Two Left

...I might have lived my life in a dream, but I swear, this is real...

Topless, I drive in and out of cool and warm pockets, cool created by the Jones Falls and trees along the avenue, warm from the sun and cars on the expressway.

"You've no vanity mirror."

You shouldn't be so vain.

"I want to know if I'm spinning."

Not at present, no. And...now you are, since we've picked up speed.

"That's a relief. I was afraid I'd got aerodynamically unbalanced."

Unbalanced, perhaps. But spinning? Oh, always.

We’ve finished Week Seven. Though schlepping stuff and children wears a bit, I will miss doing the show. Fortunately, after Close, Martin teaches a stilt workshop at the Chesapeake Arts Center, so that distracts me a bit, then Halloween Murder Mysteries and bang on top of that, MotionFest. I’ll cry only a little, for the site and for my beloved patrons.

Another glorious weekend, weatherwise, patronwise, and every otherwise. Plus it was payday. I am reaching exhaustion point, however. Hawk tells me I look terrible. I remember that it is a year ago this week that I took a fall: Friday, in fact, though the dates don’t match. The one-year anniversary was Sunday and not only am I amazed at how very good I felt all day, but it was today, and very nearly tomorrow, that I even took note of the date.

Speaking of dates, on the 13th of this month, I will participate in a poetry reading for the Maryland Writers Association, so if that’s your sort of thing and you can get to the coffee shop inside Maryland Hall in Annapolis, please do come. Seven thirty-ish. I ask my mother if she’d be interested and she says, "I’ll watch the kids." Bless her heart. Wear a carnation and a black beret, so I'll know you.

Saturday is the Faire's annual Participant’s Party, where people eat and drink and perform for one another, which is nice, but I could never find in the dark the folk I wanted to hang with, so years ago, I resorted to serving food and beer, allowing all my lovelies to come to me. Michael thinks it would be poetic justice for me to perform in the variety show as him, since he performed as me last year and he won’t be there this time. I think it’s a bad idea, but Michael has a way of talking me into things, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I found myself onstage in his kilt. Which, come to think of it, might in itself be sufficient motivation.

Fluffy and I prepare for our show, and walk past where kegs are stacked, five or six wide, two high and ten or more deep. He looks at all that large, barrel shaped aluminum and asks, "Are those the empty kegs from all the beer the Faire has sold?" I answer, yes, they are.

“Niiiiiice," he replies.

Obviously, I am raising that boy RIGHT.

(Leaving New York; REM )