January 6, 2009

Epiphany.

The Class of 1950 is semi-finalist in the Hidden River playwriting contest.

Spent a chunk of yesterday afternoon painting with Jason. Already he has the effect of slowing me down, making me concentrate of technique rather than the swiftest possible concretization of an idea, which is what my art has been basically about.

Reading Pound, The Cantos, page by page from first to last. I would say “rereading,” but I’m not sure I read it that way even when I was writing my dissertation on him, when I was, briefly, minimally, a recognized authority. I dived in then looking for passages to tingle my emotions or prove a point. I did not read systematically, as indeed the structure of the piece discourages system. Here is the impression I have so far: Pound was lonely for peers he could not find in 20th century– I was going to say “America,” but in 20th century anywhere–so he gathered around himself a gang of Malatestas and Sforzas and Cavalcantis to run with, gave them bantering nicknames and invented an argot for his chosen company, who could engage in war and choose stone for building with equal aplomb. He was not so much the little boy who never got picked for the team, but the little boy who couldn’t find a team to play with, nothing golden and bloody and eclectic enough for him. He stepped into history, and played with emperors.

Adam K came over after rehearsal, and we had tea, and talked about girlfriends and school and the theater, just as if we were characters in a novel. And a transformer blew somewhere, and the lights wavered. He is one whom most people must love on sight. We will see how he carries this blessing through the years.

Back in touch with John Bliss, from the apartment in Syracuse. He says he never imagined that I thought of him, but I did, not only for his beauty, but for his kindness, which I never repaid in anything like proper measure.