November 11, 2011

Eleven. Eleven. Eleven

The moonlight was so bright last night I could see every detail of the yard, almost even the colors. Light glanced off the aluminum tank to make another moon, low against my window.

KM and I went to see Brief Encounters at MF, me for the second time. She assured me it was better than I had prepared her for, and it was, in fact, a better evening than a week back, with a livelier and less drunken crowd. Sat late with Casey and the Hyorths, us reminiscing about the good old days in Asheville theater, Casey politely taking it in, his copy of Grotowsky under his elbow. Heard that one of the other playwrights– the author of not quite the worst one–supposed that I had written “The Future of the Theater” for this event, targeting these actual plays, and rose at the end and gave the finger to the stage and stomped out. I miss all the good moments.

Evening, moving into night. Strange visions, and though they seem melancholy to tell, they bring me joy. I napped on the couch in the winter sunlight, and I dreamed of a little long-legged puppy showing up ay my back door. I decided he was meant for me, and that I would keep him. I was listing the things in my head that I had to buy-- toys, some rope for taking walks, fence to enclose the yard–when I woke up. I lay there for a moment trying to figure out whether I needed to go shopping or not. Then later as I was half-watching a DVD, a shape materialized, as if in the corner of my eye. It was a young man or a boy, with blond spikey hair, and a certain look, familiar and yet startling. I knew it was my unborn son. The first sensation was relief and joy–yes, yes, this, at last, is right– and then I sobered up a little and thought, “it is not right that you should haunt me. It was not my fault.” But then I realized it was not a haunting, but another sort of visitation altogether.