While Pat slept, I spent time searching the Internet for "how to speak in an Irish accent." I keep trying, but don't seem to have the knack. Also looked up the full text of Riders to the Sea and was taken aback to realize my monologue is actually several speeches, My character is Maurya (not "Maura," so I guess that's the Irish spelling), the bereaved widow and mother. I learned a bit about Synge, who died a hundred years ago, in 1909, at the age of 38.
Mike called on the web cam last night with an urgent request: He wanted me to e-mail him my recipe for banana bread, which I did promptly. They were on their way to Vivian's sports day show.
Talked to Leonard B. and his aunt in Canada. I sent in my registration for the "Quinvention" and will share a room with the 86-year-old aunt. She seemed very nice--lives "in the woods" in Quebec.
Wider: Now, although I don't agree with the guy overall (I always think I need to make that disclaimer), I was charmed at this passage from his latest. It's from "Fred On Everything" and is refreshing for its sheer nose-thumbing irreverence at the ponderous presidential goings-on lately:
"On the lobotomy box the babble-blondes kept nattering on like concussed parrots about how wonderful it was that we had a black president. Oh God, I thought, spare me. I mean, so what? So he’s black. Lots of guys are black. It’s a pretty common thing, really...I mean, if we had elected, say, a giant fronded barnacle from a geothermal vent, then, sure, I’d want to hear about it..."
Love that "lobotomy box."