January 31, 2008

Saw Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo at All Souls last night, as part of a series that is rather badly organized but offers, nevertheless, music the one never expects to hear in Asheville. The man at the ticket table was not only blind and had to peer searchingly at each ticket or document–even if he had peered at its identical twin seconds before–but couldn’t remember what things cost, and so the organizer (the darkly handsome symphony cellist) had to be sent for every time someone wanted to buy a ticket for any event but that. I stood the entire intermission behind the richest woman in Asheville, who was afraid he was charging her $10 extra for a ticket for Friday night. Turned out he was. The people next to me arrived late, chattered until they were hushed by a woman behind us, then, having chattered about the rudeness of someone shushing them, left early. Still, I loved Orfeo, and the performance was good enough that what I love was everywhere discernible. Amanda sang like an angel, and looked like one. The high artificiality of the piece strikes as the most amazing daring. Maybe it was even then. I want to write such works. When, that is, I have a moment to write anything at all.

After a final sally, the battle over my leave ends with complete capitulation on my part. It’s one of those situations especially bitter because I was not only right but needed the victory even if I hadn’t been right, would have needed a concession, or mercy, needed the thing I fought for despite the arguments against it. No go. K was rooted to the principle that the deans must never appear to have been in the wrong. I have never in my life continued a quarrel, held to a stance, fought a point for one second after I perceived I might be mistaken. Or for one second after I perceived that need lay on the other side, even if rectitude lay on mine. I sort of expected that energy to be returned to me by the universe. Again, no go.

Turquoise and flamingo dawn.