The concerts are over.

Washing my face, just now?

A spiritual experience.


All the make-up (I do not wear make-up, any other day of the year) smeared on to make my general features visible from the audience, despite blinding white lights and a black house.. . all the sweat and all the tired and all the bobby pins and big, goofy, I-really-hit-those-B-flats-hard grins, the a-a-a-a-aaaaaaaa-men!s. . . gone with the cold cream.

I'm almost clean.



...I can't even quite remember what my face looks like. But I know I had a good time, and I know I did well, and I know I had a good time, afterwards. And the Moose-damned concerts are over.

I don't really know what to do with that, or what to say. Except that I'm clean, and the concerts are over, and people paid up to $50 to see us, and they gave us wine and cheese and strawberries with cream, after, and I'm tired, and there's still the smear of eyeliner (or else I'm even more beat than I thought), and there's a little Monty Python waiting for me downstairs, with my beau and maybe some more sweets. And sleep. And I think I like those people. And. . . and I'm really tired. And it was good.

Goodnight, my loves. I'll see you another day. LOVE