rest

Woke up this morning
with nothing pressing
that could be done today.
banks closed
schools closed
flags waving in the breeze
--so fierce
I can hear them echo
an hour across the border.

Woke up this morning
forgetting
really forgetting
about the ritual
I carefully ignored
twenty-seven years
and wondering.

And I woke up this morning
dizzying freedom
spinning
running endless loops--
Sisyphus
empty-handed...

torn between laughter and tears
--and laundry.

Is this what is meant
by
day of rest?

oh canada

Tall guy, long hair, black fleece, loping down the street toward a family of five:

"Hey, someone forgot their stuffed animal!"

He hands over something black and fuzzy and vanishes back into the diner.

I'm gonna miss this place.

real

I saw a professional production of Tom Stoppard's The Real Thing over the weekend.

If you liked Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf (Albee's wrenching, draining, epic: "I am the Earth Mother, and you're all flops."), then please, go see The Real Thing. It has a similar pace, similar feel...but less desperation in the end.

Here's the irony: professional theatre never feels as real to me as community theatre, just as professional baseball doesn't hold a candle to Little League. Here's the key question: are you there for love, or for money, oh performer/actor types?

I did not like Virginia Woolf, not even with a university company.

I did not like Real Thing either--but I might have liked it better if it had been more...real.

tired

I am tired of crying. Tired of crying about two things: parents and money. That is all.