Day's Remains

...the love you take/ is equal to the love you make....



Buy:

baby powder
powder puffs
"duck" tape
Joy (TM)
baby wipes
battery-operated clock


Do:

sew fabbo new costumes
alter new pink cloak
make bubble juice
obtain more white socks
clean for houseguests
research toad species


Gripe:

Rain ruins the grounds and discourages the patrons.


Wash:

2 pair tights
1 unitard
2 wooden spoons
3 hats
7 napkins
1 tablecloth
3 1/2 pair socks
4 wooden bowls
1 gold camisoile
1 long-sleeved white cardigan
3 wooden mugs
4 pair gloves
3 gauze shirts
1 pewter mug
2 tee-shirts
1 brocade jacket
5 empty plastic water bottles
1 white lace brassiere


Plan:

To dine at a Vietnamese restaurant on Sunday after picking up paycheck, with friends doing same.


Leftovers:

1 ziplok bag cubed cheese
1 block jarlesburg
1 bag macintosh apples, unopened
5 loose apples
2 nectarines
1 white peach
3 bunches slightly wilted grapes
12 slices of summer squash, green and yellow
4 bottles of water, 2 still frozen


Stupidity:

Three hours on stilts after ten yoga-free days. Ouch.



We, the silent, entertain the blind.

No kidding; there is a group of people with long white canes. An elderly man peers through rhuemy eyes and declares, "It's a stiltwalker!" His young compainion sticks his hand out, in the wrong place, of course. We move to accommodate. A woman says "Don't step on me!' and pulls her cane close, as though to ward us off.

Justin stands still. He's just enjoying the sun, he says. I so rarely see him standing still. He's a powerful, watchful presence even at rest.

She commandeers me, bends my will to her plan, and thrusts a white box into my hands. "She'll know something's up if she sees me come back this way," she says, referring to her daughter. She tells me to go to the backstage door of the venue the child's father performs even now. I allow my eyebrows to express doubt. "It's okay- they're all in on it." I go, and open the door. "What are you doing here?!" exclaims a man I'm not sure realizes I quit speaking to him about a year ago. I gesture with the box. "Oh." He takes it, sets it down somewhere "safe". I close the door quietly and leave.

I, for one reason and another, find myself alone from time to time. I enjoy this as a guilty pleasure. Saturday, I was on my own, making bubbles at the Front Gate for guests exiting the Faire. Sunday, I soloed on stilts. I don't mind sharing my space, my bits, my shtick, my props. But sometimes, yes, sometimes, it is nice to reclaim it as just mine.

It is not raining, but nearly. The gloom hangs like fog over the village. It is our job, by virtue of our white and gold gorgeousness, to alleviate this. We process, toning gently. The lumpy Tibetan bell is low-voiced and slightly melancholy, like cowbell, like foghorn, like TS Eliot. The brass and wooden windchimes ring a faintly cheerful tinkle. She is turned away, speaking. He spots us, and, wordless, pats rapidly on her arm for her attention. She closes her mouth, turns to him with an irritated expression, spots us and relaxes into astonishment. The entire group stands silent as we pass, pleasure spreading their mouths and streaming from their eyes.

Thank you. That was the reaction I wanted.


(The End; The Beatles)