November 9, 2011

The garden is actually pretty riotous for the full moon of November. All the roses are blooming, and the purple Persian honeysuckle, and the forget-me-nots, wild geranium, purple phlox, flowering maple. But for a yellow rose and pink roses, most are in the family of purple.

Student M tells me of heatstroke in Army camp in Fayetteville. He was so bound up with muscle cramps he couldn’t move, and then passed out. When he woke, ants were in his mouth and nostrils. All he had to do was think, “I’m going to die this way,” to rouse himself and begin to fight again. The theory that training should be worse than any circumstance one will likely encounter seems, to me, boyish.

Spectacular back spasm prompted me to cancel classes (I was walking like the Mummy, unable to straighten up, unable to rise from a sitting or lower from a standing position without yelping in pain. Getting into a car was unthinkable). Twenty minutes after I sent the message to my students, the seized-up muscles relaxed. Instantly. Completely. I gave myself a mental-health day, going to the studio to paint and read through scripts sent to Black Swan. Notable flaws in scripts read today: 1) too-deliberate attempts at fashion, 2) lines that the characters wouldn’t really say, but that the playwright thinks the audience needs to hear. A number of playwrights seek to “update” scripture: Jesus as the panhandler on the public square, as the mysterious new neighbor who appears in hours of need. I wonder if this is ever successful. Very few of the scripts were quite horrible. Very few were exceptional or memorable. Sadly, many were really quite good, and deserve a showing, at least once, somewhere, if there were just enough energy and venues and money. The worst were those which were skillful and professional, but possessing nothing but skill, without an ounce of heart or evident humanity. These I assume had been through the development process, and shorn of every virtue with which fault could be found.