Panache

I hate reflecting too much on last year at times, on final days, like this. It is important - remember - that I had no (ie. little) money last year, and all that was spent was the bank's, who I did then and now do owe desperately. And yet.

It is slightly, simply sad, to think of Stratford-on-Avon, and the ease of last season's birthday for Shakespeare, as if it was a natural selection, regardless of what choice. Because it so was. I belonged at that sermon and I'll never forget the reverence for the cakes and ale.

"I painted a still life this morning, of a throat lozenge I'd seen on a copy of a tropic of cancer, the only thing that's funny is that I never thought I'd paint anything again. I think I might go visit Estelle. those Utah mountains are good for the soul. I'll bring my brushes and some Jack Daniel's and we can make up for lost time........."

Talking tonight - Saturday night - with a host of characters, about the import of today. All of whom have the head strength to know the world By His (its) Bootstraps, as much as that is the more fascinating of stories, and as much as it is too quickly sa(i)d that no (one) of them could.

It is a new world. Brave, as you might have wished for, Master Shakes, but scarce that you could have imagined. We love you still, and give the proper deference. And so panache. As milady so described at the Bitter End tonight, not just a sense of dash or verve, but (actually!) : "A bunch of feathers or a plume, especially on a helmet." A feather in your cap, so to speak, in the time of Louis Treize. "But I'll keep after it, and one day I'll get it all right." Indeed.

Happy St. George's, master Shakespeare. It's your holiday, after all, and you have always been my favorite. With Panache, as madame on the Liffey would say...