feathers

Good news on the mobile tonight as I crouched in a smelly corridor with a complimentary glass of cheap champagne after the perf. Julian has had three offers for small paintings from london art, so Duane, prepare yourself for Julian-three-paintings-a-day-Merrow-Smith. This is a vast improvement in stature from Julian-three-doughnuts-M.S. or Julian-twenty-five-macaroons-M.S: names by which my husband has lovingly been known in the past. It is a positive message from the e-universe that he's on the right track and that is critical right now.
Up in Paris, Cachan tonight witnessed the corpsing of our Venus - just turned twenty one - behind her busty marionette as hunky Mercury pronounced her name with an eroticism that made her giggle uncontrollably. Thus her aria, and her marionette - normally sublimely controlled, shook with excitement. In the pit we had a few extra players in, which added rich new timbres, and a couple of misplaced honkers, the regulars being unable to be released from a recording with Cecilia Bartoli. Mirella was having a sensuous moment and had asked us to play our chords like feathers on the bassoonist's head. It worked like magic. We have been invited to play with all sorts of role models - the hens her grandmother made drunk on cider for the childrens' entertainment, and men walking on the moon included and each night, if we listen carefully and watch the magic she weaves with her hands, she takes us through what seems like a new bedtime story. Though I will be very glad to be home, I will miss her and Papa Haydn.