July 23, 1995 (#1) (and before ...)

The horror of the past few weeks gone like a swallow to San Juan Capistrano; I'm here now. Somewhere in the Southwest, high desert, mystery and that's all I dare divulge should you ever fall into the hands of my pursuers.

I couldn't face another day of crowds and noise and congestion and attitude and gyms and parties and openings and premieres and grit and grime and fashion and the high life in general. You of all who know me, understand what a delicate flower I am. When the letter from the IRS arrived, simply the last straw, I picked up the Eldorado from the garage, grabbed Sir Lancelot and the computer, and 2500 miles of Interstate later - voila! Sunglasses and scarves and I blend into my surroundings connected to the real world via data transfer and via those who care.

(Although, Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Pride Day was delightful and my trusty camera captured those memories for the coming cold months, a last hurrah.)

Trying and tedious, but it's my life now. And I've had a revelation.

Upon arriving at my new habitat, I used some of the money those nasty G-men are trying to claim to purchase my new pied-a-terre. All one level, and yes on wheels in case I must move quickly, not exactly a penthouse but mine and I fit in so well in my lovely new community. Maybe even better. Back home, I was more than just Trudy, I was living a double life, lowly computer programmer by day, ravishing yet sensible beauty by night. Yes, everyone called me Trudy, and on Halloween, New Years, Mardi Gras and Bill & Gary's yearly ball I was Trudy. But the IRS and my inner self have shown me that Trudy - year-round, 24/7, mission critical (as they always said) - is my salvation. I blossom.

My charming new neighbors love it. We all seem to be hiding from one little thing or another, and share that in common. Jack and Mary in the double-wide next door say that I add "sparkle" to their lives and in return we sparkle together for cocktails nightly before and sometimes for dinner. Jack is such a scamp although he is trying to pull some strings with connections he says he has to the IRS and Mary, so regal with the little girl quality I like to think I would possess at her age. Mr. Lance and I have been embraced by the whole trailer park community. It helps that I look marvelous!

But what of my old friends? Though they may never see me again (and I don't know if they would understand my new life in my humble, yet dainty trailer), with the help of a satelite dish (concealed cleverly behind cacti and lattice) I am still in contact with that odd array of persons called my friends and so many new one.

Just in the 10 days it took His Highness and I to drive out here, I received correspondence from Mr. Jewel (La Grande Dame) back home, from Claudine's troubled boy Zach, luscious Joe out in El Lay, and even some mad child poet, Sage, who fancies me her mother! That's fast work, I would say! I love them all.

Who knows what to expect? I can only say that I am basking in the freedom of this (with a cocktail from my neighbors Jacque & Marie always in hand). And with my Lance here for warm-blooded (if furry) solace, I have plenty of memories and electronic mail and all those lovely people out there in the dark to keep me going.

Yours desparately forever,