March 13, 2010

Troubled dreams, though they seem mostly to be about a messy kitchen.

Pale lavender crocus in the grass.

Woke remembering catching myself singing “Zueignung” in the airport.

My father’s birthday. He would have been 91.

Excellent painting in the studio yesterday. Except a woman came in and watched me for a long time before I noticed her. I thought that was kind of romantic, until she said, “Do you know where I can find the glassblowers?”

Zack left me a guest pass to Bela Fleck at the Orange Peel. It was very crowded, but curiously not too crowded, for there was no jostling or impatience, and people had enough room to dance to the music in their little spaces. African pop music is, evidently, very low-key, homely, gentle. I did enjoy the feel and the happiness of the crowd, and now and then shoulders would part and I could see there were people on stage. I really am remarkably short. Wandered from the Orange Peel to the New French Bar, where I had a drink and chit-chat with the owner and with Cyrus, a former student, whose band was playing later than I would be able to endure. When I left the bar the rain was torrential, and I shambled back to the car trying to raise a shoulder against the oncoming spears of cold rain. I’d love Home as much as I love Away if I got out more.

Some bird outside sounds like the ringing of a phone. I’ve risen twice to answer.

Albee asked me how many plays I had written. I counted this morning for my own information: 35 full length, 37 one-act or shorter, as of today.

Evening: Eventful day. I painted through the morning. As I left the studio and drove W. Haywood, I was flagged down by a prostitute with money in her hand. A prostitute with money out, offering it to me, was peculiar enough that I stopped, and agreed to give her a ride to Hill Street, to the Hillside Projects. She wanted me to wait for her outside the crack house, but I declined. Never got the money. I checked the car to see if anything was missing when she left. It wasn’t. Had to account for my loathing of her. It wasn’t her profession, for which I have a kind of cautious respect. It was her, the idea she had that squalor was the real life of which other lifestyles were but deluded postponements.

Coffee with Cody, back from Texas to do a little theater here before he tries New York, as I think he should. It was a fascinating meeting. I understood better (or for the first time at all) some of the things that happened during Crown of Shadows. He is elusive but attractive to me. His elusiveness is not intentional, but because our minds work in very different ways. He has the makings of a great actor. He sees more obstacles to the fulfillment of that potential than anyone else would, perhaps more than are actually there. I think I could write great parts for him. He said dealing with my works was difficult for him. “Why?” I ask. He answers, “Because you write real people.”

Just returned from the wedding of Chall and Lucia at the Diana Wortham, presented as a play about their meeting and courtship. It was unique and delightful in every way, and I pray launches them into a land of enduring milk and honey. I was going to say they set the wedding bar very high, but my actual belief is that nobody around here will dare follow in their footsteps.