a hole in the scenery

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women are merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances.

Shakespeare nailed it.  At least for me.  The world is a stage.

And when I made my grand entrance this morning onto the garden patio, all of the usual props were there.  Plenty of sun.  A nice breeze.  And the sounds of fighting cocks competing with the less-annoying warblers.

But something was amiss.  Or, more accurately, amissing.

You may recall that I am on my third hammock at Casa Algodón.  The latest being a multi-colored work: lonely swinger.

Well, it appears to be the late hammock.  Where it once swung between two trees, there is now only open space.  Occupied, perhaps, by the Zen essence of the hammock.

It appears someone, who wanted the hammock more than I did, jumped the fence and made off with my swinging nap spot.

Of course, I took a look around to see if anything else was missing.  It wasn't.

I wanted to make certain my reason had not gone missing along with the hammock.  These type of thefts can often lead to what I refer to as inductive hysteria.  Because something of mine was taken, I must now live as if the Cossacks will soon descend on us.

Nothing has changed in my life other than my land lady's hammock is gone.  It is simply a prop, and the fact it is missing int his little play of life merely means I will need to indulge in a little improvisation.

The trick is making the audience believe the missing prop is merely part of the play.

And maybe it is.