November 22, 2015

Sleep damaged by Irish creme for the second time. It won’t happen again. Strange dreams in the intermittent unconsciousness. I had been writing all day about Hiram, and so I dreamed of Hiram. I dreamed of the ground behind Centennial Hall covered in gigantic peonies, pink and red and white. I had returned to Hiram after a sojourn in the far country, and I was very tired and relieved. With the unexpected coherence of dreams, my “far country” is usually the University of Nebraska, to which I flee for more money or because things aren’t working out, or something. I never thought of this when I was actually in Nebraska. For it I have no explanation, other than to imagine my dream mind thinks it’s the last place on earth. It was night in Hiram and I was looking at the peonies,  waiting for Denny to come meet me, and I was profoundly happy.

Washington Place last night was done as well as it has ever been, and the crowd was mesmerized; I would even say astonished. We have set a new standard for theater in this town. Of course we can fall back, or we can move forward. The second of these will involve hard choices.

This is the day I usually think Thanksgiving should be. It must have been November 22 once in my impressionable youth.

Looked online at the Boy’s student evaluations. They mostly hate him, which is a relief and a confirmation. Many of the evaluations end with “he is not a nice man.” One wonders, therefore, why he is suffered. They also sense he thinks of himself as a Christian, sensing at the same time the cringe-making irony of it.

Hard wind, cold in the corners of the house. Cold is maybe the only thing I fear.