Sunday dawns

June 15, 2014

The man I have been calling Achmet (for God knows what reason) is actually Shariff Harthy, a person of great personal and historical dignity, whom certain elements (so Honorah says ) have offered the crown of Hungary. Glad to have known him.

My prayer to be wrong yesterday was answered handsomely, for the taping revealed a piece of great beauty, even here and there of splendor.  Lucio did such honor to my words that I was in tears. One blesses the singers for so much stamina, so much youthful good will! I do think The Birth of Color could have a place in the repertoire, if only it weren’t so hard to sing. There is one place where it becomes mud, a triumphant mud crescendo, but H says (not in so many words) that she called for mud there.  Rumpled, kind-hearted, soft-voiced Lucio bent over his keyboard assumes new dignity in my eyes. Nevertheless, the session was six hours long, and is scheduled the same for today. I have very little to do but to look on approvingly.

Lucio wanted to do something more after 6, and D said, “We’re way over budget already.” That released something that had been building in my mind already, at first the suspicion, and then the conviction that I was the only person in the room who had not been paid. Turns out to be the truth. I said, “So, are all these singers volunteers, or--” and got the explanation of finances that revealed. No covenants have been broken, and I am happy to be a participant, but I am uncomfortable that the ideal of joyful volunteerism is reserved for some and not even asked of others. The same thing happened in New York, where I realized that the playwright was the only person who didn’t see a dime out of Lincoln. Do I need an agent for everything? Does one feed on honor? Do I look even more like a dupe than I think I do? Is the same countenance that draws beggars and scammers across the street to me the one that suggests “he’ll do it free?” I feel divided on this. I was happy to have done it without payment, but when I found out I was the only one, it seemed to shame not only my work, but the craft of poetry, as if, unlike composing or singing or twiddling the knobs on the sound machine, it required no support or recompense. I do not claim it wasn’t joyful to do. But— well, I wish I hadn’t though of it. It darkened last evening, and now it is darkening the morning. Do you need the money? No. Then why not shut up about it? Because it isn’t right.

Ended the night at a street restaurant where they gave me a free dessert (maybe I looked devastated) and chatted with a giant Dane and his mom, who were here celebrate his masters degree in Finance. He made me eat goulash, and it is, after all, just like mom’s beef stew, with a little more spice. Maybe she got it from them, the Irish/Hungarian connection.  Meant to lie down a little and then go out onto the night street, but I lay down and woke in gray dawn.

Vicious and venomous messages from a former student, L, with whom I acted on the university stage when I first came there. His resentment has been simmering for nearly thirty years. I wonder if he feels better now to have spat it forth? He meant to calumniate me on Facebook, but Facebook, in some wonderful way it has, blocked it, so it came to my email but did not appear on my Timeline, or in “Home.” I can’t remember harming him in any way. Things that make you sit with your chin on your hand--


June 15, 2014

The man I have been calling Achmet (for God knows what reason) is actually Shariff Harthy, a person of great personal and historical dignity, whom certain elements (so Honorah says ) have offered the crown of Hungary. Glad to have known him.

My prayer to be wrong yesterday was answered handsomely, for the taping revealed a piece of great beauty, even here and there of splendor.  Lucio did such honor to my words that I was in tears. One blesses the singers for so much stamina, so much youthful good will! I do think The Birth of Color could have a place in the repertoire, if only it weren’t so hard. There is one place where it becomes mud, a triumphant mud crescendo, but H says (not in so many words) that she called for mud there.  Rumpled, kind-hearted, soft-voiced Lucio bent over his keyboard assumes new dignity in my eyes. Nevertheless, the session was six hours long, and is scheduled the same for today. I have very little to do but to look on approvingly.
Lucio wanted to do something more after 6, and Dahlan said, “We’re way over budget already.” That released something that had been building in my mind already, at first the suspicion, and then the conviction that I was the only person in the room who had not been paid. Turns out to be the truth. I said, “So, are all these singers volunteers, or--” and got the explanation of finances that revealed. No covenants have been broken, and I am happy to be a participant, but I am uncomfortable that the ideal of joyful volunteerism is reserved for some and not even asked of others. The same thing happened in New York, where I realized that the playwright was the only person who didn’t see a dime out of Lincoln. Do I need an agent for everything? Do I look even more like a dupe than I think I do? Is the same countenance that draws beggars and scammers across the street to me the one that suggests “he’ll do it free?” I feel divided on this. I was happy to have done it without payment, but when I found out I was the only one, it seemed to shame not only my work, but the craft of poetry, as if, unlike composing or singing or twiddling the knobs on the sound machine, it required no support or recompense. I do not claim it wasn’t joyful to do. But— well, I wish I hadn’t though of it. It darkened last evening, and now it is darkening the morning. Do you need the money? No. Then why not shut up about it? Because it isn’t right.
Ended the night at a street restaurant where they gave me a free dessert (maybe I looked devastated) and chatted with a giant Dane and his mom, who were here celebrate his masters degree in Finance. He made me eat goulash, and it is, after all, just like mom’s beef stew, with a little more spice. Maybe she got it from them, the Irish/Hungarian connection.  Meant to lie down a little and then go out onto the night street, but I lay down and woke in gray dawn.
Vicious and venomous messages from a former student, Lee Morris, with whom I acted on the university stage when I first came there. His resentment has been simmering for nearly thirty years. I wonder if he feels better now to have spat it forth? He meant to calumniate me on Facebook, but Facebook, in some wonderful way it has, blocked it, so it came to my email but did not appear on my Timeline, or in “Home.” I can’t remember harming him in any way. Things that may you sit with your chin on your hand--


June 15, 2014

The man I have been calling Achmet (for God knows what reason) is actually Shariff Harthy, a person of great personal and historical dignity, whom certain elements (so Honorah says ) have offered the crown of Hungary. Glad to have known him.

My prayer to be wrong yesterday was answered handsomely, for the taping revealed a piece of great beauty, even here and there of splendor.  Lucio did such honor to my words that I was in tears. One blesses the singers for so much stamina, so much youthful good will! I do think The Birth of Color could have a place in the repertoire, if only it weren’t so hard. There is one place where it becomes mud, a triumphant mud crescendo, but H says (not in so many words) that she called for mud there.  Rumpled, kind-hearted, soft-voiced Lucio bent over his keyboard assumes new dignity in my eyes. Nevertheless, the session was six hours long, and is scheduled the same for today. I have very little to do but to look on approvingly.
Lucio wanted to do something more after 6, and Dahlan said, “We’re way over budget already.” That released something that had been building in my mind already, at first the suspicion, and then the conviction that I was the only person in the room who had not been paid. Turns out to be the truth. I said, “So, are all these singers volunteers, or--” and got the explanation of finances that revealed. No covenants have been broken, and I am happy to be a participant, but I am uncomfortable that the ideal of joyful volunteerism is reserved for some and not even asked of others. The same thing happened in New York, where I realized that the playwright was the only person who didn’t see a dime out of Lincoln. Do I need an agent for everything? Do I look even more like a dupe than I think I do? Is the same countenance that draws beggars and scammers across the street to me the one that suggests “he’ll do it free?” I feel divided on this. I was happy to have done it without payment, but when I found out I was the only one, it seemed to shame not only my work, but the craft of poetry, as if, unlike composing or singing or twiddling the knobs on the sound machine, it required no support or recompense. I do not claim it wasn’t joyful to do. But— well, I wish I hadn’t though of it. It darkened last evening, and now it is darkening the morning. Do you need the money? No. Then why not shut up about it? Because it isn’t right.
Ended the night at a street restaurant where they gave me a free dessert (maybe I looked devastated) and chatted with a giant Dane and his mom, who were here celebrate his masters degree in Finance. He made me eat goulash, and it is, after all, just like mom’s beef stew, with a little more spice. Maybe she got it from them, the Irish/Hungarian connection.  Meant to lie down a little and then go out onto the night street, but I lay down and woke in gray dawn.
Vicious and venomous messages from a former student, Lee Morris, with whom I acted on the university stage when I first came there. His resentment has been simmering for nearly thirty years. I wonder if he feels better now to have spat it forth? He meant to calumniate me on Facebook, but Facebook, in some wonderful way it has, blocked it, so it came to my email but did not appear on my Timeline, or in “Home.” I can’t remember harming him in any way. Things that may you sit with your chin on your hand--

*

Evening: we finished taping with a maximum of to-do, and though not all parts are equal, I maintain that The Birth of Color is a sort of masterpiece. When the chorus left, I teared up, a lump in my throat. It was like the last morning of summer camp when you say goodbye to everyone. Great kids. I would intervene for the joy of the futures, except that everything I touch turns vaguely ridiculous, so maybe I’ll let it alone. When I left the radio station, a woman was walking her ferret. I went into the park beside the museum and sobbed like an idiot. I don’t even know why.

Yes I do.

Anyway, filling the hours until my early, early flight. Praying that all things go well and, unlikely as it may seem, I find my way back to Budapest.