Roaming goats

I'm peering through my glasses darkly this morning, a little fogged by the residue of half a bottle of the goofily named Goats do Roam red and a scotch I pegged unwisely to the end of the meal last night. My friend Stephanie and I went to a Fringe play (decent play, Teaching As You Like it, memorable for at least one funny-in-context line about "Shakespeare, me and the Dutch" being the only people to not treat adults like children) and then ate salmon in the treetop-like patio of Kensington Kitchen. The kitchen was slow, and we drank almost an entire bottle of wine before the food arrived. We have such good rich conversations that make us both guffaw, simultaneously intimate and arch. Living in hyphens.

I was thinking about how many of the people in my life right now have fluttered in this year, really, and how I'm hooking my meaning and self into them as much as to the people who've been around longer. And how others have floated out almost completely, like the wholesome little couple and their kids I ran into at Moonbean today. L&A were part of the Great Lesbian Switcheroo of 99 and we uneasily run into each other every couple of years, maybe on Pride, shiftily exhuberant. People sliding out, new ones ripening in, stories of futures written that I would have never imagined a year ago.

I managed to steer my torpid little body down to Nathan Phillips Square for the art show. I didn't see anything this year that made me gasp the way I felt about the Bathers or the Jane station piece I bought in January after seeing it there first last year -- but I bought a fun little print of a french bicycle and a man wrestling an alligator from this woman, and a collagey thing with a bunch of machines and some text on it from this artist. Do It All it says. Over my desk it goes.

Off for a hot run to force myself into a less sluggish physical space, and another Fringe play, with D. A little playtime before the intensity of DC, school, an six months' worth of conversations in five days.