To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it;

I used to think I wanted to live and make theatre on a farm. I’m not sure why I thought I wanted to – I grew up in the country, I know how unromantic it can be. Yet somehow – with all the stories of Bread and Puppet Theatre or the letters from a theatre maker who worked on a small farm in France, I thought, “Oh! How picturesque! Theatre surrounded by goats and chickens!”
Then I went to visit that farm in France where they sometimes did Commedia dell’ Arte. It was dirty. So dirty. There were flies buzzing around the sticky face of the baby. The chickens came to peck at one’s feet when emerging from the car. It was hot and sticky and smelly. I didn’t even want to stay for tea, nevertheless forever. We hightailed it out of there so fast, we might have left skidmarks.
So, yeah, I wouldn’t pay 5 ducats to farm anywhere. I just ain’t a farmer.

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