The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and your heroine is brewing another pot of coffee, mostly because she can.

Let's review:

Spent most of yesterday being a complete sloth, compliments of normal biology and just plain old needing a rest. This was, however, excellent preparation for another evening at the opera, which really demands all the attention one can give it. On an amsuing side note, your heroine discovered, while dressing for the evening, that she had forgotten to bring dress shoes from her office. Given that dress shoes are normally for work, she keeps them there, preferring to go barefoot at home anyway. And so she set out for the opera house clad in a fetching black ensemble...and white tennis shoes. Nobody gave a good damn, least of all herself. She mentions it, however, because it is charming.

*twinkle twinkle*

The show in question was the utterly delightful I Capuleti et i Montecchi, and there's a reason why they call this sort of singing bel canto. Add to that the director's choice to costume everybody in Victorian dress, and, well, fluttery-love. The only thing that was a teensy bit disappointing was the stage combat, as it looked as if the director said, "Okay, now, everybody, just wave your swords about for a bit." Not a scrap of artistry, pas du tout. And what was up with that one piece of set design, the trees that looked like they came from Planet Claire? The opera itself, however, was pure heaven, and Giulietta's voice deserved far more praise than it got; the reviewers mostly fawned over the local favorite, an expert at trouser roles, and she deserved all the praise she got. And yet, Giulietta, without whom one would not need a Romeo, trousered or otherwise.

*fangirl fluttery luff*

For the record, that intial five seconds of orchestral tuning is almost as good as the opera itself. To your heroine, it feels like coming home to something larger than oneself. One could almost believe, for half a moment, that exciting, wonderful things are just over the horizon, waiting for dawn.

*smiles*

Reading = Marge Piercy's Sex Wars. Your heroine knows she's enjoying historical fiction when it makes her want to learn the bona fides on the protagonist. Also, the stripey stockings the cover model is sporting fall decidedly into the realm of "do want."

*g*

You know what really blows my mind, though? Grandmere and grandpere, both sets, were alive during this period. And it never occurred to me, not once, to ask them anything about it. Maddening.

*headdesk*

Ah well.

In other matters readerly, started The Narnian, because I think it's high time I learned a little bit more about one of my favorite people. Was surprised to learn that his life while writing The Chronicles was quite the stressboat, which just goes to show that you never know what's going on with people, even those with lives of great genius; you just never know what secret sorrows are wrapped around somebody's private heart.

*ponders*

On today's docket: yoga, more laundry, a few stained glass windows, and persistent trash-bagging. Because I seem to have recovered my usual high spirits, so I should probably take advantage of that while it lasts. And, of course, there will be bowling.

*satisfied handdust*

Today's poem, Posthumous, is a wonderful example of how a poet can take a teensy truth and illuminate it so that you really think about it. People do, of course, linger on long after they do, in many ways various-curious.

For those with the time and/or inclination, a profile of Louise Hay.

The local feature story is a bit of a weeper. It's so not fair. Who gets cancer at eighteen? What the frell is the freaking point of that? Perhaps to shock us out of our own complacency. Or maybe it has nothing to do with us at all, except in the sense that it has to do with all of us.

*sighs*

Time for breakfast. Have finally found a good use for one particular decorative jar I wish to keep: if I take it to the co-op, I can fill it full of tasty things like pumpkin granola. Who knew?

That is cheerfully all.