As Cathy says, a palm tree is like fireworks, shooting straight up until it bursts into all those fronds, and then comes back to earth, mere fumes.

This started out as an apologia pro vita us: I didn’t want Cathy to think I only thought of beach houses in Hawaii, houses in Mexico, as indeed I was at the moment: forever beach.  After all, it was my profession to be obsessed: beauty was my job, or so I amused myself professing to a skeptical wife, who knows it’s any excuse for a house.

Reality lies in dreams, not in responsibilities that deprive us of our dreams.  We had just spent seven years in reality mode, so this was a momentary riposte at is, even if reality can be seen as an occasional adjutant to art.

I also wrote it to be able to celebrate some kind of fireworks with Cath, who was unavoidably in La Jolla with Jenny for the Fourth of July.