Sunday, February 26, 2012

It's Sunday. The sun is out. It's reasonably warm. The author is getting ready for work, folding a non iron shirt into a legal pad notebook, putting something of a sandwich together for later, filling the water bottle for the bicycle. I'll ride up the big avenue, then cut into the woods, into the park and wind my way down then up by Dumbarton Oaks. It's Oscar night, and I wouldn't mind watching, to see how storytellers are plying their trade these days.

My mom has mailed me a copy of Synge's The Aran Islands, and I find something very real about it, the tales of the locals, the recording of their folk tales. I'll take those scenes of the islands with me as I work in the upstairs room, the wine bar, not getting any richer, but showing up. Good story telling, always a comfort to the living of life and all its cares and concerns.

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