Mito M. Boy

FuturPointe

Walking home from the dance performance, the sky, a deep, deep blue black is heartbreakingly beautiful with black crows rustling out of the trees and streaking across the sky. There were song titles on the wall in the theater listing favorites from the past.  No need for me to add one.  Mine was already there.  Cat Stevens, Morning Has Broken—it’s actually a Presbyterian hymn.  Disappointing not to add mine.  Sort of like not lighting a candle in a catholic church because they have all already been lit.  Am I there at the wrong time?  Sort of like majoring in art--the wrong time to do that by about 200 years and a continent.

And the walk home—I will stick to the well-lit sidewalks on major streets because my daughter wants me to.  However, I am drawn to the alleys and shortcuts.  They are so mysterious and appealing.  Oh well.

The air is brisk.  There is a 10-foot snowman in Washington Square Park and we have not had a snowfall.  Zero, nada, but there he is—complete with a carrot nose, stick-arms and charcoal for  eyes.  I imagine asking the box office person at the theater,  “Why is there a snowman in Washington Square Park?”  And she will say,  “What snowman?  I don’t know.”  It is less than 75 feet from the front door of her theater and she will look at me as if to say,  "Are you picking up a ticket or not?"   So, I did not ask about the snowman.  The dance performance was abfab.  I want to take everyone I know back to see it.

I am home safe.  Coming down from two pumpkin martinis at $10 a pop.  A perfect Friday evening.