September 8, 2008

Interesting dreams at morning. Yesterday I was a sort of ghost, invisible, but still able to communicate with those around me. This morning I was at a street fair in a tiny village in Ireland.

I think last night’s Faustus went well. I was paraphrasing wildly in the baffling pope scene, but even there I think energy carried me through. As this will probably be my last foray with Montford Park Players, I will set down that what was beautiful to me almost past expressing was the rising of the moon on certain nights, how it never hauled above the trees southward, but dragged along so its light was secret and divided; but how honey colored Venus did rise and did rule the night, passing slowly toward the west, and how the bats swooped for their suppers in the stage lights.

White iris reblooms. One more golden waterlily.