March 20, 2011

First of the purple bell-fritillaria are in bloom. Cold dapple of gray and bright outside, an easing back half way to winter after glorious spring-like days. Much cultivation, much planting, much digging up of new beds, intense war on the remnants of the hated Kingdom of the Ivy.

We bade farewell to TB at Zambra’s last night. It was a happy evening with a variety of friends, new and of long extant. TB’s friendship is widespread and eclectic. I’m praying to the gods of New York to treat him well. Much talk at the table of local theater, of those who surge forward, of those who are going surely–but perhaps reversibly– astray.

Zambras had perfected the craft of giving you very little food for a very stiff price. Genius.

Completely rewrote the ending of The Falls of the Wyona, which had been its weakness. I thought there was a reason for having it the way it was, but the reason evaporated when a better story came along. I cut reams out, I thought, but when I compared the new version to the old, there was exactly the same number of pages, down even to ending at the same place on the page. My emotion at the revision was sharper than it should have been, perhaps because I had fought hard against it, using the words “it’s good enough” to deflect my energies. The Muse’s refusal can be more profound than her agreement, and a far greater wonder. It’s like going out to look for mushrooms, pitching a fit because there were no mushrooms, then, trudging gloomily home, finding one of the seven cities of gold.

Concert at St Matthias. It went well, I think, and was a happy experience for me. I sang well, and where I stood I couldn’t hear those who did not.