I realized when I got home that I spent a bunch of last night chattering away. Sorry if I kept you from working. I'll be interested to read your story about the voices you hear out your window.
May 22--Edgar Degas, Blue Dancers. The curtains draw open to reveal a blue rippling ocean. As the music swells parts of the waves rise as dancers lift their arms high and begin. It is like the waves are moving, swelling and breaking on a shore, threatening to wash into the orchestra and right out over the audience. The white underskirts look like foam as the ballerinas swirl and dip the blue of their tutus flaring with their movements. Here and there a male dancer all in silver darts among them like a great barracuda patrolling the reef. Now the blue dancers slow and sway as they are joined by a rank of kelp green dancers with one orange Garibaldi in their midst, mimicking the coastal ocean of California. The music goes on, ballerinas becoming each of the seven seas in turn until the lights turn blue-white like the moon and the dancers sink to the stage, quiet for the night.
Can you tell I've shifted my thoughts to the Bonaire poems I want to write next week? See you in 2 weeks.
--Barbara
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