyond belief. I was confident without self-consciousness. I was one with the greatest fury nature could perpetrate. I was wholly one with myself.

As I walked away from the beach, I thought I was living through another kind of hurricane. I will call her Celia. When I walked through that door and saw you for the first time I saw the signs. The high clouds described as horse’s mane screaming across the sky. The barometer dropping by inches an hour like my defenses into the pit of my stomach. The anticipation of the fury of love. Nature’s full-on fusillade of energy! I have ridden out the twelve hours, in our case weeks and now I stand on the deck of my life looking to the horizon for Celia to return.



My Dear Writer,

Yes I am all right. I am very sorry for not answering you. I can’t find the time or the way to tell you that’s I can’t be the whole day texting you. I came back yesterday night. I went to the university very early this morning. I have many things to do and many people to talk too. I was in the village all day with people or resting and I did want to fully enjoy the experience being there. Tomorrow I go to my parents’ house again with my nephews. We are too far away to be in touch all day every day. I don’t want to disappoint you or make you sad, but I would like you to just be “earthy”. I feel overwhelmed. As much as I would like to be with you in the house now, I am in another world.

You try with your letters to convince me that I have feelings that I don’t have. You use big words. We have been fifteen days together and we could build a relationship, may be, but not this way, inventing it.

Thank you for understanding.

I am flattered by your letters. I like it very much when we can talk and see each other. Please don’t take this the wrong way. I want very much to continue. Because I am shy, I can’t handle it, but I like to hear it and read it, but I am shy.

Thank you for the last letter it was beautiful.

Your Dearest


My Dearest Celia,

I have quit glancing back over my shoulder to see where you are, where you’ve been, where you might be. I have immersed myself where your word and gesture are imperative. I see you in the flitting of a Monarch butterfly by the creek bed of the savannah. The delicate thermals lift you from flower to flower. I see you watering the plants in the garden with a big orange bucket. You dip it into the barrel and carry life itself to each plant with such care and purpose I can’t help but wish I were a potted Geranium so I could feel the cool water penetrate my roots. My desire for you and a life beyond this strange hiatus forged by distance is rooted in your innocent touch. I feel your unintentional gaze. I hear your unspoken questions. Sometimes I hear simple domestic questions. How does he like his eggs cooked? When will he take out the trash? What will he cook me for lunch? There are other quieter questions. The questions are like the ruffle of the leaves in the great oaks. There are the creaking sounds from the great lumbering branches not a cracking sound but a low moan giving away to the breeze rumbling down the mountain. They are even more transparent like the spider web so intricately weaved as it flexes and strains in the in the warm wind. It never breaks. It remains whole and flexible. Why “questions” are like these images? Why does he dream so big? Why does he care for me? What is the true depth of his feelings for me? When will he fade like his writing into the past?

You would brush this off as the fanciful musings of a talented writer, but you don’t. There is an adventure afoot. I feel it in your gestures. I see it in your words. I know what hides behind you like I know what I see over my shoulder. There is a great deal of noise in our lives. The rushing sound of modernity. The creaking of friends. Even the unheard straining of the spider’s web deafens us to love. And what of the new sounds? The ones not heard. The attractive man or attractive woman ingratiating themselves into our basest needs. Is this not a noise we both have in the past fallen prey to? Can we be like poor Odysseus who was called to put wax in his ship mates’ ears to save them from destruction and death?

In this great cacophony I whisper to you. “We are on the adventure of life. We will sail away to find a new land for our hearts to live.” But for now, it is murmur like our heart beats longing for answers to questions we have yet formed. Faith in each other will keep us listening.



My Dearest Celia,

This morning I found the kitchen counter covered by an army of ants. At first while I am rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I realized they weren’t black crumbs running about, but ants. So, there was ant Armageddon before I made my coffee.

Afterward while sitting under the trees, the morning sun peaking over the mountain’s ridge did I begin to feel as if the whole world might be heading into disregard? Was there a reason? Was there a hint it is coming? Are we like the lizard sunning on the rock? When the red tail hawk perched high above the canopy called. The lizard puffed out his silver throat and appeared to be doing defiant pushups. Is it like that? One minute you are following your friends, maybe friends is not the right description of ant relationships, searching for food on the long flat plane of white linoleum, but the furious exploration followed by lines and lines of fellow comrades only to have your intention wiped out by a man upset with you crawling around his sugar bowl? Is life like this? Is it so fragile and brief that with one stroke you disappear from this world and down the sink?

I know this is a morose thinking especially so early in the morning. Yet I can’t help being reminded by all the experiences and close calls I have had that life. My life is far more fragile and fleeting.

Isn’t our life more than standing in endless lines? Isn’t our life more than the endless stream of career decisions to secure our place in the endless file? If an alien in a far-off planet stared down on us would they not see the endless streams of cars on the arteries of our planet? Would they be as cavalier as I to wipe the counter clean?

In reality ants are not like us. We have thought, imagination, and awareness. So, it is this awareness that has me thinking about love and it’s my imagination that sculpts my very desires for you. Life is fragile. Love is equally fragile. When is it found is it not like the tiny sugar crystal to the ant? …Sparkling, tasty, and enduring. Shouldn’t we be as defiant as the lizard and declare we will survive! Our love will survive! It is what makes us stand apart from the lines of our friends and comrades.

Love is the spiritual connection that defines us as human. It is this spiritually that defines us as greater than the masses. Too many people spend their lives without love or believing a deluded concept of it. We are lucky to have this moment to transcend the normal to something extraordinary before the completion of our journey. Love makes us all unique.



My Dearest Celia,

I went for an early morning walk. When I started the sky was a slate grey. I went with the left hand the easiest hand because I am a person who sees happiness as something attainable. The sky seamlessly marched through its shades of blue. The wispy clouds appeared like pinkish gashes in the sky they turned reddish much like the color of your areola surrounding your nipples. The crickets still chanted their night time opera. The voices of the birds seemed to speak one at a time. “Good morning my beauty” I imagine as I imagine you saying to me. The horses down at the bottom of the canyon feasted on their morning oats. They cast a quick glance at me as I passed. Oats are more important. A family of raccoons filed across the road on the way home from a night of foraging. A squirrel traversed a limply secured telephone wire. It was inelegant at best. He flipped upside down. His tail spun wildly in circles to counter balance the swaying wire. It reminded me of a vaudeville act on a high wire. Every slip, every fake fall, last second grasp took your breath away. The canyon is the last to taste the sunshine. It will be a few more hours before it pours its warmth down the mountain and warms the dry rock creek bed.

I know you are traveling today from your village back to your home to Seville. I see you in your car driving down the dusty heat-soaked highway alone with your thoughts for the first time in weeks. You told me you were a bad driver. I don’t believe you. You said I made you feel like a woman and a young girl at the same time. I imagine the woman drives. The one with the fierce intelligence and attention to detail no matter how mundane. I am sure you will feel the transformation. I know the feeling of warmth a family gives, but as you get further away it will peel off you and aloneness that waits for you at home will require much sterner stuff on your part. But the little girl, young woman whose sexual passions, unencumbered lust for adventure, electric happiness will not disappear as you know I will be waiting for you. I will call to that woman to figure out the logistics of our lives. I will touch the young woman on the knee. I will drive my hand deep between your legs as you try to maintain your speed on the highway. I will slide my hand under your shirt and rub your breast. Your mind’s eye will see all the subtle colors of the morning in the vivid canyon sky. And when the sun finally casts its warmth deep between your legs your buttocks will tighten. The seat belt will pull hard against you lap and chest. My embrace will cover you. My lips will touch her neck. Your palms will sweat gripping the steering wheel. Open the window and breathe.

The woman in you may feel the young woman foolish, maybe even dangerous. I think that after you’re long journey of discovery. Your discovery of me. You’re revisiting your village after such a long time. The love of your little cousin. You are in a new place. The woman is open and proud of the younger you. I hope you feel whole and happy.

Safe travels.



My Dearest Celia,

Yesterday I attended an afternoon Labor Day party in Beverly Hills. My friend, who I refer to as one of the blessed few that is he is among a very small group of screenwriters who can pitch an idea to the studios and receive a very fat check for virtually doing nothing. He will write the screenplay in a few weeks and receive another fat check. It is an admirable position to be in, but he is usually sad and cranky. He doesn’t hate his life, but he hates what he has become. He once, for a brief moment believed he would be a serious writer and now according to him he writes garbage. We have lunch or dinner several times a year where we discuss a wide range of subjects. He is a great fan of mine and somewhat of a mentor for the business. Yesterday he was gracious and positive.

His house is high up in the hills with breathtaking views of Los Angeles. It is really three properties with two pools and lots of sculpture and trim bushes. He lives by himself except when his eighteen-year-old son visits. He invited me so I could be introduced to couple of producers and a specific director. Except for my friend and me, the party was all couples. I wished you were there with me. I think you would have found it entertaining in an anthropological sort of way. In fact, I think you would have found it down right hilarious.

The women formed little groups around the terrace. They dressed casually, if you would call wearing the entire collection of Cartier casual. They spend more in one week than you make in a year of hard work. The waiters and waitress were out of work actors of course who served drinks and canopies, very tasty. I think they all had a copy of their CV in their pockets just in case.

I was introduced as a “great writer who hasn’t had his big break yet.” I bristled, but I understood how this all works. It was a sort of initiation. The subtext was here is a very talented fellow who is going to make it and we should be prepared to let him into our club very soon. Big means millions of dollars. I was peppered with questions. I kept my answers short. I was reminded of your loving management. I didn’t drink. When the time came I quietly thanked my friend for the invitation. He told me something about me as changed. I told him we will meet for lunch soon.

I am sharing this experience with you for two reasons. Your presence in my life has changed me for the better. That has never happened before as I am usually bigger than life without regard to others or their opinions. Secondly, regardless of our separate and independent lives there is room for each other in them and with luck we can include Cartier too.

With a very quiet whisper,



Dear Writer,

You are overwhelming me. We only spent fifteen days together. You communicate with me too much. I don’t share the same feelings you do. Your letters try convincing me of feelings I don’t have. We are far apart. You don’t understand my life or me. I don’t think we can ever know each other as our lives are so different. I don’t want you to be sad. I want you to understand. I can’t have the same feelings you keep saying I have. They are not there. If I had strong feelings for you I would tell you. Words and thoughts are just words and thoughts. The only reality I have is your skin against mine. I have invested a lot of time in this relationship, and I am willing to continue. I don’t have the time to write you every day. I am sorry if this hurts you, but it is what I am feeling.

You missed a day sending me a letter.



My Dearest Celia,

I am sorry if I overwhelmed you. It was not my intention. I am still trying to sort out how you feel about me. I realize you haven’t, and you need more space and time to arrive at your conclusions. I know you are honest about your feelings. I respect you. I am sorry if I suggested I had any insight into how you are feeling. I really don’t know to be honest, because of your shyness you don’t reveal much but little flittering’s. I would like you to try and understand me. I am a man who has fought in war, sailed the oceans, and have received a very fine education. I have lived life robustly and with a great appetite to experience all life has to offer. I have failed miserably in love. I am sure that meeting you set off these robust feelings I have. It is profoundly unfair to you, and I realize it now.

You have said we live in two entirely different worlds. I will not talk about the future because it doesn’t exist. And the past is fading like remembering your kisses and warm hugs. But I would argue that the moment you think of me, and I think of you that our world is real and without the constraints of time and distance. My intention with these letters is so you will not forget me. Being forgotten is bitter and uncertain death. So, if you can help me understand how we will build this relationship? I promise to do the heavy lifting. Like building a house, I’ll carry the lumber. I’ll hammer the nails. Every once in a while would you measure with your carpenter’s square to tell me if I am right and true. Just as you have in your last communication, and I will make the adjustment.

Take the time and please be gentle and kind as I know you are.

Good morning and have a safe trip.


My Dearest Celia,

The summer has ended. The hot dry weather has yet to yield to the cool wet fall. We have a phrase “An Indian Summer”. I don’t know what it really has to do with Indians, but it refers to that glorious phenomenon after summer as given way to cool air. After the moment when you’ve settled in for the long winter. The wood has been chopped and stacked. The hay is stowed in the barn. The last remaining fruits of the garden are pumpkins and gourds. Then miraculously summer returns for one more dance. Sweaters are shed. Shorts are dug out of the hamper for one last wear. It is a beautiful time. You enjoy it like the first summer’s day. It is a time when the serious business of hunting and gathering begins.

The world is back to work. I must execute all those plans I have been hatching over the summer. I have films to produce, scripts to write, and meetings to attend. As you have said I have many files open. You of course return to lecturing at the university. Eager students will concentrate on your every word, and you will try to hide your nervousness over speaking to so many people at once.

This fall will be different for me. I will not be working for myself. I will not be looking for the singular gratification of my work. I will be working with you in mind. You are my emotional Indian summer. When it seems, I will be lost to the damp grey of winter thoughts of you watering the garden just wearing a pair of flip flops will warm my heart and my psyche. I feel like I have a purpose other than my own self- satisfaction. I have not felt this way in many years. So, my day begins. Phone calls and requests have already filtered into my space. An actor discusses a part I wrote searching for that singular piece of information so his portrayal will organically grow. A producer calls to make excuses about where my payment has disappeared. A director sent a production schedule for me to study. A friend calls asking for help moving into her new house. I make appointments. I set up meetings. I work on my writing projects. Yet in all this motion I am completely immersed in my thoughts of you, my Indian summer.

Good Morning.



My Dearest Celia,

Today was an especially hard day for me. This morning I woke up thinking of my sister. I might have told you she was murdered when she was just nineteen. Well for the first time since that day I forgot the anniversary of her death. She was killed August 10th. We were in the middle of our romance. I don’t know how I could have forgotten. I’ve been racked by guilt all day.

On August 10th, 1972, I was laying an ambush along a trail in Northern Laos a few kilometers from the North Vietnamese border. I was leading a squad of twelve Thai Special Forces. I was in charge. Me. I was twenty years old. During the night a large force maybe a company of two hundred North Vietnamese moved past our position. We were given the wrong intelligence and found ourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. I spent the night listening to myself breathe and my heart beat. I was sure at any moment one of those Vietnamese soldiers would hear me. My sense of time was completely distorted. I stared into the dark jungle. I strained my eyes all night watching the Vietnamese soldiers walk down the jungle path. I had to remove my finger from my M-16 several times because I had pulled it to the very brink of firing. The company moved past us in less than a half an hour, but it felt like an eternity. As long as I have lived I have never felt time stretch like a Dali painting as it did that night.

We stayed in our positions until dawn. All sorts of bugs feasted on my arms and legs and my crouch. Yet I could not move regardless of the pain and discomfort. At dawn I gave all clear. I sent two scouts in opposite directions to see if the enemy was around. They weren’t. We relaxed. We drank water. We ate dried fruit. The men looked at me in the eyes and said (Phonetic here) Dein doy fue wa. It means walks without fear. That phrase followed me around for the next two years. The fact was I was scared beyond belief, but I didn’t show it. I don’t know how it happened, but I have always been good at handling fear. Today I was not. I have always believed that my sister despite her violent and tragic death somehow imparted into me as her very spirit was leaving her body the ability to handle fear. She was a fierce woman even at nineteen. By forgetting her what does it mean? I have never missed. It is a long time to remember but I never forgot until this time.

Usually, I feel solemn and sad. No matter where or what I have been doing I remember. I pay homage to my beautiful sister who was so instrumental in my spiritual awareness. Today I did pay homage. I lite a candle and thought of our youth together. I thought of that night in the jungles of Laos and how it wasn’t me being so brave, it was her calm spirit that allowed me to cover my fear.

As I think back to August 10th, we were so happy together. Maybe she was telling me she didn’t want me to continue paying homage to that fearful and tragic moment. She may have set me free knowing your arms would protect me. I don’t know. It is a pleasant construction. I don’t know.

Without Fear Your Man


My Dearest Celia,

This will be the last love letter I send to you. I have been thinking about all the things you have said to me. Especially that you don’t have those type of feelings for me. I actually don’t believe you. I believe you have very strong feelings. What is happening is you are not ready and fearful. You use the distance and time as an excuse for our relationship not making it. I think I can’t be with someone who doesn’t at least give me a little hope that we can make this work out. You say I am trying to convince you. Well yeah??? Love letters are supposed to evoke a response I thought that’s why you asked me to write you them. I mean consider the point. I am not boring. I don’t live your kind of normal. I live the life on artist pardon me for my intensity. My writing is the fullest expression of my feelings. You should feel flattered, overwhelmed, confused, preoccupied…. Love is painful as well as beautiful. I am torn up inside for you. Are you capable of understanding the depth of my feelings? You said you were overwhelmed. You asked me to be earthier. Does that mean distant and boring? Well, I will take the letters off the table and let you get on with your life. I mean if you aren’t going to at least try. Encourage me? What kind of fool does that make me?

I want you. I am deeply passionate for you. I can’t imagine you slogging through another 20 some years to get your pension. You are far too beautiful a woman. You deserve more. I do understand that the relationships, colleagues, and family create a gravity that is hard to escape. Will you continue on your path of vacation romance then back to work? Will it serve your soul? I know there is a real desire in you for a change. I am offering you serious love, serious adventure, serious friendship.

I am guessing this letter won’t make you sad or disappointed. More than likely the opposite relieved.

I want you to know I will continue to write these letters I just won’t be sending them.

If you want to see them you will have to be interested.

I am here if you want me. If you want to build a life.

I love you.



CELIA: Just read your last letter. Shocked. Unfair. I can’t talk, I am with my nephews, my mother is ill, no time, no privacy. Very sad and disappointed. I have talked today with my therapist about you. I told him you understand me. I was wrong.

WRITER: I am sorry, but it seems every time I try to understand you I fail. You tell me I don’t understand you. I am frustrated and confused. You are not wrong. I do think I understand you, but you have to help me.

CELIA: I don’t know what to say and now you say all these horrible things.

WRITER: I guess I am more frustrated then you realize. We need to talk properly. I love you and I know you hate it when I say it.

CELIA: We will talk properly when we can talk. But in the meantime, it seems that you can’t stop your mind. To think bad.

WRITER: I just felt that you were retreating and wanted me to disappear or just be normal. I just wanted a kind word from you, that’s all. I am serious about you and I’m trying to give you more space to think.

CELIA: I am here. I think of you. I am happy. I am willing to keep going with this relationship.

WRITER: Those are the best words I’ve heard.

CELIA: Have faith and patience and write scripts.

WRITER: I have faith.

CELIA: I am very happy to have you.

WRITER: Thank you.

CELIA: I have to go. Kiss. Kiss.


My Dearest Celia,

Today a Red-Tailed Hawk landed on the lower branches of the big oak. They say the Red-Tailed Hawk in the spirit world is one of the totems. They represent vision. Vision to see the larger picture since they soar so high. I suppose I don’t have that vision when I look at your intentions toward me. I regret sending you the last letter. I didn’t want to upset you. Our conversation lifted the fog. I know you have a hard time expressing your feelings. I am your opposite. I express them freely and honestly. It is the way of a writer. I am overjoyed you are willing to work on our relationship. I am ecstatic I make you happy and that you think of me. Those little phrases have made a difference for me. I am a simple man in the sense that if you say one kind word of assurance it will be the nutrition to sustain my passion for you for a long time. The simple knowledge, the smallest thing makes a difference and as we spend more time together we will understand each other better. I suppose that I might rub off on you a little and help you be more expressive. And you will certainly rub off on me with a little patience and faith. I let the absence of those things get twisted inside me. I should have trusted my vision.

I am pleased you believe that I understand you. I do. I understand the strength of this relationship is our differences. You are a powerful and beautiful woman. You express yourself through intention. I might add sometimes it is difficult to know at times. For many years I had a reoccurring dream. I was in the water swimming toward my boat. It was dark. The only lights were in the aft cabin. As I swam toward the boat it sailed away from me slowly. I never could reach it. So please throw a line off the stern so I can grab hold and hoist myself into your arms. We have much in common, our intellect, our physical passion, and our sense of humor.

You told me to have faith and patience. I do have faith in you and me making this relationship work. I sometimes let doubt rattle around in my head. But you dispelled that with the phrase “I am happy to have you.” I feel better now. I feel clearer and more confident. I hope you do as well.

I am freer to attend to my writing now knowing you are there. This is a good thing.

Now we may never have the spiritual vision of the Red-Tailed Hawk but at least we now see a path and that makes us happy.

With all my heart, S


SKYPE CALL: A split screen appears on the video screen. Both CELIA and WRITER are dressed casually. CELIA is in day light. The WRITER is at night.

CELIA: Hello.

WRITER: Hello, how are you feeling?

CELIA: Blood and pain.

WRITER: Oh? I’m sorry.

CELIA: I had my period.


CELIA: I thought I was pregnant.

WRITER: Really?

(She shows him a pregnancy test stick)

CELIA: It’s not blue.

WRITER: Is that a good thing?

CELIA: If I was pregnant I would have wanted to have the baby.

WRITER: (Without hesitation) Me too. CELIA: Of course it’s not going to happen. WRITER: We could try again.

CELIA: Impossible right now.

WRITER: Yes, of course. I like the idea. But many things would be disrupted.

CELIA: Yes, children have their own demands. It would be hard and we couldn’t have sex often.

WRITER: I think we could figure something out.

CELIA: I thought you would say that. WRITER: I’m predictable.

CELIA: Not really. I have to go for now. I have someone at my door.

WRITER: Can we discuss this at a later date? CELIA: Yes. Bye. Kiss. Kiss.

WRITER: Kiss, Kiss.


My Dearest Celia,

Today the gardeners came first the man with the rake and leaf blower. He launched is futile attack on the fallen leaves. He blew away the leaves that had falling so gently on your favorite sofa. I haven’t sat in that sofa since you left. It was my little homage to your place. It was a sad little romantic reminder to our time in that particular place. In a few hours the afternoon breeze will rush down the mountain and the leaves will let loose from the oak and the sycamore. My little shrine will be restored. I noticed he was wearing an oversized tee shirt with Dad emblazoned across the front. It made me think of our conversation about family. He seemed so happy to do this difficult and futile work. Did his shirt indicate he was cloaked in family and fatherhood? Was this his shield? Was this his security? I think so. Being alone for so many years I have deliberately shied away from this concept. With you I feel comfortable and excited to embrace family. I am comfortable with the understanding I can wear your invisible cloak of love.

The second gardener, Tony entered the gate carrying a small trowel and a bag of organic chicken poop. He proceeded to attend to the plants. I watched him from inside the house. He carefully worked the soil in each pot with his trowel. He poured a little fertilizer onto the soil and gently worked it into the surface. When he finished he took the orange pitcher and watered each plant. When he was finished he smelled a bud on each plant. After secretly watching the care he gave to these living things I went out and introduced myself. It turned out he was extremely knowledgeable about every plant. Who needed more water? Who needed more attention? I was a little concerned about my stewardship and he assured everything was fine. I recalled that many years ago my parents took up gardening with a passion. They were already raising three kids yet seemed to need more nurturing. I suspect the garden was easier to do because the flowers and vegetables never talked back or screamed for attention.

After he left, I stood amongst the flowers and trees. There was an air of poise, self-

assuredness, from this loving care. Can we be gardeners of this relationship? Will we till the soil carefully and lovingly? Is it possible that two people such as us; independent city dwelling workers of intellectual growth discover we can make life, care for and have it flourish? I think so.



My Dearest Celia,

I am experiencing a change in the way I perceive my day. I have abandoned my circadian rhythm and adopted the beating of your heart. Your heart is the beautiful time piece of my life. While I sleep I dream of you moving about your life. I search for the intersection between you and me. I may be sitting in a café across from the university waiting to catch a glimpse of you leaving your lecture. I may be walking down the long-polished hallway asking students in my broken Spanish where you are teaching. At other times I am in the market watching you buy the sundries to make your life better. Sometimes I am driving in the car with you on a dusty road. I see you look out over the vast plain of Spain. What are your thoughts? When I wake in the morning I know you are into the thick of your day. You have that weary armor we all wear with our day daily grind. I want to comfort you. I want to say fly away with me. Let’s lie on the sofa together under the splendid oak and talk philosophy and love.

My early morning dreams, the ones you remember just before stirring, are filled with your whispers. Your whispers are like the ticks of a fine Swiss clock. They speak of memories. They converse about the future. They remind us that it is time to greet me. Of course, the math was hard even for us, nine hours difference, forward and subtracting should we be adding instead? It isn’t an easy thing when there are only twelves to stop the math. I have been working on a twenty-four-hour clock. The sailor in me is used to this system. The math is simple. Yet, time is an artifice. Time like this doesn’t apply to us. We may appear to arrive at work or attend a meeting at a specific time, but it isn’t our time piece any more. My heart beats. Your heart beats. Time doesn’t exist for us in this way.

We text and Skype. It will be our domain for a while. It serves a useful purpose. I text good morning and you welcome me into my day. Conversely I text the same just before I go to bed. This domain is only useful in the sense we can share the minutia of our lives. It is a space in which nothing exists, and everything is attainable. You can tell me of something you like, and I instantly can see it. If we were facing each other inches apart it would be something to find later, because in your presence there is only you. I care nothing for the outside world. I only care for the sound of your heart. It is the magic of my time. As my day begins in earnest I am consumed by words, sentences, and paragraphs. I am measuring by meter, by page, by thought. You see thoughts have no sense of time. They are independent. They are arrogant of time. Time is just another thought in a series of better thoughts. Time is a rookie. Time inspires nothing. But our time, two beating hearts less time’s stupid standard is where poetry lives. Poetry is that infinite beauty of the real soul.

When the sun begins its decent and the savannah is it’s warmest you are slipping into bed to rest. Your dreams take flight. I feel them. Sitting here at my desk writing silly and serious stories your dreams travel across our universe on the beating of our hearts. I sleep with you. I hold you. Yet I am typing away in a world you understand but can’t truly fathom. It doesn’t matter because your real life is just a few scattered images to me. What matters is our time. After the sun goes away from here and comes up over your house I will send you a good morning. You will have heard my whispers all night. Your morning dreams, the ones before you stir will be full of images of us living together where time doesn’t exist. Two people sharing the same heart beat where nothing matters than the poetry of our love.

Good Morning.


My Dearest Celia,

I am aroused! You are the only one in my experience that I can make love to and have joyful uninhibited sex at the same time. I don’t ever see having to utilize a fantasy during sex with you. I have had this experience before, but not to this extent and with so much passion. The thought of you arouses me. I could if I was to try contrast us with others or my other experiences, but I think I would be diminishing the sheer glory of making love with you.

When one describes something they can either exhort all the positives or compare and contrast. One might even resort to metaphors to describe the poetry of the moment. But sex is a simple pleasurable conceit. Most people have no knowledge how important sex is to their lives. They create all kinds of barriers from the respect me notion, to the romantic misconception love me but do no harm. There is the other side of sex, the seedy, damaging, power of viciousness and domination. I don’t refer to the fun games of domination or the role playing but to the psychotic other worldliness of hate sex. No, we are perfect in our sense of joy and fun. We love each other’s bodies. We enjoy our fun and don’t hesitate to please each other. Let’s face it we both have had our experiences. I am not in any sense of the word ashamed to embrace your experiences or mine. I am not able to project a standard of behavior on your experiences. We’ve talked about them. We shared the details. I know you wouldn’t do such a thing to me. We are not chaste lovers of a forgotten time. We are epic lovers of our time. Our time is one where sex is sex. Whatever? It’s about a lot of things from drunken one-night stands to friends with benefits. It is casual. It is intense. It is pleasurable and fun. We have a new standard in a sense.

Sex with you is all these things and I can’t imagine for a second that we would suffer from familiarity or boredom with each other. We don’t just play one tune. We are romantic in the best of the word. We are sometimes like two drunken porn stars. The trueness of our relationship is our wholehearted openness to one another and our unabashed lack of self-consciousness to please each other.

As promised I will talk you into an orgasm using only my words. You cannot touch yourself in any way or form. We will achieve the perfect state of sexual pleasure. This idea makes me very aroused.

Good Morning


My Dearest Celia,

The “I” in my life has been too long in charge. The “me” has stood passively by bearing the results of my “I”. Until I met you I was content to work and live by the seat of my pants. I uttered phrases like “it’s the artist’s life” “Whatever happens, happens” “The universe will provide”. All statements my “I” loved to hear. Because my “I” could be as selfish as it wanted. It is not bad when you are on a difficult path. Writing is not an easy way to generate comfort, in fact, it may be the least effective way. But I am hard headed. I am belligerent. I am also dedicated to my purpose. After all these years of being alone I have realized, thanks to you, that I need the “we” to make my balance.

I am not balanced as of today. In fact, I couldn’t be further from being balanced. But I see a time with you by my side that I will be. This realization is without a doubt a stunning and unexpected turn of events for me. I have such a great desire for the “we” I feel consumed.

I saw you, dressed in your red dress, glasses, heeled shoes, purse crossing over your body, make-up, and a giant smile. I sent you off to work. I held that image of you in my mind’s eye all day. I wrote emails. I made calls. I prepared myself for a very long day. I was happy. I was satisfied I was working for something other than myself. The all-consuming nature of my business seemed less hungry, yet I was more enthused.

When I first came to Hollywood, I took meetings all around town. Even though I was older than most, I was still viewed as new. This has changed over the years. But the task of making a film hasn’t. It is still damn difficult and usually requires a miracle. You are my miracle and my muse. The shear energy of our love will make all these dreams come true. I want, not only the film to be made, but I want the films to provide us the ability to see each other and find a decent life together. More importantly I look forward to sharing my success with you, because it would be meaningless if “I” were the only one.

I don’t have to glance back any more to justify myself. My self is yours to keep.

Good Morning,


My Dearest Celia,

Today I found a tiny bird in the bedroom. It chirped and chirped. It flew up against the windows. It perched on the lamp. It sought to escape. Given my last experience with a small bird crashing into a window and dying, I felt a real sense of panic. I tried to shoo the tiny thing out of the bedroom, because there was no chance of me catching and releasing it. We were both captives. I relented after a short while and returned to my desk in the office. A few moments later it was fluttering against the big windows in the living room. I closed off the doors to the bedroom. I thought at least the little fellow was closer to freedom in the living room. If it didn’t actually happen I could use this event as a metaphor to describe my thoughts and feelings. Imagine to be able to see where you belong in the freedom of the wild only to be blocked by an invisible wall of glass. He seemed to be testing every source of light except the door where he came in. There is only one way out!

He flew into the office and tested every window. He would fly so fast then at the very last minute, perhaps seeing his reflection slam on the brakes. He danced on the bongo drums. He might have a future as an entertainer. It would be funny if he wasn’t so desperate for freedom. Eventually I closed off the office and he was confined to the living room and the kitchen. If there was someone to help I could actually steer him outside. But there never is anyone to help when you are trapped in a glass box chasing a panicked bird.

I relented. I acquiesced. I went back to work. I listened to his chirps. I felt his fluttering wings. I couldn’t imagine how he would ever get out. This event lasted about an hour. I went outside with hopes that he would follow me, but I knew that was a foolish thought. I could only imagine I would find him on his back dead. The chirps continued. I sat outside and listened to his desperate pleas. When suddenly he was standing outside with me protesting. I was relieved. I am now batting one for two on the bird in the house events. I pray it won’t happen anymore.

I can’t help but think about how my caring for you moves you. Caring has been painful for me over the years. I care and I suffer when someone or something in my life is in pain. I care because I have no other way to feel. I care more deeply for you than you can imagine. I feel each flutter of your wings and I hear every word you whisper. I care because I know by doing so it will set you free. Both our hearts will live in the freedom of the wild. We can escape the glass box that keeps us troubled. We just have to fly out the door.

With all the freedom of my heart.

Good Morning.



My Dearest Celia,

I am following you through your day. I am there to arouse you and make you desire me. You have a long day of teaching today. So, when you wake this morning I will be the pillow between your legs. I will press against your pussy. My hands will pull the cheeks of your ass open, and I will drive my tongue deep into your ass.

When you make tea I will catch you passing and slide my hands under your night dress and softly massage your breasts. The water will come to a boil, and you will pour the tea. I will sip the tea with you. I will hold the hot liquid in my mouth for a moment. After I swallow I will put my hot mouth on your breast and make you shiver with excitement. When you shower I will be standing next to you. I will soap your body. My slippery hands will run over your shoulders and down to your breasts. I will slide my hands over your stomach and around your ass. I will put both hands around your legs and stroke them up and down. When both legs are done I will wash pussy with great care and love. When you dress I will be the mirror showing you the best points of your body. I will reflect your smile. I will watch you toss your hair. I will look at you with the purest desire.

When you walk I will watch your reflection in the store windows. I will be touching your muscles. I will be feeling the pure athleticism of my lover’s stride. I love how confidently you walk down the street. On the bus I will sit next to you. I will share idle chat while I slide my hand under your dress. Wait you forgot to wear???? I will take my finger and rub gentle. The object is not to cum but to enjoy the pleasure of my touch. You will adopt the role of professor and begin listening to the students. Will you be listening? Will you be thinking that they can see you are distracted? I think not. Sometime during this day, you will breathe on the back of your hand. It is the start, as you know to private ignition. Maybe you will feel a bead of sweat form around your arm pit. My tongue will kiss and lick it away. It is a long day with many students. You will struggle but you will get your job done.

I know you have dinner with a friend. I won’t be there in this sexy erotic form. You will be alone. You will wonder where I am. What am I doing? You will try not to think about me or the way we are going to change each other’s lives.

You will be exhausted by the time you lay your head on the pillow. I will be the pillow. You will push your face into me, and I will wish you good night.

Good Morning.

(The film plays on the screen while the writer narrates from the stage.)


My Dearest Celia,

A cinema dream in a country like Greece. In a time when the culture was corrupt. Where fear and ignorance held hands like brothers.

A very low traveling shot catches the feet and legs of a woman running across sun cooked cobblestones. We can see she is wearing a red dress as the hem below her knee is tattered and torn. Her feet beautiful white porcelain is caked with dirt. Her nails were once red but are chipped and the bleeding. She runs. In a deep focus a crowd is chasing her. She is faster. She turns the corner in the ancient village. We see the crowd rush to the corner and stop.

The camera rack focuses like Sergio Leone.

An old woman dressed in a long black dress and faded floral apron raises her hand to her hairy chin. She rolls her mouth as if to shift her ill fitted wooden dentures. An old man sweat rolling down from under his cap grits his teeth in anger. His leather vest is stained from years of soup stains. A very plain woman almost ugly holds a baby swaddled in a bloody blanket. Village boys with their wild eyes darting back and forth excited by the chase of the crowd yet ignorant of the reason. A matador throws his cape over his shoulder. His sword is raised in the air. He is courageous but not courageous enough to leave the mob. He is more comfortable letting the danger come to him.

The camera reverses abruptly. We see an old man wizened by the years sorting books on a table outside his bookshop. He smiles and points down the street which runs up hill away from the port. He is her friend. He carefully places a book in the top of the stack titled “Jung: Analysis of Dream Archetypes”.

We cut to her feet running down the hill. She stops. A point of view shot of a troubadour and his girl singing a sad love song. His guitar case is open. A couple of coins dot the black velvet landscape inside. It deserves more. She tosses a coin in the case and continues. We stay on the Troubadour there are tears in this song.

Moments later we have a wide shot of the woman in the red dress hustling across the open square next to the lake. There are two boats tied to the stone quay. One a fancy boat has well healed travelers boarding. We can tell this because the men are dressed in white and cream suits, wearing summer straw hats of the finest construction and the women wear long dresses with very tight bodices. They carry umbrellas with fancy fringe. She passes them. The men look at her with desire. Men like these live to take advantage of a woman under duress. The woman mutter obscenities and hurl daggered looks. She is going to the second boat. It is a small caique painted blue and white. An old man stands ready next to the tiller. The little motor coughs, putt, putt, wheeze, putt,….

We have a close up of her feet stepping on board. She squats down and we see for the first time she is beautiful.

A medium shot of the bell tower, campanario. The bell rings. It is a round low sound. It is the best the village could do.

Smash cut: A man with a crown of thorns jammed onto his head looks up into the afternoon sun. Blood trickles down his temple. He is tied to a wooden chair. The chair is being carried by angry men two poles slid under the chair. They hold the poles on their shoulders. Young girls stand in the dark shade and cry. They fondle themselves and flash their young breasts as he is carried past. He smiles at them like one smile from a pleasant memory.

The crowd yells, philosopher, poet! They sing a church hymn in an undiscernible language. He is tied with stiff hemp ropes from the barn. His hands to the arms of the chair and his bleeding legs to the worn spindles.

In this wide shot of this angry processional, we see old women throw garbage meant

for the pigs at the man. He is amused until they step foot on a caique and make for the middle of the blue lake.

Cut to the woman crossing the lake. Her feet hang over the side. The water rushing past the wooden hull washes the caked dirt of her feet. The old man by the tiller alerts her to the approaching boat with the man tied to the chair. She shades her eyes from the noon day sun. As is the custom the men by the tiller stop in the middle of the lake. The men toss the man tied to the chair into the lake. He sinks. The woman cannot believe her eyes. The men lite cigarettes and drink a sip of brandy. A job well done on their part.

The point of view from the man in the chair as he sinks slowly toward the bottom of the clear blue lake. The rays of the sun bend in the water. A shot from under the man in the chair sinking into darkness but hoping to see the light.

The woman stands up and yells, that is my lover! The men laugh. One man cruelly says you have had many lovers, me included. The other men declare they were once her lovers too.

The woman in the red dress dives into the water.

From under the sinking man, we see her swimming toward him. He thinks he sees an angel coming for him and he is satisfied.

She reaches him and kisses him on the mouth. They float downward together in the fading beams of light.

Smash cut: The man lays naked on cool white sheets. The woman lays next to him. The bedroom is modern. The doors to the balcony are open. An ocean breeze moves the muslin curtains slowly.

She holds him close to her breasts. She kisses him on his lips. He wakes and kisses her tenderly.

I know, he says tenderly. What do you know? She asks as if she already knows the answer. She kisses him giving him one more breath of life.

Good Morning, S


My Dearest Celia,

You placed a blindfold over my eyes. I stood in the middle of the bedroom. You slowly unbuttoned my shirt. I could smell your scent even more powerfully than with my eyes open. I felt your hair brush up against my chin. You slipped my shirt over my shoulders and slide it off my arms. The texture of the shirt made my skin tingle. The change in temperature felt like a wave of a thousand fingers over my shoulder and arms. You gently put my hands together and tied them at the wrists with a silk tie. I asked where you got this. You replied, I’ve been planning for a long time. This excited me even more to have an insight into your secrets. What you don’t want me to know about your inner thoughts excites me beyond reason. You cinched the rope. You didn’t say a word. I could hear you breathe. Your hands unbuckled my belt. I felt the back of your hand as it worked through the mechanics. My zipper dropped and you pulled the sides of my pants down around my ankles. I stepped out. You ordered me not to move. Ordered was said kindly, but stern. You left my side and pulled the covers of the bed. I could hear them rustle and fall to the floor. You guided me into the bed and told me to lay on my back. “Put your hands above your head.” You disappeared. I laid on the cool sheets and waited. The air was cool, but not cold. I felt a sublime sense of relaxation overcome me as I waited for you to return. I first heard you walking barefoot into the bedroom. Then I felt you get into the bed and lie beside me. I felt the warmth of your body next to me. I knew you were naked. You placed your hand millimeters above my chest. It was as if your hands were on fire with warmth. It was a kind of touch a healer from some far away mountain kingdom might have. I felt you pass over my chest hairs. They bowed to your presence. Your hand passed side to side across my chest. It followed over my arm pit. I felt a slight tickle. Even the smallest hairs of my body stood erect. I could imagine your eyes studying my skin carefully. You adjusted your body. Our skin touch just slightly on my side. I felt your breast lay on my chest. Your mouth approached mine. I am so full of desire I could scream. I know you will only give me a little. You ordered me to stick out my tongue. You took your tongue and licked around mine. The tip of your tongue touched the soft under belly of mine. I wanted so badly to plunge my tongue into your luxurious mouth. You pulled away. This was excitingly cruel. You pulled my shoulder and hip to roll over. I laid on my stomach with my hands above my head. You shifted. You spread my legs as far apart as possible. You rubbed your breast over my back. Back and forth only pausing to kiss and lick the crease between my buttocks. I could feel your rock-hard nipples traverse my shoulders then fall away to the small of my back and over my buttocks. This was wildly pleasing to me. Then you sat between them. You raised my hips and slide your legs under my hips. You slid your hand under my hips and pulled my cock toward you. You stroked my cock firmly. I could feel the tip of my cock touch your sweet wet lips. I twisted my wrists. It was a reaction to feeling so helpless and so aroused at the same time. I could hear you groaning with pleasure above my own deep growls. You slapped my buttocks hard. You did it again and again each time harder. Each time the sting shot like a lightning bolt into my core. You shifted and made me roll over. You placed your pussy on my mouth. I licked and sucked and tried to drive my tongue into your wet sweetness. You grabbed my cock and beat it against your cheek. Then in one motion devoured it deep into your throat. What seemed like a moment but was truly an eternity you shifted again and mounted my cock. You were hot and wet. I lost control just as you came.

Exhausted, you laid on top of me. I took my arms and encircled you and held you. I experienced my lover in full detail even blinded. You whispered into my ear. “Next time I wear the blindfold.”

Good Morning, S


Dear Writer,
This is not what I like. I prefer the reverse. C


My Dearest Celia,

We seem to be walking in the middle ground. Yesterday I took the day off from writing. That night I couldn’t sleep and what sleep I did have was full of disturbing feelings. I might chalk it up to just a bad night. I regularly sleep well, so I consider one night an anomaly. Last night was worse. It was one hundred and ten degrees, and the heat didn’t abate until three in the morning. I got up and worked. We have no air conditioning! I apologize for my moodiness. I have found writing this letter to you difficult. I worry that the intensity of these letters may have caused you anguish. I care about you. You know I do and through these letters it was never my intent to make you feel stressed. I am not trying to convince you to have feelings you are not ready to have. I concede that the balance of enthusiasm and intensity has been one sided. I understand more than you might realize, in my last relationship I was in your position. It is uncomfortable. I don’t want this to be the case between us. I want a balanced relationship. I think it is essential. Hence the difficulty in writing this latter.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t want you to be angry with me. So, I am afraid to offend or disturb you by writing with too much passion. So, I am in a bit of a quandary. If you were here with me I would be able to see the effects on you. I would easily adjust my intensity. I might note I have never done this with anyone, nor even considered regulating myself. I am, as you know, a rather intense man. I can’t apology for this, but I can tone myself down.

I can only imagine what you are feeling. You have this whole life of work, family, and friends set and comfortable. Then along comes a man who sees everything good in you. The constancy of my energy for you must be frightening. I know it frightens me. I can’t believe how one person has so infiltrated my creative process as with you. I am fearful it will either be too much or not enough. As I ponder what to write to you I hear your words of advice. I hope you will continue to look upon me favorably and with affection as I struggle to find the balance most comfortable for you and myself.

Yours with affection,



My Dearest Celia,

Tomorrow you start teaching. I am so proud of you. There is nothing sexier or more erotic in my mind than a highly educated woman in command of knowledge and her expertise. Of course, I have noticed you haven’t been texting me back. I am assuming it is the implementation of “Celia Rules”. I suppose you are trying to put my presence further away so you can concentrate and feel comfortable when you face the class. Lecturing looks easy from the back of the classroom. You know you will be great. I know you will be great. If you feel this is flattery, you are absolutely right. I see the greatness in you. I see intelligence and savvy. I love the power you possess. It is wonderful and positive. It is what really draws me to you and the sex is not bad either. (I’m laughing.) I have experienced two kinds of women in my life; women who you want to possess and want to be possessed, and the truly special women you want to share life as an equal. I see you the latter. You are in my eyes amazing, if you weren’t I wouldn’t write these letters or be with you. You are a singular and beautiful talent.

Now I can hear very clearly your inner dialogue. The loudest voice is that dark shadow in your mind. It says, “You are not worthy of this man’s love.” “Remember your experiences and how they made you so depressed.” “If you love someone you will be hurt.” “I will create so much anxiety and worry you will never find your way.” “You have a life why make it worse.” My answer to those chants of doom is “fuck off!” You are worth every ounce of love and respect I can give. If anything, I worry I am not worthy of you. I understand we all carry a sack of shit from our past. Every once in a while we need to dump it so we can move on. Now you may presume I am being manipulating. This is not manipulation it is honesty and care. It is self-preservation. It is the truth. You may even be angry. But I am not going to let the shadow win. You may even think I am totally wrong. I am not. But I have sensed for some time this “other” force in our relationship.

I was going through the pictures, and I remembered what I was thinking at the time. You opened you heart and your mind. You were very happy. That nasty dark shadow was being defeated by care. It popped up a couple of times. Like when you wanted a day by yourself. When you took a massage by yourself. I thought it was me, but after reviewing it was that shadow trying to gain control. You didn’t let it. As far as I can see “Celia Rules” are the shadow’s rules.

You told your therapist that I understand you. I do. So, listen to me. You struggle as we all do with our darkest shadows. They never seem to go away, but we can manifest a better energy where they are put into their box and not let out. I have an entire life of nasty experiences in some sort of box. The boxes could fill a storage center!

I understand why you cried so hard our last night. You may not even be aware yourself. You cried because you were afraid the beauty you felt with me would be lost. It won’t be lost. I am not going to let it.

You are a remarkable and beautiful woman. You are smart and sexy. You need to shine your light on the world because you will make it better. I want you to do this regardless of my presence or not. You deserve it. You need it and I am confident you will achieve it because you are greater than you think. Be strong and don’t let the shadow win. Good luck in school.
With Great Affection,



I am sorry you are so angry. I have told you many times I don’t have the same feelings as you. You just don’t seem to listen to me. But at the same time, I still want to see you again and see what happens. That is the point. You keep saying to me that I have feelings but don’t want to express them or can’t or I am afraid of expressing them. No. I don’t have those feelings.

I am leaving for Barcelona I will be back in five days. I ask you not to contact me when I am away. I will take a deep breath in Barcelona.





My Dearest Celia,

Tonight is my last night in this wonderful and mystical house. There will only be unattached memories of our days and nights together. I embark on a new adventure. You have already changed your place in the world and left these very real things behind some time ago. I have been overwhelmed emotionally from our time together and the amazing creative experience. I am guilty of putting my desires first in spite of your pleas. I am returning to my life in Venice. I feel very lucky we met. You have been a great inspiration to me, and I thank you.

Now I must work on the other parts of my life. The play, the films and everything else that goes with my work. I must admit that being alone for a month has made me a little out of sorts. I hope you understand I don’t act this way as a rule. I would ask for forgiveness, but there is nothing to forgive.

I am prepared for you to reject me and go on with your life without me. I understand. I will put that rejection in my bag of sad things. I will eventually see our time with the fondest of memories and the deepest love. I will never stop loving you. If there is an eternity and an eternity beyond I will be loving you.

However, if you do keep me in your life. I would be overjoyed. I will take the lessons you have taught me and learn from them. I don’t imagine I will love like this again. I need to breathe and get my balance back. If it turns out we can be together in the future I will welcome our union. I will learn.

Your Man, Your Writer, Your Lover




I am in the taxi on the way home from the airport. I miss you and I like it.

© Scott Dodgson

Scott Dodgson has roamed the seven oceans sailing as far north as the Baltic Sea and Alaska and as far south as Kenya in the Indian Ocean and from South Africa to Chile in the Southern Ocean along 50 degrees south. He wrote the popular movies “The Anna Nicole Story”, “Paris Hilton, Princess Paparazzi,” and numerous other films and television shows.  His podcast “Offshore Explorer With Scott Dodgson can be found where ever you get your pods. He has published a novel “Not a Moment to Lose,” a novella (optioned for film) “The Casket Salesman,” and numerous short stories and essays including in Live Encounters.  His anthology of short stories “A Sailor’s Point of View” published by Main Street Rag Press is available. His two new novels “The History of Water” and “Le Pécheur” are grinding their way toward publication. He lives in the south of France.

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