November 3, 2007

I never tell people “that was the greatest performance I have ever seen on this stage,” or “that was the best acting I’ve ever seen,” unless it was, but I assume others are not so punctilious, for I had an ear full of that last night at the opening night party. I suspect Mickey did too. We have the distinction of knowing what a shambles some of the scenes were. It’s frightening how if one person gets a little off the whole thing can go to hell for a while, how it can become an ecstasy of groping toward firm ground. But it is also true that some projects gain a momentum which, seemingly, no misstep can derail. People are determined to think this is a great play nobly done, and I say “fine.” Stephanie brought me a rose backstage.

My morning glories are blasted; the cannas, dahlias, nasturtium, tomatoes, peppers, all blasted by the frost. The roses remain, the gold and the pink in bloom, the antique one I forget the name of-- with blossoms ranging from parchment to peach-- in the most glorious bloom of its life. Cyclamen stud the leaf-littered shade of the back yard. What prompted me to plant them in straight lines I don’t know, but it is a little disturbing. Pink, too, is a disturbing color in autumn. The hydrangeas, sheltered by the porch and the rhododendrons, endure, the one big blue blossom browned at one edge, where it peaked out into the wind. The air is perfect, cool but not cold; the light is perfect, a blue, pervading radiance short of aggression.