October 25, 2009

Delicate pale blooms of the Christmas cactus. Last year they were more white than pink; this year they are more pink than white.

Dropped my wallet at the Mountain Java café, where the blessed lads and lasses found it and returned it to me intact.

J and I hit the town last night. The strangeness I felt from him was the effect of strangeness he expected to feel from me when the top floor studio gossip settled. But I had heard the worst from others even as he concealed it, and I didn’t care, and when he saw that I didn’t care, it was merrily right between us. Each of us was trying to read signs and gestures rather than opening the subject directly. I suppose I should feel flattered when people conceal shame from me, but the truth is I’m non-judgmental almost to the degree of turpitude. Certain people I love more than abstract moral principles, and the effort to extract outrage from me for anything they do will be disappointed. In any case, my friend is back. We ate tapas at Zambra’s, sitting beside that guy who plays the father, Red, on the TV show, That 70's Show. We crossed the street and saw The Beauty Queen of Leenane at NC Stage, a superb production. Impossible to imagine more flawless acting. I was especially proud of Casey, who crossed from student to pro in one brogue-ing leap. The woman behind us fell asleep, and woke at the instant of the hot grease flinging, and exclaimed aloud, “I just woke up! What the hell is she going to do!” This is the second time I’ve seen the play, and I think now the sudden outburst of insanity is not totally justified, not totally convincing. I would have felt the same pathos–maybe greater pathos, not having to wrestle with a stagey hallucination-- if Pato had simply gone to Boston and been seduced by the girl who was available to do the seducing. Still, I laughed and was horrified, exactly as I should have done. From the theater to Tressa’s, where we had the worst food in the world, bad music, a superb cocktail, and as much intimate conversation as we could over the noise.
I’m disoriented when a night goes as well as that one. I find myself wondering if I read everything right.

A boy was selling pirate jokes on the street. I bought two.

First birds calling at the rim of night.