July 30, 2016

Good performance last night. The cast is attentive and looks out after one another. Simon the Zealot has been chasing me off stage the whole time and, as my back is turned, I haven’t noticed.  Waynesville has an inordinate number of fairs and street dances which oblige one to take all sorts of scary detours through unfamiliar streets in the dead of night. I was chased by a posse of middle aged women who were determined that I explain myself for having made a wrong turn. I dodged them inches away.
   
Hope the day makes good on its threat of rain.
   
The people who hate Hillary and the people who love Trump have one thing in common: they have invented the person who is the object of their emotion. Hillary has done nothing–objectively– to earn people’s mistrust, and Trump has said or done nothing that would make us think he would serve anything but his own vanity, and yet people say “I don’t trust Hillary” or “Trump tells it like it is” with religious conviction.  “Religious” may be the operative word: received, unexamined, probably wrong, often hysterical, irrational, above or beside all reasonable argument, superior to evidence, more enduring than truth.
  
Late afternoon: sweet rain with its various voices. Sore from gardening. Planted a clutch of acanthus, hart’s tongue fern, anemone for the shade, and a stand of milkweed for the butterflies.

July 29, 2016

Vocal problems last night. Perhaps nobody noticed, or thought it was important.  One of the chorus wears his dad’s fishing vest in a couple of scenes– a garment which has probably seen 100 fishing trips without once visiting the washing machine. DY leads us in a “penguin warm up,” which seems ludicrous but gets the blood flowing marvelously.

July 28, 2016

The penalty of my not checking email often enough is that my short play “Waiting for the Witch” goes up in Tacoma next month, and I hadn’t known about it until they sent me a copy of the poster.  Interruption of a long dry spell.

Weeded and hoed the back garden. Layers of mulch makes that easy going, though I could feel the blaze of the sun on my upturned bottom. The beauty of the garden now is the purple spike of meadow rue.

July 27, 2016

Joined two of the gardens in back into one large eastern garden. Writing, desultory and toward no perceivable end. Physical well-being.

July 26, 2016

Wearing a t-shirt that a man I admired at Classic Hill in Hiram in 1984 gave to me, I think as all the return he could muster on my admiration. It is good enough. I think of him when I wear it.

DJ and I were on the road early to the NC Zoo at Ashboro, partially my gift to myself because circumstance prevented me from traveling this summer. The animals were unusually personable: a rhino chased a herd of antelope hither and thither across their little plain; two young gorillas roughhoused; three giraffes fed from our hands, we standing in a platform built up in the trees. The giraffes were calm and quite beautiful. The elephants were red and the giraffes almost silvery, which are not the colors you colored in the coloring books. My fasciitis kicked in and made the trip briefer than it might have been, as well as its being, as DJ said, “hotter than Satan’s butt crack.” Great turtles in the long lake. The inclemency of heat kept the crowds away, and all was peaceful. DJ crossed another frontier and allowed himself the luxury of a motorized chair. Bought a t-shirt that I cannot cram into the drawer.

Gardened through the early hours today, completing some of what I left undone after the yellow jacket attack. There are still yellow jacks coming from somewhere, but they don’t seem to have a territorial imperative. Planted swamp hibiscus (the lake at the zoo bristled with them, and made me long for more), turtlehead (to make up for those slaughtered) and pink anemone.

Showered in the afternoon and went to meet B at his quaint house in West Asheville, with the prayer flags on the porch. He greeted me in the living room naked, so the tenor of the meeting was set right off. In our conversations beforehand, I might have emphasized certain things, which he surprised me by actually initiating. Much of it was tender; some of it was rough in a theatrical way, that I think he was putting on for me. He had told me very little about his in-bed preferences, so I had to figure it out as I went, but I am usually pretty good at that. It was well. It was the best thing I could have done with this particular afternoon. It was the most pleasure you could have out of sex with one you don’t love, or even like very much. I thought as I left that if this were the last such encounter in my life, it would be well: sweet enough not to leave me disappointed, not so sweet that I should carry a burden of longing and regret.

July 25, 2016

Mother’s birthday. Sunday matinee quite good, quite full. As the hour moves toward dawn, I prepare to hit the road.

July 24, 2016

Best performance yet last night, to a big crowd, including David and his girlfriend, who are asleep in the guest room as I write. Youthful eagerness. . . I had almost forgotten. . .

Why is this election season different from all other election seasons?  I have given this thought, and believe it is because there are not, this time, two different, slightly modulated versions of reality bidding for the attention of the electorate. There is one vision of reality and another that is pure delusion, a world made from scraps of demagoguery, general fears inserted wherever they may do the worst harm, legislative bullies and executive vandals, liars in public places so blatant as not to be concerned when they are caught in the lie, for how is fact better than conviction? How is truth more powerful than the desire for power over others? Donald Trump’s–and now the Republican Party’s– proposed world is a kind of Mordor, where light must be shut out in order for darkness not to be shown for what it is, a world of deliberate misrepresentation, of paranoia lifted to the level of religion, where the worst are honored for their vehemence in a bad cause. Trump himself is clearly without conscience and will do whatever gratifies him at a particular moment, and his rhetoric appeals to those who are exhausted by the world’s resistance to their ignorance. Don’t worry about what is good and true, I’ll give you what you think you want. I have not lived through former times, but this is the worst choice presented in my lifetime. Trump offers the opportunity, in every spiritual or intellectual way, to recede to the Dark Ages, superstitious, prizing ignorance as a virtue, squalid, war-like, clannish, hopeless because the implicit power structure depends upon hopelessness.  Though there are aspects of Hillary’s policies with which one might disagree, what is actually used against her by the Republicans are blatant and infantile lies, which are breathed back into life by Trump’s dementors no matter how often they’re laid to rest by those who actually know (often embarrassed Republicans). Trump calls–listen to what he says and then dispute with me–for the end of humane civilization. Listen to him. Really. Now, checks and balances built into the government may keep him from achieving this, but the fact that some of us are happy to let him have a try is appalling. The some of us are willing to risk this holocaust because our favorite was defeated is infantile naivete bordering on crime. In a perfect world I would probably be a Green. There is not time for the  luxury of that now. That one faction is a little greener than the other must, in ths instance, suffice. No one who supports Trump can be my friend. It is hard to imagine how a personal both moral and sane could do so. Even to fail to give aid to his enemies is, in a time like this, lamentable.

July 23, 2016

Blessings for last night’s rain. It made the drive to Waynesville interesting– more feeling the way than driving–but I was comforted by the thought of the dry roots of my garden drinking it in. Everything looked better this morning.
   
Harry arrived for an impromptu visit, and almost immediately the exterminator arrived (he with glittering blue eyes) to deal with my yellow jackets. Almost immediately after that I sunk into regret. When he found the nest, I realized I had been spading away almost on top of them, and what I had interpreted as nasty imperialism on their part was a last-ditch effort to keep their home from being spaded up. He poisoned them, and then we dug out their pale combs writhing with their pale grubs, dying in the poison and the sunlight. I did not feel triumphant. I felt impatient and wasteful, driven by fear. For their sake I didn’t touch the garden this whole day.
   
Minos showed himself to Harry, almost as a blessing.
   
The latest thing in the pond is a shoal of tiny fry. Evidently the minnows are breeding successfully. The big fish do not seem to be eating them, or eating them very fast, or maybe their arrival was timed to take advantage of a bloom of green algae covering the sunlit portions of the bottom and allowing them places to hide. Bought a couple of placostomas (placostomaii?) to eat the algae. The man who sold them to me was a happy and fulfilled man, loving animals and working in a pet store.
   
Baked red velvet cookies for the cast tonight. Frosted. Last night I was slightly off vocally, and of course it was the night immortalized by videotape. Getting just the littlest bit tired of Jesus Christ Superstar. 
   
Have spent some portion of many recent days in a state of anger, sometimes volcanic red spikes, sometimes a gray bitter simmer. Of course I know why, and of course one or two things (long overdue already) would end it, but those things do not happen and I must find a way to proceed. The anger is a sort of fuel. It does get me through the thick days, but it is wasteful, exhausting, and wrong when it reaches out–like my frightened yellow jackets–and stings the world around. I’m almost always working at the limits of my abilities, so when I am stymied, I am truly stymied. Not angry once today, though, so I try to beat out the mood like a lump of gold and see how much it can cover.

July 22, 2016

Waiting for a call from Delta, to explain to me why the ticket I bought for multiple thousands does not appear on their website, and was never confirmed, but for which I was fully charged. They allow you to be on hold for an hour, or trust them to call you back. My hatred is like some great octopus, with red tentacles stretching in all directions.
   
Good performance last night, in front of an indifferent audience. People who worry more about that sort of thing than I were aggrieved.

July 21, 2016

Semi-annual Black Mountain visitation, where I, not having planned to do any such thing, bought a musical instrument, a plucked psaltery. The ladies at the store overwhelmed me with advice and chit-chat. We sang together selections from Jesus Christ, Superstar after I told them I was in it tonight. The drive to Black Mountain was inexplicably black and despairing. The blackness and despair aren’t inexplicable, but rather why they should erupt on a bright road in a bright morning heading to frivolity. Had a salad and cocktails and the morning was barely over.

Thought of Indian Guides. At the beginning of a meeting you had to stand with you hand on your father’s shoulder and sing “Pals Forever” to the tune of “Darling Clementine.” At the age of– what? 6? 7?– I was almost too mortified to go through with it. It was hard for me even to touch my father long enough to get the song out. Even then something had come between us, something cold and unnatural. I’m always stopped from going back far enough to discover what it was. Did he feel the same? I assume he did. I assume that whatever it was arose from him, as I was too young to have formed desires and aversions of that strength on my own. I do not remember either of my parents hugging or caressing me. Once. Ever. There must have been a reason–

I am going to write these things down as they arise. Dreamed during a nap of my father’s mother, so vividly that when I awoke I went into the living room to see if she wanted anything.

Rainish sky with no rain. I am not going into the yard until the yellow jackets are dealt with. My anger is still a pale coal.

July 20, 2016

Made progress connecting two of the back gardens into one, until being attacked by yellow jackets, the living creature I hate most. Sustained four stings. My left arm throbs and stings even now, at least five hours afterwards. It makes me angry. Have noted in the past that the yellow jacket’s sting is counter-adaptive, because my reaction to it is to destroy them all. The exterminator arrives Friday. The issue is, they’re selfish. As far as I was concerned, there was room for all of us in the garden. Not any more. I may be safe again at twilight, or I may be too cautious even then.
   
More idiocy at the Republican convention than I remember from any other public gathering in my lifetime. Not one nano-second of sanity; not one scintilla of dignity. They’re hyenas squabbling over a carcass, and the carcass is their own party.
   
Gigantic moon last night: sharp shadows and faintly glowing golden radiance.
   

July 19, 2016

Woke wondrous early, went to the Racquet Club where I worked out memorably. Happened to think of the first time I ever played baseball. It was on the great diamond in GHMP, and when I came up to bat, some kid (I was not playing with familiar people; I don’t remember the situation) hollered, “move in!” and everyone came in toward home base, sure that I was going to hit the ball feebly or not at all. One kid hollered to another, “Easy out! Easy out!”  This insured that was exactly what happened, and my relationship with baseball never recovered. What I wondered then was how I had provoked this reaction, for I had never been at bat before and I remember distinctly not knowing a single person in the park, except my father, who must have brought me there for one reason or another. How could they possibly assume I would be an “easy out”? Must still be wondering about that, for it came to mind as I deliberately refrained from adjusting the weights (which should have been too heavy for me) because I wanted to do just as well as the youthful bruiser who had just vacated the seat. Maybe the gods sent this memory to me to explain a whole lot of what has gone on since. Continued to Starbucks, where I watched the firemen come in amidst their shift for coffee, and longed for them. Whatever gods there may be should take this bit of human wisdom: To deny is to necessitate.

Will, thinking he was doing me a favor, was whacking weeds on my west lawn. I stopped him just before he annihilated the green dragons, which are our only hope of covering that infertile dirt. I swear to God the sound of a weed-whacker sets my teeth on edge. What innocent greenery will be next?

Booked flights and hotel to Budapest. Succeeded in by-passing Charles DeGaulle (Amsterdam instead) and will be staying at the K + K, not a block from the opera house. I go blithely along as though I could afford all this--

July 18, 2016

Recorded “The Walrus and the Carpenter” for later broadcast on WSFM-LP, I think it was. A, the radio jock, was doing a show on “oysters” and had consulted a list of “Asheville poets” to find me. I would like to see that list. He was a very tall, lanky, cheerful young man, and I enjoyed meting him, whatever comes of “The Walrus and the Carpenter.” He’d just returned to the US from a long stay in Istanbul. Why he had been in Istanbul he didn’t say. Took the opportunity of being in West Asheville to slouch around Haywood Road, looking into corners I almost never look into. Grubby and lively there. I regretted not being hungry or thirsty and having no excuse to stop in very many of the seemingly endless succession of cafes and specialty restaurants. Did stop in one–all airy in the heat, with big garage doors open at each end and serious women bent over their laptops–where I ordered a vanilla frappe. When it came it tasted most peculiar, but it was cold and wet and I needed it. A few seconds later the barista came and admitted she had poured lavender into the coffee instead of vanilla and would I like another? Explained the very peculiar taste, and, no, did not want another. I think Haywood Road crosses the line past which I find casualness and oh-what-the-hell-ness a little off-putting. Maybe it was just the heat. Baked ferociously for the JCS cast. Found a “plain” cookie recipe, into which one’s imagination might pour. Made coconut cream cookies and maple walnut cookies, making things up as I went.

July 17, 2016

Jonathan asleep downstairs, Maud, evicted from her sleeping space, curled up on my foot. Family visitation yesterday, showing off the pond and the ravages of the flower-mowers. L looks better and happier than she ever has in her life. Barbecue lunch, much chit-chat, J and L a couple who seem perpetually to fulfill each other, each after a disastrous first marriage.  All came to see the show last night, as did Adam down from New York. Everyone says they liked it, and I suppose that is the truth. Last night was not my best performance, but there were no flubs, so I am content. Getting weary, though, and this afternoon’s matinee marks only the half way point. Late food and beer at a local Waynesville watering hole, which I am glad to know about. One of my former students works there, and she was gratifyingly enthusiastic about my presence.

July 15, 2016

Murderous truck kills scores of people in Nice.

Tensed with anxiety when I heard the mower on the lawn yesterday, but it seems to have committed no trespass this time. Small fronds of swamp hibiscus push up from the wounded stalks.

Did well on stage last night, so my day will by buoyant. We have a few reviews. As I said before, I’m content just not being singled out for awfulness. Prepared the guest bedroom for David and his sweetheart. Have the fixings for cookies, which I will either make or not.

I covet the monkey puzzle tree for sale down the road. Where would I put it?

Sick last night, with the second stomachache I remember in my adult life. The first was in Denver. I’m blaming the Irish cream. Dreams during this troubled time involved my arguing vehemently with–somebody–that Christ had indeed not died for our sins, that his death had nothing to do with my sins, that a God who would require or even suggest such a thing is not to be worshiped. I would make that argument awake, so it surprises me for it to invade the other world. Maybe too much association with Jesus on the stage--

July 14, 2016

 Vive.

 Active day, again, at the gym. Some writing. Some thinking about writing. Stopped by the studio and worked on–finished, I think-- the 4th of the Empress paintings. Steve has moved downstairs, so, except for the girls who come in the evening, I have the vast top floor to myself. Rough living, as the supply of drinking water and trash service disappeared along with the former owners. Went to the studio partially because my dreams last night were of painting. Was a better painter in my dreams than I am in life.

Talking to Tom, I realized that the last two plays I’ve written, though very different in appearance and detail, are actually the same play on the same subject– a man is attacked by a wild beast, survives to contemplate the meaning of the event. Something going on in my mind while my conscious thoughts roam elsewhere. Writing a novel about the nursery I should have kept in Ohio.

Sit in the attic in the blast of my fan, the only habitable place.

HART tonight. I missed a verse at the matinee, have been going over it in my head until it has lost all meaning and is just a string of syllables. .

July 13, 2016

Gathered the Lincoln plays together in Father Abraham and sent them as a unit to Yale. Almost a hilarious waste of time, but, right now, what I have is time.

Minos scrambling about at the bottom of the pond, exactly like a rock mysteriously animated. God loved his kind.

Coffee with Tom. His things and my things.

Summer rhythm. Four or five days in one day, punctuated by little sleeps.

July 11, 2016

Early morning– back to health, back to rising before the sun.

My simmering hatred of the refrigerator Stewart left behind for me came to a boil today, and I went to buy a new one. Realized as I was standing in front of the fridge selection at Lowe’s (big sale, apparently) that the stout wooden frame someone had build around my fridge was going to keep me from replacing it with an appliance of modern size. The box added storage space above, but also was badly measured (or measured for a previous appliance)  and made the fridge set about three feet out in the middle of the floor. Came home, disassembled the wooden frame I’ve loathed since the day I moved in. Done in half an hour–partially because of the remodeling shows on TV which demonstrate the efficacy of a good wallop with a hammer. Shiny new steel fridge arriving tomorrow.  I note this because I broke my old habit of never trying DIY within the house. Enjoyed doing this.

Almost ill with joy at not having to drive to Waynesville this evening.

July 10, 2016

A light snow of Maud’s shed hair dusts the corners of the house.

Trying to wrestle the garden back into order. The drought did almost as much damage as the mowers. Looking at the mowers’ devastation, I do not think it was all accidental. Too much evidence of mischief and pushing the limits to see if it is noted. I see these things because they are not foreign to me. The lotus went dry and floated up upon the waters in its basin, and almost died of drought floating in water. Caught it just in time.

Last night’s performance was not perfect, though good enough, I think. The chorus came in oddly late and off from time to time. Much resentment against D, our music director. He has been nothing but kind and helpful to me, so I don’t know how to stand in solidarity with my colleagues while still being true to my own experience.

Read DY’s one-act. It is very good. Professionally, promisingly good.

In Denver I began having a fantasy of going back–knowing what I know now– to my early childhood, and seeing if greater understanding of my parents could have made all our lives better. I was always fighting for my own life, and too often the opposition was them. Sometime I couldn’t see how they could possibly love me. Maybe if we tried again–. I wonder if I ever once tried to see things as they were seeing them?

Brilliant afternoon. Put on my shoes, get into the car, drive to the matinee. Matinees are unnatural.

July 9, 2016

Morning overcast, darkling, damp with last night’s deluge.

Great joy at seeing Minos the mud turtle basking on a rock in yesterday’s sun. How he manages to remain invisible in the fairly limpid water I don’t know.

Visit to Reem’s Creek, a great hauling of soil and mulch. I realize I’m testing myself to see if I’m fully recovered, and I am.

Opening night last night was absolutely sold out and packed to the rafters. The sort of plays I usually do at HART do not attract that kind of throng. I felt myself expanding to meet the crowd–some would say it was the ham in me coming out. In any case, I was in decent voice and made no mistakes, and if I was hoping just not to be the weak spot, things came out very much better than that. People stopped me in the parking lot to tell me what a great voice I have. L said I was channeling James Earl Jones. In any case, happy.
   
Considered the difference between acting and performing. In Proof or The Weir I’m acting. In Jesus Christ Superstar I’m performing. Performing is easier, all in all, with greater immediate rewards (more people clapping, for instance). No wonder Broadway is beloved even by people who should know better.

Daihi the Irishman asks me “Where is Kerry again?”

So, the man of my dreams is forty years younger than I and married. Good one, Lord, though I must say, not quite your best.

July 8, 2016

Final dress last night went well enough. Some technical glitches. My throat was still iff-y, but didn’t choke mid-song as I had the night before. Hydrated so radically to keep my throat soothed that I got up to piss five times during the night.  I’ll be glad enough if I’m not singled out as being the one awful thing in the production. Baked cookies for the opening night festive atmosphere backstage.
   
Murders by cops everywhere, murder of cops in Dallas. Too many guns. Too much– I don’t even know what. We all need to go to sleep drunk and wake up new in the morning.

July 7, 2016

Forty years ago today I lay on the operating table in Cleveland Clinic. Seems to have been money well spent. Odd that I never wrote about it, much.

Considered how quickly crosses at the airport turn me into an asshole, as practically nothing else does. I think it was because my first experience with cancelled flights and disasters like a nest of Russian dolls (in Cincinnati) was worsened because the airline people were deliberately lying, and possible remedies became impossible by the time they admitted their foul-ups. The experience imprinted, so now I think that everybody is lying, and a delay means a cancellation, only nobody is brave enough to say so. Was not the case on Tuesday, and was the case only that once. Sigh.

Good weight cycle at the Racquet Club.

At peace because I did not screw up notably at run-through last night, despite missing Tuesday’s rehearsal (which everybody said was a disaster) and despite the first presence of the complete orchestra. And despite monumental phlegm which I put down to having eaten cheese. All the lead singers were criticizing the orchestra backstage for playing wrong tempi and playing flat and what have you. When something goes wrong in my songs, I assume it’s me. Matt (Pilate) said, “But you just go plowing forward no matter what goes wrong in the pit.” Hope that was a compliment. I have no confidence in myself as a Musical star. Significant blocking changes which I have to find a way to incorporate tonight.

The tiger lilies, those spared by the idiot mowers, are in bloom.

   
July 6, 2016

Fan blowing against my right ear. Still drowsy from my late morning nap. Sat for a while at High Five and watched the families with their babies and their dogs, felt for a while bitterly alone. Finished, I think, the tiger play.
   
Did not haul my computer to Denver, assuming–correctly–that I wouldn’t want to take the time to record on it. Therefore much is lost, but perhaps nothing that should not have been. Many thousands of gay men and women crowded in the space around the Denver performing arts center. It was exciting and unnatural, like the Castro or the West Village in their days. After a rather sobering rehearsal (we had lunched ourselves into a stupor, so let’s blame that) we sang, in the end, spectacularly. As far as tone, sheer depth of musicianship, we were among the best there. We were, however, very small– I’d guess nearly the smallest group from the smallest municipality represented– and the epic theatricality achieved by some of the groups was beyond us. I heard more choral music than is good for a man in so brief a period. Some of it was memorably bad. Much of it was quite good, and the New York Gay Men’s Chorus, a women’s group called Muse, Knoxville, and a tiny Cuban foursome called Mano e Mano stand out in aural memory. However bad I might be at keeping friends, I am good at making them, and fell into conversations with men and women from every corner of North America. A group arrived from Beijing, and I was proud of the assembled throng for the warm welcome we gave them, applauding wildly even for the boy who played the pitches.
   
Many of the groups had surprisingly weak (or under-utilized) bass sections.
   
Cantaria split into fluid but predictable cadres– mine was DJ, Amy, Jack, Leland, sometimes Steve and Tommy. We met, we joined, we split like amoebae onto our various paths.
   
What stands out for me about our performance was how happy I was, suddenly and for the half hour of our gig. I wanted to sing for everybody in the world. I wanted to sing and do nothing but that. I was very happy. I know I was grinning from ear to ear.
   
Intense situations such as GALA invite one to compare one’s life and perceptions to those of those around. I realized that as an artist I’m all about the art. Sacrifice to get it right, get it right, if you don’t get it right, don’t do it in public. That was not the general mood, which was rather one of the celebration of participation. We are a generation which gives out trophies for participation, and perhaps this was an effect of that. Self-congratulation overwhelmed all other moods, and from the accolades it seemed that this was exactly right. Praise me for standing here singing, me myself, just as I am, proud and empowered. I realized I was not getting it, that I sort of understood, but couldn’t stop thinking that the point of making art is to make great art, and if you’re doing it to please yourself that is hugely well, but maybe it also should be private. Most of the sessions were to some degree self-referential: the universe ground me down, but here I am, lifting up my voice. Especially the women, for reasons one understands. I couldn’t go there. Art refers to the self, of course, but, I think, as an example, a stone to lift off from almost immediately into the empyrean. Probably there are other festivals that do that. GALA is all about wonderful me having the courage to sing my wonderful song, the results be damned. The words sound mocking, but I don’t mean them to be. I mostly wondered at myself, how I had to work so hard to get into the frame of mind that seemed the default to those around me. I wanted to say, “We were oppressed. It’s OK to make that point. We are oppressed. It’s OK to make that point, but now move forward. Be the full human you resented the world for not letting you be.” I have the same emotion when I go to see “Gay Theater.” No, it is not really an act of ultimate courage to “come out” anymore. Get on to something the spirit can use.
   
One spectacular night we heard new pieces in the Convention Center (which Trump had just vacated). Some were world premiers; some were just new to me. Naked Man and the Broadway style oratorio I Am Harvey Milk were magnificent, and all the more so hearing 600 men sing them. It was quite awesome, tsunamic, an event that satisfied the artist in me as well as the activist.
   
Emails began to go about warning us from “inappropriate behavior” in public spaces in the hotels.
   
Getting home was a tribulation. A visit in one day by thunderstorms and President Obama to Charlotte led to a cascade of airline delays and cancellations. We were home by midnight, after my foul mood had almost exhausted itself. Saw in the dimness my butchered garden, sighed.
   
Sleeping on the plane I had a dream of a great strip of forest stretching over rolling farmlands. In the middle of this forest was a table at which an Amazonian Indian sat, plucking threads one by one out of a piece of brightly woven native cloth. Ann Dunn sat beside him, interpreting the threads a he drew them out. She was the oracle of the oddly symmetrical woods. I don’t remember what question I asked, I think I was there more as a reporter or observer.
   
Returned to the Y, late enough to do the geriatric aerobics.