June 17, 2013

Bird songs from the thinning darkness in my own yard– very different from the city sounds that woke me recent days. Flight home less grueling than it might have been– dead run from Atlanta Customs to my gate, but made it. Luggage did not, yet despite filling out the lost luggage form, I was home before midnight. My housesitters did not leave the shambles I half expected-- and worried about during the flight-- but there was a muddle (especially with cookware) to iron out before I took my nervous energy to bed. Circe has her accustomed place on the desk as I write, and the washing machine hums.

Body achy, as though I had been in a fender-bender. Too long in one position?

Memory of Germany: a hare on the dewy grass between tarmacs at the Frankfurt airport. Memory of Holland: a river flowing through an opening in a wall which held back the sea. We were too high for me to tell how big everything was. Was it the Rhine?

It was father’s day as I sat in Gatwick (hours too early, of course) waiting, and in the Duty Free hall I had a clear vision of my father walking toward me. He was leaning heavily on the cane, and wore the pale plaid sports coat which was familiar long ago. He was looking around from side to side, taking in what he had never seen in life, an international airport, another country. He seemed happy. He was coming to see me. A strange benediction descended on the moment. Once when I had a particularly vivid dream about Titus, people said he missed me and came back for a visit. I took this vision as exhibiting the same power. It fell upon me with stunning force. At the least expected place in the universe, my father had made our history irrelevant, and sent a blessing back over all the incidents of our lives. A child had called and his father had come, over a very great distance indeed.

From Sidney’s friend Emily:
Goodness me. I felt transported deep into another man's complexities and contradictions. In the form of a storied historical figure like Lincoln, the path inward resonated with revelation and poetry. I really was so entranced by Stephen Hauck's nuanced honesty, and the seasoned struggles embedded in the character's culminating outcry. Howling never seemed a more reasonable reaction to a person's path... 
All the players were so present and alive to one another. What a wildly difficult role is Mary Todd. Leah Curney never looked back.... but EVERYONE worked with real courage. 
And it was beautifully staged. Great musical interludes. I did a new play on that stage a couple of years ago, "Inventing Avi" directed by Mark Waldrop. And I have seen many things here.... my own long-held Workshop Theater Co. is on the other side of the bldg. And I've worked with The Barrow Group as well. 312 W.36th is the place I'm constantly slogging to up 8th Ave............. your piece had an eloquent emotional depth. Always difficult to find precisely the right playing style in such intimate space. Sidney, just beautiful work. Congratulations. I'm so glad I was there.

From Leah Curney, my Mary Todd:
We didn't get much of a chance to chat when you were in NYC, so I wanted to take a moment now to thank you for your beautiful play. It was such a gift to explore the depths, the sharp corners and soft, tender places of the formidable Mary Todd - thank you for writing such a beautifully rich and complex portrait of an often maligned historical character. 

From all I can absorb from the comments coming out of New York, The Loves of Mr Lincoln was a complete success. The acting and production are rightfully praised, and I consider any praise of the production as acknowledgment of the house I have built.  Sidney and all have done me proud. My ears are open for what comes next, for observations on what has already passed.

Garden watered by many rains needs attention, but the rain continues, so I have a few more days off. Most obvious change is the explosion of hydrangeas, blue and white here, pink at the studio.