. . . Evening, when the measure skips a beat
And then another, one by one, and all
To a seething minor swiftly modulate.
Bare night is best. Bare earth is best. Bare, bare,
Except for our own houses, huddled low
Beneath the arches and their spangled air,
Beneath the rhapsodies of fire and fire,
Where the voice that is in us makes a true response,
Where the voice that is great within us rises up,
As we stand gazing at the rounded moon.
-from Evening Without Angels, by Wallace Stevens
* * *
When I got home at 2am, I realized I hadn't yet taken Saturday's photo-of-the-day. So I turned around in my doorway and snapped this shot.
It was late, but I wasn't sleepy (tired, yes, but sleepy, no) so I stood on the stoop a few moments more, breathing spangled air and gazing out at night on my street.
This day began with rain and a few tears, both of which eased up when the snow started in the afternoon. Then it progressed on to a chilly church in Brooklyn, candle-lit for a Christmas concert, and I was happy to huddle there with good friends. A long pause from busyness, which was so welcome. A reminder to be watchful and waiting, which was so needed.
So, so, so fun.
I left: hyper, as I always leave Improv. I left wanting to see more Improv, do more Improv, spend more time on that stage, talk about craft and technique at length, practice object work and compare improvisational theories, play longer and get better and improve my game.
But it was 2am.
And it was time to go home.
So I stood on my stoop, breathed spangled air beneath the arch, and said, "Good night."