November 16, 2016

Home from New York. Close calls, me holding my chest from running from one corner of the airport to the other, but nothing actually awry. The air was hazy and fragrant from fires on the surrounding mountains. It was warm. I was happy to be home, though the term  “home” was problematic for me for a while. I had keys in my hand, and those keys opened a door, and inside the door were possessions I remember acquiring. Did that therefore mean I have a home? Wrestled with that for a while, and then I went to sleep. Back to class today, and was joyful.
   
The production of Pierre and Natasha and the Great Comet of 1812 exceeded expectations on all fronts. Opening night with everyone in gowns and tuxedos was great fun. Damian was happier than I was, and laughed beside me at all the places where I didn’t, so between us we admired everything. It was the perfect balance of content and production values, funny and poignant, ironic and soulful, the performers flawless. The gimmicks worked. The risks paid off. Usually I can pick at a production if I want to, but there was nothing to pick at here. I was happy–grateful–to be a part of it, however it does financially. I suspect it is going to do well enough. Damian and I hiked to the Plaza afterward for the reception/party. Whatever one might have imagined concerning the opulence of the Plaza pales in comparison to the real thing. Who thought such places existed outside the palaces of Europe? Or rather, movies about the palaces of Europe? I tried, and then succeeded, to push to one side the perception that every theater company (I mean ALL of them together) I ever worked with could run for a year on the money spent for that party. Sometimes you just need splendor. Staggered passed the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree walking home at midnight. My lightheadedness and hemoglobin deficiency made for a visionary trip from the Park through the night streets to Times Square.