September 26, 2008

It’s easier now to get up before light, as the light comes so late.

I’m exhausted when I reach the end of my work-week. I do love teaching, and I love my students, but there are times when the demands of it make it seem like work. I wish each student had a read-out on the front of their shirts–like the superscript at an opera— telling you exactly what they need from you this time. I know how to play most of the games, but I don’t always know what game I’m in.

Michelle and Jason lost their baby. I see Jason for coffee in an hour, and so might hear the details. They are, of course, both devastated. There is really nothing to say in such a situation, certainly not, "Maybe it’s all for the best," which is what first comes to mind. Jason is the kind who will allow you to say nothing, and take hearing him out for full comfort.

Troubling dream at waking. I was some sort of petty thief trying to rob a pet shop, but I never actually found my way into the store. I was wearing stolen pants which still had the store tags on them, but n the dream I had some explanation for that, and was not concerned. I woke fearing that I had not fed the fish.

Gasoline shortage reaching a pitch of hysteria. AB Tech has cancelled classes. You could get out of almost anything by saying, "I’m out of gas." Washington Mutual had joined the holocaust of failed banks. Once they cancelled my perfectly up-to-date and never-delinquent credit card because I was a "bad credit risk," I suppose on general principles. They get no tears from me.

*

Evening. The day turned out to be fiercely eventful, almost without my active participation. Jason cancelled our date for lack of gas. I walked to the café anyway, where I encountered my former student Ken Lee. He was poring over architectural drawings (of the Chancellor’s new mansion), which led to a discussion of architecture, which led to a discussion of the architecture of my house in particular. He outlined a number of improvements I should be seeing to. I didn’t know how serious he was about it until he showed up here hours later with his assistant, droll, blond Johnny, and began specifying what needed to be done to windows and doors to make the place fit for the decade ahead. It rather took me by surprise. Everything he cited really does need to be done, and I wouldn’t have known how even to request it, and it was nice to be taken care of. This happened just after the Christly brothers (John plays in a Christian rock band called Thieves’ Ransom) phoned with an estimate for replacing the roof, a bigger job than it needed to be because it had been done badly so often in the past. I was happy to have such activity whirling around me, if a little embarrassed to have been such a bad steward of my own property to let things get in the state they’re in. Ken said it was all right, as I’m an artist and have other things to worry about. Ken pushed on windows and set them properly in place after I had lived with them, passively, awry for as long as some of my students have been alive. One hard push and the upper sashes clicked into place, and the locks were usable again. I pride myself on adaptability to circumstance, but I must begin see where adaptability ends and a wholly unnecessary sense of futility begins.

Went downtown to see Ann’s Dances to Shakespeare. They were uneven. Lyle’s Hamlet was a masterpiece, as was Ann’s profound Ophelia, to lieder of Richard Strauss. Lady Macbeth was vampy and Hollywoody, a refreshing take on the character, and beautifully danced by Sarah MacGuiness. I don’t think the operatic accompaniment worked as well as it was supposed to, and the only tight musical fits were Lyle’s original composition for Hamlet and Barber’s music for The Tempest. King Lear was execrable. I tried to understand why. It was not the technique either of the choreographer or of the dancers. It was like one of those big Baroque paintings with an elevated subject and flawless technique, which manage, nevertheless, to be absurd. It could have been the Liszt, which needs only so much thickening as the width of a sequined gown to flop over into camp. Whatever the cause, it looked like one of those moments in British movies, like Women in Love, which are meant to lampoon arty dance. Three homeruns, three sold hits, one strike out in seven times a bat. Not bad. The theater was, of course, empty. Gilgamesh gave Ann her only full houses, and even that fact does not cut her bitterness. But I will always say that she is one of Asheville’s few true artists, the most enduring of the lot, and every empty seat is an affront and a humiliation, less to her than to us.