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Don’t ever change, don’t ever worry
because I’m coming back home tomorrow
to 14th Street, where I won’t hurry,
and where I’ll learn how to save, not just borrow.
And there’ll be rainbows,
and we will finally know…
—Sancta Rufola, “14th Street”
Sancta Rufola, ora pro nobis. Oremus pro benefactoribus nostris. Oremus pro fidelibus defunctis. Pro fratribus nostris absentibus. Mitte eis, Domine, auxilium de sancto. Exaudiat nos omnipotens et misericors Dominus. Amen.

To all who keep Thanksgiving, vilaine fille sends warmest wishes for a happy and healthy holiday blessed with love and togetherness.
I have so much to be thankful for this year—in particular, the cherished friends I’ve made thanks to this blog, “real” and “virtual” and virtual-turned-real.
Thank you to you; thank you to G-d. Thank you.
Pre-programmed updates will continue through the end of Thanksgiving weekend. Then I hope to be back!


Practice means to perform, over and over again in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire…We learn by practice. Whether it means to learn to dance by practicing dancing or to learn to live by practicing living, the principles are the same… One becomes in some area an athlete of G-d.
—Martha Graham


Sorry for the thin posts of late! I’m very busy these days, with a nearly two-hour daily commute to “work,” a new and passionately absorbing avocation, and the resumption of my former gym-bunny ways (must… get… that… endorphin… fix!).
Oh, yes, and I’m trying to have a bit of a life.
Some of my recently published work:
A younger friend persuaded me to sign up for Facebook. Here’s how I’m doing:

Please forgive the crowing: On days when I’m dragging and discouraged, this immensely silly thing rejoices the cockles of my heart. Thank you.
I hope to post soon about Rufus Wainwright’s “Release the Stars” tour (which I caught in Montréal, back in August!!) and Patricia Racette’s overwhelming portrayal of Madama Butterfly. I’m doing my best here!
P.S. Did I mention laryngitis? Blech.

Not to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in those about us, and in the very brilliancy of their gifts some tragic dividing of forces on their ways, is, on this short day of frost and sun, to sleep before evening. With this sense of the splendour of our experience and of its awful brevity, gathering all we are into one desperate effort to see and touch, we shall hardly have time to make theories about the things we see and touch.
—Walter Pater

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