May 19, 2008
Just afternoon. I am in Asheville, the garden checked, the cats greeted. All is most well. The garden is ablaze with roses and poppies, and voodoo lilies which do not even stink. The woman I waited for the shuttle bus with has a daughter, Layla, who dances with American Ballet Theater.
I had developed the rhythm of walking the streets and touring museums from early in the morning, coming back to the room to rest, and write, and nap, maybe eat a little before heading out to the theater. It was a good rhythm, and I’d like to maintain it here, even if there is no material to put into the slots. Production e-mails begin to talk about the strike on Saturday night, which is dolorous conversation indeed.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment