Christmas 2008

December 26, 2008

Harold Pinter and Eartha Kitt are dead. Pinter put the play as far as possible–barring outright improv–into the actor’s hands.

Went to the studio on Christmas Eve, but it was mostly to toss out projects which had failed for one reason or another. One of my neighbors brought his baby. I looked in on them, and dad was playing with the babe to such giggling on its part and such a jaw-cracking grin on his that I didn’t interrupt them. Jason’s precision is going to make it hard for me to go slopping on the way I have been doing.

The Christmas Eve services at All Souls (I first typed ‘The Saviour,’ thinking of Syracuse after all these years) were pretty and certainly heavily attended. Much better looking people come on Christmas than on an ordinary Sunday. I was so deathly tired and my back ached so (I have decided that standing for prolonged periods is the culprit) that the last hour or so (I arrived at 6, left at 12:30) were unmerry, and I went home to bed rather than going to Kyle’s party.
Five youngsters– four present and former voice scholars, plus Willl Bryant, sang “Lully My Liking.” For me it was the high point of the evening. The sound was closing your eyes for a moment on paradisal voices, and taking perfect rest. I thank all the powers moving together to give that gift. I constantly wonder about the interface of skill and good intentions. As far as I could tell, their performance was perfect. Would it have been as moving had it not been perfect? Would their young sincerity have overridden errors? Are the Seraphim suffered to sing off-key because their devotion is sublime? Or do we know their devotion is sublime because they do not sing off key? I do not actually have the answers to these questions. I think now that we appreciate the artist for the lovable and human flaws in the art; we can use the art–almost irrespective of the artist–as a stair on the stairway to heaven when it is perfect, when nothing calls attention to its making. I try to make my writing perfect– because I can–and am willing to let my painting be imperfect–having probably no choice–to test both sides of the issue.
Circe nudges my elbow as I write, as if she had insight in the matter she is longing to express.

Whirlwind trip to Atlanta, where all seems most well. Cat-sitterless-ness made the visit necessarily short. The boys are beautiful and innocent, in that profound way that does not involve ignorance. Andy seemed jolly and forthcoming, and in a way– a way centered on his physical presence and physical interaction with the father–he is a good parent. Linda and I talked about dad. I blurted out what I didn’t even know I was thinking, that I had probed my memories to define the nature of our relationship, good, bad, tumultuous, loving, hateful, and found, at the end, nothing. Nothing. We traded intimacy for survival. Maybe it will be different in a week or so, or before the end of the story.
Beautiful winter clarity for both halves of the trip. Twelve hours ticked away between leaving the house at first light and walking back in at dark of evening.

The Nutcracker played on the radio as I drove home. I remembered the themes, my choreography, the counts, the excitement of the ballerinas backstage. I’m glad to have been part of that world for five or six years, but it’s something which doesn’t need to be repeated. Ballet is a Female Mystery, with a hierarchy and set of expectations that I was the wrong gender and the wrong age to fathom fully. But it was charming. As I used to say, listening to Tchaikovsky and playing with ten year olds is not the worst way to pass the time. I probably didn’t appreciate how cutthroat it was beneath the tulle and sequins. The few dark glimpses were quite frightening. Patriarchy has a bad name only because there is no functioning and widely known matriarchy to compare it to. But the ballet– froth and glitter sustained on the edge of a stiletto.

Christmas greetings from TG. He is growing into one of those magnificent Lincoln-resembling old men, while I get squatter and more toad-like. Visual magnificence I resigned years ago. Sigh. It would have been so much easier.