January 25, 2008

Maud and Circe fight for space on my lap, which I mention because they were supposed to be at the vet’s getting spayed today. I made them fast after midnight, rearranged my life so I could get them there at 7:30 as prescribed. At 7:50 I left the veterinary parking lot and took the cats home, for no one had come. When I phoned, the distraught Valerie said yes, she knows I was there (I’d left my card in the door) but her car wouldn’t start. ‘What would you like me to do, sir? What can I do to make it right? Would you like me to quit my job? I’d do that if it would keep you as a client . . .etc. . . " Whatever the words, the tone was quite aggressive, as though my complaint were crudely insensitive in the face of the trauma of her unstarting car. I should have said "Yes, I want you to quit your job," and seen where that would lead.

It has been a pretty awful week, all taken into consideration. But I was standing in my office yesterday, and happened to look through the window of the classroom opposite, and saw, on the stone rim of the building, a red tailed hawk. She was a first-year fledgling, I think, fluffed up and gigantic and perfectly at peace there on what might as well have been a cliff crag. I burst into tears. When I gathered myself, I alerted as many people as I could to the wonder, and we watched her for a good ten minutes before she leaned into the gray air and flapped off. The tears interested me, for they were the sign of an immediate release of tension allowed by the visitation of the bird. She was the gift from the sky, and I accepted her, for once, with exactly the right reaction. Meeting with Jason this morning-- after deepening the anguish of my veterinary assistant– was the same feeling, though that time I did not cry, but smiled.

I’ve decided to fight the rescinding of my Professional Development Leave. It’s likely that they will prize "face"– the unsullied impression that they know what they’re doing–over justice, but I felt it was, this time, worth the try.

My sister reports on the saga of my father’s new life in Alpharetta. He ordered the staff to take all the furniture out of his room except the bed, and to leave him alone. He refused to attend any of the activities, but then kind of liked the dancer (even if not liking the guitarist). In a gesture of determined detachment, he tossed all the files of his old life away, though the files contained the deed to his house, his insurance papers, and the like. Now my poor sister must go dumpster diving after work.

Dad insisted on leaving the amaryllis I got him for Christmas at the house in Akron. For some reason this made me very sad.

Good students, good classes, many "good"s stuffed into the pudding with a few but very bitter "bad"s.

Rehearsals for Crown of Shadow are an emotional crazy quilt for me. Most of the time I feel like some sort of fraud, all these eager and talented people spending their time bringing life to my words. I wonder when I will get over that? I felt it in New York, too, wondering when somebody would say it, would whisper, "What the hell are we putting so much time into THIS for?" On the other hand, I listen carefully to the words, and when the actors come to the end of a line and it’s perfect, in nuance, in tone, in expression, in meaning, there is one moment of perfect joy, in knowing that I have done it right, and that no one I know does it in the same way. I expect the festival to be savaged in the media, though there’s no reason to expect any media attention at all (this being Asheville), or malicious comments from colleagues in other theater companies, though to expect anything before it happens is to extend the lease of misery. All is well now, with the words in the mouths of my lovely actors. All might be well to the very end.