Increasingly certain that I should head back to southern Europe. And soon. Thinking about the production-premiere of Twelfth Night that I wandered into at the municipal theatre in Bucharest. The Dvorak 7 in Belgrade -- I could hear the war. The morning courtyard performance of the Noh troupe at the Sibiu festival, when the opening blast of the flute coincided with a peal from the 18th c. SJ church across the way. The April snow that started to fall in Zemun, as I finished writing about that performance.
In short, if there's a place where its possible to live and work and think, as opposed to spending my life trapped in other people's games in a matrix of corruption, I do need to be a bit ruthless about getting there.