For Christmas, Tom's parents gave Paul a subscription to the National Theatre's online archive: filmed live performances of Chekov, Shakespeare, and more, from England's most famous theater company. So yesterday afternoon we watched Euripides' Medea, a play I know pretty well (having recently edited a new translation), and Paul and I are still twitching from the experience . . . so powerful and terrifying and beautiful and hideous . . . like a nightmare turned into song.
And then last night I had one of my regular repeated dreams: in which I try to remember to feed and water my barn animals, but then almost forget, and then remember again, and then forget, and then remember . . . and on and on till I wake up. This time I had a small shed of goats and chickens. Sometimes I have feedlots crowded with steers, or stanchions full of milk cows. I don't think I've ever had horses. But always the commonality is that I have lapsed in my responsibility to care for them.
So: an early-morning mind flickering with Medea and a herd of thirsty goats. Welcome to the draggle-tail end of 2020.
On the bright side (sorry, Patriots fans), the Bills trounced New England, and the Bills are Paul's favorite team, and he gets very excited about them, so naturally I root for them too because I am an affectionate parent. Not that I really care about football . . . but then again I didn't really care about Hot Wheels and Legos either. A parent does what she has to do.
Today: more editing, and then un-decorating the tree (Medea got in the way of that yesterday), and I really need to go for a walk, and I'll make chicken curry for dinner, and read Proust, and maybe I'll submit some poems someplace, and definitely I'll do some laundry, and probably I should bake bread, etc.
Wish you were here.