November 13, 2011

A fairly creepy wolf spider hunts across my desk lamp, ascending and descending in a manner of particular calm. I’m thinking of ways we can live together peaceably. He stares steadily at me at intervals, likely thinking the same thing. Tiny orange bands near the ends of his legs, as if he were wearing jewelry. He really is a most serene little creature.

Went to see APO’s one-act festival, which included my “I Should Warn You I Have a Gun in My Bag.” The student-run operation was lively, well-attended, free. Some of the kids who had little to do in Our Town revealed that they are capable of much more. Projection was not much thought of, so my piece was lost, but pieces where boys shouted facing the audience were not lost, and it all warmed my heart. The potential for good theater exists on campus, if it can find its way past an exhausted faculty.

Unusually pleasant River District Studio Stroll yesterday. I even made sales, which though pitiable in size encourage simply by existing. Painted a lot. Looked up at one point at one of the world’s handsomest men, with a great silver lizard for a belt buckle, tall and thin enough of make such a detail work. He wanted to chat, and I was grateful. He seemed melancholy, and I was thinking, unsympathetically, “If I looked like that, you couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.” One of the women who bought paintings chatted with me for a while about whether I was afraid someone would pass me a bad check. When I looked at her check later, she had left the write-out-the-sum space blank. On purpose? I filled it in myself with, I hope, some skill.

Left the Stroll to rush to Warren Wilson for Holly’s speech. She was funny and insightful, and Sebastian was walking, which was a glory to see. He looked tall and rangy and happy, as if the crutches were a kind of unnecessary courtesy. I have a tendency to want to joke with people in extremis, thinking it will lighten the situation, though I wonder of it reads the way it is intended.

Me: “Seb! You’re walking! And here I came with a whole load of wheelchair jokes.”
He: “My wife is still in a chair. Try them out on her.”

Left WW and steamed downtown (it was one of those days when I had to be watching the watch to make sure each obligation was met). TJC had comped me a ticket to hear Joshua Bell, the glamorous violinist, at the Thomas Wolfe. The playing was exquisite, though that room deadens everything–exquisite without resonance, one must then say. Bell had to deal with the typical yahoo Asheville audience which, among other things, longs to applaud between movements of a sonata. He took to holding the bow aloft to signal he was mid-movement–a signal which a significant number ignored anyway, and then laughed about. A cell phone jingle was playing as he wanted to begin, and he quipped to his pianist (Tracey’s comp was right down near the stage, bless her) “I guess I’ll have to play louder.” All the bars were full and happy as I walked back to my car. I wanted to join in, but, at that point, not enough to counteract thoughts of couch and a cosmopolitan.

RS asks me to begin reviewing again for Mountain Xpress. Missed it. Need to get a rhythm back.

Will return to work tomorrow without having had one hour of rest. Let’s see how that works.

My little ghost was with me through the day. I smiled and went along with it all.