New York continued

May 17, 2008

Brilliant cool blue light through the window. I tried for the Met the second time yesterday in the pouring rain, this time making it. A special show of Superhero fashions; a special show of Courbet, whom I had but meagerly known, but whom I like a great deal. Such energy! Energy capable of being melodramatic, even crude, such as in The Stag at Bay, but always something attractive and defiant. Set myself for a long walk home, which might have been fun, but the rain caused it to be an ordeal.

Performance last night was not brilliant. Lack of rehearsal won out over the nervous energy that pushed everything over the hump on opening night. Energy last night from the first was low, and there was a power of missed lines, some of them important. BCR was awkward and "off" at the outset, and he’s the kind of actor who reacts to bad early moments by being grudging and reluctant throughout the show. Something went awry with the speakers, which for a while sent a hornets’ nest drone out into the theater. Terrible weather left the house at about 3/4. The best thing was that I met Damian in the lobby beforehand, and we got to catch up a little. So far he’s the only person from my actual life who has seen the show in New York. It was wonderful being with him, and I remembered in seconds why I love him. There was a talk-back after the show, which went well enough. I was thinking, with great self-satisfaction, "Here I am on stage for a talk-back for MY play in New York City!" Jack cut the talk-back off when BCR began to launch rambling bits of unidentifiable philosophy into the air. Damian and I hit the rainy night, and had more drinks than we should (than I should, anyway) at a bar a block down the street. After half an hour he was my old friend again, comfortable and funny and goofy and unguarded, with that ever-young venturesomeness that I found so attractive. I left him to get into his cab with something like real grief, real anxiety for when we would meet again. When he had a few in him a vulnerability came to the surface. He is lonely and still a little uncertain in his new home. As are we all.


Afternoon: 39th street has been dug into a canyon, and I had to cross what appeared to be police barriers to get to my hotel. Thank God the guard was asleep in his chair in the perfect sun.
Today so far I have ranged from 125th Street to Macdougal. I aimed for St. John the Divine, but because I picked the wrong train, or something else was wrong, it swept past my station and on to125th. Harlem on a brilliant Saturday morning is calm and very neighborhood-y. Wound my way on foot back to the Cathedral, which was mostly boarded up, and only the choir and a fragment of the nave stood open. I’ll be more impressed the next time, I’m sure. But in the children’s garden is a statute of Saint Michael trampling Satan underfoot while riding a crab and caressing very affectionate giraffes, the sort of thing that is exactly to my taste. Took it into my head to walk the whole length of Central Park, from 110th to 59th. This was partially to have another chance to meet Mrs Thomas across from Lincoln Center, but again she wasn’t there. Almost ludicrous perfection of spring sun. From 59th I took the subway to Washington Square, which was unavailable because of construction. The West Village was blocked off for a street bazaar, which I investigated until the shadows were long and it was time for my ante-theater nap. My back was fiercely sunburned even through my shirt.