April 5, 2013

Cantaria sings for the UNCA Queer Conference. Possibly not our finest hour.

Cindy’s all but inexhaustible cake diminishes slowly in the Lit lobby, like a sand castle by the sea. I regret to say I have done my part.

Sidney reports the people on board for The Loves of Mr. Lincoln. He is excited. There will be a flurry of Google searches soon. My energy for anything but writing contracts so that even reading the lists of credits of the famous people I’m about to meet exhausts me.

Have not flagged in my poem a day for April. Nor has there been a real clunker. Yet.

One follower of my blog (I hope it’s just one) is vicious, and has some biting comment to make whenever I give him the chance. My sanity, my craft, my affections, whatever door I leave slightly ajar. My own hours being so short, I wonder where all that leisure and commitment comes from, or how I have filled anybody’s well of envy. Same thing when I was reviewing for Mountain Express: one person, calling himself variably “Theater Fan” or something of the sort–style testifies it was the same person, and one person, all the time– would take the stance opposite to mine, and lament my stupidity (or in some cases, dishonesty) as a reflex. If he wanted to underline his first comment, or if he had forgotten something snide, he would support it over a slightly different name. “Oh yes, he got everything wrong in this review”. . . “Probably because MF did one of his little works and he hopes they will again.” Mostly the comments made him look like a fool, or were merely puzzling, but the wonderment for me was the energy and commitment that went into it. His brightest moment was when he lamented that I had not revealed anything about the plot of a play called “Jekyll and Hyde.” Another commenter– a real one-- remarked “It’s JEKYLL AND HYDE, for godsakes.” I think that’s why I pulled away from reviewing. The energy in Asheville is so hell-bent against honest criticism and analysis–for so many and often perplexing reasons– that there’s really no point. We are less a city of art than of self-indulgence– though there’s still enough art–like Jolene, like the boys at Apothecary-- that one keeps fighting.