Obama is going on vacation. The congress has already left. My dog doesn’t have a vacation and resents the fact that this part of summer is referred to as “dog days.” He’s quite bored, waiting for the weather to cool so he can walk in comfort. Meanwhile I feel the summer has been very good to me (insects aside!). Winter is what
fells me. I relate to the “angst” of winter writing. It is brutal
to sit in half-light and try to look upon the world in full light.
I have had a busy summer with my play being read for a special evening on Cape Cod filled with champagne and movie stars, the usual
Hopewell Furnace performances where I listen to the same play over and over that I wrote four years ago, the 4th of July where I perform
excerpts from our nation’s history, and some nights just floating along like the moon in the clouds of existence, hoping it never ends.
The world has not had such a splendid summer. Under the smooth paint
there are fissures and cracks in the universe that threaten us all.
Is it ever different? Dog days or swan nights or feline afternoons.
We give the imagery to the animals who probably would like to hand it right back to us.