Omaha 9

May 30, 2015

My readiness to go home is evidenced by the fact that I am obsessing about my ride to the airport tomorrow. I ask, and am told that “there’s a schedule” and “everything’s taken care of” but no one will give me a time and place, and the plane will be leaving. . . well, about now, in 24 hours. I don’t even know my address, with which to summon a cab. Sometimes I can soothe myself, but the finished-with-this-ness of it is clear in the fact that I demand an open path and clear markers. Getting off campus the last few nights has eased this a little. Last night we went to a beautiful venue downtown somewhere –was it called “Omar”?--and witnesed a series of skits and testimonials about the last ten years of GPTC history, which meant next to nothing to those who weren’t there and didn’t know the people spoken of. But it was festive, and we mixed and mingled, and I had sort of a date with Tommy afterward, who brought me hobbling home in his car. One attracts unexpected people, cherishes them with attentiveness, wondering the whole time “why?” Met Lee Blessing. He’d seen my play, but I didn’t ask him about that, but rather gushed about a production of Chesapeake I’d seen at NC Stage. Figured he’d rather talk about that,

The reading of Washington Place was flawless. My gratitude forever to cast and director. It had been scheduled oddly, so there was no time for comments from the audience. My resentment of that grows as the hours past, for I am attentive to ways in which I am cut bad deals, worse deals than those around, and, only partially because of that inclination, discover them. Comments from the official respondents went as one expected. Connie, the one I respected from the first, said she had nothing to say, that it was perfect and wondered when I would put it on the stage. I had not heard that before at a session here. Some other comments sounded odd, until I realized they were critiquing my lousy synopsis–wherein I do “give away the ending”-- rather than the play itself. Sighed for that opportunity lost. Part of the skill of playwriting is to anticipate points that will veer the weak-minded off on paths of their own, but one didn’t expect that skill had to extend to introductory material, or to the supposed sages of this event. One smiles, thanks, stumbles on. But at the downtown gala, Kevin, the director of the whole event, bought me a drink and volunteered, even while I tried to conceal my disappointment in the critique session, that the play was wonderful, and that he had read more plays than anyone else there, and that among them Washington Place was singular and profound. Ok then. I knew whom to believe. One excellent observation was that the play would be good for high school or college, because the cast is mostly girls, it’s educational, and there are no cuss words (in English).

Had breakfast. Chatted with sunny DF. All is better.