[Renoir's Moulin Galette]

It has been too long since my last post, but in my defense, I still have no internet and must covertly steal moments at work in order to create these posts. My cable man is supposed to arrive tomorrow though, so all should be well.

Since my last post I have celebrated a lot. Last Friday was spent celebrating work-related things with expensive drinks and very fun people. Saturday was spent celebrating Saturdays, uninhibited people, and how fabulous it is to dance. (Incidentally, I met a very interesting young man who goes by "Uncle Jesse" and who spilled no more than two of my drinks on my head, all while dancing and celebrating life in his own very elastic fashion). I celebrated silence on Sunday with Don Quixote, The Cherry Orchard, and Hedda Gabler.

I don't know how those last two slim volumes have slipped past me for so long, but I found myself immersed and tangled up in each within a matter of moments. It's funny though, reading a play feels to me like reading a translation. Something has slipped out of the work, something that is vital and breathing and rich, but paradoxically unnecessary. What must a great work contain for it to survive translation and still remain great? What emotion must reside in a drama for it to be stripped of the players and still be able to play so perfectly upon a silent reader?

On Wednesday I celebrated a birthday and I now have 24 years behind my name. In true festive spirit, I had a surprise lunch outing, two cakes baked by a wonderful new friend (one butterfly-shaped and one bird-decorated), a half dozen well-wishing messages, a bouquet of delicious smelling flowers from a wonderful old friend, a small German-crafted owl from my Aunt, and the promise of a visit from my surprise-laden family in about two weeks.

It was fantastic!

And with all of that champagne-fizz fun behind me, I expect even more tonight, tomorrow night, and Sunday. Tomorrow will be a belated birthday dinner with sangria and small plates and friends, and Sunday will be a trip to the bookstore for my much-awaited copy of Leopardi's Moral Tales.

It's too much sometimes--the delight of it all. It feels so strange to be swept up, to enjoy, drink deeply and dance. There's a sententious voice at the back of my head lecturing on the end of all these sweet moments. But I think there's some truth, beauty and goodness to the celebration of life and family and friendship and love. I may be ordinarily made of sterner stuff, but a few gossamer-cloud weekends shouldn't hurt.