Yeats

 

June 13, 2021

Yeats at 156. 

Yellow sky after days of violent, intermittent rain.

Watched the tiniest baby cottontail in the world grazing my lawn this dawn. 

Surprisingly not elated about having the play festival behind me. I enjoyed it, may even look for another opportunity, though most of what’s available to me now are the dead fathers. Spoke with the playwright, M, after the show yesterday. He seemed elated, joyful, in any case, way beyond satisfied. Thus was achieved the thing I most hoped to achieve. It was the first piece he’d ever seen on stage beyond his home town of Bellingham. We’d all remarked on the intriguing spareness of the play. M said it was because the man the part was written for (a real derelict, evidently) couldn’t remember his lines, and so was given few of them, including a song. Everybody remembers songs.

Now that I can compare, I realize a dance is much easier to memorize than a play. 

The fiber optic transformation was unexpectedly laborious (for the poor installation man) but has turned out well for me. If I heard the details right, it will save me $870 a year. In ten years my jaunt to Israel is thus paid for. Moving forward in all things.