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That's right, dear reader, it was Back to the Berkshires today for another dose of Serious Cultcha. The whole atmosphere there, in Lenox and Stockbridge and environs is teddibly highbrow. As you rest on the cement wall outside the post office and lick your ice cream cone, the people next to you, also licking, are discussing Ibsen and Shaw. They read books. They talk about Expressionism. They use words like "montage" and "disingenuous." It's very stimulating to me, I admit it.














This is the back yard of the Shakespeare Company. They have a beautiful theatre and evidently do superb work as people were lined up to buy tickets.







We were there to see Chekhov, however.












There are four major Chekhov plays and UNCLE VANYA is one of them. They are full of existential questions--WTF am I doing here? Why is life so boring?




Answers are not given.


How could they be?




Do you know the answers, dear reader?




Does anybody?


The actors we saw were quite good, but I found myself wanting to slap them around. SNAP OUT OF IT!!! JUST LIVE YOUR LIFE AND BE HAPPY!!! My only other exposure to Chekhov was a short story called "A Marriage Proposal." It was hilarious and so I expected Uncle Vanya to be. Wrong!!!!



The play was in nearby Pittsfield and before attending, we had brought a picnic lunch and searched high and low for a place to eat it. Finally, we found a most peculiar place that was called Public Gardens. There wasn't another human present and it didn't look as if the lawn had been mowed in many weeks (not that I can't relate, but a public garden?). It was a little eerie. I kept thinking Children of the Corn.





There was a picture of me here but I have edited it out because my hair looks so bad.





It was hot and humid, dear reader. Wicked, as we say in New England.













After the performance, we wandered back to Lenox, I think, and walked around. I'm not sure which town is which, sorry to say. But they are all very cute and have gorgeous flowers and elegant gardens and lots of little alleyways like this one. You can buy tschotschkes of all kinds up and down the street.




I must say, though, and not to end on a bummer, but I had the worst dinner roll of my life









at this restaurant, which I shall not name. I chewed on it for a minute and feared that it was spoiled or poisoned. My companion said it was some kind of strange rye bread with currants (????) in it. I considered spitting it into my napkin, but I do hate spitting and decided to risk it.

I think I am okay.




So that's the cultchah for this week. My own book proceeds.

Living the Very Short Dream.
A bientot
love,

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