September 1, 2017

Dawn on my birthday. Great wind, a blast of light and a pop as a transformer explodes nearby. Circe looks at me at though it were my doing.

Drinks after Cantaria last night. New people in the chorus, and for that we rejoice, except the music for Pride is exactly that of which I was mortally tired at the end of last year. I will not be singing, so I can sail through for this while. A sub-group has formed to do the jazzy pop numbers, with choreography, it is alleged, but if I think that will save me from the music I’d rather not do, I’m probably wrong.

It is early. I don’t know what to do with my day, except to teach my classes: Candide in one, Milton in another.