April 16, 2011

Lully on the CD.

Big rain driven by hard waves of wind. This started last night as I was leaving the Civic Center and making my way to the car. I couldn’t see the sidewalk in front of my face. I’d ushered for Bravo Concerts, last night featuring a dance purportedly honoring Lincoln. Generic and formless, it could have honored anything else just as well. There was some talent on the stage, but none of it belonged to the choreographer. C was filling in for B, who was in the play at the Magnetic Field. C seems a little haunted by the task he set for himself. I feel like a traitor for not showing at the MF more often, but “When?”, sang Plato’s ghost.

Planted yesterday, notably elderberries, and left them for God to water, which he has done. Occasionally you have to set people tasks at which you know, for the moment, they cannot possibly fail.

Took it into my head to send the Markhams the paintings I did of their street in Ennis, and to send to Steve an imaginary rendering in oils of his garden. The process was expensive and laborious, and I realized when the cartons were packed and labeled in front of me that I couldn’t tell which was which. I sent them anyway, in a gesture of despair. If they’re wrong, both parties are going to be weirded out. Circumstance counseled at every step to stop, but I did not.

Tragically fragmented and harassing week. The students have it worse than we do, but I suppose their resilience is greater as well. I think I did nothing but garden and brace for the next blow, but I also returned to the Vance play. I could finish this weekend, if I kept concentration. There were panicked messages from BG, who did not respond to my observation that I was waiting for some comment from him about the script before I went forward.

Thursday evening at NC Stage, then alcoholic celebration with Russell and Maria at the Vault. I for one was very drunk and very loud, relying on my companions’ state of inebriation to keep me from looking like too much of a boor. MM said One Flea Spare, the play at the theater, has the finest language since Shakespeare. It certainly has not. It has fine writing without that writing being apt to the stage, or convincing coming from the mouths of even hypothetical persons. A better comparison would be Racine, in any case. Acting, as ever, sensational. I note direction too little, and mostly when it is bad. Maybe that’s because the best direction is direction that disappears into the fabric of the performance. Not noticing at all is the best possible comment about a director’s achievement. The tables in the lobby were piled with meats. That is how one goes to the theater!

My desire for the alpaca farm in Alexander was diluted when I noted that you need 4-wheel drive even to look at he place.

First hummingbirds at the feeders.