March 29, 2014

Dream in the afternoon, my disco nap, before tonight’s performance. It was night. I was bringing a friend with me to get certification for a Boy Scout badge I wanted, earned, but never got the paperwork done for. My old scoutmaster lived on Jarvis Street (??) But in the midst of the journey I forgot the house number. We pulled over at a pay phone in the middle of a park. Two men were mowing the grass in the park, by artificial light. One big man was sitting on the mower while the other, little, one was on his back, kissing his head, clearly wanting to make love to him. I went to the phone and made my call. When I got back to the car, the larger of the two workmen was raping my friend in the car. He had his hand over her mouth so she couldn’t scream, but she made whimpering noises that horrify me even now to think of. The smaller man was standing outside the car, crying not because of the rape, but because the friend he loved had chosen the woman over him. I pushed him aside. I got into the car and tried to pull the man away, but he wouldn’t be pulled. So I wrapped my fingers around his neck and started to strangle him. He was so intent on what he was doing that he kept on with it, and didn’t try to stop me at all. And then he was dead. My friend jumped out of the car and started screaming. Before I could comfort her, I caught myself thinking about how easy it was to kill somebody.

Friday night (the actual opening night, I should think, where people actually paid to get in) was a triumph of sudden readiness and good luck.  For my own part, I had finally hit that point where the lines come pouring out of my mouth without my having to angle for them, and my energy can go into interpretation. I remembered why I am happy on stage. The crowd was better than the night before, and four seats were covered by white papers designating VIPs.

Laughed my head off at the antics of the boys in the dressing room. Sweet thought that maybe they were showing off a little for me.

Woke vaguely ill. Maybe overindulged after the performance, maybe Z released toxins into my system during my massage. Admiring his beauty while we chatted, hoping I didn’t admire it too much while I was naked and lying under his hands. He touches me in ways that are wholly innocent to him but cause me a struggle of redirected attention.

Constant need to keep cool in the face of the presumption of assistant stage managers and the like. I think this is an Asheville problem, for it happens at UNCA as well. Someone gives them a skew vision of their power and they become, or assume themselves to be, little lordlings. Little duchesses, I should say, for it’s gender specific; I’ve never know it to afflict a man. The no-nonsense approach is a kind of nonsense.

Odd chirping sound under my window this morning. It’s organic, for it stops and starts and varies, but whatever it is seems to be invisible. Maud noticed it too, and was looking in a specific place, but I could discern nothing. .